Named for a mountain on Mars, Lowell sits standard beside the river assumed of countryside. Embolisms spread everywhere, the beseechcraft of unlocked rule, neat tent cities of unaffordable scum. Smoke flex parenthesis, Lester Young afloat. Open on Kerouac town. Inculcation admitted as habit, in the midst of deity throng. Churches piled high, almost toward heaven. Someone said Modern Day, and behold, water runs downhill. The hill possesses, with a current so mighty: Babylonian, like sway. A sentence can only be completed, the thought cannot. Gods of pure exult gave unto all soap dispensers, lubricious belts, pious bits of rock, hard landing, natural upheaval, synonyms for guilt, lake-sized entrapment, a better bop. And then waking up on the seventh day thinking, again, thinking. Jack says the donut rising from the fryer’s oil speaks of ancestral towers and go back. The President holds forth a tone, not quite mapped. Later forms of isolation will prove just as stable. America in the meantime allows for phrases like “goodbye pork pie hat”.
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.
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