Saturday, December 29, 2007

Tom Brady Lives with us All

wild poem renders make of death. the gosh of looming windows stills in soon the stuttered sequence. we read the room of filling tune aloft. whilst straining call overtly dooms the moon a preying time. dash the quickened dear till of the football life. the means is quell to the gnostic mention. a love of lists and pools of mountain lump greengage tremble mumbling rill and trill till the soil transit. posit often cluster, run the moon again. again the staid and dying, again the oxygen refrain, again the dog of when that was. now the post and fueling, now the word unveiled, now the gesture compost. here the rife of fends for all. it is the day of daily parade, taken to a road.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Actuator Rod

hot yes separated neural tangent as
thorax bolted onto present tense. severe
glockenspiel distributes bolt freezer
cauldron diorama. then, portent, the
reams of gifted sentence
sags onto tennis court
plectrum, moody
boon scone and
etymology. so the ride
crags with rife tor, muddled
in potent sluice debris,
and items shift dabbling.
mention merger in
another sentence, fit for clouds.

Friday, November 30, 2007

[from a lengthening poem...]

the tree of federal flicker

treading the soft inference

whirled of its own

galactic assonance

umbrellas of lexical exactions

pants commit finance

kings eat feathers

my own diamond is carbon-based

a collective endorses the sediment

a catalogue of stars

Hilda Doolittle wore a vowel

when the tender buttons were implements

rock and roll is for credible

collective bargaining agreement

residual yearning, play your own rules...

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Swirls of Ionized Gas

the sky as crisp as donation, lumps of sweat filling the treasury. I could tell you more, and so could you.

a wind as fresh as Arch Duke Mayhem, precious spectacle in time of war. tachyon splendour reduces the cost of next Star Trek episodes.

leaves freighted to the colour of ominous onions, grown thru the spires of earth. a just squalour relates the temper of many, thus presidential hopelessness.

ghosts, in the stinky part of condition, represent month and year.

natural year remains, boned and filleted. it will look pretty in your garden.

yesteryear is a dazed smirk.
it lets poems swing for the roof.
it sets an advantage to the groaning ropes anchoring the craft.

above cornfields, arriving legions of beeping clouds and super-electronic modern hope hover. an alien race, if race is the right word, has come prepared.

consider the facts again:

tucked into fear are miserable ghosts. star systems hover above certain cornfields certainty itself is a star system.

elabourate redefinition closes a door, sweeps the floor, and mother returns. eeek!

sports revive the masses. religion is trigger, not opiate. maple leaves have left, and you are just beginning.

here's to the poem within the words of intent. intent resumes the factory, poems mine the day.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Bucks Down in the Century

a poem is a window of direct meat. it is an elk that you shot yourself, you are Buck Downs. you are the picture that sent nothing across, until the minute. then you became the elk, fervidly dead. dead is a mark in the plain ocean. dead is a symptom of deadness, direly inveighed against by the smooth barrel. a lurching bullet consumes the desert bullet. the desert bullet crowns achievement, so that much is told. Buck Down is the simple name, raining in a visual oddness of conviction. we all have halls to live in, amongst echoes and clang. when we shoot elk, we desire a blotter and a range. owls filter thru shadow and withdraw thunderbird roister. no news captivates sorely, just resumes the distance of detail. people are trumped by their silliness, their emotional rug, their turbo-charged rust. people include doubt. doubt doesn't own one Buck Downs more than an Allen Bramhall. churches are filled with steeple direction. no one wants a dead elk in the parlour: that would lead to talk. talk is not poetry. a dead elk in the certainty of earth is a fine, fresh instant. we can take care of ourselves. when Buck Downs shoots an elk, there is no tremour of earth and sky, just a postcard suggesting limits. you can eat that postcard, you can chill your whine. when Buck Downs is gutted, and cherubic blood slops onto his poem, another poet, like me, will need to be present, for the satisfaction of an act. acts are basic human need. when those go south, only words remain charged. those words die as elk, so prepare you vocabulary accordingly.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Live in Seattle

machinery finds the assault team. people are lonely.

