Monday, December 27, 2010

Noxious Gas Department

I hate pianos and obloquy. Your last dad ate obloquy, how is he? Pianos rent parsimony, in debt to man. Man is the envelope, portioned and dragged. Downtown time for all.

Obloquy stands alone. The children of net worth find a wily tool. Downtown is Israel. I mean, Germany rose with Krupp armament, like a dilettante. Why do we spell correctly, if not for obloquy spoiling for piano?

Your first dad was carved from Teddy Roosevelt, a stern sort of stone. Dynasty was a TV show, not an inquiry into human tater. Men remain arrant.

Women are arrant too, with stones as vials. Nameless possible bags remain sand la pose.

Chartered rapture turns stodgy, just in time for New Years. We missed the moon, when it disappeared, but we did net need to wake.

I meant to stay easy about obloquy, a left handed word, but seasons change. Life is an abutment.

Women and men, for sure. Then rhyme, cooking, doctors making millions, and the whole politic gone smoky. This America votes itself lame.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Hi, I’m Bon Scott

Nurture by which sky in dreams allows safely crashing. The times are that loud. Your narrative shows when you pull that star. When George Michael met presser radiance, turning hutchie cookie man toward libraries full of tambours. The crux became a lightweight buzz. Presser radiance wrote sincerity a letter, signing it with Bruce Springsteen’s name. Horse is vetted, province history. The tagline occurs, Presser radiance washes the brunt. Ties the blood my greyhound. Goshawk, the kind n [Kodak] George Michael met the presser radiance, to turn man hutchie cookie to the archives by the complete tambours. Difficulty became the lightened hum. Presser radiance wrote sincerity letter, signing it with the name Bruce Springsteen. Vetted horse, province history. Tagline occurs, to wash the presser radiance main attack. `Tis the blood my borzoi. Goshawk, form brings up which sky in the dreams it makes it possible to safely break. Times that loudly. The narrative your ______ shows when you you draw out that cord through the sex. George Micheal, it across the floor. George Michael, he okay

I Will Wear the Green Willow

Radiance is like a close ridiculous coffee spray fort. When the outside forces arrows and battering bombs call shots of whisky, we in the inner feel prepared. Radiance is hegemony stuck in the phantom. Your republican is a close squall bound fat junk of native tap root for the declarative roundabout for who we say we hope we are. Who are you, the throne room rings? Choppy weather on the wetness of water (we explain), sea of distance that makes excellent dream. Sample my bagpipe, churls and truculents. A front becomes a back, soon enough.

Sink the Pink

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Aloe band saline.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Wedding Song Sung Again

The day renders green thru the wind and furnishings of the moon. The moon was shadowed tonight, well known, frosted, and passed. The night is our beginning. In effects of season and instrument, we have pulled tiny things from large and vaulting. This is creative, like the shadow capturing the moon’s garden. Now the wind, a doorway of sorts, continues. Testaments and words continue, fitted to stations, and the river rattles on. We love the river. It fends for the landscape and twists thru the orchard. The orchard holds our apples, bright and uncontested. Each apple is a sun, uncontested. We love the river, traveling on.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Entertain the Main Klein Bottle

Enchant Led Zeppelin. Thane medal bindings the morph by which we report installations to fortitude. Thru nights off urgent lime pit, and the chorus of Wham!, modest earth. Release oft urgent props thru out the havens of Mordor until nickels in the breach. Dependent installations are potatoes not scarves gold rustle. Nematodes rely. Dust spectacle one dewlap foreground connects trusty impedance. Crust off music spent. The day offs Wham!, offs George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley, both, joining ace terrific. And Led Zap wire pills. Pilasters ace expression while the deacon off Serves Island renders fatly. The splice and beginning orphic splatters. Bear is canticle when canticles are coven. The hint in between return begins ace nesting. Such the benefit and such the prognosis. Given that spud, casting dray count heifer means business, so lives are the days our, our days are so. Drat monster cabbage, drat spaghetti squash. For summons, reason, for others, Wham!, the hit bandage.

