Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Volunteers wouldn’t sing a soft rock number called “Immersive creativity.” So, melancholy. But what could be simpler than watching you bathe
or anyone meditate
dark on seraphic light.
More loiter with intent. Both smile, but neither laugh. They’re wearing harnesses with panoptic properties extending their blood-pull orbit toward other shoulders.
That’s verse one. We know.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 11:02 AM
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
What’s This Eyebrow To?
To ask fobs off the message. It’s his fault. That bright kid on the bicycle in a parking lot nowhere close. His fuzz still sudsy, only with strippers on the parallels so it can be substantiated. Too many soups?? A coping top can be spun after torpor clears the rind bored by epochs of parallel scenery: Eyebrows added up like socks or a rain dance to sit-downs and buffets outside the capitol. (2001)
Posted by Jack Kimball at 1:42 PM
Monday, July 29, 2013
Thanks for Once
Suddenly ten nots sit on my lap.
If you hide your ego it looks great. I’m saying no
with my eyes shut. All I needed to be back.
P.S. I use not as my pillow to quote myself
I’m my own climactic identity, as well..
You can take your helmut off if you like.
Silence pays. We’re both being blackmailed
over meditation spanning the surface, no
message. So there’s nothing to represent.
The will to quiet is the flip side of getting a ch-
amber piece to coast, to wave inaudible
signs for surplus as renewed power, when.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 12:58 PM
Sunday, July 28, 2013
When I Was with You
I went sideswiping among maples & acer pines with no contrivance or opposition. My
role was to fill them in, lengthening their menace while coddling wetlands.
I call this a sex drive.
If I had foreground I’d subside in attrition, better to find & weed out caution. & if I had taken
notes I’d have a root to the scheme of “you,” “me” & any unclenched feelings we
had that I can’t pinpoint or supplicate.
The wetlands are working it through. Those words we had & didn’t have are consequences.
No milieu’s bad. Bad is good. Enmeshed values constitute what’s awake, empirical or not
it has something to do with the sound. It makes them crazy.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 7:21 AM
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Sex is peroration. That’s a normal reduction or formula for my song.
The idea of muscle worship reminds me of hydrangea in labor (staging nightmares).
Thusly, as skeptics like us step over and above a shift in moan, we paste in genetic material.
This is how I reside within contingent values like ‘now available’ from a tray of boomerangs
that seem mostly tantalizing in the feasible, wanting nothing, just a tray holding
what go around & come around left to their own desires and systems.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 5:27 AM
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Tomorrow can mete out facts to impel comfortable indeterminacy — for now
nimbus-wet telepaths rush themselves in devotion to their next decimal of the property. This may
be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads
and let you know when.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 6:41 AM
Monday, July 22, 2013
The Metaphor Lattice at..
I manufacture flyweights. Learning and teaching I’m drunk on bounce.
A company like ours takes it inside the parturifacient facility.
I’m not demanding real savings where the legions of death sold out.
Smelling pablum, they met some firepower to prevent further questions. I was a devotee in the sprayed periphery, staying in balance inside a soft radical vapor of mnemonic bigness to blow chunks. Is that the word?
It’s with a baby girl appetite I held myself for conniving to carpet silence. I’m satisfied with my decision, since I’m a Buddha owner — it’s two-way to scale..
Recursions set in. I had no modesty issues, none detected, and fewer and fewer policy goals.
Soon we relaxed our balance to parry something or perhaps two small things that once were clear enough, but not now. We went into this. The 20-60 split seems marvelous at present.
The music pickles. I dreamt with you.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 5:30 AM
Thursday, July 18, 2013
There’s a state insect that was bullied by a beat with a big smile across your whole face, your four appendages gone wiggly.
Let me know if I’m too plotting-and-pacing for you.
Art is theft all right.
Contemporary argyle needsedit. Your face, the trains I ride, it’s all good (Talking casual takes directions.) a kind of equipage inherent in spice squads in the blahs of scenery.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 5:51 AM
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Thirty years ago a spool of red tape (hyacinths) was said to have regenerated, feeling there’s a beginning, and there’s an end, don’t fix it.
For all appearances nothing lurid was due at signing. Luscious hills, gleaming grains. The American Songbook has feelings
that go monophone in uglified loveliness besieged by entertainment.
