R/ckets and S/ntries

translate your underwear to wander the Russian steppes. a dialect of interchange, more powerful than the little poets on the street named River Forgetting. your underwear as foreign market traditionally rebuked for sanitized referral, broken promise, belting out big songs like the Age of Arcs. your underwear as a diction of the times, less Russian dialect, more votes for you know who. your deleterious Olde World underwear remembers the farm day, breaking off into sentences, the coast of springtime. your underwear of all, voting properly in regulated booths, in time for the erected provenance of today and tomorrow. remember the alien idea of underwear, inside of the spaceship that brought you to this conclusion. doubt not the function in your break. today is leftover tuesday, loss as saturday.

document element mined at morning, when the press of this is life in terms of rational expense totalling tap root, bringing, clusters out of wage, and love as a preening consideration on the march of edge. alleviating quantity by vote count, startling the crust, the aim remains a pure fragrance over years of waste. touches of 60s dispatch while 90s weren't so lucky either. rampage for effect, and what a difference a day makes: vital kick of Cheney, a miserable local fact in time, out among the other stained equations. less rooted when telling the time over beers, culture, a few poems, votes, love in expressing pictures, to you and you and you... lastly just a pinpoint of light.

there hasn't been enough life in time. today is only a thursday portion, a literal point named frequently then left. the vote leaves and the hall closes. the booth is a voice. the vote is a day. time is in the clench, which leaves us drawling. we drool in the time. life isn't in Cheney's eyes, or the sudden impulse upon the voter, drizzle for comfort. no security moms exist, or security dads, or possible results. my dad's dying in time but he aren't all dads? all dads and all moms find life in time, in sputtering looking and weave thru. today is only deft thursday, written on paper. it looks like another day.

present booth freshness. the vote on sameness cools over while reaching into pocket. what colour over all others? logical, as in class as an abatement. but stirred as part kitty, part dumb dog. theory strained thru booth fester. you brought a language when you wrote your name. you read a number of vote gathering hunks. studio theory on top of laid out. need a glass of somthing now. the present boopth remains fresh, with votes stirred.

autumnal sense closing on road remembering mother, father, what have you. delicate each of age, until brown after orange, yellow and red, the prosaic truth. but isn't green memory as condition, working chlorophyll as agent? and then the deaths come together, constituted, you love what you had and still you are. here is the after all, forgetting the trip to Oka, West Virginia (wide part of the road), or once when I was younger. we all were younger, in the trees, riding home saddened...