I wouldn’t want to be the tube out of which squirts the words that Glenn Beck speaks. His words employ the ringing tonnage of where you were before you listened. And over the course of his vine, he steeps teas full of long raga paste. When he quivers the force of truck stopping on all dimes, he remains a punkish pond well-rotted with the loss of trees. He has a halo over his loan shark, calls himself three times a day for doctored advice. Will he survive his own pool of sweat? Never engage the cage. Owning a fondue pot won’t solve the problem of diametrics. He is a slouch holding pennies, and the pennies of pennies. God spoke in the bathroom, and then Glenn flushed.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
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