Light captures time set in the lower Tigris basin. The red sun hangs on a shrub by effect of perspective. Crowded lips of speech speak of rocks as the making of, in time, in the chance of forever, but dwells in one spot, alone on earth. The dwelling may be changed Past the bent fragmentary oak branch into the litter of stone and learned tufts of grass covered by leaves. An acorn imagines a place of light thought. “Soldiers, accept my thanks at present; eventually you shall thank me. I will see to that, or my name is not Cyrus.” (the river had manifestly retired before the face of Cyrus, like a courtier bowing to his future king). The letter of singularity completes as it disappears.
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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