The Lavender is Melting Into the Heliotrope, the Constellations are Dying Out

I am waygone, Mayakovsky Tree. Snow birds are passing by. I can't forgive the luring rill.

We could not prevent Glenn Beck from receiving Eric Massa in bed as he would a tedious guest at afternoon tea.

A glint in a giant eye, a skidding cloud, a glob of lime. Glenn Beck moves a flipper and swims onward through the void, varying with the librations of the moon.

Now I must either retrace my steps or cross the gorge with my fur cap, shoe strings, and my little skiff -- the heavens under which domes and turrets and minarets arise.

Glenn Beck's flourishing and odoriferous power and glory will make the body cleaner, healthier, stronger, happier, trenchant, impregnable, narrow, and mean.

So there we are, Mayakovsky Tree, seeming and simulating on our way back to the kitchen from the living room window sill. A squirrel tickles your bole until you can't breathe and four guys jump on top of you.

Glenn Beck, the tedious rosary simpleton, claims he doesn't know anything about tickle fights in the Navy. But often in his wanderings and divagations, Glenn Beck gives us fresh proof that no two opposing elements meet and fuse without working themselves up to sweaty ecstasies of gain.

The ochre veins of the lime cliffs are now perceptible. This hardly secures for them flowers and lentils the year round. Mayakovsky Tree, the trees in the distance seem like rain clouds. Welcome to my mulberry sticks, my dried pine needles -- your monks ogling on the pine roof of the abbey.