Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Staunch Rt. 128 Surprised Even the Archaeologists

Researchers have floated thru bent grass clearings, trembling with dictation. The reeds of spacious marsh exude trifle as document. Quick foxes set up pounce, with ducks clear of forgiving.

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

The Little Town of Tannenbaum

The wind cuts the snow to pieces, days on end. Our mountain is a vast acceptance, looming such as that. With a language vested in burrowing and cloud, then such a poetry staffs the remainder, poised on the brink of a very word, to say nothing but these words. Then and version, light as a probable cause. So much so that we walked on. On to the summit, a clearing morning view. Excellent English, Truculent Cause, Bonded Onward, and Yeti, tall as a branch. The warm of what we carry makes distinction in the outer world

A Fresh and Vivid Evocation

A day plans winter rivers. Crust on the edge, still moving. Snow fills the trees lightly, will still tumble. Black squirrel makes a poised detail of itself, to asseverate a reign and noon. Whole clouds flatten and exhaust, the day goes on. Compromise is a promise. The squirrel fills deep space, and time will inflate. Winter is a wind, a wetness, cold, some other facts and projects. This tune, then, amidst the facts. Our marriage is loved by us both. Our gambit relies on this. We are filled with something, on this day, which rises thru the snowy clouds. Come spring and come spring. The river is not wide, it pours. Our stance remains. Winter is over before it starts.

Monday, December 22, 2008

That Organic Material

The dolmen is shock plentitude. I heard that E died. Everything else is dash, closed, then a whiff of snow. Snow on the marsh, the pity of ducks in their land of water. E died, the alphabet had to remain. E is simple, fills appropriate spaces. Words include, when they can. A last word is vaulting. When we talk, we move to that last word. We wish to vaunt. E was great in some words, and turned some sentences around. E became Emma one day, but I do not have that key. The key can be simple, and a passing, and a when you are ready. Now, I have been to the marsh, before the snow fell. The snow is incredible, it covers anything. Billows of everything else preclude the shift from noting to E. E arrives in a sentence or word, and we let those times impend. If Emma dies, or everything, we take note. The note is E, rhymes with tree, fills the marsh during. Sentences are always complete, complete as the E in everything.