beginning with the first tree and every succeeding one, until possibly
any tree will associate with the life of one person, to be named or not.
the upside starts to reverse. the blonde actress on Friends decides on a
different way of doing things.
Flava Flav does other things too. the standard tree with wide beech
embrace seems perfect today, yet tomorrow it might lose something. we
knew a man, said William Shatner and the blonde from Friends together.
why is the blonde from Friends blonde? where might her name go if we
aren't ready for it? Flava Flav, haha, he stays around. disputes
exaggerate the present, seem fine in the past, look deadly in the
future. the future isn't exactly the tree involved in today's picture,
tho we would love to own all that the tree considers. ownership is how
we get along.
we say we love inside, and own that too.
when he left, however, it seemed more than the expectation of dying to
go. it seems that leaves are a tradition in trees, mostly. and the cold
snap hunts us down, but only partially. and the door, it has misgivings.
still, a loud laugh, which rocks every family member, as if children can
even begin, or adults of certain age can have an end. the crew of the
starship Enterprise invite the blonde from Friends into the tube of
space, serving her a new name, which can go unmapped if so.
Flava Flav comically denies his own name, the better to ring out.
Shatner, of course, goes into the corners of where we didn't know
existed until suddenly. and when the man left, it was for good, but good
it was not.
tho not good can be great, or great can be so large as to extend green
into space. yet that space remains darkly insecure, because the man was
thought to return. does this matter after all or only before?
Lovecraft does his own share of controlling interest. he doesn't like
Whitman—this is documented—you see, and Pound/Eliot allegiance is for
the birds, those bitter birds with rending.
read the paper full of news, regarding newsworthy in alphabetical order,
allowing that alphabets lack framework beyond the smoke of the tree's
used branches. leaves fall and can burn. beech nuts fail to impress, a
broom can sweep them from the driveway.
and it doesn't seem like the right language, right? to reduce Flava Flav
to death, and William Shatner to another brisk walk before really going,
and Paris Hilton as too much tomorrow for one day. and finally fatal
Lovecraft, daffy sometimes, if houses are not ready to tumble, and the
eking of earth life in bowels of unmentionable depth must go on. his
stopgaps improve Respighi no way, yet allow for a chance to operate in a
Weird Tales diorama, associating horror, grue and ¼ cent per word. and
mating with probably.
circulate along these lines of sighing for the honest dross of losing.
like that impenetrable room with keening to witness, and only a tree
outside as big as telling more. more becomes anything exceptional after
language goes. whatever, then, remains signs on as terrific and you can.
you really can, tho hardly seems so now.
the various welcomes emit their universes in positive charge. light
submits its bill. the room feels small again.
