It rained a good while until I thought of you
ade .000,009 yards, cloth, thumb index cloth thin enough to read through, even a lack of 8 keys, allow 13 keys, tactile 11 possibly 10 mine or significance toward eighty-eight, his own self a digital quest for the square mirror. The populace formula slash equation a continuous red line, well fit off the rack chukka boots, an apricot nectar, blessed is the syntax, obsolete as it paints a snare, a mistaken identity, the lupine hectoring, a wonderful song, dissociation, the next molecular thingamajig, a lure, an abandoned brush white painted Baptist school bus arrested in low gear, hidden in spike nailed wax-leafed holly sharked neocolonialism, nude hosiery, on a damp day, 00,00 years of concise animosity, a rebellious Holy Ghost, asleep on the luggage rack, the bum pity dream sans mistake, grey as the storm, panic afore the void, the sirens not stopping and, you couldn't record this, yelping mammals below a penultimate gate, 'primal' would not define the distance, the intense urgency ultra-pitched a sound for the taking those sirens multiplied, wail non obsolete as a matter of jurisprudence, the girl stolen, mine hand beneath the teat. The perpetual motion so artificial the curtain, its rod arrow spiked right left left right, patrolling beneath brass monkey balls, the parking brake set on the trolley, the tray near the lap and the crescent coffee mug sepia, God bless extrusion molding, the light-weight coffins easy on the back of those with indigenous sharp-shoveled sod splitting hickory handled blades.
In distant dreams of midnights crossed I tossed my coins and all was lost. Such secrets I shall keep, to catch you when. As plump and suspicious as a canned oyster, he'd capture the predilection, slow playing of h alleluia, curious that the divine genius would mention an electrified floor, too late now, even Andy Cap telekinetic at the base of the black walnut spiral staircase, no thought crime here, it is Saturday all the way up his head as pin sharp as those paper cone gasoline station funnels, designed so you could not let the paper vessel leave your hand, cataclysm Catechism, the scarf-headed broad hipped women tending free range turkeys, their satchels filled with ultra-sound salve, is that how it goes, beneath the stage a saintly stoner hammers nails, now and again spark like spit serpentine-like, the labyrinthine stagnant glossolalia, the pangs of the contortionists, their plateau-like twill brims blessed as comma splice as holy as the next day, the light of the perfectionist eye, rock angels smoothed, invisible cords calling them home, I suspect it was Fellini's wires, or was it the hypo-mania of the puppeteer, fondly signaling with a found shard of glass as he stood on the sudden mountain; a child-drawn mountain range, gee wishes that hurts, tan duck eggs delivered in a wire IN basket, undetermined except by a sharp burr from the OUT basket, his verdant visor beneath forty-four foot florescent lamps, one dark, the other too opalescent to worry about, there was enough medicine horded to mill powder into several clear drops of tepid homogenized melted lard, stored in soda tins, they'd fished since the sun rose constant as time after the night's drive due east toward the damn on the map, it was a CCC damn creatively marked with left over yellow house paint, above it spring water placidly pooled with reflected broken trees as balanced as the vast tumultuous horizontal waterfall awash vanishing away over boulders wrought by angels, that sad.