Stroll On

It isn’t too late to turn around, or is it, looking out from the drawer of these eyes spying to examine the floor of time but time has huddled back in, quick, knowing the delivery system is in check and looking to securitize its efforts, while it may only remain theoretical to it, it is not an emergency, but a frequent visitor of many varieties, and at this moment, a telepathy of a multi-colored petal lotus that cannot deny the factor, that such small things are in need of being seen, not like the kitchen mirror but not unlike the spatula in the reflection of both, either way it may stride on a spin-head leading the pin-ladle towards a mountain path, unspeakable, but the diamond in the orchard weighs heavy with lint-wind carrying all procedure with its quiet-witness in the back of a barroom, just upstairs from the gut, as the days of these bow and arrow obvious birthmarks contain interjection is a part of their formula-racecar drivers know which keeps all the customers happy watching football, so that things remain in order, but every now and then, with large black boot and badge of the golden shine, the equanimity of electric transformer on pine pole outside with wires crisscrossing spider web prophecies over the land into the wireless unseen spaces between technology must come in with nighttime on his breath and breathe a whiskey street light into corner as the people hear the shudder of their own package begin to wobble a chicken without a sunlight-head-piece runs then jumps through a floating and window and carries on into history,but before any information pertaining to its chariot appears the horse track of the strider echoes through the minds of the inhabitants in this briefcase and everyone is challenged by a scar and canyon gorge of a nostril hair itch suddenly all evaporates and whether identified in their experience or not, or unknotted, ropes clang to the ground of a fertile field outback awaiting a rain drop bus stop calming down the nerves this mineral dirt swipe speaks of in Chinese or some other rare and strange tongue, as it is, he or she, does so, the wind creaks down spinal chords of the hour and all are relieved of duties janitorial or otherwise and what replaces the good worker with the work he or she had done is just a uniform vanishing the person in the ribcage of their families their fossil fueled homes now these pictures help us see more clearly what’s at stake in the meaning of dictionaries for the photos were taken quite early and we can still hear the crow calling in the backyard with the dog howling at a tree and a snap in a twig up there cracks short of telling us anything further yes, yes we can still hear that echo of broken chains in the eyes of a down-pouring rain where people trench for their walking-stick-lives down the cheeks of social avalanche in search of their tongues and in search of their palms, and when they find them, they stand around staring at sunlight drips of un-awoken glimpses from an orange taste in good things, and wonder if pulp would run the rind, or, as many have not yet found their tongues unsnapped from the shaken wolves of snow, flakes in their frostbitten veins hold dear and chill to the swing-set course with insides, these machines once were with lungs, but we must understand, the drought in the rubber band of their brains took them by little surprise, we now have factory everything, farms are just part of the equation, it’s not that books close when their binding shuts down, it’s possible there are no more trees, and screens endlessly scroll on

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