There is humanity in a wad of phlegm, said Karl Rove, especially when my words envelop it to carry bright thunder to the smallest thing. And as he meets Andre the Giant in his dreams, imparting lessons of leaving to the spirit of molecules, he rises to containment. Lax fields of stone and dull weeds can be reasoned with, says Karl Rove riding high on colouring adjectives with mayhem’s responsible victim. The simpleton prop upholding clan class diving over the reaches of plain logic to a foundry insisting on poise and cut off, furthering the revolution of square things clucking clucking clucking clucking hemoglobin revolt clucking clucking was that someone I passed in the river clucking clucking clatter clatter poems are nice friends in suspicious times clatter clutter detergent pants Karl Rove, squire to the proximate haze.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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