Simple Theories

The strapping documents of One Emily Dickinson come between us. We see salients and pure stuff, from the edge of each word to the middle, the horizon adorning. Documents everywhere stand on their toes. They drink to the framing technique patent of swizzle sticks. Pants in the ocean, empty of human form. Remember the moment that the first stick swizzled? From gulfs of approximation, as varied as cream-filled Newt Gingrich, a letter arrives. The letter carries the moral equivalent of a swizzle stick. The God of Twinkies readies to speak. We wait with a pantry of remorse. Cocktail blossoms fall upon ideology, which pulses with strata while union members bend towards sunlit field. The story is tolled in the season. The owners own, and in owning, they round fast ball. One Emily Dickinson likes to see it lap the miles. This sensual indication, a time filled from youth on, becomes capable of which minute left in which sequence. The strapping documents then side with fervor, or b...

I did not intend to offend with my racism. I meant it as a genuine document for how flowers fall down. And then I realized Bella's kind of a whiney bitch anyways. That’s why when the coloured guy, the jewish guy, and the irish guy met Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter says Vacuum , start with nothing and go forth . Which, truth to tell, molds the framework of words to a leaning proposition, Stamp Act, Emancipation Proclamation, new age music, mute Romney. There is a huge difference between normal twilight haters and psychotic ones, lol age age for age colours Emancipation. it's not at all creepy that a century old vampire is going to high school. Seriously. If I wasn't such a twitard, I'd probably hate me too. Saint intend intend the music, go when leaning start. If Vampires actually did exist that would be one more thing I would have to be paranoid about.

Suddenly, out of the Age of Commas, the children, the children, the unspeakable forgetting ways of finding ways. Saturated path congeries revolt in a parcel called hm, Orrin Hatch . Redoubtable expense account freely lifting other children to place on other children. The spores are free. Suddenly, too, the Age of Commas. As a reliable dock fence, you stop there. Yet a sentence like Mitt Romney, like drinking from a can of water, like proviso providing for proviso until tears the coast with storm. Frisson says sentence ends where the next begins. Reading weary path wouldn’t know. Inauspicious children at the door, each with a comma for the next in hand. You can’t be 8 o’clock in time for everything , says Orrin Hatch, rendered almost possible.

Your panting seems like time. Your pantaloons await insertion. Sere deserts move maps to wayward barns to formulate a new tomorrow. Radiating dioceses blame cleverness, but we know you are free of that injunction. You read how wampum is a statutory mine and smiled. Today is the first interval of words settlement. We promise to pay attention while hatching new plans. We see that you have tons. Microbe Benefit finds a pursuit. Microbe Mexican talks to a phone Microbe Reasonable buys a saint. Microbe salad days wants a referral. Microbe Duck songs homeward salient. Microbe Democrat flickers in the windlass. Microbe Barack severs the coastal storm while minks swim to safety. The story of minks requires evasion.

I wonder if the category will claim me. News from woods and winds, treacle as testament, will you reward the negative of town?

Friedrich Nietzsche was a pinpoint of desultory light. In words he whirled something something time. Richard Wagner was a scathing flack with anti-Semitic shoes. The roof over each of his operas smelled of lumps. These salients start to sound like pigment. There exists a manner of inquiry in which the word becomes a blow dart stuck in a cactus. Neither blow dart nor cactus exists, but the word remains. It must be anti-Semitic to be so enduring. The people of light, who wish they were dandruff on Newt Gingrich’s flaky head, decide to speak more words. Ponds of words. More words daily, like porridge, like tribunal, like slavery as a mask for penance. Choice of cambric remarks upon the detail by which we enumerate the placement of yet another word instills a sense of document. Every word finds a pinpoint of light. Humans discover ways to share their dismay.

The worth that engine, that angel. The same documents called slaves found listing in history. You could tell that things went straight to words, while words went crooked towards another impress. Money talked of how the venting force creates a damage startling the quark within the residual effects of a person qua person. Who are we, to disagree? Reflecting upon such truths as seem likely, little words attempt to bolt from human grasp. Human grasp is the same pan-fried waiting for the meal extortion. Time will tell. The slaves of history rose up en masse and words were spoken with a sail of meaning. Those in the books of history stood respectful tall. And then reading history showed readers. Readers were steps forward, as they read. They read words, it was their time. The words. That Christmas engine, that imagined freed slaves then found the words for them, this is the point. In 1861, there were reasons to fan the flames. Tyranny wasn’t much of a tone poem, but states written righ...