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.