Monday, December 21, 2009

Anniversary Singing, Beth and Me

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

Parked Beside the Ocean in West Virginia

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.

Gnostic as Early Followers

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.

Walt Whitman Slid, We Slid with Him

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

The Just Right Taste

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

Daybreak Seasonal Pond

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.

Extensive Search

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.

Tonight in Lexington

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

Fantastic For (A Document Drone)

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

Pomp & Circumstacnes # 12 & 35, the Plural of Pomp

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

These Salsa Dancers Need Room

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

That’s All That Counts

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

Light Should Have a Constant Velocity

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

Scraps Guilt Process

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.

Exposition

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.

Duane Allman on Slide Guitar

Dear Sir/Madam,

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.

Dear Sir/madam,

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.

Dear Sir/Madam,

It was not enough, basking in volcanic. Disappointment is social.

Dear Sir/madam,

Botulism!

Dear Sir/Madam,

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.

Dear Sir/Madam,

Arrival is slow. Why are your children stupid?

Dear Sir/Madam,

Eddington won the day by writing the standard works.

Dear Sir/madam,

You are required to conduct an active search. One heresy destroyed another.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Open the Fuck You Papers, Children Are Your Dream

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.

The Regis Philbin Nexus (Your Child Sucks)

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

Ask Your Ventilator

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

Hold My Hand All the Way

Offering any end the severance of its own light. Loss is a grounding in particulars thrust into fields blasted with blossoms, concurrently swayed by beasts of intentiion, building to a secluded point. Dying is indifferent rest.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Save This Inside Job, Brothers and Sisters

Inside this encapsulated beau mont, alluvial sluice drives target question from opulent audience reactor. Thus Obama as a figure of parchment-like equation. We read the matter less than thoroughly, with prime or more in mind. Years turn, and we seek centuries. The country, which is leftover, seems diminished in radiance, like a chest of drawers. Robert Johnson in a roadhouse sweeps up scattered dimes, drinks something awful. We are right in our church. Desperadoes inveigh against blanket statements, using swaddling blankets as emphasis. A Dick Cheney lurks in the offing, like a porch. Inveigh against plovers, the smell of Hawaiian coffee smells delicious. That is to say, disjunction is fine in a credible world, when you can leap over something stoned by mere appraisal. Colours look like alternatives to sound. Would that consist of plover's walking in circles, or Cleopatra mustered to glamour by marrying? Outside is base maintenance, like original cattle. Dick Cheney lies on the bar room floor, and lies again.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Plane Song

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.

Chesterfield Chairs Arrive from Mars

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

The Original Mojito

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?

Dave is a Hustler Named Ray Wagner

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.

The Left of Intention

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

Number One New Show of the Summer

Thoreau died calling. Margaret Fuller remembered tons, when the wish was water. Peace of Concord, known as an inducement. We will study contradistinction, interupted Emerson, a wooden intrepid constant. Hawthorne was a full grey wave on the endless Concord. Such townspeople, concerned with trains or trade, or passing the season with the pressing force of green leaves, recommend fruits and vegetables. You are rich to know the democracy craze, in this porcelain story. Bend clouds with your fit as you read popular fraction, o child situated in dusk. Language like that is particular.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

The Fence

They rain to literal, fit with facts. Hawthorne on the boat, Pond Lily, and the whispering half life of the Concord River resort to bright effects. A wind installed in the tucked duff beneath a serious tree settles a rabbit to its own personal marsh. Thought roomed for minutes with constant referral. Thoreau and his boat, Musketaquid, same boat as Hawthorne’s, and a trip to part of the world. Each part connects to a vocabulary. Hawthorne looked out the window of the Old Manse while the river eased its way. The landscape remained a process, with its own vocabulary. Treated as a vagary, each word resorts to distinction as a claim. Sunset bottled, then sunrise uncorked, or some metaphor between this history and your own. Picture that, said Thoreau, as Margaret Fuller, more like a countess now, drowned in homecoming.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Kindergarten Teacher

