Sunday, February 5, 2012

o35

resonate:

We may be fractal, something says, as we float around this universe of concrete and puttyroot.

I was told by none other than the proverbial little birdie secrets about the secrets of the squirrels, that they really don't exist.

Clover echoes from the treetops, but only in the springtime, and only from the tips of the lips of rabbits.

The universe is a mass grave of what we were, are, and will be. Coalescent, we live noncircular, but the galaxies spin out of control in a mobius loop, a figure 8 of unending spit and polish, of incineration and blinding red glory.

Jonathon rides his bike, and the gravel talks backs, and the puddle responds, its concentrics are thought bubbles of oh, there you are!

3 comments:

  1. oh, jesusgod, tom, i say this softly, this is something very special.

    xo
    erin

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  2. oh wow.......i am flabbergasted by this. we are chasing our nonlocal tails around this carbon based infinitely stretching mass of black matter aren't we? but you say it so much better....love the mobius loop, the figure 8 of unending spit and polish, and the blinding red glory. oh boy, jonathan and his gravel - it talks back, yes it does..


    erin nailed what i am trying to say - this is something. very. special.

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    Replies
    1. thanks, i agree it's something, but in the general scheme of things, who knows what exactly! there's nothing like gravel though, you can find all sorts of surprises in a patch of that stuff

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