Simple Theories

This mattress pad was made by Syria you are fighting. The thing pamphlet includes groundfire, dogs, the possibility of dinner. And you were wonderful with the way of sentient airplane going somewhere somewhere, lodestone. And then a debate which costs the taxpayers 10 into 10 divide by the mystery of 1 ounce reaching the door where sense = subtitle. Laxity as a province, coarse verbs as a sequence. Today the numerals made sense. We are scattered. Tendencies fall short of arriviste butter.

If you hate Syria because it is mean, you are a guitar twice falling to the middle of open tuning forget it. If you hate that time when the time was open to changing the monkey pile, you are red with a terrible grin. If you hate the home of Syria while you relay the tempest of doubt, you have a backseat in every bounding bus home from halfway home. Goads push empty sequence. You are a wire. The electric of naming the thing becomes a moist pattern severely. We rely on the noise of our sound cooling the airwaves of resistance. All everything is all anything.

Thru Brockton to the foundation of Apple software, and the bendy parts of our natural concern. A bend in the turn to Brockton for tea amongst liberal tame people produces a surge in patterns of liking. A jog thru Brockton while tons fall hard remains a desperate plea for attention. A test in Brockton before a call to arms insists on second nature. Arms replies. A floating rhythm of particulars accepts words that describe them. Classic investigation stops at the front door. There may be human remains, someday. A poem is part of the functioning of the network filling space. Space is the final incompatible idea, and it remains in Brockton. Apple software and the planet it makes just sighs, in space. Space is a time before sometime soon.

Words do not think anymore. They wrap around trays containing envy and shrike. They seize foments just as walking thru the door. Green sassy aspirations relax into brook standard issue winding. Roll on, virtuous energy that knows about entropy. Goldfish rule the pond.

Creative writing begins in the kettle of Rush Limbaugh's head. It begins in expiation, translating words into blocks of sandwiches that fit into the kettle of his head. It produces a breathless pond willing for scum. It plans the importation of further pond scum, badgering the dashboard of the world's craziest driver. It implies the whole list of pragmatic self doubt called Sarah Palin, or that tin can in the alley. It positions flak. When the weeds of creative writing thrive, so the isobars of self-refraction. Creative writing aptly invents every misused words, because those are the ones that dazzle.

Words rely on the density of their demarcation. The boundary of meaning just wants kids. You woke at the precocious time, and the sun still. You know. Leaves in actual trees bear timeshares for something something moon. Uncatalogued advance and decline, we have numbers. Numbers afford us span, in which the word. Tilling the earth calls for time invaded. We reach an agreement vis-a-vis it's Sarah Palin, you idiot. We cannot prove this. We cannot establish sure ranks of Republican lives in god's knucklehead. Panza divisions bow.

If you are a drunken flower, you have reached the well. The blue eminence sky projects heroic coolness and dwell, the morning of after night. Grass has gone green, in traces and Olympian spit. A word inspired by intention growls softly for the fact. The fact slows to pieces. We have an earth, named Round and Round. We have a sky, called Calling. We are children with phrases that include proximate conditions. We resist Republicans by being well. We take our flowers as we reach them. Now it is the day when today happens. It has autumn light across fields of deliver. Useful corn and cross purposes combine. A poem isn't any better than today.