Tended Blender

For known and unknown, this thing extracts. Meat and muscle of road edge and graded technology franticate three districts. You want to say “the” but instead you must say three. The number, three number. Switch to dark side of you with intention and internationally you become known in circles, crop circles. Tangible fungible edible you, totally precious and totally buttressed and stressed and jeans jackets for the masses, oh god how does that look in a report to the nancies at central at high school courtyard? In the smoking room smoke only those whose dads gave permission and something went awry. Where did praxis slink to? The weevil tadpoles but it don’t frog down. Pry your dusky layers from old folks’ tomes, you’ll strange a weir, a dun apocalypse with fashion and breakfast on hats. Deep delving for hat space, not a chance, but then, who gets six from a dozen gets half his pay in eggs. Hoo! That cat with Duvall, Bobby Duvall, all the truncheons he must have had to endure to build endurance for trials and tests so he could fly on a plane to see The Great One, the apostle. To which day does allegiance owe something? Altogether a smile, with articulo avoidanzia, mastermind of the old shutter game and instincts like shag carpets. Such incidents make stuttering a fool. Tab naggedly, you see explosions of the moon, something happens, something else happens, like what that sighted young Willie Mason says about how all we get to knowing is how to put things on paper…give me the ether over it any day, excelsior. True blue in spirit, chicken on the cob, road treasure in the midst of broken tape tragedy, nine chances to sweet delicate dessert and abandoned hollowman eye expressions. This is the silence from which I am writing. This is the place for our down trust to magnify. Your trouble is my relief. You are me, I address me in the second person for reasons of autobiographical injunction. This is saying something, though not much. It’s ever badly a chance at gathering the folds of district riddles and other chance hopalongs. It’s capital Nifty but for the sweatybacked ballcruncher you turned out to be. All the gin my grandfather ever drank…all in a bucket with tears and memories and seven nights of only knowing. We rubs raw with nutcracker precision, a ballet of transient, cannibal sludge, grunting towards a screwed oblivion.