Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Our list of images skirts the real issue: are red planets falling in line? Dolour sweats thru us, cuffing fresh pangs with regency. There are tears in the marsh, the highway, with electric lines and squirrels. Squirrels explain sinking ships to James Cameron, then sadness features film. A rationale exists, again. I wrote this all down.
Down lasts three. A day, at least, is covered with fur, tho the foxes all got away. The marsh is a placid dump, a document of people playing fifes. Fifes are a note of freedom, near a highway. When we walk home, the noise is a spectacle, sights are loud. A stunned public leaves their leftovers.
Curiously, the Bible stops bandits. A meteorite lights a small acre of sky. Passing cars on plastered highway sway thru various versions. No one gets out of the space vehicle, nothing does.
Useful facts become foxes, political units, women and men. Our race to particular fluctuates with a cold morning. Jupiter and Venus looked great with the moon. Perspective changed and you cannot repeat the purpose of foxes. Bears are a distance of kilometres, almost miles.
A poem is a loose heaven of cats that missed meals. This does not apply to mornings with the colour of spring open. Words turn, poems stain arrangement, winter falls into place. Moles blend in blindness, which is not the necessity of trees. Place your vision in the closest verb, a toll to get at mire
Monday, December 22, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
jungle boy flits
Moose track guppy weasel
sniffs poodle schlangengraben
Documentary gaga sheets
West of woowoo Ohio
buoyed battle axe container shaft
Guff wobble willy shoes
Praise newby taxonomic franchise
Dope fiend noodle beast
Withal glop fronds eviction gantry
notices unction Pleiades
Assay a sweat logic logarithm
asbestos beetle Jutes
huffy hid of harrying
Class saxophone on soot farm
form is terrific
Monday, October 6, 2008
Cheerful rejoinder seethes in the panic of another partly closed door. These are people, in our neighbourhood and drama. And these are friends, or else.
That sense of family that doesn’t quite work instills this native tongue-lashing. There was a disappointment to be gained, and a newsworthy loss, more or less. The more would be a staining that could apply. The less would be a node left behind
What arches over the testy remains of this juncture but the spotted title of leaving? We are turned around in emphasis, and feel hurt by little shards placed indiscreetly into our skin.
We have no time to care for having the time to care. We have been hurt by a leveling and the income of expanse. Humans are just the way they are, reporting their wages in rapt gaming, and still need a hug. Few hugs can be saved in this climate; the weather of politics wears us down.
When books end, a space opens. This is not to tease us, we have work to do. The human complement attains its mar, studiously vying for an effective resumption
No one wants to stay within that boundary, we all want to resist. Resistance is verbal, most times. We feel a loss, like a family. It can happen to anyone, not just our own falling tone.
The doctor is increment in some ladder effect. The dodge is extremes taken for function. A fulcrum is our basis, which we should honour with the name of our friends. The rest is a sentence, which hangs over our heads.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A lake conveys the sense of towns floating into clouds. Those breezy loosestrife that purple the marshy way blur with past sunrise and may do so again. Statutes of goldenrod begin their intention to fade, simplicity is the canon. The rosy sun, gifted with maximum, engulfs the mending mood of this engagement. It is morning when you see this.
Sunrise flows into the mood of setting. The day begins a sentence with scruffy beat. Tuned cars and traveling folk dilate with deadline. A cup of coffee, never forgotten, slays the literal details of resistance, just as the marsh exudes another stratum of elegiac memory.
Now a sentence, slumped with poetry, inters a slighting seed. Each word, posited and passing, becomes the best love possible. Syllables gently nurse the options, and tremendous season sends a flake of cloud.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Cocktails implore in a language all too common. Forget pencils now: serve crunchy things. The day becomes evening. Something blends memorably.
Wet bars produce a relaxed economy. Russians in their doctor clothes tell dated woodpecker jokes, freezing image of next pay check.
People do not drink vodka. A case of doctoral bourbon sits by the couch. We dream of the freshest ice cubes, the ones with ripping edges to disturb the frumpy. On the coast, people believe another coast exists.
A summer get together and crunchy things. Perhaps the lowly dump truck bears the seed for tomorrow’s flying car. Your doctor friend will want three. We dream of artichokes, scads of them filling the back seat. Flying cars on the horizon, in homage to something Allen Ginsberg said in May.
A bowl of mulligatawny soup later, with all the propriety of crunchy things.
You look nice today, as a considered advantage of excellent crunchy snacks. Viscous snacks are sad dollops, crushing intent. A wave of pity associates with crinoline like an apron that could be the next political move. Storage consists of wet bars, and the clutter of Soviet intention.
Children of cocktails bury mesmerized mice in downy softness. Allegiance is priceworthy. Pick a planet to annoy, grey leader.