I did not see Harry Partch and his public are blotto-dreamy.
Now the jury has reached a blueprint to direct them in..
A tree in the wind.
How is it lit?
Tall with liquid arms;
another is hit and run
By a showdown at the riverbed..
I was saying endless tunnels, gadgets and impulse interconnect here while we wait.
My fingers board an immersive apparatus, some of it; it’s thumping on the screen / wall.
I did not know my capacity to recognize him in an infinite series
as the glow that’s cool and regular.
There are. There = are.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 11:46 AM
Friday, July 12, 2013
And your point? here’s where I come down on Floppy Bear to take a few moments.
I’m supposed to test ideas. I learned bad is to show up invisible
with another’s candor hand-stamped opening on night firelight
and ushered into little squares of hypnotic drumming..
Orange beans chomping at the breast —
reconnaissance, is that what you meant?
Posted by Jack Kimball at 7:15 AM
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
You translators are a close second.
You appear ordinary. This is about something else.
Then I repeated if I were you I’m with that for I should have
hemopxel in 14 countries.
The end is it continues
as clatter divvies up the ethnic accordion out of the rain above the lime stench from haze, round wedges shooting blanks! Horizon w/ rooms. Behaviorally this is falling parallel vistas.
I’ve been noticing this when the weather cooperates.
Never weep standing up , swamps in Japan are barricades
Software permeates philosophy. The brick housewarming ,
Curtains and all the movement inside where it’s filthy.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 7:32 AM
Tuesday, July 09, 2013
Let’s find something to agree on.
Opt is a suffix with capital.
Thank you for not murdering me.
It’s always funny, we move to the city, scripted by infantile alienation. There’s less to killing now. Young arrivals will be wandering into the new wrong play.
A killer needs a vertical monkey bar and libido time, a star range w/ plenty of blank tenderness to smolder in met colors and galvanized pastels.
Again. It’s not too late! Optimism pays.
Now open the curtains. Let’s steal the show.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 5:40 AM
Sunday, July 07, 2013
Back I Said
Innocence concerns ethics. Bozo acts against his own interests.
Adoration has a poetic scent.
The wrong blockbuster, please, to the center of the plate.
Our reputations precede our character, the act of apprehension remains
differentially. Creature masks are a condition, it replies
Who will advocate for peace.
This prepares the manifold, earlier,
immaterial representations, the mounting system
centralized, well groomed as yoga for planets.
The earlier bonobos touched it and squirrels did their math
to empower the mergers and exchange. That’s part of what I believe,
Posted by Jack Kimball at 7:47 AM
Thursday, July 04, 2013
July all a..
A battle between two distinctions
over words bringing up no words
times two more of those brain-states of Asia,
incorrigible, is is. A marsh is now interesting
(and vitae), for the sea, nothing but applesauce and shellac,
the sea brought in without consent, the wolf of the pack
of subject matter. Let’s get back.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 6:31 AM
Wednesday, July 03, 2013
I’m thinking of a color — no name, no feel..
It’s a question of blood flow. There are no stages.
Do you know how many rabbits Revlon tapped?
I’m thinking of a movie, “Fat Asses.” Utter, pretentious torture..
Your product here, more preemptive than jr. kwon do
it’s directly oblique, pointedly
I love you escalated, united with everything no-count!
Formality, inadequate to reality, the banner
of cognition counter-stretched, on balance
running everywhere that’s off the — the first the —
and explaining an authentic vantage within sight
and miniature schemes, a whorl, colors of dusk
and wrestlers who portray border patrol..
Posted by Jack Kimball at 6:47 AM
Monday, July 01, 2013
The School of Nobody Loves You
Ticket holders rise to the occasion w/ pretty good probabilities, because they won the beginning
Tho a fun emphasis is more shaped by time while taking a dance step composed in unruly-bloodthirsty aplomb (to talk pre-theoretically)
That goes by & releases us into a state of brittle ignorance. Ignorance..
Also, after the show folded we were never serious. Toys were another good idea until we went broke. We were not the first not to do what we believed & hold on.
It would take the future to repeat just the beginning.
Posted by Jack Kimball at 5:26 AM