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.


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.