Karl Rove claims, at the risk of dial tone soon mother, trees were never green. And at the risk of comparing notes, he reveals his teeth radioactivate. Karl Rove ran a tree once—an association of various modules (leaves, roots, bark, branches, townhouses)—it was the last thing on earth, oaky, piny, beechy thing. Karl Rove said Tuesday night that Hispanics are the natural hurricane. He means something (clutter, abutment, field stones up the ass, that sort of thing). Listing human qualities is almost easy when the subject is Karl Rove. Winning is the game we play with bodies of people and mixtures of mice. A class of golden mucous erupts from Karl Rove’s mouth: we see he means to mean something. Mean is right where he lives, suppurating docket of words covering actions. The sad part is, words dying in shriveled state of Karl Rove mouth. Gary Cole's interpretation of Karl Rove? “We're Edie Falco's recovering addict Jackie.”
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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