Experimentations in Abstract Postmodernism"The Grave of the Great Alley of Clarity Cats" by Michael Giardina
A train by life station
I was born, but not before you ordered it. I was called there,
where we are called people and are committed to one step family,
not between or filled. I thought I was a chair,
a publication in a country preschool. You generally go,
but not without a strong wince with red peppers, pitchers.
My reports were intrguing, but you said people are more
intuitive on the subject of images, and my country was
never one with the well or the prospects of raising my fortune.
So, here is an image:
Far below, I was guilty of what might be
called the upper section of my life, and I feel the best
when we all recap the ends of the upper parts of everything.
People (all other people) beat it back into record because
they didn't like the middle of the two extremes.
And what's not battered by a calamity
of all shared between the upper and lower parts?
To be built is to submit all that becomes subject to some.
You buy your mind because you are an extravagance.
I don't like to consider this, since I am on virtue and all.
At the center: moderation. After finding older pleasures,
silently and smoothly, there was comfort and leaders.
I don't like the period in the body of rest, but easy circumstances
are more sensible when pressed earnestly in the most efficient manner.
I reciperocate by stopping the miseries which nature offers,
the station of life I was born into without being assessed.
I will go away to keep from going or going into the city where
he was killed. The city would not seek to report back to me
of my biggest goal's progress, would not let me record or reflect
on recovery. This is a human course between the west coast light
on the "I'm sorry" drawn down face.
My brother was killed with treatment, was assisted into heaven
by a bookkeeper, but couldn't have been otherwise in the court
of my father's desire, a never ending last book dream. In a few weeks,
we'll lose white wheat in the first week of the recollection of what I am.
We're pleased by alternate routes, entirely back on scenes,
on worlds that I should try to win. So I force myself to go,
returning my eye to jitters. I, just like my master, was
a sick motherly recession with a sick fearful obsession.