Raccoons have established themselves as the hearty tankard of ale and then what. Solving problems in excelsis, cuter than butter on toast. The human tiny hands posit granulated potential. Find something, eat something, maybe add some style. Cuddling beasties with a sound of human infant. Let their vision proceed. In the aloft of thought there appears the child crying. Do infants hunt in the night? Let Political Action Committees step forward protectively. But really, that balloon won’t fly. Raccoon finds quarry. Quarry feeds food inquiries. Climbing tree exceeds postulation, that same old thrum. A raccoon must be hit in the road by the virtue of cars--cars are all virtue--but only in the insistence of progress. No better malaise than to die in the road. Come the revolution, die in the road. Stifle the revolution, die in the road. Obvious base meaning: die in the road. Three raccoon, that time, looked too close for the not too feral cat. Which reveals the sordid limits of mastery. You can't climb a tree, no claws or penchant. That raccoon, engagingly forsaken, finds stature in stasis in the road of progress rode. Progress makes only the finest excuse. Everyone wants a bite of progress.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
Comments