The town was a specific quadrille. Leftists were right, and Rightists were left. Geese flew in tandem, except the loss-engendered ones. This is factual, like wind thru trees dynamically. The town fits a presentation theory, and we gather in collision. We have seen birth and death, and U2 working the crowd. Galway Kinnell is now a fact of Providence, Rhode Island, like a truck stopped in the Callahan Tunnel. District Court, time off from work, take time off from work.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Flight Has Been Done before

Somebody spoke like hankies in the dropdown menu of the plastered faction, so we got together for a Trotsky. Rife whistles rent by hayseeds toggled on the modular web design determination of the prole section. We like our sporty shirts, so attractive to grunting parts, say the comrades swaying in the wind. Obama sopped up Parisian sunset by the River Seine, his mood ring filling improbable school nights with his First Lady Michelle and her anyday shine. That new age Tongan Rush Limbaugh, observing ossuary assumption, sweats the oldies and the newies, his nose an immaculate closet. Meanwhile, we laugh over fields of warbling bluegrass, thinking horses, the justice of legs. The hankies of intention started a new round of praxis, which translates as the guy in the commercial who likes what he has. Hot to Trotsky is cool to Stalin, laughed Lenin, snorting comical coke. His hanky will be our hanky someday, crusty as the merest sanction.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

The Gods Briskly Delete

Trappist flunk invidious transformer. Period is the new comma, but comma still holds the semi-colon collectively. Last October meant David Bromige lived. The cheeks of days surrounded the cleft words and abundance. We wrote to see the word.

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

A Devastating New Unthinkable Target

The last book by Dan Brown surfaced. Not the last theory of broken integrity, just Dan Brown, with shoes in his bag. Hold onto that bag, Dan, now that you have written the book. The century is new, full of books by Dan Brown. He made a million words look like a book. He is the essence of Tom Hanks. The war may soon be over. This is a novel by Dan Brown, with childish emphasis. And then the sea rises because of Al Gore, and the facts remain insane. This is where Dan. We could not prove only that words come in packs, but that stories change with listening. Then the process accepts the poem as a sidecar in an immense factory of visiting. So Dan Brown grew up with exactly the right explanation. And it came to a million words or so, who is counting, which could be captured, frame by frame. And we are happy with the logistics of such spray, writing thru the day. My friends are exceptional and go to lengths. Their sense of Dan brown includes a movie deal and 6 packs. After a while the message is clear. You type as fast as you think, trying to catch up with Dan Brown. How crazy must that hominid be?

Monday, May 11, 2009

Yours to Deal With

Clacking sounds similar to onions. Vida Blue in Oakland teapot, relaxing full of tea. Grampus Americans settled for Dick Cheney luncheon meat, vice capital and when we go home. Sentences are Republican, tho not to a fault. We have spheres of TVs sitting near our academy. Listen to Steve Jobs.

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

Say Thanks to the Hotwired Super Bunny

Poetry will make it if we stick to exciting prologues redshifted to vented arrangements of tonic chimes, which will include plastic chance and a hard won vocabulary. Your betters, including Galway Kinnell, Amy Clampitt, thrones of professors, and the weird excuse of the greeting card, will posit exact change in your dynamic world. A new world turned frisky, that is, with global positioning setting the word's universal pace in the globally global universe. Think of it, hayseed: we have tears some days, guttural laughs on others, and Garrison Keilor is our tall mood of a friend. Imagine teaching all that to freshmen while stating the case for Whitman's bullshit. Meanwhile, all the Melvins are invited for dinner, you the consequence. That means Poet Laureates are loose, and spreading like Klingons.

Stated Thus, You Pig Farmers

raided Galway Kinnell's home for constancy, Amy Clampitt uncaged with racks of rapture. closets full of tippling pilgrims regard rooming houses filled with raucous hamadryads reading limited time opportunity filled with Ovid's spunk. as such, the vigour of undercoat, the press junket of polygamy, the activated charcoal of regular life.

