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At the bottom of the deepest ocean, along the curve of the curliest of abandoned seashells a strip of paper winds like the road into the center of the center of souls where fools spend their days behind their eyelids all-knowing in their arrogance and, at a glance, purchase shameful beliefs again and again and restore their purchase in falsehoods—cuddling fish, the hook is the only savior, some kind of sick, pre-used God weighing the opinions of the muses amused yet too serious for their own good—what is it you would do should you dream of a world in which you awaken only to know today could be the cold day that grows brighter, building an oblivion spoken about by lonely Gods who desire their own rejections—expel the ghosts from the town so your children can once again do a good day’s work turning over rocks of joy and malarkey—build a world of wonders on the wet backs in the lock-ness of a heat seeker—clear a path not given—the path of travel is clear for most Earthly bodies without tracers and trails—flail freely on the surface and slip over the edge in your barrel of whiskey on monk-keys—you are a racist in the mind of the blind blond—you are blind in the all-seeing eye of pyramidal profiteers—return us to the ammonia ocean that melts your misunderstandings and anxieties as if we have been stolen like species from the warped fossil record spinning on the turntable of the solar plane cruising through the atmosphere rocking to impossibilities as the Zodiac blurs and you wrinkle as if standing from a life size bird bath you’ve inhabited for eons incorrectly imbalancing (sic) electrolytes you rely upon like families of trees place their backs back to back the incorrect side of the spectrum as the red-shift of your skin gives our goose a glow—then go greatly into Akashic decor and cause havoc, just bring me my murmur you burdened beast—you are the best friend I could beckon—even truths know better than to ask for more from you—it’s true—back in the night I knew less your elders say from the trees—swing away from fright and swing your white knuckles through the darkness, only slowed by the surrounding albino molè—how dare they slow down greatness—how dare progress degrade—orbit each bit of the photograph of the photograph—too clever for 3 leaf clovers your luck has run out of its imprisonment and come home like carriers of love letters escape the prison of their cocoons on the surface of unnatural objects—regardless whether the storm happens—in the lighthouse the calligrapher copies our genes and we cry together into dust—star dusk—produce evidence gently in this court of kindness—fear my wrath—this is nothing but a long list of the unreal—musked—what a bunch of hogwash—at least they’re clean now brown cow—sew your oats with the line and line dance down the line—this is boring—nothing impressive stirs at the moment like a dragon under riches: unheard—the family gathers around your uneventful nature—I’d rather be watching television screens smashing clean real mean like—rev the trike—this tiresome practice frustrates my sense of commitment—I could ask you questions until you run out of answers because I’d have run out questions; even though the depth of my curiosity matches oceans oceans can and will evaporate—O, my little journal, my little tracker in this steel jungle of troubles, what is it you have for me, what is it you have brought me on this day of heavy metal reckoning you pollute my urge to pollinate, abscond—evacuations take place, tidal waves pass unrecognized—you ask for bags of truth for Christmas like we know what bags of truth are like—arrive heavily contaminated at the gates of consequence armed with the crafted teeth easefully—travel these hallways of ancient language barefoot in your bathing suite—pull the rabbits from ushankas and be amazed by all the splendors 1 million bitcoin can buy you—try harder—don’t be lazy, uninitiated, absolute, dishonest, difficult, derelict, opalescent, because, well, we all know why we should deter from the Xenon clouds—trite—what might be needed to bring you safely into safety is a roll of lifesavers you can savor in the mellow sub-marine chain of life—turn off the tractor beam—let this one pass us by—let this one go the way of the Dino Dodo—bathe in the haters—on this day of discomfort believe in something better—on this day our Lord of The Flies copy was stoned—on this day there is a decapitation—I watched from the crowd, carrying love in the depths of my heart beneath the black lacquer layers of artificial hatred, as the pure embodiment of love, invulnerable to hate, was executed in the name of false causes—but, there is not a single person outside of this planet that cares about our outcome, we have to do this ourselves, we have to give up our pluralities and divisions and make ourselves known as something fabulous, a species who fought intelligently to claim their destiny and become so right we become cliché—we must do our best to preserve the fruit, the zombies are coming, the zombie approaches—noxious gases rise and the calls of the undead sound like Physeter macrocephalus—let us become better, let us deweaponize the sky—keep the sky lanterns rising, keep the boats afloat—stay up buttercup—sculpt reality with your blessings, they do not go unnoticed, the soul holds closely—everything is not lost—hold fast—the Earth does not need to resemble the scalp of Bruce Willis, stop deforestation—defrost your freezer weekly—absent are my ostentations, present are my prayers for safety and release from our sufferings—the longest list is that of the undiscovered, and as a reminder, drink water—if you are reading this it likely runs from your tap into the body of water where we reside. We have not bit off more than we can chew, we can do this.

7 Mar 19

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