Plotinus Plinlimmon

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Science in a Tavern

Give up on the potlatch era. Some of us will encourage the generation of statistically improbable phrases. They are just waiting to die. We'll ask the fathers and they'll pass on an inscrutable word. The earth hums regardless of tears. It's just a blueeyed boston boy. Discover my past emptying out cigar boxes and consecrate burnt photographs to sky guys I can't imagine, toxic smoke of a new kind scalding my longs. I'll tickle your catastrophe if you tickle mine.

Grabber pan with strap. Set eyes on northern territory. Little figures, household gods, teraphim, lares and penates, a pornography trap, a spider, today had no purpose any way or did it? Maybe not to me.

Know the value of your timber crop.


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