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.