And ante every erg with epileptic bobs brought on by breathless theremin.

Everyone bounces to the rumor and agrees: Sweat is the song’s body amplified;

wild gestures for the blissful life compilation.

That smell is the South on the rise, and Chinese dumplings top secret.

Right now the borough boasts exceptional sounds and scents

in the air a defiance of the depressive buzz;

phenomenal street cars float by on magic rugs

and still the inauguration rains its ambitious art while curious squares traverse the pyramid projects.

Architectural narcotics ignite the long-buried guts and imagi-nation once stoned on credentials and ruts

– this is where common sense is all-encompassing and words good and bad a virus,

where red and blue are purple, black and white gray, and enigami’s urge unrivaled;

I saw the extraordinary magnitude in getting unplugged, kicked keys in every corner affectionately

and noted in the body commotion, a starving inferno eavesdropping on a needle in the hay.

Unknown news was being leaked: Words do reality build up and deconstruct, happy to have been repainted

by abacus suppliers who believe Creativity is going for them; will shake them up, backstroke those centuries to meet beneath

their quietly aching feet with friction heat:

Picture what has been seen; imbibe the walks and wild-dance so head on the map; so head movie so sunrise on sheep

We all want a taste.

Napoleon invades fertile sands

open sesame.

Chris Weige | Austin, TX. | A While Ago