The unwritten rule of "this" book will only become. Its thinking will be to hinge rather than close. It is no longer simply a chicken and egg question. There is a reversal of cause and effect. Reading lays eggs and writing scrambles them. The embodiment of the argument will occur in the body. Ratify the body. You dirty rat. The plot thickens.
I saw routine in the unlimited outline. But there is a necessary subtraction from the overwhelming. A removal, or a shedding. To inoculate the one so that pleasure can grow around the painful injection of zeroes. Abstraction spots each concrete migration.
Life has many steeplechases. To staple "this. " As if reading in the light were the same as reading into the light. A dreamy green disabling sleep. All the parts work, but do they work together. An incremental crescendo. Smithereens collide in retrospect. And I love sand and things that break. "Consciousness": a word for thinking through the wheel. A dropkick in the blind. Blanching significance. Deduce the quench.
An audience makes itself; it makes itself heard on a beach where none of "this" is happening. A snack in the face of an anorexic version of reality. Bluff of neat closure. Hemmed atmospherics. If you could have seen what I did not. A clockface animates the cartoon.
The moon rose above bats out feeding. Rank the images in order. As if that sliver of moon were sketched by a white eyebrow pencil. Nails slain in silkscreen. Thinking the house a home. To call alone by any other name. A plural. A dip in the fire road. The flanks of the system conjugate the thighs of theory. Split the nest like the other eggs. "This" leg of the journey wasn't foretold -- a qualitative leap.
A risk that knows itself as recollection. You have become marginally addicted to your own body. To dream "this" too: snapshots of buildings about to be demolished. Two knowns reproduce an enigma. Here too, you hear two bells clang. In the skin of negative thinking -- a quarantine.
Confronted with the myth of a colossal body, I flirted with the idea of becoming smaller before deciding on complete invisibility. I shrink-wrap my inwardness.
The skull bone is just "this" momentary tense of being tongue-tied. How hollow the absolutions. The process of joining smoke rings. A chain-link fence will trap "those" thoughts. Wait until the water itself learns how to swim.
"Thinking" -- insupportable weightlessness transported by insistent insects. The bodily constitution of cellophane. Take this impartial perfume. Skin a stumbling and make of it a motive.
My blind spot is your Achilles heel.
I'm thinking of the singularity of your double take.
A finch in the hand of five-year old boy. Books, slightly foxed, plot to outfox. Withering Heist. The niches accentuate their gap-toothed truths. Clouds sheer the horizon like serrated inversions of sleep. A reason to suss out souvenirs. A steadiness between drizzle and downpour, but nothing about rain. The concept of "before": my Oldsmobile contains time. Musk from books neat as new-mown parchment. "This" is a pleasure for penname nomads. The Wince of the Dub. Plato's bullets lodge in fresh elision fields. The body comes up for air. Look around the heart. Thinking -- a shunting of railroad tracks. The collision cannot escape the consistencies that are in it for the long haul. Language scalloped out of shells. The egg is not as brittle upended. Shadows congregate and their integument is a ghostly gristle. An old laugh woke up. Yolked to the inverse of hibernation.
Molt. Turn the inside in. Rain makes din extrafine. Without ambiguity there would be no cross-purposes.
"These" things might never happen. We know that knowing less is not a way out of being obliged to be in the world. There are witnesses in the easels saying that the unsayable should stay there. I will ask them to restate their conclusions from the beginning.
Phenomenon's elegy. The will is cloaked but swerves into the oncoming traffic. What does your tombstone want on you? One could immediately end the suspense by doing nothing. The Weltinnenraum swells by simply being there. Here & now. It always says that it will release itself from theory. Give 'em the gears. Disengage arrangements. Left on the cusps of coming to be.
Cities. The "I" in cities. In numbered weather, I cite cities. Recite them. Eyesight is like twin cities in which one "I" is cited. One eye does not echo. Eyeholes, but I am not. I am excited upon exiting cities.