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

Practical Poem

the town of nature road a bullock sprite cast in revolution instant. the chase of droning esplanade inspired the rock star, portent in the hallway. all that were standing woke to chase. the tarnish of red notes on the dawn sky, flocks of flowers do you good, and the chapel spending culled from cymbals in a rage. we have a process to collect, mild notes and harsh, and the love that will restore our structure. town of nature is a ball, glows with sun, peels the orange until flight and news, birds at atmospheric reach. hello, tourist: this is Galway Kinnell, or the other book by the same name.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

One Problem at a Time

Dash of the federated day. Those of the assertion bring death to George Butterick. The editor was a mask. We lost in timeless seems, and fitting everything to the practice of attack. Cloisters resist sentences. Fate resemblance stalls in logical supremacies. Try writing thru the gorgeous brisk language. Death is certain, and bite and bitter freshet of disruption. Butterick died with the weeds of Olson. We are not painted for factories or science scansion. Andrew Marvell stopped by an apple tree. Emily Dickinson changed Emily Brontë. Reference page dissolved into peers. Still, the river daze and leaping grasses: practicum of matter.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Exit Wound of Trotsky

Excellent English lost a long night, sloping off the mountain. We held our own in wintry tent, that basis of rage or unforgiving. We are provoked by nature and assertions, wrote Yeti in dilation. Approximate usages come to mind. Lenin wrote the U. S Constitution, having taken Jefferson's hand. Across the borders, markings are read with eagerness. We lose Nepal. Thailand is an instant, puff of smoke, the Tsar's son. That crazy ass Republican broke the mold, spraying mental brakes with oil. How could the township lose its own?, we thought, as dawn started to rise into our thoughts again. We would need to spring, to fall, to run again. Weather is a pattern of interest and regret. Lenin could not fix the weather, tho Stalin tried, and Trotsky felt the weather. When you read this narrative, wrote Yeti in tarnish, be sure to figure in the deliverables of this project's next phase. International Pancakes. Yes, said I, and we thought of Excellent English. The sun startles us, as does the gloaming.

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.

3)…

Firestorm Lights up Montana Sky

Think of New Zealand containing a dog named Jennifer Aniston. Think of Agamemnon, another dog, ready to conquer Thebes. Think of Theseus, who was smitten by the online presence of Jennifer Aniston, in the history of poetry. Think of poetry, which is ridiculous. You have time for some things, the wings of television spread, and flight is no more than a prime option. Read about the price of loving the spurt of information into the control tower of spring. Think again. Agamemnon put Iphigenia into the list. She was the next step, the birth of wind. Jennifer Aniston is stylized and long television. Ports open for the warships. Death is extreme. Real time is like death without margin. We read and write, a poem, perhaps. New Zealand is full, Janissaries urge pride. Rain is effective in a timeless way. A poem reckons time as a pattern of words and the space between. We are not reading beyond that point now, but someday, when Agamemnon and Jennifer Aniston wed, the crows will sweep the sky emphatically, and the Concord River will recede from it in sullen springtime flood.

Nature of Things

His kaddish was amused, doors hanging from hinges. He sought baskets, with the smell of grass hanging over typical farms. Farms are intent business, with the loss of dichotomhy just a mask for the nature of death. Death is a brazen task manager, like your computer wizard. We are lent rhythms with each kaddish. We travel to fulcrum and consider the range of ideas that bask while blossoms flicker in trees. This season is like others.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Ignore This Tip

Doctors trip over Vandals, and varlets stop at Stop & Shop to read about Jennifer Aniston, while waiting. Broccoli becomes eager, as Willow Ware, featuring doves in love, creates a past as endless as detail. Doctors run thru hoops but Vandals invade with real cheese. Cheese is a magnificent contention. Cheese is a belief system, slaying Dogon cosmologies as simply as create an extension. A poem is a toll, a moan, a managed care environment, sliced like the most eternal of cheeses. Managed care is botched, however, which creates surprises. Surprises are a kind of cheese, with the smell of milk from the ages, and the arc of a great narrative ridiculousness. What is tip Number 4? A coat of paint (paint = cheese). San Diego is architecture and design experience. Take down material, relieve the Doctors, respect the Vandals, slap a coat of paint, on. Varlets read about Jennifer Aniston, awaiting the old person with the can of tomato soup, a finishing transaction. Soup is simple, you see, but varlets are a poetic complexity. The contending M.O. is a thankless rereading of Milton's divagations. Some clients have delusions of grandeur.

