October 3, 2007
The King of Beers
Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:
The epicenter of mediocrity,
The grand basin of tranquility,
The heartland prepares for harvest.
The dust, an empty carapace, lacking nutrients,
Twists and consumes to fill its void.
Dormancy: the trough of a sign wave.
Before greatness comes great mediocrity.
The land — locked in dormancy gathers strength,
Pressure that pushes plants and awakens New Madrid.
Another wave in the dust,
As contradictions run together,
Like a chain of S’s, incomplete infinities.
Corn and hops suck at a dry drink.
Filed under: Apocrypha,Transmissions
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