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.
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...
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