red wine with moog backlight: a gymnastic transmission

Wine rides a bicycle named arbitrarily, whine on a bicycle broken.

In the arboretum, dine a tricycle crazy.

Refine tricyclen, pattern-sensitive chicken, with wine.

This week is chocolate and afternoon,
wine on a red wagon once having been a bicycle.

A bicycle can either read or be read
with pedals like Braille fingers before pedals turn brown and fall.

Poulet, chocolate smear on wine-dyed lips is a putrid shade.

Thank god for oak trees who do not care to weep.

February is upon us and it, monsieur, is the cruelest month.


The volume rose and bulbs poked through the screen:

There is only one way to skin a rabbit, one way to make chili, one way to get from NY to CA, one way to let a person know what you think of them. Nothing in this article feels like a cane-handle.

The Octagon on Roosevelt Island—lunatic asylums fascinate me, particularly those which are old and abandoned. This one’s being revamped as a housing complex.

Thank you, Google, for keeping the cameras out of my bathroom—so far.

So it’s true. College degrees are handed out like department store fliers, and our future looks bleak. Uh, begin the War on Stupid.

Indiana, poor ninny-timed Indiana.