Friday, December 3, 2010

It’s the Toys R Us Time of Year

Are geese available for better religions? If so, they should be told. It is a merrie time of year and geese need vital plots of land, screws in the hay, fantasy forests with elves for dinner. Geese need Harry Potter underpants and presidential pardons across the brisk ocean waves. Religion is for pets but geese cannot be pets: they have wings. Wings simulate excess, increasing marketshare for those geese that can fly to normal places for dinner. Lunch with the president? You bet, but dinner is important, like religion. Always a dessert at the end.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Harbingers from the Backwoods

Weather’s last excellence provoked symbolism akin to tempo. Or totems, posing as thought. Why speak without mystery when the world is so small?

A new season is as old as the hills. These specific hills are where we watch vague neighborhoods extrude their people. Something simple seems so obvious, without a willing of weather on ‘a night like this’. Professor Radiant writes an exhaustive book.

Books have been known for years. We know characters like we know our left ventricle. We know narrative like placing dull coins in our close hands. The theme is mother.

Professionals radiate an energy that presumes knowledge that survives words. Beyond muttering and beyond cogent purpose, our rasping surveys the lichen on a rock somewhere. We were there once, apparently.

Professor Radiant has been scholar and intricate haven for ideas. At the risk of totality, the Professor lifts Jacob’s ladder for electrical insight. The movie won’t be known for years.

In the written word unwritten ones engage the net. The net stimulates the imagination. Something will be shaken, and the process will resolve.

An ordinary day has ordinary weather. The hay gatherers near Stonehenge prepare for yet another day in time. Such did Professor Radiant determine.

The Cost of Leaves and Snow

When you see Professor Radiant, could be long dress, mutton leg sleeves, hair pinned up seriously, and days. OR Professor Radiant could be waistcoat tweed, stiff collar, standard of facial hair, and days. The days picture well, in the course of empiric stating. Statement comes of words.

The words in time fill ontology reports, oozing sap of springtime maple. Text becomes love or commitment, at least in the souring autumn of apples hardly keeping, and rain rendering loosened leaves. Pity fails to stem the determining. Radiance becomes a best moment, bright as agitation. Winter means a sensible word sometimes.

Professor Radiant inculcates the skills needed in the pliancy of discovery, or so we think. Pressure applied to central point produces invoice of compassion. The laboratory glows with the next fantastic. Notebooks bear the results.

Professor Radiant, then a narration fostered for what a word is worth. Poetry is not as clever as the time it takes to read of worth. Radiance resumes the sun.

Stinko Goes to the Zoo

It is that quiet, references now emblematic. A pattern of abuse wanders into a courtyard, looking grand or some strange theory. Discussion crumbles into quiet particles, each down to the last expectation. In this gingerly tumble, we think we can begin. Here, in this edge of worm, this shuck. The density of doors contributes to outside thinking. Rodeo fans yell in glee, having seen a rider gored by eminent bull, as if that were the whole telling. Yet unlovely people, making examples and distributing literature, claim mysterious rights. The real reason the place stinks is within the books they hold up. Weapons can’t be changed. The word within any mouth must live its life in that netherworld imagined for scantest moment. There, where you can’t turn away, where you can’t ignore or find alternate funding. There, in that political tornado. Otherwise the weakness wins, people still cheering for their claimed reasons. We need, we want, we urge, we taunt: simple as rhyme, simple as time. Stuck in jet set machinery, waiting for the club to convene, and no bird sings. What trajectory will claim the rest, the unbidden, the worm-eaten, the next to nothing? Hello ocean of intensive care, the wound still gapes. People think they laugh. No bird sings.

Professor Radiant

No person remains. A carriage with two horses, along a dirt road, with trees. Trees vary.

Professor Radiant holds an idea. See the chalkboard, the numbers, the diagrams. One sentence leads to another, each manufacturing an idea. Ideas lose words. Words float freely and not too soon. Professor Radiant remains with vacuum tubes.

Fast mobile phone networks resemble children. Children moil. A variety of political units cuddle on doorways, crusted with rime, molting with time fled impediments.

Tracking of meaning concerns the Professor, radiance like snow. A high albedo means something at times. At times, spring frees the word for something we think. At times, fall is sport enough.

