Hair has something and becomes. A braid is one way, several braids another, many braids a wonder. Gather a handful with a stretchy thing. Pin locks in ways. Let parts or all be low or gone. Skin glisten if it can. Use product hold it tight, lifted or combed. Knot a hank and be done. Turn to colour, any colour a sport. A bandana for those times, a hat for those. Train it for curls or not curls. Be then in time with anyone else, explained as simply as the sky. The sky changes colour whether we live or not.
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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