Fragments cited in Deity voice. All such words, signs, bones, rocks, pieces, increments. When daylight grew, kiss on the sky, love light like that. Abetted in the garden, that pace together. When does death mean anything? Space unemptied, vocal, a rhythm just a breath. Our hands forever holding. Dithyramb, then, in a position of agitation and excitement, so much so. The god, so called, beyond words but with them. Words so called, they called. It happens in a moment, telling peak. In a moment, so, or beyond restraint. All a-twitter deity, busy in the blur. Whatever music a poem makes, the ear hears, body feels, or never so lucky as sounded. Aristotle said it is the nature of the products to be better than the activities, but he was racing. The field fills with tall visual grass motivated to movement by the breath of wind. You are there in a moment. Deity passes.
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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