A Spent Poem Monstrance

it was a lank discovery, studied so that peaches grew in equine summit, parsing swift umbrage with a glockenspiel drill. weird aspects sopped in nitrates loomed over nitrites on a breakfast morn with twin engine custard. why, then, do we dream in rich panacea, while the gods in goofball flopping spend sentences in torchlight? postulates of pungency sound like marzipan over prairie dog, and yet we return to the same manor, the same rood of temper, the same gorse-lined object sentence. a noun brings forceps while a verb tries hard. terrorists bring sump pumps to the back porch, and spring once again begins.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

When Republics Weep

The day of clicking sent roots precariously, which just happened to wake bear. Bear ran the riverside and verse, tending toward a blossoming blueberry bush. Bear is sleek as you are surprised. To feed is to fill the hole that winter was. Pardon the river as it straddles the landscape in gust. Bear is indignant, did not vote for Bush. Obama, this is a network containing words felt for rollicking and timeless leasing proposals. Our country, if you are we, resists pragmatism as surety. Bear contingent opts for prose poems, nowadays. Grains of sand stricken from the record have resurfaced as moons around Saturn. These just piles of impressive dust in circles of inflection will likely fall into the well of the gas giant's heart. Whereas bear, straining for population, maintains an amble of intent beyond such tug. It is all Idaho and the miracle of margin. I once wrote a poem, said John Milton. What??? we replied. The roots of Cromwell's clicking remain with us, so poetry seems thin. Alas and the day of bolting bear.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

The Facebook Team Wrings Weather from the Clouds

we think we are making inroads, then the bear walks down the hill. is it spring already? definite clouds give way to ephemera of roads based on memory. Renaissance music fills the rood in which we walk, while a galloping bear prepares the year for spring. it has wrestled with the majority and hunkered down. now is a pleasant concept, devised in a language. we go on in the language. trifles of crocus send dogma packing, patches in the clouds form rescue league. diurnal plectrum, modest increment, political quark, and all these reasons to trust. a dusting of sunlight lays smartly on the early grass. sullen children with their numchucks resist bailout offers while seminal scalawags reap status alerts on Facebook. Jennifer Aniston arises in the bedded morn to speak of dark and wonderful things. her Agamemnon is like no other. justice scouts plenty and decides. voices lift the bandage. the government and all its particles cluster on the finest point. upon this point a team from Facebook work their magic. it is called a narrative, the finest of these angels says. we twitter with a tweet, like three oranges in a row. yes, Excellent English, Yeti, and me. we are in the foothills now, with the smell of spring and people near. odds are excellent, and evens are just. Jennifer Aniston has just enough time, as Brad Pitt fades in luck of the draw, and Agamemnon weds the last step down. a bear taps on the window, you see. it is spring and all and lovely on the marsh. every singing waterfowl got the registry from heaven. a poem comes of age. we march into the village, while the dancing bear counts fours...

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Hello, This is Garrsion Keilor

Nepal's unrest is a minor distraction, hissed the evil of Fu Manchu. it works the margins, that story. cackle.

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.

The Bear Comes Back

ritual bear developed a broad expanse. words of its clime sifted thru ripe clouds that sent rain, even to the the human world. dizzying process suffered the pants off of human endeavour. the bear was wild in increments of favour. we read of drastic change, and felt that Afghanistan could stand a chance. Afghanistan is named for the land where the land is. and people people the land. and bears are arguments in the landscape. they play as a river filled with bears searching for ultra shores where blueberries control life. life is savoured in increments of blueberries. nobody dies but a few relatives of Ted Hughes. they read of ends and distances, then see a bear, and the bear runs off. when the bears run off, we lose a farmstead. each bear in the landscape represents one lost farmstead. each lost farmstead is the death of a relativity. the basis of poetry resides in the project of armed forces certifying the troubled landscape in Afghanistan. do we really believe in Afghanistan? it is a trial balloon in the shape of a bear. bears are promontories in the landscape. they drill bombs into arguments, and believe land mines include eternity. was Jennifer Aniston there at the beginning of Afghanistan? she was raised by bears, at least in the mathematical sense of one Jennifer processed by barnstorming fierce marauder becomes a barn door blown open by bear argument. the bear itself is easily killed, with a fluid ritual of wanting. do you want a bear down on the ground near you, finished but for your gesture of efflorescence? the vision starts now, with your own president elect. you are Bernie Madoff. you are the cloak of an answer.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Practical Stance in Ambient Light

