Landman, Seth | May he be handwritten in the Minutes
Early Arrival
Every palm-held patient feels little in the hand and much in the badge. I chart tides in books, poems about, of, no guile, no guide, not a single feeling on the ferry. Let’s suppose, we play. We play at practical, cook the books, make repairs. The plan is made. Besides having to see Paris, there are times there is God, grafted and famous in home-colors. The lightning swift, the forms selective. Great rivers of procedural curve. Like a pop song breaking on the grain, these are the long hydraulics of the caterwaul. I’m going to teach you how to listen to the science of the laws of any similar sound, to draw pictures of pasture. To roll the pedal over. Love’s a snowstorm, statewide, a synopsis of ice. Usually I miss it, so official and desked in, speaking a new language in the middle of the night. A sign is the end of hints. Publicity as true concern for the path of the mouth. I wonder at hat and gloves of advanced good. Piles of wild. Anthem after anthem on flower parts so like us though safe on the river. Here is the gift of fibers and adding up. Popular parts of songs orbiting the lawn. Walking by a warm house on a cold night, I hear clinking glasses and smell the light. For the radio deals. Why we love what there is in addendum and dodge like human beings. Adapt, and company comes. All around, souvenirs, face to face, hidden years. Keep reading →
