Hello Emily
Dickinson, The tire iron spoke like the wheel it meant to remove. You
have a way with language, going back to words and how they are words,
most of the time. They are not tried and in control, they are spurs
off the broken, lately, seems like, tracking westward with a rush.
The tire speaks of wounded roads, people who are people in roads, and
sometimes. The tire iron works in the background as the foreground.
Emily, we get it. Our president select is a safe house for
transportation models that encumber the old gravity. New gravity, the
boundless fields of exploitable gone, redeems in fervid fashion.
Assonance assists, like any sound in the dark or light. The situation
turns into a situation, some place looks okay for now. We have waited
for the least word, and got it. Emily, two butterflies disappeared.
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...
Comments