On our anniversary, many years include. A sighting of many indications past a door or window settles in our view. Muting single adjectives for the fine sentence that says certain words on a bridge, we mark the day. The day invites a child and casts a doubt on doubt itself. This is a strange winter place to start a light action, yet the passing river is advice, dancing pigeons are advice, and words are where we meet. Not the only place, and not the only diction, but we take the touches as they come. Process is mutation, or something like that. We will murmur along the route of feeling, in the snow of feeling, in the field of feeling, in feeling all its own. Human as trek and water and will and when, we are transitory, maybe, but not at this moment. We stay true, in our odd imperial ways, to the slanting deference of our unapology.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
West Virginia with a wind nettled by nitrogen caused crying in little bays. Our people all called on, and later on. The drift of trees with all enclosure asserts the breathtaking and come back. Stains are prose dependents of the moment. Even as we meet we tend to bending winds and which of the rivers overflowing. That wild Walt Whitman whipped slaves with his cultural tag, but dash with the symptoms. We asked a lot of him. Still, the nerve of West Virginia starts a revolving nature. It started a hind as it was loose in the gloom of green. The mines were political mayhem in gross venue. We took that test as provocation. Now, seasons are startling. A coast of music makes us. We effort the strands of capture wood. A mountain blows up, skirl of bagpipe oxygen. And wet nurse the factotum, little wonder ball in. Square flatness plucks banjo remains. Adjacency ropes the winded monarch, and Boston is the west part of the final east. No ease but bugging the factory with hidden agency. Clocks of Delphic process slobber fretful verse, which is the target of a word or two. Jim Morrison arrived by plane to extend his hand. It was a hand like straw for practice.
The town is filed and prairie. A diamond culled from our fence receives this victim: a chill in time. We stayed with our logic and felt lines. We searched. Close ingots plopped to mellow refrain. Wet earth asserts a sentiment and week, wild factoid omelet. This love of fineness, our love in fineness, stretches across the dirt path to fill welcoming forest. A poem, there, met with a reading eye. We light, perched as dew on leaf or snow when the wind is middle. Thus the plan and wings over volcanic stretches constitutes unique take and given time. Saints flicker in preparation.
Obama of the American rocks sailed into Ocean. He carried forward oil, unmanaged care, and causal alphabets that filled reproach with American style. Ardent as backtalk, streams were funded by elect and elite, which just says more goes on than a vast dot in the sky can include. Afghanistan was a place of exclamation, Iraq a fold of linen, then where and what? Clear fragrance and details wrought from exclusionary tactics, and impressed us. Working on principles and drying in the sun, Obama cleared the stage for more release. Guantanamo was a house organ for spurious plants. Palin was doctored for underground sewage reports. McCain caulked the leaks with lettuce. Pirates stood askance on the provoking shoreline, Democrats were crunched by berries, Republicans sloped for reasonable clog. We saw weird twisters on the plains, Bibles made of caustics, choices roiled with implied aperture. People, stand for the word inside. We have haze over haze, charging to condition, inveighing against ice. The fleece is over the sheep, the train is following the caboose.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
A lake of Asperger where the words. Words are not flak jackets or cornets, said time to go. Asperger water is a drink until. Rain of reason stays open for time till winter. Winter is arrow after dark, across the sky that Orion stays.
A lake of Asperger water waters ideas and then. Then is plain. Plain reminds us of falling into a point like a wee star in all that sky. After a word or forgetting, the poem is imagined, but only in time. Then starts and tears, like fierce amber held for time. Time is the water after all dryness. Asperger tastes like endless pools. Pools forget.
Sentiment reminds Asperger’s water of afterimage. Chants reciprocate. A cauldron boils with onset membrane. Status remarks asseverate a benign condition exacted on water by Asperger. Our friends are water, said Asperger.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Your breakwater, Asperger’s, flusters. You are a vowel sometimes, chance repetition going towards language bait. You, Asperger’s, frame something causal in life sequence, excepting the social as downright. Oxygen, the pattern of lament in the tower climate, calls only portions for you. Classicists rearrange the vocabulary for constancy. Asperger’s is a homing, albeit prone to stab in the dark. Craters on the moon report as reflections of outside. Process a cambric sway, Asperger’s, thru machinations of distinction. Torn prose figures mightily, you suckers in the crowd. Asperger’s does have a home town.
