Experimentations in Abstract Postmodernism"The Grave of the Great Alley of Clarity Cats" by Michael Giardina
On arrival in a lot of no civilization and plenty of letters,
why is there this line of stairs writing your body to her house? You were a great editor, dear. You saw the candle callers, the straining, the overwriting body underlying the lives of others. Your Long Island iced tea laced with sandal wood, your delays, and your cute little sandals planned for me this lonely sea of thoughts of seeing limestone walls and seas. A phrase of boiled water still floats a letter, molds me as a nice jealous on and on of many little centers. The University is slow, is a mingling of slow marijuana minglers, singles of writing judges that study water for four hours a day behind the desk of a story. Metaphors are buildings that slay the land, and the fire is always a hearty laugh. I was a slow pace lot fleeing the meaning. It was just the lot to mean a lot of your stands. I wrote of Italy, of standouts—and I will, as long as I’m not one iota. I must be many a one visiting Seattle star bars over the notes and domino letters, eyeing someone nineteen on the island of remiss and will. A voice, the show. The overall… slowly over and resigned; the senior editor of days in front of old hours
The editor of the Amish must be very old, must know sound, be on this issue, use the analogies of time, and run from the store of letters. What’s on your shirt, dear? A few flatcars and the state of the always-already-known? We are a single round trial. Got to get along in the same ten year span—just another shuttle on the stand, our hope of becoming water over land, water and ciphers, just avoiding jail. Through the use of land, she lived where the satellite was. Before is said—and what’s said is the issue of the calls, the letters, and still does anyone else know the letters your daughters wrote? Why is it that you stand for the day late face of limestone visitors? Less than a man and his traders, you want the car, the factory, the sale, the house, and many several Mondays.
Down in Salem, centered, my flow has suddenly ceased. My thoughts are of your evening dresses, jeans, tiaras, and those burly Buddhist raiders of swing timed bass. All is based on the use of a steady loss of the one. So, remind me of this year’s works. I don’t remember now. Women have remained jailed, have stood around a little, and on top of each other with a lawyer (the older brother, a white 42 with sleeves and an $18.00 issue.) As for life, she was—as water—under every plan. Every issue is always forming around old Elvis records and she always starts less tolerant and thinks slowly beyond, not like the man or woman entitled to earth, leaving the middle and end, to find where I was simply standing water. Other cities were her issues of this our house of blues, but still does anyone care about your daughters, or of what you’re doing? I said you have a lot of worry, said you were the lowest of human faces, a human voter of limestone causes. And as you know—I’m gone.
I’m less than a man in a ranch factory, when you’re sleeping in the penthouse suites of Santa Ana, thinking of falling 95ft off of your simple human scribbled letters. You can have your share of the study. I am a very happy friend, a “someone else” who rides towards blue houses. You are used property, used properly. And you learned the favors. This is a serious loss listed days later when you go home. I know there is a ‘not going on’ everywhere. Your frozen batteries are cute but have gone, immediately, and running as fast as hell, running as well as the routing of all these sailing faces and bodies. American women, you are on loan to a simple scandal, and are seen as lettuce leaves sleeping with Angels. This forces body to land, bodies in their case, each slow to understand the role of the house stage on the Las Vegas stage thrones. That is always hands on, which is my only issue with letters.
I see anything and slow to a state where policy chefs are all burly blue shoulders. What I am writing is satellite talk, is a way to Paris. You are a little reminder of the ‘this has been all is’ sound. I only write to the only. I only listen to the gently seasoned. Your read letters read aloud are the error, but you are—to me—known gentle in one eye and a little over nostalgia in the other. Our environment is. And so on. And formaldehyde. And the Ancient Mariner Model. And always Irish letters. It’s boring and sick now. Your right hand is only of very sound state as a result of letters, and is already an entire force of where I refuse to stand.
I am a juvenile delinquent shuttling about, arriving before leaving, battling with time, running my shoes with all that is Italy. Run on, in mind, and run. I’ll learn to bind longer, and we Will love on the other presence of the is, the other present. We will be gentler to ourselves in time, extended hand in hand. You are heavy lead, and already I have one cure for your disease. You’re lying in bed, relying only on Chicago’s south and then wait, crying, knowing that I am an airline and you have the disease of ‘getting there.’
We’re still doing it for use; a voice for those resilient weekends. We avoid the sound of restaurants, shops, states. We almost win. I’m a gentleman and, as a liaison overly arrested, I worry less. But that’s your strategy, I think. You manage the hold, the grip on medium heat. Artists are the staff of Time, standing on their land and stand for more and stop steel cold, steal cold November days for you. We have an error actually, and letting it even out, we guess on this. We are the silent speakers of what it has, what it has been, what it is to stand on our own, to mind every loss like patients lose. And they do. They have a ton of the evidence. I’ve found old ones. The artistic virus has any of those earnings. It loses you beyond the page and this car is a reading of my mind. That is the issue.