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”.
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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