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”.