Everything is Praise

I risk everything/is praise. You're supposed to slice cucumbers alone this way, a listener slave-to-the- home-slice. Even the vegetables are coming out autistic. Something in the water. Be more exact. Risk that. Floride. Cash money millionaires. The residue of meditation related problems in western contemplative life. You might not want to know why you can stand it. Something in the war. The home front. A gritty hollow where the seeds had been. Not bossy. Softness. Are they insecure or crazy for loving their country so much. Naturally. It's us. America doesn't love herself or she wouldn't need to keep expanding. Something in the order, pander. Daughter, daughter, daughter, autistic vegetable. The whole vicinity lay bare before me. The subtle centers, the crumbling periphery. So loyal to itself like a parody. Jumping out of a moving Ferrari and not dying. This chant goes on for Miles, touches on the endocrine system like indo smoke and the 5 Tibetan Rites and why I don't like you like that. Warm apple pie. Cooped up apple pie so warm a liability. Pie.