Could Of Should Of Sentence

Written sentence and prison sentence combined or wonderfully woven together in speech.

Could Of Should Of — that's the way we actually say it. The wrong version is the one that lives in the body. By writing it wrong on purpose, the thing is already generating its own wild thesis. Written and roared from the throat are not the same animal. Text follows rules. Hoots or howls come from Creation's breath of life. Could of is what that does.

Voices standing in a line, each one holding the next weight.

Our entire ambition is to, after this life, enter the place that has no walls, floor, or ceiling, Justified. That capital is doing extra work and doesn't have any reasons why. Of a Loving God and or Gentle, Kind, Sacred Spirit. The pause between God and Gentle ... that's where human respect lives. Refusal to separate them the way Holman wouldn't separate combination in Not Too Soon. The pieces are talking to each other now, the way scripture cites the text of an uncertain manuscript. We are building our own canon.

Otto brings it to the ground. Human and animal decency. No theology. Just the timeless sand floor of what's owed. Shallow and heavy lines. The word decency has no sound of ambition in it. As a soft sentence. Because dying is a cold fact, we can feel the ice under our skin.

Put your bare feet on the tear puddles ground between the mounds and see if they'll float.

Then Clod ... Tragically ... unexpectedly ... or because of a natural biological cause ... Did what? Delivered something with ellipses. Every death that has ever happened or will happen, listed by someone counting with their extremities, like a playful chimp. That stares and likes to fiddle with his fingers and toes.

Slowly ... creaky ... let's try our best while we're still breathing. It's what they say to children before a spelling test. As it once was during the beginning. That full stop is everything that is without nostalgia. With it becomes a coordinate and place we can physically go to.

No one asks to be saved. No one confesses. Four characters stand up and say one true thing each, and then sit back down. Over before it has time to get to the sermon. Brevity as belief. Could our refusal to cut anything be a problem here? This beautiful garbage can be stubborn.

The opening doesn't belong to this ... uncertainty is nowhere to be had. Our voices together are close to the ground. It's a leased frame around a found painting hung on a cracked wall.

All in for human and animal decency tastes like poker, or a gambling register that lives in biology's private parts, that reproduce. Next to decency.

Every time someone opens their mouth to say what they could have done or should have done, they're serving time inside their own regret. The sentence will always be the sentence.

Wonderfully is the nectar taste we keep coming back to ... and has no business being here. Our weavings and time served. Dues paid. Together as a never before counted set of facts to marvel at. Not in writing or thought. In speech.

Where could have becomes could of ... dissolves. And what's left is a person shouting what they wish they'd done differently. The sound that happens when a cell gets too small for its sentence.

Oyparaploo. All of us combined together ... the or gives options. As texture that has threads going over and under. The yarn must trust itself as voice at work. Like a seed that knows very well what kind of mature tree it will become. And what her roots will do for the health of the land.