slippery sleep down the slope
temporary gone permafrost fast. best brass is muted, under. of the unonion. you know? what? left wonderin'. can't look back, let alone turn. aboutface widely radially raiding the ransacked. push and pop, but mostly watch a rising stack topple, tacking notes on broken. crud, crude crusading curtails the critical curse to a few possible curfew too many. phew, to be heard, but not to relive or delay the distant horeYezon. rising never, unlike bread, to the occasional maintainable moment. without um. never too sequitor to sick it independantly. singeing sing-songs around the edges, like tea-soaked notes in bottles, lost at seeing without a telescope. blindly scoping out the schistic remains. each time. numbers a through zed be ma fee. lion's roar, no one wants to hear or be here'd. without blame or bother, but the other. lick a shot too many to keep count, which no one's. some don't need a whetherperson to know. the wind can hear, but chooses to not, opting to blow whichever way is closest at hand. the game is a fig meant for consumption, not contemplation, not unlike a plate of beans for thought. can i help it?