The poem, scarred by Star Trek (The Next Generation), flirts for the new decade. New decades promulgate new headaches. A doctor wears the pants of morose technology, tuckered out by golf stretches and moonbeams. Cocktails and crunchy things provide situational ethics for the blast off generation.
Bulked up servings of crunch, snap, and apt phrases drone from the crinoline depths of the future train pathway, long before pwned. Indeed, campers sit in the festoon of broken crackers, klaxon cocktails, bungled wobble. The sentence is incentive now. Adjectives are loose.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
the sun is quartzite, with paeans running thru. billows of escarpments perform plush rods extending cumulus, and you would think: the sky is above Worcester this shining spring morn. and the people are abundant, with whims jetting thru cycles of concerned political gantry. a wired elegance promulgates a new election, tho the candidates are stunned. these words reflect that bastion. process makes document, on any morning. sentences flock together like geese or turkeys. a turtle strides at maximum speed along bikeway, a dinosaur as much as smoke. the contest fires up. someone plays hip hop or the next understood. together we make a city. call it Worcester, and imagine something better. this is how poems make their way.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Our love, a gantlet and then, but more nature than a tryst. We have kissed, and will again. This news settles when Olson, a poet, comes home. Home is freely heightened. Its language is secure. Now the names and now the commands, pouring over the landmarks while sleep concerns Aztecs. Language equals words.
Poised relentlessness caves in to documents spread over time. Time, the rival sister, shuns that opulent task of engaging Oscar-winning star clouds. Push comes to shove, and delivers. Our friends constantly wonder at us.
This is my therapy, my passion, ever-soaked pragmatic, and my love. I look forward to sharing with it, this new journey, mutt.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
is a poem, frame of a ranch,
and idling sun constitutes purring
over ridges of excited
when alas looking thru stone, the
peerage of ices has been
erased. a commonal, struck from gloss,
contained in the bending
ways of portage, the heft of river
on the landscape, spring
in imagination and presented
with a mind.
a poem is stark for reasons of ice, then
melting, then flourish
and bloom, and still onward, rushing
or not, with wiry sentences
and bustling lines. the sound
of such goes to miles and miles
and the reef of blue sky that
dazzles us at morning.
beguiles us usefully, and we stick to
love song, how much
of this breeze will release the
dandelion, and how much will install
new flowers, and how much will
beckon corn stalks?
a bear is framed in this,
rolling down a street, posturing
by a river, entering breezy stores to
see this and that, then later
to absquatulate, cunning in the lanes
poetry is a language,
we share italics
when we speak.
Friday, April 18, 2008
accept these jet skies. remain unpwned but
surround a topic with servile pleas, for instants.
the dam seeps sanely. a whiff of common
ground seems like poem. no one relies
on Louis Zukofsky except
when the dread of melting seems
most dire. we relate in penned
moments, and come again. this sex
that stills the waters also ignites them.
those waters, sour when the rain is old,
charges us supremely.
we write of daffy fiends, nuclear almonds,
cousinly trapdoors, and more than
enough. enough is a surcharge yet
when we exceed, primroses, pure as
water. water went the way: into the
breath of Worcester. we write
poems as staggering targets, gullies
for freshets, lapsed pining in the daily
reward program. such reefs and poems
that we assay, trying times but love
intends. it has this hold, it is
our boat. we right in deed and that's our
place. place is the name. such, that is,
that Worcester, least of all, can
hold. Zukofsky rips a
new one there, every day.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Climate changes are carefully arranged in dogma. This dogma creates an installation. Dog is favoured. We remember that a dog, period. More is underneath, but not to be told. It is a variation of music of which, now, as the snow falls.
The dog cannot become. Death is only part of the Town because Worcester is like glory, only in moments made public and useless. Someone plays guitar. It fills the night sky, or the ultimate arrangement of noon, which consists of pizza and dreams of ranch-flavoured Doritos. No one wants that.
The next verse decides our fate. The dog is dead. The cat almost eats a mouse but the mouse knows better. Escape is prepared by inattention. The cat drops all marvel and the mouse times literature to the point. When mouse leaps, too perfect. And while snow falls, people of Worcester control more roads.
