The Just Right Taste

A lake of Asperger where the words. Words are not flak jackets or cornets, said time to go. Asperger water is a drink until. Rain of reason stays open for time till winter. Winter is arrow after dark, across the sky that Orion stays.

A lake of Asperger water waters ideas and then. Then is plain. Plain reminds us of falling into a point like a wee star in all that sky. After a word or forgetting, the poem is imagined, but only in time. Then starts and tears, like fierce amber held for time. Time is the water after all dryness. Asperger tastes like endless pools. Pools forget.

Sentiment reminds Asperger’s water of afterimage. Chants reciprocate. A cauldron boils with onset membrane. Status remarks asseverate a benign condition exacted on water by Asperger. Our friends are water, said Asperger.

Daybreak Seasonal Pond

Your breakwater, Asperger’s, flusters. You are a vowel sometimes, chance repetition going towards language bait. You, Asperger’s, frame something causal in life sequence, excepting the social as downright. Oxygen, the pattern of lament in the tower climate, calls only portions for you. Classicists rearrange the vocabulary for constancy. Asperger’s is a homing, albeit prone to stab in the dark. Craters on the moon report as reflections of outside. Process a cambric sway, Asperger’s, thru machinations of distinction. Torn prose figures mightily, you suckers in the crowd. Asperger’s does have a home town.

Extensive Search

Poor mountain, struggling constant word. Whiplash pause as pride, petulant slope, the people of Nepal. A cornerstone of interlocutor controls pine spread wilderness, flower of autumn. Casualty railroad infers the next sentence, passing thru clouds, with widget spice regaled by ripples. Abstract ambling buffets broken sleep. Assailant strikes, as a culture, but no surprises, just an unrevealing death.

Tonight in Lexington

Trustless in the sail bloom

Riffle whales of doffing mistress

Bloke active crash action tool

Resists the pantry elbow biotope

Conking registers flick the passive cave balloon

With furbelows of instant web instructors

Botulism pantry waste convenes

A bossy nest of fetters

Fantastic For (A Document Drone)

A sentence is a train station. The train begins to explode. It continues exploding, with a bolt of action verb. It finishes exploding.

This is my stop, says the writer. Writers say, say now.

Stopping is pelagic. Shadows of oceanic occurrences inveigh against the cool mammal within. Oh. My.

A poem is pelagic, but that does not help the condition. Condition, that is, of carrying sentences to their plump reward. With reader in tow. Hello reader, glad that you could.

A sentence is a place where Yeti stops. Yeti mountain stops.

This material example is praxis, constancy among urges.

A sentence stems from earlier sentences, tho the earliest is gone.

A sentence is not a poem, a poem is.

Yeti is the best imaginative reversal of norm so far today.

A better reversal soothes verbs, plucks nouns from the air, dazzles adjectives in sullen relief, and boys and girls are tired.

Writing is a gasp for forensic sake.

My love is not a poem (said the writer, here, now). My love (continued) is named and this date.

Dates are sentences, as are people.

The Fantastic Four are just about done.

Consider the sentence, while Reed Richards stretches and Sue Storm disappears.

A poem is, itself, a sentence.

Pomp & Circumstacnes # 12 & 35, the Plural of Pomp

Rumours trickled as Steve Jobs landed on Mars. Shadows that night were strong and wavered alarmingly. Toads of wet nature filed remorse, pouring Steve into network. Season of mist and mellow room for little more startled Elgar and common sense. You could divine the nature of a practical sentence while we wait for more. These stars are not wholly natural.

You speak in the tongue of left out of, remarked sternly Steve in the front section. Even a verb could stop in its tracks, to hear him say so. Heft of dawn as imperious range of feeling. This is the mood when young Steve Jobs procured federation. Exact nature of this august equation went into books. Books filled the trunk, which caught fire.

Steve Jobs, in relation to Venus and Mars, among the celestial upbringing, dour in cause, slops up Vegan gravy. Well wishers equate nose with bother. Shadows grew in importance as people signed each others name. This name is now mine, said Steve Jobs. Billy Gates laughed. It is a strange courage you give me, man, said Gates the Giver. Then trumpets, then not.

These Salsa Dancers Need Room

Even light is a considerable possum, pointy teeth and the exposed waiting till you go away. Dawn light was wider than brilliant, but all could discern a gravel road, which leads to pointing. Grasses are browner, a maple imports colour. When you rise, and it is dawn, and the day is perfect or prefect, then the blue inclusion of this poised sky realizes in us the maximum map. That equation blurs, stemming from precision in analysis, which bores the public, but stand here for a moment. Here is a cyclic endeavour, with sunset spread across a golden maximum. Grecian executed cumulus pump fully into a content-rich implication. Oh, said the poet.