peter ganick & jim leftwich
OUR STORY
Should be as is is not, but is surely where this leads. Slow explosion, dint of apparition slc, melody festival, fertility plastic ontologies spume the radix of satoric nebulae. One conducting, constrained but not controlled, is nearer to how we go about than going into real-town jettisoning where floodlit appalls the mid-range. Whitely out to journey. The story is a mythic proportion, jump-cut narrative from the unreal to the real, from darkness to light, condensed to a bridge between false and hopeful, barely any bridge at all. The truth squad knows nothing of this, reigning in small corners toned randomly recessive. Stand in the lower left-hand corner of our circle. Dip your pre-occupied, pre-irreal (that is its scordatura in meme),
imaginary quill in the spectacle of their blood. Begin at the still
point and draw a spiral to the ceiling,as a directive subsumed or ignored, pokes negative space, remaining light amplified, appeasing. The top of the spiral should be as wide as the bottom of the circle. Swimming through immense trollings between formal futures, contemplating meaning improperly. Mark an X connecting the four corners of our square. The spiral will collapse onto its footprint.
Snips and scraps like strings litter the mythic labyrinth. Each is a
curve and a heap. We sit if a lotus on the basement floor and savor
demolition smells. Begin to knit and clump a road. Our journey requires
of us a road. As we go along the discontinuous will have been
contiguous now at aggregate mnemonic up ahead. You only get every
chance to make it up as you go along once upon each time a long long
time ago, so we may as well get it right and blame the rest on them.
01.06.07
NOR ANY
Nor any, since many mustered acts as law against the few. Previously endorsed by canonic ladders, mimetic lassitude evasive of trellis-bounded motions scans dire nature. Not too flee into the each as though single any since conception, but else is out of reach, a debate oliphants of renamed irony are instilled in such of us. We are many, and they are few, while she contains multitudes, and so do you. I have not come to testify against their sad misfortune. Moisture gathers the outdoorsy types. I have never been there. The outdoors is filtered radioactively. Twice folds into itself as seen before our moment, and we become between ourselves and us the reach of that, its faceted touch times five. So, dominant as in some partisan refuge, metier blandly or metier energetically I smell no sulfur, though I can taste the tale. Omnipresent teevee soundlessness must endure silence of rainmakers. To the touch it sounds like truth incite. History we think unfolds in both directions behind us,! while in fact it’s just ahead, awaiting our invention. Neem trollop sizes jupiterean lacewings before standing apart then together, nature in presence. Nothing, precisely, we have always known, is written in stone, other than that which is written on stone as a lesson, wan in face, to us ephemeral. Revolutions never travel in circles, they spread out over the tundra like flowering deserts, the miracle in the mirage, ice labors to cover where sessional dustbins' nothingnesses race the boundless rations of heretofore named
in dust like billions of broken mirrors just for us. We go on, some
among us, to reach the end of the sentence, as this ought end at any of
many along the way. There’s a rhythm to the breadth of change, and surely, change derives its truth from presence. Absence contracts, change flows by, expansion in this age of overblown artifice is unnecessary. We don’t think we’re more than in it.
01.06.07
Should be as is is not, but is surely where this leads. Slow explosion, dint of apparition slc, melody festival, fertility plastic ontologies spume the radix of satoric nebulae. One conducting, constrained but not controlled, is nearer to how we go about than going into real-town jettisoning where floodlit appalls the mid-range. Whitely out to journey. The story is a mythic proportion, jump-cut narrative from the unreal to the real, from darkness to light, condensed to a bridge between false and hopeful, barely any bridge at all. The truth squad knows nothing of this, reigning in small corners toned randomly recessive. Stand in the lower left-hand corner of our circle. Dip your pre-occupied, pre-irreal (that is its scordatura in meme),
imaginary quill in the spectacle of their blood. Begin at the still
point and draw a spiral to the ceiling,as a directive subsumed or ignored, pokes negative space, remaining light amplified, appeasing. The top of the spiral should be as wide as the bottom of the circle. Swimming through immense trollings between formal futures, contemplating meaning improperly. Mark an X connecting the four corners of our square. The spiral will collapse onto its footprint.
Snips and scraps like strings litter the mythic labyrinth. Each is a
curve and a heap. We sit if a lotus on the basement floor and savor
demolition smells. Begin to knit and clump a road. Our journey requires
of us a road. As we go along the discontinuous will have been
contiguous now at aggregate mnemonic up ahead. You only get every
chance to make it up as you go along once upon each time a long long
time ago, so we may as well get it right and blame the rest on them.
01.06.07
NOR ANY
Nor any, since many mustered acts as law against the few. Previously endorsed by canonic ladders, mimetic lassitude evasive of trellis-bounded motions scans dire nature. Not too flee into the each as though single any since conception, but else is out of reach, a debate oliphants of renamed irony are instilled in such of us. We are many, and they are few, while she contains multitudes, and so do you. I have not come to testify against their sad misfortune. Moisture gathers the outdoorsy types. I have never been there. The outdoors is filtered radioactively. Twice folds into itself as seen before our moment, and we become between ourselves and us the reach of that, its faceted touch times five. So, dominant as in some partisan refuge, metier blandly or metier energetically I smell no sulfur, though I can taste the tale. Omnipresent teevee soundlessness must endure silence of rainmakers. To the touch it sounds like truth incite. History we think unfolds in both directions behind us,! while in fact it’s just ahead, awaiting our invention. Neem trollop sizes jupiterean lacewings before standing apart then together, nature in presence. Nothing, precisely, we have always known, is written in stone, other than that which is written on stone as a lesson, wan in face, to us ephemeral. Revolutions never travel in circles, they spread out over the tundra like flowering deserts, the miracle in the mirage, ice labors to cover where sessional dustbins' nothingnesses race the boundless rations of heretofore named
in dust like billions of broken mirrors just for us. We go on, some
among us, to reach the end of the sentence, as this ought end at any of
many along the way. There’s a rhythm to the breadth of change, and surely, change derives its truth from presence. Absence contracts, change flows by, expansion in this age of overblown artifice is unnecessary. We don’t think we’re more than in it.
01.06.07
posted by jim leftwich at 6:41 PM
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