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paste!
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the effort counts to ten.
at the time of his arrival, Reneloaf basically takes his machine apart
with a wrench
and slices his forearm which he raises to a moonless overhang.
we waited years for that arrival.
posters dripped songs, some music was made to be an innuendo.
it all got taken apart one solid focused afternoon
and bleached thoroughly. the little stuffed animal
turned at me and shouted mean rays through a periscope.
70+ acres of almond fields stuffed into a corduroy jacket.
this is desperate. sometimes, Reneloaf refuted the possibility of his license.
who is granted permission to think about such things?
he whispered to a dairy farm, he drank from a jug of wine.
he was so into the overlap of inconsecutive moments,
thoughts and shields that didn't need. and then there was the gray waterfall.
the black saddle. the red spatula.
Scott Bakula once told me that to unleash a fire hydrant
was sure death to 75 farmers in Tokyo.
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