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Poems Greater Than a Peanut

I cannot help writing great poetry. Poems push thru me like words on a rocket. My vocabulary includes bits of mica and the best selenium. Ardent strips of baked whammy propulse the poems into conscious clinging. Bacon becomes the bastion of my prepositional phrases. Freshets of outstanding congruence exceed the ice packs of expectation. I can control nothing but the dismal swamp of verbs flown for first. If elastic were a pronoun, my poems would learn to cook. If plantains could talk they would they would ask me to replace the exchequer. All arches include victory, even in the vise of my greatest clam bake. I cannot help the exult except to twinge on the porch. Earwigs seethe for the vantage of my insular bray. Cost projections do not doubt my cascade. Soon my next book will endure. You can order online.

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