he the torment, when in even vast beech tree remembered state of dying.
state of loss in state of loss. a leftover practice endures with such
tantalizing contest of means.
profound state of wind in old beech, the arctic continuing as leaves
shed and nuts fall precisely because Flava Flav he such a joker.
they didn't fully catch it all at once, tho they knew serious is no
joke, but neither is joke.
only so many hosta leaves, and a language continuing from one television
to another. each television provides space.
space is an infinite frontier in which William Shatner grows fat. not
always benign, not always there.
space is exceptional and tells you lots.
Flava Flav's time is as large as a truck with green lights. green lights
begin with green.
a truck, itself, is only so large when hauling dirt to a new location.
the beech doesn't want to be green right now.
the wind that Flava Flav sets running interrogates William Shatner at
the appropriate time. we'll gaze longingly.
the cool of autumn has been instituted, in which our guesswork tries to
clear up the assonance of facts.
he that died, well, it looks close to impossible. sometimes the
impossible works out well.
sometimes never there, ever. only in passing, only something that keenly
petitions, and lets hosta grow old.
children grow old, but they strike a pose to remember.
Flava Flav he heralds a posse from the instinct of tang. tang being what
the air reminds the living, except sometimes the house grows smallest.
remember all the differences, said Flava Flav to William Shatner. crazy
Howard Lovecraft divides the planet into theirs and ours. that is, his
and theirs. hours aren't allowed.
there's more to Flava Flav than a trick that stayed old.
there's more to William Shatner than beckoning that plain spoken Paris
Hilton time.
there's more to Paris Hilton than just stuff over there, tho how can
anything be exhausted so specifically? why does death seem like a part
time job?
does the last piano on earth know what it has?
the story ends from one beginning when graduated flappy wing creatures
from out Pluto way blessedly greet Lovecraft, amidst a floating pattern
of autumnal leaves, and say, dream honestly you dumb racist fuck.
