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Anti-Earth poems, wrapped in anti-human waxed paper, transited through the postal service like kidney stones, like mail bombs through the torpedo tubes of bureaucracy, auto recite the longing lost on long, lingering localizations on a desk top, presumably. Movement is the key. Agitation keeps the pulp from settling, keeps the nutrients from dispersing. Traipsing through the chain of command, the nuisance of chain letters and their hesitation to travel upward, the hierarchy and its unwillingness to stoop to our level.

Twilight of the idols. Rosy dawn of the iconoclasts. Anti-Earth poems wrapped in anti-life regalia, ready to crash the ball with bloody dancing in glass slippers, blood on the dance floor, bits of blister earned on the arduous hike from toe to crown. Locomotion is, in this case, the alibi, and not the accomplice.

Posted by James Bradley on 9/8/12

EFFING Totally awesome bro!!

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