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J. and her son arrived with an upper caste K, wearing ballcaps and tall,
Saw the laboriously torn letters, a cross on the floor,
Smiled the guitar and stopped the bleeding artists from hardening into
    apples left to sit alone in a closet for months
    without the possibility of contriving of he, Leo.

I was drunk on Goliath, for I am no David, but boy howdy I had a good time.

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It could be that the hair on our head will melt,
our stomach will become sere by the sun and shrivel,
and all of the blood in our heart get shoveled and smoked into they sky.

Or we could log into a dumb terminal and slay DOS based text dragons from the world.

The sobriquet of animal nature
came storming down to awaken me
on a cold evening in December.

The Virgin Mary was born and
the olympic runners carried her flames
without their bodies to a new pavilion.

It felt like the sojourn was not at an end
when too many voices from Barton Fink
were marauding me with arrows.

Black diamond stairs sucked me into a fan cooled cave
and I could not be there and walked out for a tattoo.

A mighty spearman transcendent from blue holes held me in esteem
and gave oil free shells, one of which was a teardrop from a little baby laughing,
and showed me a bottle drunk by aghost from Pittsburgh.

We ascended to heaven together, but he made it further.

If my story were to be espoused by sailors aft
it would be entitled “his teeth
and everything he ever loved was coated in coffee.”

It would be a dull story.