the current marsh beams with documents and change. ducks force exact sounds into the argument, which traces simple phrases into pulsating pattern. a poem becomes a constant, blending words into the landscape like leaves and water. ducks subsume, starling and blue jay rent cost effective dowager settlement, the world wakens anew. this swarm of intention brings bold statement from political casuistry to the door of memory. the clang of weed rental outweighs the spoils of dynasty. fences receive admirers. all patterns include one stray note of sharing. language resumes potable conviction since we are stern releases of antic gas. now spring starts anew, piles word upon word. a glimmer remains to relax in, then the shoals beckon ships, or snakes bask in the sun, or many trains of thought pour into the empty. these words that might be poems remain in traction, not debarred but pressed to glass. morning is dark until it finds a portal. portals bring everything, just as every parent dies. the marsh is lit by the coming morning, by the broadening noon, by the tracking back at sunset, by the proud and woven stresses and releases. night came and went, with shifts of view. a poem becomes a constant ritual in latency or graven image. pond life marvels as ever.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Quickened Honus Wagner Deference

there was easily seven in the precipice of township. the shit bags of diunal pulverize stun winking fits on total nostrum. you are punk cost fiddle banshee. with electric clabbering cuckold penchant screen for verisimilitude (just so that you know), the Klingons banter mildly. the gold coast auction panda grumbles on arriviste tunes (tendency shackle). Stalin proves a botch job fungo bat clerical whizbang that just shows to go you

Monday, March 16, 2009

Data Put the Terminal Back Online

the helicopter sank in daily news, 17 of 18 passengers dying. dying planks the mooring, folds simple people into rushed stream. civilized society draws stripes in power maze, as Saigon falls several times (Dong and Thi fled to Cambodia, while Diem excoriated the United States for a perceived lack of support), like helicopter ditched in provocative sea. android is futuristic, thank Star Trek plantation. a sentence sticks to rules, buoys upon cold sea and the facts thereof. we read of things, hear more, add something called data. Data, the android, was powerful message of how you can stick in the mud. mud is at bottom, where the sunk chopper settled. it no longer chops but creates a place of rest. not really. a poem wants all that entailed, then data for the margins. thus Star Trek, a winning combination of actions and reactions. we learned today helicopter. period.

Monday, March 9, 2009

Follow Me, We Paid a fair Price for It

Jennifer Aniston was a flattened pungency but okay, Donnie Most had flowers. flowers bend to truckle and tone, which damns sentiment and wings fieldstones towards nascent spurge. ranuculus (meanwhile) spoil for a fight, which will include the diametric repetition of Jennifer Aniston walking down the red carpet towards the certainty of slagheap. no other prediction fits the tomb so well. jonquils fritter away in snow, then undulate, and we all go sex bomb. forests are deprived, like normal children, and the wind from moose-ridden Maine collects in bad breath. the world stinks, because it breathes. knowledge base, however, smells like teen spurt, but without the market share. Donnie Most is a heroic dimension of inquiry, fan-based, and a free iPod in the middle. sentences are archaic, like attachment. Saturn is festively ringed by dust and shit, but the tonal message still seems opulent. we will want to collect in Afghanistan and fix up a world. a poem is posh. it wants to be treacle-based ontology but words are not marches. thus: Donnie Most and Jennifer Aniston reframe the question by asking for residuals. those are awesome spires, like in your own dream town.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Muttering Fortunate Warfare

