The Daily Sentence

Oranges, porgies, boxes of calamity, undergrowth from green vidalia—what little stores are now rot; pitch smith the octagonal duodenum, our cook, cooks—sweats buckets; forthwith the bright sail, bearded Swede, 1JJ in pocket (of late in the century American historicity); a yellow sun encircled by Zephyr our flying flag; endless sailing with no thing in sight—all same, sky above, depths below, blue, blue, blue. -Aaron DeWeese