tom taylor
SUMMIT-TREE
Luxor hazelnut unrestrained vigor from the cellular walls inside time itself where no man sings. Aloud to the skies ‘luxury apartments for rent’ no master products remitted under hand and arm signals against at the sunset horizon online and everywhere’s else in victu
Narks the matter inside what was left here on the page wriggling no where the same sun glowing under a column of numbers now, now.
I hear hazelnuts lounging in the far distance, maybe the near ~~ their fall rotundity demeanors no insignificant allowances for dust or mites; hear the fog lifts to no uncertain terms, turning you into doubt itself. Here’s the nugget itself, sounding out in the sentence with gusto, with guts ~~ the remarkable fall of hundreds from the laundry lists distributed at the market daily or not. Time enough.
The more recent hazelnuts declined amnesty and then carried on intensely enough to pardon the outers from their non-reminiscences; here was the new wafer, waiting at the fringes of the circle for there to be no more hot sauce on the sides of the knife to burn your lips and call the new day a waiting game for people who have difficulty walking or even seeing their shoes enlarge into the span.
“Hazelnut my ass” the cry went up into the rafters, afloat as they were; this was no time to dally or flaunt…. Inside doubt was the answer we’d all occluded for, hastening our own time-in-grade for the soldiers in the army of none. The cleaner read something in the tealeaves on the door, splattered upside down in a mimicry of the last hostages to leave the plane in their long underwear.
The trees bare hazelnuts daily twisting in the rain, here where the dirt under the trees is vacuumed clean by a big machine you can ride, not a sweeper exactly, but rather a grown affair not unlike a rider mower, but with large inflatable and fillable bags mounted on the rear of the machine between the two rear wheels; now, when there’s more than you can imagine do the nuts themselves pop and ride.
Calls retreat a newer nomenclature from which this pool this air no masters aside the chrome horse he put it names the lighter hues the northern end of what retreated in the first place a cal a destiny a future chasm seaming shut inside time itself is held at the arm of length the wet dirt floors all polished smooth by the bare feet of the other escapees which reminds us of the eternity of the hazelnut.
Luxor hazelnut unrestrained vigor from the cellular walls inside time itself where no man sings. Aloud to the skies ‘luxury apartments for rent’ no master products remitted under hand and arm signals against at the sunset horizon online and everywhere’s else in victu
Narks the matter inside what was left here on the page wriggling no where the same sun glowing under a column of numbers now, now.
I hear hazelnuts lounging in the far distance, maybe the near ~~ their fall rotundity demeanors no insignificant allowances for dust or mites; hear the fog lifts to no uncertain terms, turning you into doubt itself. Here’s the nugget itself, sounding out in the sentence with gusto, with guts ~~ the remarkable fall of hundreds from the laundry lists distributed at the market daily or not. Time enough.
The more recent hazelnuts declined amnesty and then carried on intensely enough to pardon the outers from their non-reminiscences; here was the new wafer, waiting at the fringes of the circle for there to be no more hot sauce on the sides of the knife to burn your lips and call the new day a waiting game for people who have difficulty walking or even seeing their shoes enlarge into the span.
“Hazelnut my ass” the cry went up into the rafters, afloat as they were; this was no time to dally or flaunt…. Inside doubt was the answer we’d all occluded for, hastening our own time-in-grade for the soldiers in the army of none. The cleaner read something in the tealeaves on the door, splattered upside down in a mimicry of the last hostages to leave the plane in their long underwear.
The trees bare hazelnuts daily twisting in the rain, here where the dirt under the trees is vacuumed clean by a big machine you can ride, not a sweeper exactly, but rather a grown affair not unlike a rider mower, but with large inflatable and fillable bags mounted on the rear of the machine between the two rear wheels; now, when there’s more than you can imagine do the nuts themselves pop and ride.
Calls retreat a newer nomenclature from which this pool this air no masters aside the chrome horse he put it names the lighter hues the northern end of what retreated in the first place a cal a destiny a future chasm seaming shut inside time itself is held at the arm of length the wet dirt floors all polished smooth by the bare feet of the other escapees which reminds us of the eternity of the hazelnut.
posted by jim leftwich at 10:03 PM
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