John Storrow

and tomorrow creeps in this canoe to the last part of the old brown shoe before the start of the dark city becoming new. but the petty blue that supports the canoe is farther than the shoe can walk, even when new because the light shrinks and the canoe sinks to the bottom of the blinks that happen when the minks try to paddle the canoe into the river beside the bottle of glue at the last syllable of recorded goo that drips down from above the shoe as it glides down the river in the old brown canoe.

the wind can begin to spin the twin of the chin of the budha. but it cannot fry the deicate fly that lives in the sky or the pig sty that lives in the city.

the firwst word that the herd heard was blurred by a turd as it flew past the mast and landed in some grease