The jocular Sumerians who tried hard. They ranged. They predicted Babylon, and that Assyria would be plaintive in outgrowth. We thought to look at writing but were visually impaired. We strove for the idea of striving while finding pieces everywhere. We read of prescient Gilgamesh and his rapt friend. Lethal strokes from the names of deities bedevil us. The quantum of that lasts years, vinyl memory, each as long as Buddha. All this nonsense of sense, we took turns. Those Sumerians at the bitter provoked cycles and drew words. Now there stands a dusted idea. Seasons flatter us with preservation and the idea we serve. Roots bottom out, tree rises high. Only now say words are poetry, only now grasp particular.
Walking is not walking if Gertrude chooses not to walk. The premise: Gertrude Stein is not walking. She may be on a boat, not walking, crossing the wide ocean sea. Leaving inevitable France but not walking. Dramatic but not walking. Sentenced but not walking. There were days of walking but not this day. Reading or just looking but not walking.There were sentences full of walking but not walking. Talking maybe but not walking in or out. A time lived and walking was done then if not now. It was a doing and it was a done. Not forgetting Alice who may have had walking done or even doing. The annals say Leo Stein walked along, up to and including the degree of not walking, along. Those flower names walked along, Matisse, Picasso, Laurencin, in varieties. An adding war or two closed or opened anything jump. Apollinaire in the historical. Languages of shapes and sizes bounding for just the time and a little beyond. And that was the how sentence. In that time but also forward until readi...
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