This is not the 14th century, yet. Romney wakes up, with verbs for the force of opinion. We stand in the back room and listen for nouns. These come first. He says the nouns are made of pining material, that wants to own itself. We believe him, his head is squared to the universe. We ask for a verb, and he says multiply. So many things could be so grown. We wait till he satisfies his own moment. What of adjectives, we ask. He says we have quickly become. That seems like no colour at all. Could you try again, Mitt? He wants a hill in Belmont to adjust our lives. It has already adjusted our lives, we reply. Each day is a cardinal virtue, Romney says. Each night of gathering is a stinking fall, we have to say. The swamp repines the moment when he could have been alive. The words resigned, disappointed.
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
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