Poor mountain, struggling constant word. Whiplash pause as pride, petulant slope, the people of Nepal. A cornerstone of interlocutor controls pine spread wilderness, flower of autumn. Casualty railroad infers the next sentence, passing thru clouds, with widget spice regaled by ripples. Abstract ambling buffets broken sleep. Assailant strikes, as a culture, but no surprises, just an unrevealing death.
Trustless in the sail bloom
Riffle whales of doffing mistress
Bloke active crash action tool
Resists the pantry elbow biotope
Conking registers flick the passive cave balloon
With furbelows of instant web instructors
Botulism pantry waste convenes
A bossy nest of fetters
Sunday, September 20, 2009
A sentence is a train station. The train begins to explode. It continues exploding, with a bolt of action verb. It finishes exploding.
This is my stop, says the writer. Writers say, say now.
Stopping is pelagic. Shadows of oceanic occurrences inveigh against the cool mammal within. Oh. My.
A poem is pelagic, but that does not help the condition. Condition, that is, of carrying sentences to their plump reward. With reader in tow. Hello reader, glad that you could.
A sentence is a place where Yeti stops. Yeti mountain stops.
This material example is praxis, constancy among urges.
A sentence stems from earlier sentences, tho the earliest is gone.
A sentence is not a poem, a poem is.
Yeti is the best imaginative reversal of norm so far today.
A better reversal soothes verbs, plucks nouns from the air, dazzles adjectives in sullen relief, and boys and girls are tired.
Writing is a gasp for forensic sake.
My love is not a poem (said the writer, here, now). My love (continued) is named and this date.
Dates are sentences, as are people.
The Fantastic Four are just about done.
Consider the sentence, while Reed Richards stretches and Sue Storm disappears.
A poem is, itself, a sentence.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Rumours trickled as Steve Jobs landed on Mars. Shadows that night were strong and wavered alarmingly. Toads of wet nature filed remorse, pouring Steve into network. Season of mist and mellow room for little more startled Elgar and common sense. You could divine the nature of a practical sentence while we wait for more. These stars are not wholly natural.
You speak in the tongue of left out of, remarked sternly Steve in the front section. Even a verb could stop in its tracks, to hear him say so. Heft of dawn as imperious range of feeling. This is the mood when young Steve Jobs procured federation. Exact nature of this august equation went into books. Books filled the trunk, which caught fire.
Steve Jobs, in relation to Venus and Mars, among the celestial upbringing, dour in cause, slops up Vegan gravy. Well wishers equate nose with bother. Shadows grew in importance as people signed each others name. This name is now mine, said Steve Jobs. Billy Gates laughed. It is a strange courage you give me, man, said Gates the Giver. Then trumpets, then not.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Even light is a considerable possum, pointy teeth and the exposed waiting till you go away. Dawn light was wider than brilliant, but all could discern a gravel road, which leads to pointing. Grasses are browner, a maple imports colour. When you rise, and it is dawn, and the day is perfect or prefect, then the blue inclusion of this poised sky realizes in us the maximum map. That equation blurs, stemming from precision in analysis, which bores the public, but stand here for a moment. Here is a cyclic endeavour, with sunset spread across a golden maximum. Grecian executed cumulus pump fully into a content-rich implication. Oh, said the poet.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
It is well known that Shakespeare was a crampon. He was a tired way to hold little bits of mountain ice tight like information. His rules were Martian in origin, Mars being a red dusty place for which tools require more tools. Shakespeare's plays contain a conk on the head fabricated on Mars and delivered by rocketships. Shakespeare invented spare time and thereby documented football resources and came close to opposition with trammels. When Shakespeare climbed Everest, he brought a vacuum cleaner. His mountaineering teammates thought this was clever, it pulled thin air into the canister, and, thus emboldened, it could be breathed during low oxygen moments. His teammates all were tired, throbbed with sleeplessness, totally stoned by the sight of Yeti, and fretting because they lost their pens, but they were proud of Shakespeare's many accomplishments. Shakespeare wrote 3 plays but owned the copyrights of many more. We the reading public enjoy knowing what we know.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Oh lotus flower, you smell of Woody Harrelson. Woody Harrelson smells of grown old in front. Old in front is Bruce Willis, and that whole male pattern baldness that we call home. He will be a monster again. Again we note the lotus flower. It holds the latest hottie. Hotties are pragmatic reaction to a 2-dimensional world. Worlds are keen balls of slacking water and light fills sidewise, like moonlight on a plum. Plums are rich in insistence. Who can forget their first plum? Woody Harrelson could not, he is international. So is Bruce Willis, like that tsunami that washed over Asia. The cat on this bed is a plectrum, thus can be associated with the implement in the hand of Duane Allman. The blues is a colander that holds lettuce or spinach while cleansing water rushes into the sink. The sink represents Bruce Willis owning pop culture. Pop culture represents lotus flower. Lotus flowers envelope Buddha-like factotums such as Woody Harrelson.
