Gab el. Bachman. Deep. France. Bergman. Evans. Rise. Sage. Franz. Polanski. Cinematic. Bass. Black. Morgana. Wealth. Eve. Mibikids. Rife. Mornling. Cyrano. Deeper. Scribe. Hudson. Buksport. Ship. Mow. Berkshire. Fellini. Fincher. Astronomer. Riley. Chompsky. Court. Love. Route. Bloniasz. Jove. Distance. Fabric. Producto. Emby. Dean. Freed. Professor. Space. Apotheosis. List. Geodesica. Norcross. Ingersol. Chabert. Chaucer. Noon. Zero. Little. Words. Deepest. Self.
Its not as if Maya Angelou was strung up naked from a Mississippi delta born cotton tree. Well, actually it was. You see back when black buskins beat back the bramble of my god given right to speech impediment laden afterthouhts, I would stroll a slow mosey in a grove of old bo trees. Now my socks stretch only so far as my crinkled fingers can pull these chinese odes to western capitalism. Remember the rice patties, and the rice patty hats. "Men in black pajamas," he would say. And then proceed to crack-a-lack a round into their unsmiling faces. Oh how the rice patty hat would fly off like a bottle rocket and pinwheel back to earth with red streamers in tow. Those were my fondest memories. The rest are moot in comparison.
Deeper. Where the gems are. Lately ive been going deep. Real deep. Deep enough to sweat oil. Deep enough to get an associates degree in paleontology in my subconsciousness' freetime. Deep. I reached the point where antiques were just someones crappy nicknacks weeks ago. Relics return to their original owner and artifacts turn peasant garbage. I left in the mid-summer noon sun. Each ray fell upon my skin like a whip of molten lead. Then i reached the winter of interim. Now i feel the mid-earth magma summer upon me. Deep. What was once my circular skylight then pin hole now doesnt even give enough glim for me to recognize the color of the darkness. Black has no meaning down here. I snorted my last photon days ago. Deep.