A Map Entertaining History

I love my mind's address but hate how it happens. The thesis creature, the statement without a struck match
to encourage. Several millenia of epigraphs without a rise, to hurt more words than are audible. Possible. Is
the other option, if only the beating were a heart and the heart a prenatal
cache of muscle cells, expanding,
contracting. It happens every day, among the doomed becoming rich to unlearn themselves
as flesh,
to be poor.

When Cortez crossdressed Spain as the new world, the footsteps taken under the sweat of trees
were novel.
He wrote back to himself, the Queen: It is new. By then it was already the opposite. Days after his men
had discovered the first possum. Were tricked, felt the sting of its fakery, and, to focus rage as
a first principle
punishment, squilched its saucy phony gut on a pike. The screams black against the teeth shrieked
albino. Upon which, out of the trefoil flouting disguised foliage, Indians alive as germs came running.

Hundreds of years later, a sunset. A history lesson. From South Datoka's Black Hills to the magnetic
conscious bulk of the Hudson. In a cash-for-rent flat, fourth floor, in what the nearbys call
a "rise",
petals of meth kick towers into person. Betty. Paintings in a lag where neurons were half an
hour
ago, the gallery, wine and sips coming and slowing before hallucinatory mirrorbiotic
motion.
Which the pamphlet claimed was science. Or at least bore an imprint's influence. Tacked on,
as the
sarcastic arranging flight from the cinch compulsive jealousy claimed. And then complimented the
back door it's
such an artist.

Underbrush with young brave's chest doubling creative light heaving.

Gallery floor with internet-select shoes ballet against above beyond reason.

Is there any?

Any of the following--more? thing? one? left?

From the effulgent, Dionysian, unspiraling flamboyance of matter in disguise of simple plant
life, leaf,
of spooled architecture of leveled lack called branches, the one advance back into itself,
isn't.

So my tongue could be much, said the death, the morning bed to Walter Pater, soft but
constantly
needful of bone as it has been. As it was. In was' commanding will be. With.