Saturday, January 5, 2008
our top cloud held back, the plane spun magnificently. any truth to falling erects this plan in nature. wild plotting of control resumes its course, until a sentence makes a mind. watch the pressing claim of gravity and dream, shift particulars for a last object, then identify recent claims, offshore. wind flattens some taxing notion, as if a comma could stay in place. the subject renders itself useful, dilating in the day full of sun. further wind remains a deed, a condition, a plot element for a narrative that has taken to the wind. are we patient observers or traces? the commotion of a language, at this time, stirs prehistory. we could go on with facts, their radiance, our program, but the issue blurs into a mesmerized terror as the plane safely c crashes. now the earth is included, now it isn't all words. as poem finds a way for more evacuations and resistance, a definite incursion sets up a new league of sentences. a poem, found by words, removes itself from consideration. in doing so, it joins the miners in their skulking trend. this is good enough, for these days.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
nouns are the last treat. we read a book on the airplane in the sky's ocean first. we drive that kin such a way! then power of falling said, oh plane truth, we fell as a signal long turd. the loss of falling was no relief. we hung, a loop in variable, and every word was text. how's that for fair play? we sent a loss language toward the gift. it was no an airplane at all. falling is sinking. the ocean, then, was under the clouds that were forested with us, as the numbers we make make us. our life was a noun that clenched. we folded our hands for the force of more words. each word is different, somehow. the plane truth was form. we flew above the simple clouds, into the merrie nest of newness. this is a stain that stays. the staying is called clouds. clouds fall into seas, seas remain aloft with the last time of the sentence definition. each included word made a new text. those other words, left out, formed nothing at all. the plane went awry, as if bursting were a period. if the period were so final, where did the next sentence come from? we aren't true to our words? but poetry isn't an effect, it is what is left. or maybe what left is poetry. or a word isn't really there when poetry is. is this a fair assessment or is all falling just a plane agreement with the weathering force of clouds over oceans when the meaning is clear? the noun might remain, but verb tense moves on. a poem sticks to its roots, proving nothing. nothing, at such time, is at its best.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Even the clouds, tending toward rain in bunches of infinite drops, actuate the possibility of a love straight into the sea. Each ocean needs this bursting refreshment, the bitter plying rush from the Concord to the Merrimack to insistent visitation of the great moody sea. The sea spends its endlessness in planning, which is just krill, shrimp, plankton and exacting diatoms in unguarded swaths and ready-made tenderness. Misty years burn thru the cold beneath the world's best water, assuming process. Misty years examine whale and shark, siding one way or another while remora take the ride. That ride extends into the history of lifetime, with wet pictures of opulent clouds. When clouds fall back to the sea, people rise and make morning. Morning has grey to a pinkness, as timely these people note. Then why more rain, more struggle, more clocks ahead? It's the sun craving, with wild wings of blindness. Such summery expanse will stop at nothing, until nothing itself becomes condition. And so the name, the name, the loss of number when unit persists. People talk and make clouds, clouds batter the rain, rain shifts infinite drops until nothing more to say. This is no problem, we say, as we straighten our look back. The clouds have been good to follow us so far. Do you see the pattern here?