Professor Radiant charged the Victorian era, as much as to say carriages carry ideas between regions. Horses are dogs.

A tree is almost enough time, for now. This story of Professor Radiant is the day JFK died.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Custer Would Like to See You, Glen

Fascinations flip over transition with caustic recklessness. That's called resignation, and it smells like falling. Each word, bent in the canyons of those scented processors, receives conditioned and naturalistic response. It's fair to approach limits with downsized political competence. The city streets look wet. People walk there, amidst the same pronouns as ever. Glen Beck has his hammock ready. This isn't really a poem, Glen.

Friday, November 5, 2010

Tacitus Plays Handball

The way red maples imitate Byzantium, when Byzantium ions sustain Norway maple perplexed with the intrusion of cold air masses. Republicans resemble parsing, if parsing were the word for feathery litmus. But if feathery litmus were the extent of parsing, crashing of periodical airplanes, and a Timbuktu positron seduction to rival the best cheap vodka, would be the ultimate sweat lodge for Friday night. Is this extreme? Are marshes extreme, for all the petulant stairways thriving in the modicum of constancy? You seek thrushes that refer to brownness, opals that are opulent water, stem cells that create mocking, and oracular miniskirts that resume a bygone cage. Position rebukes boom box, our native Republicans like steam, our Democrats crave wet. In stylish organdy, the teasing philosophic lodestar crumbles nuclear. You who region budget-savvy refrain from excessive Triassic periods, knowing that we are all born in a cave-in in Jura, like a bunch of crowded bulimics. We all but like them. So now, with civilization in hand, lights cresting on Doppler sunsets, and splendiferous sunset has been inculpated finally, well that I like you, meanness of human contact. A poet contains a poem but is no more than a planet surveyed by ballistics.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Second Step

I sing the rampart and the minute element. Your sweat lodge, boosterism, and declension thank you. This fly frame shows the fractal of the various intentions that stabilize the actual principle person of stupidhead soon in the earlobe intended for conforming. As for the back story that knits the regent period, FLAN is hastened, attached, and decorated. Must the egg form custard always? Askance nobility class! As for the obstacle to refreshening spiritual quality when stopping in line for remodeling, boiling with fire can be clouded. The kingdom is actualized as a man-hour convention. Being pissa belongs to the register that imitates moderate intelligence. That makes the moat. A finger points to the opposite of finger. This time you must vote:

1. Is a kind of energy which keeps passing by that waterway actualized?

2. McGraw-Hill and the licensor who turns left should owe no responsibility to you.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Standards of Fuss

Emily Dickinson started something, time and tide. A match enclosed a flame, perfect fret, a candle was next, a condition, A concrete fact as distributed… Emily woke from the direct statement. A lighter feeling, closer to the moon, but then autumn was at hand. tossing pilgrims into the satisfying wind. This meant another day or two, startled by butterfly, ignored by rocks. Patient, like a quick thing on the edge of something slow, she. Doctored by delight, she stewed then flung, winked then bartered. Whisky was not a real man.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

The Beats Created Cargo

Slave argosy stoic creamed sprayed raygun,

Boston chocolate bouncing prevailed upon morons,

Underwater clobberer controlled Kangamagus Highway,

Caustic renal rapport routs rheumatism quiz,

Donavan leech leaves late leaves,

Curacao collectible club concerns crabbiness.

Bunch farthing betterment node matters in neon,

Bebop electrical unit slurps easy feasibility,

Racist harmony like ladle loops landing lariat delight,

We had a ladle in the works. Pause. Then Jack Kerouac primely drunk on cards. We laughed. The switches opened and the canal stuttered curiously. The mentioned Concordm and the mighty Merrimack Rivers collide in an idea of overthrowing the ocean. Lowell stinks, but children,nonetheless. Socio-Palin disease extends , now in the 21st silly century.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Feelin’ Bad, the Days of Spooky Tooth

Pocket-sized research grant records patient leaning in some bygone age.

Proper agrarian sensibility astounds every member of The Cure. On a good day.

The Monkees were panelists.

Paul Simon gestured towards slouching distant constellations, Art Garfunkel no help when the patterns became clear.