Captain Element, on the beam of star front, sector-embarrassed, realizing the next day, poses before the gas giant Jupiter. work day approaches with radiance of spring in positioned sky frame. words prove diligent. rocket is assertion, black territory of thinking aloud. we will 'make it', says Captain Element at the helm. the word helm begets the ancients, their long ships bending over the horizon. those pitiable sorts hugged Jennifer Aniston, proven dust. stasis provokes stasis in the mind's eye. Captain Element sees thru space and time, what could only be scented as reward. a poem culminates in a truck thru history. each word is on edge. Troy again has no chance, just like yesterday. even so, a status-crazy asteroid plummets by without a thought. Diomedes strikes a god or two, for which no battering ram except the exacting truck of day. reason fluctuates and popular music seems like Jennifer Aniston's hair. Captain Element says, Remember when we invaded, then laughs, Picard to Enterprise. spiffy shambling is the new avatar, and it smells like hair salon.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

We Filled Seven Boxes with Food

Spare the distance of condition. We are full of resumption as we press the text into fields of historic presentation. Words are not random but constant. I was ready, you see, to step from the mountain. Yeti, as creature, was already gone. Others as well had left. Excellent English remained as companion, and we let ourselves move. Pressure is constant. Villages here and there, the moan of hurdy gurdies, oddly sudden, and a brisk ukulele strummed intensely for moments, and we see landscape. We walk on. On went Long Knives, a spot in history, as time resolves in actions, which are tolled. This strange society explained action as war. War seeped from caves and holes, over places where people stop. People stop suddenly. We hear music lose and fly. This is a strange escapade that we can only inhale with the hard breath we need. The world is hardened for us. Excellent English and I feel ready. Everest is such a temporary mass, a few more chunks of agelessness will lose it completely. But we will remain. We will continue walking toward. Our words will be villages, and villages are nice. We will stop in a place where smoke gathers, and liquid light after sun fails us again. We’ll let a story surface from our personal point. We will read those words in a day or never. We will exclude the linear and extend into the broad and varying. Isn’t that the sense we need? The question comes earnestly, since narrative does not fit simply. George Rogers Clark did indeed fulfill a promise. Soonestly he died, as Lewis died, as William settled at the doorway to the West, perfectly for the time. Reader comes upon evidence and risk and determines sequence. Reader relies on pieces and stretching toward a blind capacious ownership. Practice endeavours to instruct. We find a place (Excellent English and I), and sit for the jig of time. Sitting is fire. Fire is worth. Worth is a very finished word…

Monday, February 23, 2009

Follow Us In, We'll Lead You

Poetics was a child stuck in the mountains. Cool, river waters ran downward, from the frozen to the liquid, to the provenance of use. Each word enflamed on the mountainside was read with equivocation, the vocation of equality. Certitude reads a passage, presents assertions, melts slowly with factoids. This is what we learned: The wind was furtherance as Long Knives, under aegis of Clark, march thru water up to their chins. Everyone ‘made it’, except that life extends beyond triumph, and the draining is inscribed. Clark’s brother, William, stayed focused, hung on. Lewis, remember him, made a quick dispatch (what story do we hold to?). Now we read of history, it has children. Poetics children ride thru clouds with express purpose. Nightingales, butterflies, boiling hells that Blake and Dante concocted survive for a preamble after which sulking presides. This refers gently to tomes and wet nurses. Sighs engendered noble closeness. How did the poem stick to the words that were laid out in frontal scape? Star Trek® words flap and weaken. Klingons call on warriors. How do the rest of these statements, stored and readied, shape the perfect poem? We give up too soon. Now the mountain sorts the people who will live and die. This is engagement, children. Some people do not like to transact business with the federation, Commander. Simply that catch all…