Do you see?
Do you see?
Do you see?
A poem allows Fu Manchu and his world shaking energy. You as a reader must insert yourself into that equation. A poem cannot do all the work.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Dense marvel child, thought is weight. Thought is Walt Whitman Incorporated, along a smooth river in green tempo. Variance occurs on march, walking to process while alert, firmed, dilate. now we read hence, here, the momentous. There was a crash of young person, wishing to be. Event of crashing young is a noun. Event of crashing young is noun falling down. Event is young noun falling crash of event. So much for that phrase lodge. We talk of tempo bout look, magnitude sand puns. puns shape language with diversion. The apples of this fall are ready. Are you full of time like the rest? You stop and read the margins, then inward, until a sentence is filled. Stop hen you are done. Do not smack the sat one, last in essence, last in judgment, last in how we weigh. A crash of taught magnifies and spells a thrifty sort of doom, numbers then and now.
What do you do in the day when you are thronged but the clustered clouds seem maximized to resistance? You stand in the place of autumn, and list objectives. Notes twinkle in the offing, that might be music, might be words. If words are so easy, easy as clouds, then let the reading convey the position you need. You are read by the extent of stars balanced by extremely accurate conjectures. Did you read that somewhere, or are you quick? A poem cannot mean more than words. You do the day, writing positions and placing acclamation into arguments. Someday, you will realize that this is not a challenge, it is just plain facts providing a motor. Read from the centre outward, requisition the charm.
A whiteness named Imperial Rome called, wants left and right of your centre. And you were a Facebook friend, too! All led to dynamite and one practice swayed a pavilion. You should stay alert.
John the Conqueroo has been applied discreetly, and precious piano allows softly. Coltrane back from edges, that much is certain. Stone mason collusion, banter of mixing, and the social aptitude realized into muted. Nobody examines trumpets anymore.
It was not enough, basking in volcanic. Disappointment is social.
An afterthought of chords, how do you explain that? On Easter Island, the natives actually pulled stone! Does that makes sense for your class structure? Let's ask an expert.
Arrival is slow. Why are your children stupid?
Eddington won the day by writing the standard works.
You are required to conduct an active search. One heresy destroyed another.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Your child is a loss in a sway of vibration waves. X, equipped with dread and smoke, confirms lack of entity (your poor kid). Our child is a rain in port calling. Your child, graded, is beat and brained, ours went with sweat to the dictate of season. Why are we paired against? Tosses of from toward there or that are wincing news of usual growth. We all are crowned and plain, like the words of evening. One even thing is like another. When we are great and exulted with the planned expanse, we say a great beginning is association. When we fail the strands and measures, dockets and crowns forbear. Your usual language is violin pining. You listened to the whining of the passion as it revved and processed, like people in a marsh. Did you feel the marsh water wetting your feet? Close inspection of the heartless plan confirms a mulct consideration. Present the name to the indicated person, your favourite slur. You boost downward when you have this dispatch. It was a person before you spoke, but you won the declaration.
