Saturday, February 9, 2008
booster rocket succeeds from a standpoint, which is a poetic thrill tied to a tree. the tree is no strange but only lasting. it lasts, quote, "after the dog dies", but before the soon smell of flowers on the all enclosed green framework, trying to get to know. the rocket has the sense, then after falling, this is all. we refer to the news. the planet hates the edges where nothing goes. we write up symptoms or approximations. the rocket, junked, falls back. effort pushed something out, a word. space is a doctrine yet we lose many terms just by watching the rocket fall. spring is here, almost, we have pictures of what will come. rain will return for snow while flowers will gain again. the tree will embark on further tree. all this is instantaneous humid being, a hematologist, perhaps.
Friday, February 8, 2008
the bullets of every time flew into the breach of spear holding. tempests of radical spent long last, at the sun spot, melted. those who groomed were tide, plant sequence, desperate. these loves of wrong turns (the intention groove) steal. we weaken the life plant, the Gaulish printing stone., the sentence as a structure of crime. and weird mood stretches across basal moon element. crimson burn from aptitude of knowing so resumes a stab of astonishment. this place of our heritage equates hate with a course. Napoleon pushed 600,000 into maps. arrows were seminal direction. a plan smelled musty, looming polity, a tried desert. such bombast clucks proudly, with an on/off switch for tender diaphragm of response. a team researches the next sentence. a find sends avid spoons . the work loses a membrane but gains a paragraph. are you still breached when you steer into a word? clever unction stows onto a vowel, only a shadow (your pronoun as proof). a poem poses a radical form on the simplest method, into the brimming slide of twist, faction, moonbeam, sorrow. another word, like a rush to cactus, surfaces as a tone. a new word, likened to others, sends shiver to survive.
his simple dilating idea rose from tossing snow cauldron, with word webbed to inkling news, or potions of debate, or other odd scattering expanses. we take our care. the winds from ardent closure surround vocables and present. we are tired and yet, true to the something, we sing insular or transit. then questions, like dread opinions. then stones on the road. then the road itself, which is snow torn. we don't care if the snow melts into flowers, we only need a new colour now. and it arrives, bending present light differently, like willing trees to integrate. they will, we will, and the clouds will disperse as unions of rain forests. the singularity resumes with a notion of gusts. spring is in the offing but we are unsure what an offing is. such natural recension in the theory of barns opens a door, the barn fills with light. Whitman saw this years ago, now it is our turn. is that then the nature of poems? let questions sneak into the gloom, and poems pull their share. we are thus given voice, simply. when the poem ends, more can be started...