Thursday, October 16, 2003

peace is a problem. Bao Dai bows over, to scrutinize the tin carpet reflection. day folds over a rationalized jungle, a story to tell later. the wedging planes fluff dioxin, in prime poem means to the end. graphic silence and a flotation device. next comes abrogated love. fulfilling the dication under prime becomes nonsense: everything is divisible. everything becomes a sentence eventually. it's all a crusty palace, and it wants your friendship and mine. mining that, a coterie, a cabal, a coat of arms, a cluster flock of dividing sentences. each word parlays another way out. and in like a gunshot wound, which is sentence enough when counting scalps or coup. there are ghosts in the green hills, even aliens make a thought go ether in the lunge over some remark to the 'point'. nothing simplistic stops the arriviste from taking on another campaign. shore up the recent with good funding event, and exercise your 'rights'. an alien animates the eventual.

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