with windows of clean power, gruff brown bark on the sedentary
trees, a vocal majority without words (not real ones), with sentence
structure amassed in piles by lawns of water or dirt, the central
pictures of an anxious squirrel with prime sense of mortgage, and the
clear meaning of green leaves at their timetable—the sky is blue
like under advisement!—meanwhile, an unarmed teen, massive rally
(amazing people), the words under the words aren’t really words,
not words like that...
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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