welcome to two double zero four...

are you ready for the third world war?

judge scalia uber alles
judge scalia uuber alles

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A62514-2004Apr8.html

yeah, it's one of the worst things ever. no shit.

"when the devil came he was not red... he was chrome"

“Where the lovers are, I hid, my two figures also collapsed just so, their divided minds seeking their one, only in dark streets, without all these stars."

How did I find her amid these entanglements? Until we saw—sang, really— the slow stepping flex of wings and children, their hands in hers.

Teach me a bloody lesson swept under by the eager voice, by the guise of her vast and terrible thighs.

“Teach me a bloody lesson.”

O! My eyes my toward the other’s arms and open mouth. I gawked shamefully outstretched and pawed again in spite of the sunrise!

They came together, a river of heads uprooted, moon-caught and swirling in a storm of rising leaves. It all came undone, ripened by hope, sweet with secret rendezvous, multicolored and done up with the odor, the blaze of their autumn. We poured out, we hesitated, muttered to one another in the gaping space between seconds, between cities.

I slowly walked into each unknowable bound second, the flame-licked other and the echoes of ripe leaves. Wrenched from me the breaths, the baroque thin gilding of brown upon my lungs, the smoke of sexual desire

We, black branches, every one, but full of hope, speared and lost behind each other with the best lies we could breathe and come up with in an hour.

I was left, slowly merged too with that other skin: too soft, fallen, overheated by each sweet sunlit dream.

I amid the undergrowth: my body wandered then, cat-like and fast, closed over made healthy and thin. A light pressing of gold upon the corners of my bed.

Together to the river, early under the limbs of the cottonwoods, the maples, brought by the moon, caught and swirling ripe starlight. Stopped short of the main street—

The concept of a universal sweetness at our nostrils, fleshy within the stars’ reach. Dance into the universal streets. “To will forth the dirt-packed ground, the musicless nations with every small gesture sing it, too. He allows me my lover's footprints Inside the mountain early work ends and the robins lie, tired of singing. Where bed melts, makes man hide, follow closely and want spring change. There’s a thorn in our streets a polished people of sharp music unclaimed sound out of the nations and you shall sing it beautiful, touched up to the echo of our future, that immortal rendezvous, each message from beyond. In turn, ripened beneath their unknowable breath, I slowly to walked bed, early to rise.

My lover's footprints. My lover's footprints. my lover's footprints

Wow. I loved him
I, early to bed, early loved him—the tide rises, makes mountain, he never notices. The man cranky, horny and strong. Strung to the backs of fingers, content to lie (Early to bed, early drumming on green wood) Slow to rise, makes a secret cache sunny, runny and

"Jaan!"

There's nothing to it: furl the flag, curl a little change, remainder a hint of chorus and run to the street for civic pride.

Attention, an edged white heat; a bearing down like all universal music will come. Mighty visions of sweaty incremental meatings burst, (or seep, sometimes) unto the nations from the place between the cities, the Outer Periphery. Captive to their young, they shall sing it in their veins, captive to their echo, they touched the rim of hopes.

Unless the skulls of our faithful will ring, ripened and unknowable. Each of the faithful glitter, angular skins, we sloped toward each other. Denied the white lowcutting of the other, the sweet filled youth in their blouses.

He came upon a dread of hope, the reshaped spires of red light.

I couldn’t listen anymore, instead turned my attention down the street, down my legs, down into the city. They trudge the marketplaces. Stand, finally, baby-birdlike from the many breathless houses upon the streets, and all the ridiculous blues and bright patterns and fumes of them: the stars, passing jets in fearless murmery, lounged and wet upon the wet bedspread of sunrise.

“At last!”

She whirled with her angular mass of arms and elbows and mouths. We hesitated, ached to bound down the tumbled stairs, scream and roll into each other, echoes of breaths upon the brown brown stones.

Their carts, each filled at the hour when they can drift smokelike until- but my thoughts went unfinished in her interruption!

Starlight: wooded streets, ill-leveled roads of the city, sweat and sweetness and in our nostrils, fleshy chaos.

"It was," she said, “The hidden children in my cupboard. The stars that slowly danced into the cobbled streets.”

The signs at the edge of town stood on alone and I could count the luxury of silence beneath the stars.

“Haze rose, gave off the scent of sun-warmed stone barns, the orange, much-desired sound of slow breaths and sweet grass.”

I tuned to her at her pull of her gilded voice.

“I watched the processional, then,” She maintained. “To record the dirt-packed ground, the musicless streetmen.”

With every small gesture she allows me a picture, a corona of her midday madness.

” She with sweet meats and perfumes, multicolored heads bent in the odor of the autumn. The smell always happened with the fall-- where our others were looking away from the flood of gore, the openings of her face."

She never wandered off singing of me. The other fires supply their voice. I consume the vision of her backside, replayed and ricocheted, until it left the longed for wares under our relentless moon.