Friday, December 23, 2011

Thousand: Six Hundred One

white uniform tusk battle tip. A harrowing new adventure, maybe. Or the brash friendship of a set of tumble bunnies. Wild tincture looks curtain spent funk animal hikes, went earthward in a file perpendicular. Look, you who are listening. Abide awhile. There is no tongue in the groove. A mild venture capitulates. Catapults? Wait. Here is some patients, wear it in the patent accident. Cats. There were cats well. An octopus calendar manacle. You are watching television at eight o’clock. The remote remove of a renegade remora, marveling at the mine. Mine mine. All of it. Mine collide. A touch


Elisabeth said...

Too cryptic by half, but still enough of a rollick to cause me to want to wish you the best of the season, Glenn.

Glenn Ingersoll said...

The narrative had a melt-down. Now it can be poured over ice cream.

Happy holidays, Elisabeth!