distinctions begin to mesh.with an arrival at a logical realm of understanding, to cover up the potholes. people are tired.

the streets have politically-charged shadows filling the edges of sight, and people wander. there is no hope, in the classic sense, just the day after tomorrow.

there are ways into the stream, vigourous rush and calculated. the people have heard enough.

a word always exists, frozen in a spell, laughing out loud at human interest. there are people who lose.

being lost is natural, gambling all with nothing. people strike their courses and figure in the margins.

there are no helpless people, only tools.

the days are short, the sense is mystifying. willful onslaught hasn’t a beggar’s chance. people are endless.

the days are endless, till the end of time. the people are angry. their political groping finds a choice. dinner may be ready, the days are so long.

nights are long, the wailing sharp and natural. people are endless and alone.

people have gathered the cabbage, walked sadly in the forest, swum in warmish waters. people carry their assertions and their disavowals handily and forever. the people have said enough.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Bulb Time

how can the earth show patch of light in drone colours?
fasting of earth while plump bulbs settle into soil for the winter of living.

bold nestling bulbs, with flowers inside, steam heartlessly at this time.
beaming tidal bulbs, wolfish with radiance, tho lines are drawn.
kindled, metaphysical ramparts of bulbs, that hire dreamy lords and ladies to laugh at the sundered remains of the exquisite action.
busted impulse bulbs, squiring the rest of show season into clear relation.
born bulbs seething with your gulf.
trackless bulbs of feral aroma, prancing into Christmas chess game while Lindsay Lohan pukes new moon.
righteous endless bulbs that cannot save, leaving nothing but sleep for the reasonable amongst us.

and a poem only owns a tone or two, then shutters down to the dark.

Tom Cruise Ramadan

They startled Tom Cruise, whose vacation was intent.
They realized a truffle in the woods with a pig.
They estimated how movies make the day, because of the essence of Tom Cruise.

Tom Cruise intends to count the rings and moons of Uranus, different moons for different functions. He is star in the estuary, while milling fish bethink excesses of rhythm. High resolution pictures of his furnace, cunning details of his toothpaste, cluttered remnants of his dray horse feeding schedule: all this sparks debate. Will we realize that aliens are farmers, ever? And the awesome power of playing like that, Tom you are great! Here is how we talk about. Hubble telescope likens thunderstorms to Tom's teeth. Storms drive into his household with volition planned in advance. His spacecraft flexes boffo with interesting geophysics to the left of his ear. Earthling plans another vacation, to hug old intention. Tom Cruise eyes are thyroid, his nose is probable, his penis is stock market. Remember the wife, mother of his cunning? She's a corsair. Divinity prompts telescope to check out Saturn. Man and woman can't meet on Neptune, sun-weighted star crap. Pluto is just another swept along, so we need a better teleological project to chart the action. Tom Cruise isn't miserable at all, so don't ask. Our old friend Gilgamesh has to mop up now. He's Tom and turning the century again. They insisted.

An Odd Background Check

staring into certainty delivers Gilgamesh. way back, in the seed stars, new moons conveyed sensation. these moons sow importance, all theory as functional distrait. thus time campaigns in a mobile document, making. poem wins in moon sense, the moon of person. person is poet, or likely story. tendered words or tenderness, applied in a mass, sweat the details. mass is solidly present in terms of energy. a poem makes energy, if words wear weight. when we wait on words, thru years in which stars are berries, leaves, dull roots, and bulbs, then the stars accept. we have stars, then. Gilgamesh arrives. a bending of peace, in the laity of light. then the survival of words includes the making of their comets. their comets infect each avenue of meaning, the orbit round the implicated sun. while the sun tosses gamma sabotage, or what's that other term, reasonable women and men jot down their latest asseverations. they have years to be new. a cluster of forgotten stars then burst, tho Orion remains. in the end, easy expectations complete the picture, but that is not poetry anymore.