Ignite was a
language when we, trees. The time in the way of being in the time
near time when we could be, that was nearly timeless. We could say
anything and a crowd or almost and some agreed, we were for fighting
or fitting. Each word remained in the time or until. We sent messages
or reminded ourselves that messages were peering. And the days of
delivery, those august days that were or were not really, over the
coastal plains and into the fat bring landscape, we heard mountains
once. We had time for nothing but nothing had time for us. So the
language, in conspiring sentence of logic, albeit logic grew that
moist and flowing, like something meaning nothing more. Later anger
became present anger, yesterday’s sad brush painted something
today. No guns were reported to have spoken. We didn’t have time,
much as time liked us.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
Comments