A brownie being offered him,
the missionary cringes;
he's heard rumors,
messages have been passed on,
Sybils served tea and
chocolatte once fed gods
native to this chapparral where I dwell
with lizards and coyote, yote, like mote in y'eye
don't let the accent fool ya, said the preacher from his jet.
I say,
Wise ***** are not named otherwise, in The Bible, I mean.
SO,
lieve me being in the *******
is no missing of the message
wrapped
in Christmas ribs.
We've come quietly, adverbs being repre-ived,
at the moment
from stupid Tom Swifty readers, ****-flash
I hate lys, not because Stephen King does,
but be cause Herr Dunklesohn
mocked me
forn not recognizing a Tom Swifty as such.
Same guy told me Mrs. Malaprop was named for her
character-istic
intrusion of forced onset cognition ignition
the technic in fully articulated use of F and N in S
and M toned down to PG
when, gee, I think we're alone.
leaves us dangling near the source of Jonatan Edwards
actual
idea
the thread that holds us, for all we weigh in worthiness,
nada, right? so we ain't heavy. riiiight. bro. sos ye know,
this ain't me, we integrated, we crazy voices in the readers mind
we all sound the same so some same same-same
life goes down the drain
in one swirling direction from a solar POV, but bacwards,
not *******, blowing, in the wind, the answer,
my friend,
stupid chant an encantation from the substrata
think nothing
meditate
of it
sit
squirm and be a kid. You made it. This is the rest in the story.
Ah, that felt wonderful.