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Respond to the Question

We saw training in the weight of gravity on snow. The thin air of delivery confused our brains. We read that American news, about a change in aspect, about process circumscribed and denoted, about papers flowing to and fro. Thomas Paine was instrument. We read the popular words, in our storm-ridden point in place and time. We read, culled, thought, stopped. We were stopped, Yeti, Excellent English, and me. We stopped on the mountainside, drugged by airlessness and the thrill of being atop. Days spun in fertile instigation. Mallory was right when he pointed to the purpose. We rode our energy to the top of the world. Long Knives, in a cold settle, marched thru marshes, in distinct cold, in answer to world movements. Nothing could be satisfied, not possible. Too much was being read and reread. A constitution, stating certainty and process, was writ in cursive violation. The trumpets of Britain sounded. History took notes and flattened for the facts. We are not confused in our sleep, with oxygen bottle filling our tents, as airless winds buffet our tent. The way still blooms with tribal warning and sedition. Words flex, fail. Yeti stomps into disappearance, as associated native. Excellent English buoys with learning the new English tongue. Tongue is equivocal, and tasteless. I am the understanding of a few years ahead. Snowstorm blinds, and distance indicates loss. Poetry is foolishly filled beyond realm, and the reader must know more. How can the country, as nation, remain distinct in space? Time falters, and just two of us trudge. Yeti is impossible, or rumour. We hope for a moment back, with Yeti still healthy and unabridged. None of this is sure. Long Knives concern a triumph, but the terms were not clearly demarcated. Maybe the nation fails, inculcated with visions of secondary worth. Maybe the basics effuse retention. The wind mounts to the apex of noise, cold is impartial, and wearying is a rite. Only Excellent English and me, with Yeti torn into points of dismay in the snow from nowhere. Somewhere must remain potent and positioned. How can we read further thru the cunning snowfall? Space is time. Time is close. Close is verb. Verb moves nouns to onset. Then what? Not Republicans, one hopes. The Democrats are far behind too. Mountains are impossible. How can we choose?

Startle the Bear

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…

How You Might Use

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

The Whole Package (It is Not Just True in Chicago)

Light is a carriage, and it carries the Long Knives into the place of exclusion. Years of trials, culling the land of interdiction, then straining. Life is filled with boundary. We called them, with fiend of word, into a forest. Forest delivers the coin, which is nation. The implicit saturation becomes distorted as monolith stands. Each fort feels strickened, because people. People then said, with a lighting of trees. Trees are peopled. Everyone stopped to haul, but it was not time. Music slowed as George Rogers Clark led a slog. The marsh was deep water to walk. Do we pretend to be there? This is the electric stream around nation.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Coining the Word Acculturation

The Long Knives were a destiny faulted in the prime of continental consideration. Horizons include clouds that have invested the clustering seas and beyond. We were men and women once, in a land of ardent branches of trees and mighty squirrels gamboling to the edge of the Mississippi. Then we laid down the law. This law is a vision of expanse, promulgated for authority and package in the idea that someday, Republicans and Democrats will debate whether education is a part of living expense. Saturation lives in the exhaust zone, which is a march thru swamp. Swamp is passive, and people die that way. A person is a collection of accents that sound awfully foreign. A person is a claim dating from the time that they fell on the sidewalk, and waited in pain for the insolence of the relief vector, community styled embrace. Long Knives were excellent colonial expressions, knives of working and trust in organization. The freshets of that time stopped for winter, but barged ahead once spring signed release. This continent… murmured the viable, and the rest of the sentence fit the exclamation perfectly. George Rogers Clark, you see, was one adjutant in the wide pharmacy of being in the plan and seizure when countries intend on placement. Wells fill finely with exact water, which will include human growth principle, directly into the vestige parlour of the coming centuries. American rancor of adjustment insists on positive renown, to the degree that we live flush against the sagging margin of where we have not yet been. We called them Indians and us the People, tho People in the sense of particular human seems a straying pitch. Our land is not famous for everything, only for our birthplace. Concord was one land, signed for in usual wobble then sent sideways by a pressing forage. Yes, and trails painted a fall into the landed culture, bound augustly to that paint. Sweat lodge remains in the outer chamber, where Long Knives show European industry in simple weaponry and plan of adventure. Adventure ended with John Wesley Powell, who was doused with real water on the way down, "treating of matter, motion, and consciousness as related to the external universe or the field of fact,"

