Simple Theories

Have seen human instincts, crows in the sky, bats the envy of hearing something new, herd quality a local human reflex towards words. A Trump moment allows nothing to happen viciously, steeps the television. A team of experts, or clocks in molasses, survive the programming. Chance of dates in the time-sense ratification possibles, as in: Allen Ginsburg wrote a poem after all. Teammates say ridiculous helps as margin. Outside margin grows pears. Time is a sense.

Donald Trump (his hair... tree branch centerpieces draped in jewels) wants to purchase the Pope's soccer team. The leaves of the surly trees that don't listen in autumn swag, are they real Republicans? Can they purchase trees and sense? Have they a soccer team to dream? Steve Jobs didn't care if people thought he was an asshole. Thomas Edison was an asshole. Would I be more looked at by girls if I was a little bit of an asshole? Donald Trump opened his mouth.

Writing is the sport of typing, or of scribble, if you choose. You sit in plastic music and compare your thoughts to nothing. Nothing is so vague! You can gain the upper hand by telling Kerouac to type faster. Capote was right, despite an obvious pall. Writing is the measure of the typewriter, or the extent of graphite in a pencil, ink in a pen. It must be time to hear the words someday. What playground can you fall from, hearing that Martians have proverbs and you can listen? They write with what is left, which, strangely, is just like you and me. Henry James told the amanuensis that the brigantine was empty, and still something was left behind. It seemed like everything to Henry, nothing to the amanuensis. Something and everything must not be the same. Nothing every is. Wallace Stevens pulled a wallet from his ear; Emily Dickinson spoke of foundries. Like several trees, they smile.

Sarah Palin as a log jam was logy from spectacle. You sit fire for the brief, then electric elbow room clears the air. That was in 2008; we were process servers. Late assholes sublet the particle by which inner clocks send drafts to servers, whence possible oddlots gather for functioning. This is the part of Donald Trump that expands nucleus to a final withholding. Which is just the stat for your you are the rest of zero, Donald.

Donald Trump has spent extensive time in his pants. In the plant system of which he is alpha weed, he places stance in the lexicon for rigid panting. But let us be nice, in dialogue: a wall can say so much. A little friendly flick total despair feasting cultured hair implant says a world about how you can have Miss World, the whole Miss World. We arranged a meeting, my thoughts and the mesh of Donald. We both, including him, were stuffed to think how no poem has a longer winter than the knowledge of Donald Trump. Imagine the immense flux tsunami whelm of the gratulating sound of it's a war, it's to be expected.

Here is brain candidate Donald Trump, fresh from regent television, his arms clerical cloisters. His television pants exist because he breathes television pants. This statue of Donald with his pet hair illustrates that television employs a marketable equilibrium. When Donald's taproot hits the payment of the soil, little petering increments of how television goes goes out the mindless door. The television day remains okay.

"I Was an Earthly Knight, They Give me That Renown" Darling Donald Trump, Those weird ears that tell you so, a fancy of clinging. Flick ashes in the way of human cubicle, the icing will last. Dictators agree on anything that fails. Toss feathers towards the agreement between usage and used, my useless friend. Li po gardens on a river.