Friday, October 31, 2003

trees take time but no exists measure like the present. there are chambers full of green and red, with blue an exceptional and yellow goes till dawn by raided interest. we slobber on the rich tune that provokes ballad. the nation was a little village once, and the nation was unbelievable El Mozote. the nation was something beyond the telling, and we've all been there. our universe is indeed communal, with dogs and cats dropping in errantly, and the race to space leaves us frantic for good fiction. caress, the name of blasted words as we settle old scores. caress, the speech that wakes the 'dead'. some creampuff poet writes something tilting and polite, and it's just another age in sand. presently, like the stubborn trees, a good dead song will carry the day. ah, Long Lankin, such a formidable presence in the stoning church. we all live for the stoning church and tower, united flip flop in the collegiate Congress, smell and all. trees take on aliens with a subtle language and the lumpy season fashion show. like snow falling into blisters, like leaves eating the increments of night, like a flying saucer family going to and fro. the outright play of sparks and finding, continuing in dump and mark. the trail goes to the valley where we’ll eat CIA and damage. there's a special tradition called horror, the place, the means, the movement. the front passes.

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