My Day's Wife

Lucky to evaporate in the cushioning sun. even in this historic wind, that changes the weather in a moment. seeds called snowflakes have blown across catastrophic miles, to bring an impulse we know as what our winter is. it is like this, I say to my wife, who is newish to these parts. winter is this place, I share with her. she’s seen winters of deeper snow and harder cold, but I share the special numbers and degrees of this birthplace, which I recognize as close to me. the sun is a hard case sometimes. my wife and I have seen weather in many guises already in our counted months together. this is the deliberation of what we learn, in tired trials (sometimes) and lightly spent evenings. we will have a glass of wine, temperate and without pace, or sometimes during the day, a cup of lasting coffee. we kiss in public, because weather is just and complete: it resides everywhere. and besides that fulcrum I must add the conviction that there is no public. I mean, sometimes I am nervous and noticing, but instead and in chorus, mostly, the public is just an idea to trail, if one wants. one shouldn’t want, I imagine. I imagine, instead, that all weather joins us to the day. the coming hard grey clouds will be one faction, and we’ll share it. my wife sleeps and misses the glimpse of pink that painted the early clouds. in degrees that brief massage will be gone, and the flecks of frozen water, crystallized for us, will tumble in a surface of reflection. the snow on the ground knows how to translate to the sky again without melting, a Biblical sort of immediacy. here we found ourselves guided by reward, or the sensitive distribution of our frail, loving ideas. my own coastal fears liquefy in a slow process but I know my wife is my day. the weather finds a hesitating channel of change, in our strange mild winter, and we will take this key and turn it. adjustments are natural. the clouds grow plump with tidings of snow. winter is with us, in a throbbing condition and detail, but we also change in several views, daily and fittingly. we’ll hold hands as the snow falls, and as evening melts into summer.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

The Only Known Iliad of Kentucky

Long Knife, that was an answer. Ragged hurt, folded over the years on British something in the newest something.

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.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

There Are No Stargates, Sad Literal Thinking

Trees were creamed by the partition called light snow. It set the tone for the day: a reliable call to duty, a putty-like religion. The nation, known as ours tho monstrous in its indispose, frittered in the panic of another day old bread. They who marched or looked likely congregated and met glances. It was a rife-toned phlegm coughed vigourously as part of the chilly season. The wind was named Frore, since the situation was special. We have made our verbs count, said one of the throng. Later, a debate grew looser. George W Bush, the second rug on the same floor, brushed up on brushing down. Welladay, the nouns are in charge! There were piebald ponies, strict reasoned clown faces, pounce remains of marching bands, and the hawk of all gritty effort, all for the radical day. We are better, mayhap, now, having spent our last ounce, with adverbs trailing weakly. Who needs the discussion of density, when the electron we trust will not register its place? There is this person, Barack, and his wife, Michelle. They represent the perimeter of incoming influence. Electrons trail behind, and the children of these electrons, and the days Harvard meant something, and more, so much more. The book (flock of geese marching into the wind) is almost potion. Drink is enabled but, you know, Washington is a realm of cherry trees and midnight larks. The band concludes some romantic march into the next proposed history. At the inaugural ball, it will be a gruesome sweat of trying on the next day. Hangovers are possible, with adjectives for feeling. Thru it all, the trees remain creamed because winter is long. Ideas about Mars, the red rock just above, circulate with life. Documents implode under the wait, just as would you, Dear Ragged Reader. Time is not helping the way the sun could barf ricochets of radiation in the year 2012. You are ready for that stock market impulse, yes? Of course and how wonderful! You matter, Sir or Ma’am, because you read these words. Each one has its pliant quantum bump, like the wake of a seasoned ship of state. The trees are creamed with snow, yes, and the rare black squirrel is in cahoots. Citoyen, will you dance your inauguration or will you step into the book you have made? Fling conjugal happenstance into the incoming franchise and dilate the oath of office. That Bush thing is out the door and the news cycle flutters. Please read, Dear Reader/Invader, what you are, in a tone set for the day. The message is mentionable, by all lights of enclosure.