The semi technical trammels of our day bring balancing delight. Note the movement of Karl Rove’s caudal fins, so directive and blanking. The trunk with which he lashes produces grace as a linguistic disease. He has a happy clock taped to his ass, so that he can conquer time by sitting. The lens by which he focuses enjoys multiple states of stinking. So we are dear to him, loose but minding. Karl Rove rises with a varied pattern of word choices, each one suggesting nuclear tucking of the jowls. Meaning is clear, for some reason. Karl points to Glenn Beck’s anger and trees flare with disruption. There is no plan to remain human at this time, just a need to reduce filing time.
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