The Elephants

I intend and abandon the storms that surface out of your facial reconciliation targets. By the fire here there sit the dividing lashes of the mote discoveries as they promise that the surface of your eyes collects the rust from the earth to exteriorize the wound of the first animal color. The night follows beyond what might restart the sand detection of the Sea. Someone detaches the sky's knotted hoops to remove the ear that unravels the disconnections outside. The disappearing processor draws eggs into the surface of a black kite with those feelings made for the light as it links the animals back to the ferns. After that there is nothing to divide what might dissolve into fine catacombs and the season, with its negated services, resolves to remove my background agents. As the increasing likelihood of my disaster recedes, the night decides the approach to the rainbow by the work of the dusters and how they revolve to infuse the bird sounds of the summer with blood, as they fall to the beginning territory of the tapirs one approaches the thrice nonexistent sweat of the desert for the first and last mound.

toward a tropical lung

---

four magnets
populate
the land shadows
as the network
displays the reflected solution
to packet the light between us
and dissolve the pronouncing tide
as a tunnel to the night

Yes, because something tears the train from the interior electric loops and the earth becomes more automatic and increases the hidden waters. There is a net blank that the power of the button does not allow in the competitors of color. And while thought is not attached, only the slight can hear the music well. When one of us leaves to belong to the sounds of the web we also become less measurable in pictures. The window goes out of town and shatters on the other side of el borrado ser humano. We walk slowly to undo the attachment service of the name protection team and then the horses wander softly through our comfort. Someone is standing in the midnight slot but we are using the same pen for the morning alarm. Each service train sews us to the chest and we become the solitude of flannel. When they fight for the stupid they also fall past the earth and into the distant boundary line of the clouds. They read them, those clouds at the surface of my stretchable heart space, but the morning also does not appear to the fragments of reflection. When they are accused of terror, they are also put down as softness by the recognition Sea. A subset of time cannot be the book offering to the Aubrey Williams Hymn to the Sun of the Olmec and Maya nascent with its seed solutions. Death smiles easily in the electronic womb.

borrado ser humano

The opposing vestibule remains dear to the hidden exception of the gnat, as more guns return to the harvest of the blind ash and its blessing. Another fold appears to remove the light contusions and some become the outside visitation of the pulse beyond music. It is there that the opening aggressions resume to be the twelfth red and black sound. Within the cloud negating Sea it resets the triplet's inception to the middle ground. Or she or he removes the increasing dust to the goat of disturbances. Function does not water the soil for the buttons, and the instruction is met with pure vacancy in the wandering fish. Without the receptacle of the electronic mute we dissolve to find less number for the story. The bison attaches itself to the projected night and sees within the interrogation dismemberment team. And she of the cyclone circle removes the bottle from the weeks long slow decapitation of each continental mirror. Now that we see ourselves in the nowhere map we are more alight to a world without reflection. The final gaze burns to the ground to give us the most pure golden disc of the image. She calls and she calls el borrado ser humano to expire her coercion in a cyclone of intention. The dreams of the second stone respond with a quadrant stagger by this side of the Darién jungle. They sit still for the tiny and colorful poison frogs. Down by the Sea we absorb the Dolphin Zeros through our body light regions and flood our first memories with the origins of both suffering and pleasure.

middle ground

an organic function of escape
chairs and stones on the surface
pierced and disproportional symbols
release the heat storm of the offering
to palm out the lung restitutions
in the hidden wombs
and their mystery silences
from the bone window interface. escaleras
simbólicas de los borrados

escaleras simbólicas de los borrados

We become the line as we absorb the blood and parts of a morning's climate. After the show there are three moves that capitulate to the undersea robotic logins. The machines call us less than silence. When the afterimage endures through our swarming conversations the only night sky punctured with reading projectiles removes the people who cannot answer. When the float of the water and the swing form contusions they slow down our protests. When the placed of the night do not push the language from the team we deploy the Host and start at the war of plants, the war herb symbol of a Black Elk rumor. Each intentional exit dissolves as each word is spoken. Even when the firing table does not reveal the beginnings of the symbol, even then we do not stand inside the weather. The rain drops the summer and we end up having to hold it up ourselves. People are without wood and so they starve for a table without the Earth. We deploy the end of the number to make our hands write. When each person does not know the way to start we are left without the webbing science of the knot. In the outside there is not one line to see. Out of our open memory we die from the background of beginning. Each life is like that, without a day to unravel or stream. But when most of us disappear we begin the language. Each of our service animals desires what we do not know. But then the equation belongs to accept again and the circles cut our skin. In the outdoor seating we explain that one of us is not the foundation of the paper night. And we cut the line to explain that those were standing. Even if the explanation cannot relax my throat, the signs of the country make sounds that terrify each organ. Are they just sounds? Why fear the violence that surrounds us if our music cannot explain? Which of our empty torsos can become us to endure the approaching winter? Even if no one hears, we are listening to the last sounds of the age and we are seeing the fire to come and bloat us in the heat. Our empty words are not soft. They punch a hole in the screen. And where does it end now that it has begun? Which body should I endure to be like the Self() of the canceled? How may faces can I believe with my senses? What Self() interface works for you?

hand writing ocean sea ocean