New roads were made, ones that equated wilderness with west, east with the rest, and safety as an inconstant philosophic position. Others--that is, other people--satisfied nebulae in astonishing universe but looking up. Still invent ranch dressing and Doritos. Thus falls our logic. Registered, days and weeks, the town hall of Worcester bodes as scientific control.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
piper at dawn, green
dire engine (we need
stain people in
city of WORCESTER, with
a guidance of hope
called weather until
vague teasing in
ice of new age,
data comprises people
and their inveighing
of real rocks and
tonal assonance brings
waters of several
to drink with native
vigour, to live in the wooded
farness, brusque about
Boston, civil notion, which is a
several or beneath
(or above, like
swirling gulls), the
in great and good
minds sandwiches in
hazards of growth,
fear being an
excellent logic, suitable
for a trial of
syllables and last
to see, Jonathan
Williams agrees to die
at a certain age (he was a
poet), he must have grown
in Worcester, with the
harbour master, with
the famous rickshaw, with
the terrible mountains assuming
no human distinction, pleas
surface amidst this
mess, people listen
for pipers at green
dawn, waves of fish
swirl into meaning, meaning
prepares a boat, boat
asseverates a lake, lakes are
partial seas, seas
break us, sky films over
with one idea or another,
and the poem at the end
hides a word, tho
would have done
our next social lesson
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
• Lake Huron
• Lake Ontario
• Lake Michigan
• Lake Erie
• Lake Superior
Actually, Lake Ontario is Lake Omaha, and we have a little story, completing implication with a stroke. Listen, my friends. The winds were wild if not pleased, perhaps bringing a tornado to kill 94 people, all of whom significantly lost, we believe. Daniel Gookin petitioned to have the town's name officially changed from "Quinsigamond" to "Worcester." However, its inhabitants were still vulnerable to attack. History had already occurred, but it seems like more is available. It all comes HOME. The town was again abandoned by all its English inhabitants except for Diggory Sargent, who was later tomahawked.
Worcester by the shore of all those lakes, and memory, guarding stakes for future…
Bibliography is the only real art / science. Facts in other fields are simply hollow. Good bibliography is an easy ticket to heaven. Possibly astronomy is as divine. Course the skies are simple things next to the world of books.
The winds of Worcester roar across every certitude. Charles Olson became a definition, with a cousin in the hills, a memory for instant deliberation, and a kind of posture that struck the rooftop of a now famous sky. Such wizardly recycling of condition inveighs against the easy Harvard process, so that Gloucester, 2 syllables, becomes a central point of trade and willingness. Winds blow from the east, to the point of bringing colonies of new suits to the forest grange. This is true. It is in books.
Books are in trouble, however. Elizabeth Bishop, the only American to win that prize. The then Frank O’Hara, first of Grafton, then a state to himself. A chuckle called Robert Benchley. An antiquarian society that outnumbered Harvard…
Let’s go back to the cosseting myth. A string becomes matter, unless someone is looking. Waves are particles until we expect as much. Later, that same day…
But another day, with this rhyme, and the festering examination of culture as concerned citizens dispute the relative functional necessity of other plans for the aforesaid landed state of prime living possibility.
Very seriously told me once that Bishop was a very good poet but 3rd rate at best, whereas Stanley Kunitz is for all time! Ha. Imagine! He's up in heaven right now, sitting next to Dante! Frank & Olson can't not be lost in that scheme of things.
The future, dated 17th century, is looking bright if not good. But the colonies continued to spread.
Monday, March 3, 2008
I fell as if
I were being kidnapped:
contra gravity (which is a kind of
Not everyone sees the nearby mountains, nor the engulfing ocean (time spent) of Worcester.
Friday, February 29, 2008
The True History: The Indians and the settlers didn't know it but they were merely living out the whole horrible Schopenhauerian fatalism of things. Nobody wanted Worcester to exist. The hostility of the natives is clear, as too the willingness of the settlers to turn and run. It wasn't worth it. Back to Boston! Everybody has the same reaction. People are trying to kill you, so you flee to Boston for safety.
Pure products deliver. After effects contain the first clumsy galaxy, and sunshine falls on Worcester.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
No virus found in this incoming
message, in Riga in (help) to e
oc cult (apse) r h ino
e u c h r I s t Is
(boom) -uni cy.c le
u r ine r/mi
d;aft t(swat) by N oo n
(Vi R gin) Wind (iota) ti Bia opera ting syst em
P a tron mon(reed)oncle
Saturday, February 23, 2008
The end lasted, but so did the beginning.
Nearby mountains and oceans loom to swallow every word that Worcester can make. The people there are the people there. And when they wake from their daily world, they stand on slopes.
These slopes are peopled with elegant names, tribal conclusions, definite places, and swarming. Stasis invites a document from the verity of fronds, and all the while, a pressure ensues. The justice of spring will speak in terms of ratification and alert. Trial is symphony, if only the people there knew, in their heart of hearts, amidst the stereopticonical display and Northern lights. O blessed and seasonal, O instrumental from the word go, O Worcester in its people! Wherewithal is the fray itself, placed just so.