And all the disappointments connected with, and your falling too. The television employs furtive figures, glassy-eyed protuberances, and Regis Philbin. We have nothing to say, smack that black. A mountain wears thin, over time. Under time, there are moments between commercials. Regis and his sidekick are blamed. We read of alerted heaven but people are poor substitutes for the impact that they think they make. Desperation is a calling, like over that tree where the crows gather. Next is a passage read from the Holy Bible, by an expert in reading from the Holy Bible. Words on words, until the process point. That is where Regis and Kelly come in, paired brightly against satanic forces. Yes, Fu Manchu has targeted. We have nothing to do but bear witness to the fierce. It comes overland, with news from Burma. It comes by water, with opium implanted in the latest plan. It sticks to our guns like we stick to the rules. Regis Philbin tells the evil doctor some celebrity anecdotes. Dr Fu Manchu listens, eye glint. Wash of river over landscape, welcome by sea. Kelly is blonde and appropriated, so that is one starting point. Regis is 900 explanations of want. Satan is not in this story but words from Fu Manchu cause terrible aptitude tests among our children. Test scores are down, school districts are losing their edge, and friends are not friends this year. Regis Philbin will never burst, but dictate and diktat score loose overage on the person who was smoked. Forgiveness is not an option.
Friday, August 21, 2009
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain.
In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up.
Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves.
Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The people have spokes. All postal workers from Massachusetts receive prawns from Mars. This establishes motivation.
Later assertions will begin sooner than expected, since time has been busy. Dick Cheney's brain is a chance article of confederation with the smell of blueberries on a broken porch. Bundles of affordable housing use modern ramjet technology to assuage the impatience of socialist medicine. The future looks dated.
The aliens have the daring-do to assign mumbles to pinpricks. We call those little fleas stars. When rapture is rumble on a stellar summer night, cold sweat masks the bargain right. We voted with our hearts, which Dick Cheney takes for granite. That's nothing, says the drummer for Procul Harum, Jim Hendrix bought the best.
Weaving these strands, muttered an alien with straight cast eyes, produces apoplexy. We nod in our lakes. Great days are ahead.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
The airplane enveloped a place called Sky. It was a lonely turnstile sort of place where rain drops like musk and clouds are proverbs, for children perhaps. Anyone on the ground has no chance to steal a thing from the plane. This plane is heartache or acrobatic loss or something to be named anon. The changes of the countryside mean anything can be somewhere. One person reaches someone and that someone is a place. The place is a time: has this been said before? Reiteration will never stop the process. Music of fear exchanges heat. Formal entry of water into the surroundings is a dance, haha, or at least a fine process, worthy of academic consideration. When people look up, and the plane is overhead, why, the hayfields erupt with golden light, and trees become oaks of the longest standing. When people look down, the plane is gone, and highly unlikely. Orbic earth maintains its magnetism, association of people with cold, coldest facts. These are alerts and dismal truckstops where the doughnuts are painfully dry, stale, dull. The season of mist and mellow fruitfulness makes us laugh, tho that’s a prediction: we haven’t that time in hand just now. We ride a circle. Above us the plane is a catastrophic realism, going on and on like geese or ducks, seeking water, seeking home, seeking time, seeking place. The plane is just this memory of a future we hand to our lover. Someday, you see, that plane will be ours.
Every element in the district swept up funds in skylocked welkin for the sake of the newest presidency. Leaves the colour of earls formulated the trust that would endure the edges of forever, namely the time of changing. This is the sweat of our fairest Obama, a condition and rationing. Thru porous days of agreement funding splayed for sake. We were taught to be lean, in a gravitas sort of way, but the microcosms refused to work. Dated theory rose up in smocks, cultured with a dignity of favoured rocks. How can we crease the paper squarely? muttered Obama, hailing the next sentence. Republican virtue, replied Republican Virtue. Instead of partitions, we have a flock, cried the Wasteland, using the visage of Straight Talk. Straight Talk, itself a margin, flopped on the whale of limit. We are poor kings and queens, sweated Obama, our plain sake. And that conversation (Obama went on) must be pressurized like certain wood used to do things with. All this was patience itself--we logged on to be sure--and the claque refused to contend. In the morning, dew will expose grass to a tendency. Later poets will do the same.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
I am exactly a thumb print, dear doctors who read. And I have a television query, fault line constabulary. If you, twinkle of sublime Potsdam, have a reference number handy and type it in. I am proposed for this birthday dinner and more. You will regard the stippling as a wired way to clock. Now dearest salubrious gas mask in the distinct future, control the flight contract. Let doctors who read underline the verbs and nouns of missive in the sunshine. The poetry after which will be particular, like prawns. What are dead people doing, when we roll them together as makers for inclusion? We all think of something, even if it is nothing. Nothing is a consideration, like a ticket. You read a paper stating how Obama included. Which nouns were most masculine, in the inkling that followed?
