Anyway. They came up with something called poetry, bless the gods or martians. It was meant as an actual transference, with time indicated by musical notes or at least a sonic imitation of interest. Well now.The web in which poetry could be constructed would slightly envelope those trained to perceive it, or somehow they would join factions and enumerate active participation in something called language, tho the instigating gods and martians really weren’t that tuned in to the repercussions of such assumptions and fever of sighing. So anyway. Flowers could be seen disporting in crisp morning light, their fragrance would saturate certain words, and people would become goodlooking, moments at a time. Yes, there was only one ‘time’, sloppily edited by something called perchance, which caused a burdensome dependence on catching the so-called glimmers of what the gods and martians swore were not essences, merely clock ticks in the eternal classroom. But really. Strange adaptations were not simply colloquial, music sighed with a bull moose crackle, and ladies, gents, et cetera, event so forth, ring-a-ding. And so. This proved all so exciting in a muddy way. Mud, the buoyancy of spring, the earth, young love, documents forever, and the true calling. It could include. Electric crackle and rara avis, importunities and lexical whatnot, refried evidence and chance engendering, class distinction and vocal tectonics, a new world and just a world. The gods or martians, and the gods ~and~ martians, seasoned their spatial reverie with striking, clumsy effects, sounding oceanic depths in the silliest of things. The pace of life, the square root of softly, productive clarity of sense and/or, and rent free traces of emphasis: shy rock. More shall be known, and loved, at the right time, such as it is. The knowing gods and martians.
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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