Pragmatism in Oz

I cook hamburgers in bursts of nine, you drive goodness with deadly force into my life in bursts of four to five kisses per second. The sun of an inner something, I almost want to say an inner network, glorious like of tree roots, shines through her crystal structure heart-form eyelids into glass upon the tablecloth, a network of wilting walking man flowers on the devil’s bedside nightcloth. The green country, the devil father with absolute knives of light unbridled good struggling limping and watering the legs of getting up out of the half-ground to commit movement, the shoulder devils leap redly off their perches to the left into Monday morning suicide when her head gets too near to my head, which feels like being a warbler egg in a nest with random dynamite, wherein the pressure to hatch is swamp-level hot in your lungs. There is a walking god smiling through the patterns in the exultant messages appearing in my phone communicating well to submit every report, exist quietly in a state of painting grids, water a nearby garden, and watch the wizard of oz with a dead goblin in the background. It is worrying at times when she floats five inches from the floor, but in some cases, that is natural, similar to the elephant that only exists as a shape of a cloud. The tin woodman had a heart all along, which you can glean at certain angles through the hole in the tip of his nose.