The 70s skidded with more guff. You used the word brusque. That was your period of twine. You left these monuments and said something strange. Foraging for imperturbable, you stuck Obama on your forehead. Bet that hurt! Cigarette smoke folded over the pages in your smart book. So okay, poetry fiend, read thru the pages, even when verbs are spurious. The 70s were soldered with details, prime metal. Nothing consumed the facts more exactly than the details. We were listening to the music, except that we could not dig it. We dug holes in vapour, felt proud. There is a left side to ontology, and you are bold enough to make a list. Include your 70s in this list. Centuries are constrained. You said daddy, but you meant Evolution.
Blistered arrangement in Obama's plant. That plant is excised with cultured cells looking for the sun. Obama brands name in this stampede, and we leak alert. A new orange smokes upon the evening landscape, parlance for yesterday, then blue over the gushing land today. Stay happy with Obama, or paralax, or the motion across the kitchen floor, of something. Something secret leaves the hives. Something secret seeks the plant. The plant is poised like anything. Tussle continues, with new verbs vectoring the continuation. Obama bravely last the night, sweatshop slogan. Our President, haply, but effort contorts all known regions of meaning. The South, for instance, the West, the North and its East, and so on, dilations. There was a lake above. A blue and now it is shining morning lake. It was above, like the cat, or even more, when we are attuned. Obama battles with all words, Even as the proposition institutes some collision hardly to be compelled. All this exceeds ramifications. Our President, in definite station, stays poised, paused, posed.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
A brandished flicking thing tolled over doubts of meaning to. The death of David Bromige circulated words of saying so. So what is basic, sow more is prevailing. We stick to roofs as we slide among stars.
Dentists discharge tooth integrity, and flaring stalks of regent highlights include dogma-based flaking procedures. All will be drilled, someday.
Those in the flow control their weeklong dumpster diving with indemnity. A careful thrush releases its wings to the concept if not the provocation of flight. Curious to know more of the Bromige oeuvre, one sees that it floats thru the latest season with colourful pragmatism.
The stunt called replying stirs an imp-driven piety. Oh well, congested to process, unveils the sad day.
The day is not sad, however, but David Bromige did die, him writer in boots. The eloquence concerns the dashing stripe of insistence, sorted by name and varied by rank. The New Comma sweats the Old Comma, sentences in a chain...
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Steve Jobs woke to the fame of being perfectly right. It was a sentence without virus, and astonished the voters of saying so.
German war machine includes great video excerpts. American war machine meets Russian war machine, while gypsies in Bulgaria reform the present tense. Hitler was a party gal.
Maoist rubber pants protect, as do Stalinist rubber pants. The baby is well, tho needs a brass bottom. Tenderness of hit man in the season of wet blankets, lilacs remain in the dooryard, province of taste. Klingons fly off handle, leaving handle to itself.
Hitler party girl dolled up like pine. Deciduous references need a day or two. A poem is propped to matter. This is how Dick Cheney got thru school.
Dick Cheney refused to over educate, instead he was pronounced. The Klingons swept thru, only examining a washed ashore grampus. Shore is for old folks, who swim by laying down.