I wanted to write a pogrom, said some infinite sage of diagrams and assertion, on the envious track and winding thru the landscape. This is not the placement of Worcester or any clear class, but the edgeless swordplay distinction that teems withal. T. S. Eliot threw Missouri away, myriad history amok, choosing the grace of Wensleydale and cheddar like a man. That sucking sound enfolds. Enough books are written that way, without a people to mention but a plot and vampire.
The point is, Reader of the Not Quite Written, that the introduction is near the end. Doorways point to expanse but cannot complete the gesture. A book in John Adams’ hand reverses several trends, but you will need to read on.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Friday, February 8, 2008
Friday, February 1, 2008
Who while shining shoes of donors of Cocoa Puffs
for the good hunting of the State closed themselves
within the prison, however they have it, with its immortal
spirit, while being so freely like sky-investigation lark, Minion of the size!
do you think this one waited? Do you think this one is necessary?
until so much of little laid out the key? Ah, No! every
stereo, nobler it was, its destiny in the Spenser rooms, was
drawn aside, and the kiosk report/ratio
chooses flowers. it flew with daring Milton via the sectors of the air
with areas for you to be of the Messrs of the genius,
true turnpike with escape. Who will weaken his reputation
when dead art, and all the dystrophy's Stone, seeks payment?
Saturday, January 26, 2008
words were lank, of a beaming mortal flame, and bent stylus to present: such is the main line of direct. we sink alert process delimiters among swards and rank grass. the fallen snow of cold days stems reaping. mold offers fidelity, spores resume search. we sap a barn door present at the beginning. ether was a poem by Whitman, once. and Lorine Niedecker woke betimes, with Wisconsin made of ice. dreams fell into the murky waster, winter blended with dreams. Zukofsky remained studious, until no time was left. we scrawled a report. it was a definitive moment, only blurrier than regal announcements. a poem written in a language cooled by the window. no, it was a pie, and a hobo stared avidly. the story became something straight from a whirling stutter of words. well and good, sinking and then, lightly, the snow melted, subliminated, settled into reverence. a moment of that word, then all changed. a poise stated resistance, yet that map, it clouded, and we began again. the word was at its prime when we spoke its meat. written, it reserved another space, for us...
imagine wind wound on tubes of words, which then what? your own weather came daily, over an ocean noun, smacking season mountain, till it is when you make a word to read: each word, one at a time, invented by your work. then imagine, clearly invested, optimal as bright, the specific beaming of winter sun morn, that much red in fiddles of explosion, tho you doubt that poetry just as you exclaim. settle for the spark that set the trees, then slip away. settle, too, for an undertone, the word as grey as dear waiting. or the black that is convinced, even night on the border of more night, useless examination of physical matter. a word stuns the once, then stuns again. doubt is a courage. sentences are found in our days, frequent, willed, and vetted. then a crimson of dawn smokes thru the goggle of staring, you are reminded. do you get sick of stating the facts? a poem is no relay, it stays inside the bounds of words, except for bringing stirred up to the round up. Wyatt Earp, we are reminded, with brothers, rustled up the Clanton gang, gun flesh. improbable monstrance begs you to differ. crazy gunplay applied to real whirled words.
Monday, January 14, 2008
people smile at the young ones, as crumbs fall. the falling is so strong and went so far. codgers boondoggle on the rocks of the distant foreshadow, with close naming present day.
the people are still, with codgers for backbone. all people are dull and insist on sentences. flowers fix tunes in the taffy-flavored wallpaper.
why, then, are roses so much like walls? it seems strained with watery codgers, who fall off pronouns to the present, more or less. they stare at tremendous ducts filled with air of the most riproaring verisimilitude.
you could almost breathe. these are the codgers on the wall, and the wall is a sentence. a sentence is next to linoleum. that's the smell of urine, in addition to the plan that went before.
some people are no people at all, but it varies. look it up. we think we love, because linoleum isn't final, then we do love, because linoleum is final, like eyes
eyes meet codgers, who meet eyes, and the eyes have it. it is the very sentence in which the codger troubles the date, that present day long ago, when linoleum and roses on wall meant something without spurn.
the rest of the pepper is black or green, a tonic or no whit more than an intrusion. still, the people, where they are or where they are not.
that still people of present is the beginning of after all. when that sentence speaks, you listen to linoleum. linoleum is the new codger, the old one rose from wallpaper.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Rule: "The more complicated the Starbucks order, the bigger the asshole
you can find information about 'The Cat in Sheep's Clothing.'
I have tried to move on and say, " I no longer feel this
3 or 4 supervillains and you're on a mailing list you'll never get off of. Huh?
Notice the long caudal fold on white face lamb
Just so you people know, my whole life has been abyssless
it’s rare to see customers wax poetic in a. written survey
I hated his quiet, patient voice