They'd pulled up to the chemistry podium in search of a reaction that would complete the scission between poetry and prose. The crank had sped for peal. The silk gathered itself into a pattern imprinted with stubborn eagles. The statement would blowtorch the whole thing. Wait-listed for The Last Supper. Caravaggio/ Bacall. Put your lips together. Everything comes but nothing takes. Darkness backs into those who seed their crumbs in the wave blue lather. Herculaneum. Names recovered after exposure to the truth virus. The cyber-built transept of a cathedral. Night's decoding. Waves caked and cordoned off. Remember this. Remember "this" is not a command.
Even people who don't sleep are whittling away at insomnia now. Somewhere the lonesome echo of a chemical code. It silences awareness like chlorine. Ghosts are the baroque tentacles of the senses. Without ornamental hindsight, the building would have no memory. Form is a ladder. The former happens before your very eyes. "This" happens. Repetition possesses its own purpose. It elaborates a plan. The building forges its completion. It incompletes itself. The former was a radar. A signal from the reader will make your intentions clear.
The rain is hived into something deeper than the clouds. The mind isn't stuck in a nutshell. The brine fizzes and new life takes hold of its solution. As the threads are rewoven the threat diminishes. But if they are not unlaced what was binding becomes unnecessary. Metaphors resettle the frontier. What seemed between is a bit further off now. "Here" comes evasion.
Elsewhere in the jam-jam night, thoughts are overexposed to cocktail theorems. The brain sulks over not being thought of as "the mind. " The beautiful, languid of being lovely, wants to trade hats with the sublime. Try to snatch something from the shudder: A word, perhaps remaindered; an alphabet; an eye chart appearing on a highway billboard. Sheer accidentals. A think tank suffers from brain drain. "This" is not a theory, it's a cave filled with wedding cake. All but icing. Seize what you thought you saw. Thought thaws. You break it, you thought it. You have licked the envelopes, but they don't appear to reciprocate your affections.
Outside of origins, someone chalks the outline of a hawk's body. "And Stain, a detective. " I read so much my hands fall asleep.
"Here," vertigo expropriates the coin of coincidence. To remain "nowhere" would be impossible. The unlimited doubtless would prefer to stay in.
The iridescent head of a mallard ducked back into its body against the wind. The polka-dotted wing tips of seagulls. Something in the water that is not freezing. Stroke the mind for the candid. The wrangle of word against word. Something mumbles into being heard. Widening lips. Apotropaic hands. That baldacchino: the twist that untwists its own twisting. It cannot act in reverse. It is not beholden. "Twiss stopped. "
Leviathan is more than. Why would you write unless you were not also written? Blown into stratus. Fovea centralis. Fear starts in the ear and ends nearby. By itself. It buys itself. It buys time.
Quiet islands never grow up. The science of printed fiction. Abracadabra. Those who have nobody. Counterpoised against neglect. Unremembered. Memories are vehicles in use. The other side of memory is an empty garage.
Memory bites. It's a bit marmoreal. A morsel for. It sounds like more than Morse code. Morpheus. A room in gold where dreams come back to memorize the hours. First, make sure of the other planets. Those crayon tears. I may have miscalculated "this. " Let's be blunt. Gone long ago. Chronologically agog. Deadpan.
Colossal antlers arose in silence like the subject. "This" faint, medical expansion signs itself as fiction.
Words overflow predatory predicates. Their contours are not cages. A loose chase adept at spiraling. Print hovers. And just before falling asleep, it's over before the lights go out. Reading the blank spaces between the words as white waterfalls that run down the page. Stay there. Contaminate "there. " Hearsay, yes, the evidence is circumstantial.
A firmer time of signatures scores the nature of the sign. Take it out without making the whole thing fall apart. Slip between the blanks. A land of misspellings that the program is not allowed to catch. The odd shim set to the cure. The correlation between zeroes is one. And time forgot.
The ancient factions fracture. Take part in taking apart the partitions. Language is telescoped and blurts out, "Verbatim." And noun swallowed 'em. Words don't mean what they say and, when they say that, mean that. The unlimited chooses to limit itself.
I believe in static and rubber bands. No one believes in its prevention because language is more truthful than that. This is why you write the scroll and eat it like honey down to the bitterness of your belly. It's only random in the variety of mistakes. Here is this language. It's just that it's impossible for it to mean what I say, or for me to say what it means. It's not a crime really, but meaning is fully indirection. "This" is not mine, but it has been. How do you experience "this"?