A poem is light like Steve Jobs, filled with ammo, like Dick Cheney, and tells a good registration re Stalin. Fight with farts, expert ticking machine. Your heartbeat is overclocked. Vide Blue must rest for the big game in the past.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
swift bezels make sassy application to exactly the same frame rate as Steve Jobs with his pants on. you love his Paris Hilton quadruplicating, him and his minions of phlegm portents. rippling pot shots increase Ovid flapjacks, with pants down to here, literally 'here'.
uppermost spoonfed clogged hvac betrayers round third base and head for more. then Amy Clampitt commits kingfisher, Doppler effect of brainchild. no koan restrains the strip mall but the battle axe in moping phase reads Ben & Jerry in a tulipe noire. precede your poem with benevolent autograph, calling all Red Sox fans except Tris Speaker of the KKK. postscript your poem with generous clump, totally nude bison. hello Clump, you are mine, like West Virginia dirt next to a filled up puppet show of Amy Clampitt's upper percentile.
days are sorted by Yogi Bear, westron wind of consequence. such poetry, Steve Jobs, period. that's STEVE JOBS, comma, period, the imagination of a sentence.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
2) Pour Trotsky: elevation scrambles the mind. Intensity of place is a surrounding image as the state needs force. Force is the brilliant and archway. We take a Roman longing thru the door into the next simulation. The Moody Blues resist temptation and pop. We were so young then.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Sir Denis Nayland-Smith must absolutely tamp the tobacco in his pipe immediately. he receives no bonuses from AIG, where Dr Fu Manchu works part time as a dirge. his part is earnest diatribe, with machines floating in the air for reasons of nefariousness (plumed for future consultation).
meanwhile, Madagascar, you could prove human nature by the very citizens who live there. the latest is only the most unprovable.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The better world concludes dominion with wings spread across asserted deserts. Wealth was fizzle, rolled into news feature when the snow started falling. Years broke into bedrock, the sky failed instrument. Long Knives with history element broke free, thru marsh, wandered. Everyone suffered then, but the British backed off. Native elements surrounded various centers, turning towards conclusion. The sun melted the sky. Trees were years worth. Fires broke out of cages. The document, then, became the word for dire. Every ritual seemed reedy and thin. James Madison tried to compound with Hamilton partnering but the papers flew across the room with every gust. Tired, the people stopped for a moment. Shay’s Rebellion, Whisky Rebellion, stuff. A poised public took a beating. We were left on our own…
In the moments of later event, the deathly ones, with cold and the air thin as daze, we wandered, Excellent English, Yeti and me, in an inconclusive story…
Why hasn’t the town filtered thru other spaces?
Worms of this edition seemed sparked by dubiety.
A Klingon sang on the front step.
Pitch black resembled the last inception of the dimple. We lived in an environment of change and vacuum, one after the other. Which one was first?
The town wrote decrees into bedrock, just like satisfaction.
The endeavourer of our time swats at whisked fences.
A tension occurs within the preamble, which startles the audience.
The hills of the town suffice, in an odd policy way.
The pulse of grey skies fills intention.
Our triumphs are townwide, our failures fettered close.
Another Klingon sat on the front steps to say, Stay.
Prisons resume economically.
All Klingons forcefeed traditional implementation of ideological crack.
Clerical errors remain in the document, a triumph of human endeavour.
The nation feeds of fealty.
Whippets flock to snowstorms like instruments of change.
Orogeny takes time, “they say”.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Saturday, February 7, 2009
World releases present to past, past equals future. Thru the harshness fighting down fit, war is a principle, principle is a weight, weight is a presence, and so on. One controls in the years and falls with the present severing, a viable alternative to alternatives. Clark who died, brother to other the Clark who wandered out there. Fish of the world angle slings word of the edge aloft.
The pinnacle of the declared area of concern, with radiation of ideas and control, speeds into a future of jitter curve, a time of prepared reading. This history that invokes the past piled into allotments determines a future of sparks and funnel.
Poetry regards the simple death of George Rogers Clark. Poetry extends the dilating to William, whose book collects the best misspellings. Lewis dies, by a hand that might be his, or an age of indefinite pronouns called to task. Hamilton held Fort Detroit, as your book will say. The twisting is consistent, we have our ways. A poem is not historical, it is too busy with sudden space. Space is the name of country, and the time that it takes. Daniel Boone goes across the country, adverting a process of claim that we all seem to support.
Names hide the unnamed. Adventure is a call to boundary, with a few distinctions indicative of breadth. That is where we begin.