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.