Skip to main content

Conservatives in the Pantry

She said there were votes, called people, and they hurt her. No flying remained in the sky until a tire slipped from a car going carefully into sunset. Then weird clouds expanded with a sigh that suggested strong habits of waiting for the road to clear. The tire rolled heaven, almost friends. She’s okay, but the demons want to vote.

Is she living in a paint-spattered room while the sun sets in the east, the readership might ask. The conservatives maintain a bunch of flowers to burn in their mind. Principles give voters a chance to finalize their own failure. A river filled to the brim clatters over the red and brown landscape, chuckling about captives. She wishes like a river.

Her days are unsuccessful, flying into trees instead of simple words for tree. The votes are calculated living proxy declarations while the wind whips. They don’t say she flowers with each word she sees. The votes are just plain sick, reaching fulfillment with a god-like trend to fall apart. This is not the love in the reading, more like staked claims from savage hunger, brought from the country of falling. Voting for pelts and misprision, the conservative rebate tucks graduating impulse into the spoiling water. We still can love her, even as she’s pieced away.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Ask Your Ventilator

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...

Words

  From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.

Maps Then And Now

  cobble stones on fire, cars uprooted, it was a strange nexus and bright bolt. We knew we would be younger than today, always that same stress-tone and nodding after. Bison as big as, feeling entitled promise and big years. We weren’t arranged so properly and too bookish but as the fit of time and wheat stalks in fields swaying. We proposed without exactitude but in flinty response a spark. It could constitute a binge but did not. All this in the certain year and then. Now produces a traffic of manyness, meeting and entreating as simplified breath. It would be stone wonderful to follow into an Idaho of history and dimension, mapped by eyes and invited steps. Lewis died with extinguished story, Clark stayed announced. Today old mongering remains in shivering, unplacid worldview by shaky virtue of amazing wither. Rightly leaning wrong in crossfire, purpose beyond completion, our own gravity stoked for how we  intended  the lucid green, at our feet, at our hands, at all rou...