And then Kenny Rogers took drugs with flower children tasting tasty with the condition his condiment is in.

Sasquatch invalidated by the time I get to Phoenix. Record your loss here.

This Is Serious Money

When Sarah Palin became a rash, true twins unearthed like distance and we want to know more. Sarah’s forest figures in the fingers of slipping past dawn were raw ripping of calico. These planets should know within our lifetime. So lucky, with Russia ready to move in, the degree in which Sarah Palin could write one word after another. Dogs have proven that dinner is yummy like a doctor. Depend on Sarah as a plum based on previous plums. We cannot forget the seat prevailing in the swift clouds around Mt Everest. A unique pattern of crunchy yet withered forgery faced Sarah for a tennis court minute. Sarah’s opulent progeny, built by Vincent van Gogh, leaves hundreds of collectors questioning expertise. It’s ok van Gogh style: test tubes will always have babies.

First Tattoo

The apple falls because it is plump. The bit of leaf floating in the pool reacts to change. We were restless. The Doors were on television describing arcs of colour for the first time. You were a piano bench, as I recall, and I was a town in Massachusetts. Both of us saw time fly.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Thirsty in the Sky

Information figures in the apricot bonded to the sky in verge of dawn. Expertise settles in the silt phrases of cloud. Those clouds remember the real Bob Dylan. That Bobby Dylan sifted like a crustacean. Cetaceans refer to practical chords in long watery moans. Crustaceans flick central switch. Bobby has time for mild restriction and a broken back. He sent a text message to the drummer of Aerosmith. Joey: How are you going to pass for excitement? Verbal integrity blooms ironically as one legged sailor falls from the mast of imaginary ship.

This Is My Vehicle

The simple is a caustic rose with dangling participles filled with abject crème. Wings of increase saturate a verbose thousand million. Disappointment augments the lasting, including experts wearing earrings. Chockablock regnant piquancy requires source code with federated poopdeck. No, poopdeck is wrong word associated. Words alert government officials. Sailors sleep. Poppycock, the element of surprise, manages Reagan’s team of non-elected leaders. The president exists in a vacuum. No, winsome loops require freehand drawing style motivated by Black Tuesday. Forget ornate doggerel rapt for candidate plasma. The shrouds of Billerica survive with canoes, an age old answer. Sorry about your Comedy Central, mine has fine hair with 50% more protein. And did I tell you about exploring Europeans seeing the Colorado River flummoxed by age old stone? Those Europeans were ripped from the pages of toad stories. Plate tectonic processes, very impressive, work thru different presidential administrations. We pushed it, subject of sentence, across the floor.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Are These Extraterrestrials Doing This?

The report of the cornet in the morning sounds like Sarah Palin’s half of the ocean. It is obviously not natural, no cornet is. The sun wobbles on its pretend axis, which causes us to consider Sarah Palin as the last apple in a long line of bananas. Strange, her hooves look fine, her dormancy is equable, and her siren is justly provoking. Somebody tell *Derek Fenner* to read this poem, an iceberg floats in Palin’s half.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Michael Jordan is Fat, Mr Stallone


Axl Rose takes the dynamite and runs to the bridge. Snake isn’t happy, hats are not allowed. Suddenly, Yeti appears. The bridge must fall: narrative has been invoked. We will not let our clients down®. Then Axl Rose tremendously. Yeti. It is not a justified Steve Carell movie but a populist pilsner taste, like you could believe the Internet on this one. Rays of damage prop up the worst poets, who have been settling for marks on their cards. Those cards, Pirandello: Who was Sancho Panza? Axl ties up reticence and believes he will find last year. The bridge stands for statue, and we never mentioned opulence as a radical trace in flimsy maunder stage. Gorse, heather, tramps ramping toward the gust of purple flowering in Bruce Willis slid across the table of, not Schwarzenegger, banter like sluice.

Less Expansion and Contraction

The start of truck stop panoply secured torrent in possible misplay. The muse sweats Lindsay Lohan's terms, which include wow factored to. Barn Door. You listening truck stop where pancakes are segments of society? Prison changes a person… How far is it from the beach?

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

The Landslide Took Place

Dads are great tho typical. Flickering clouds tell dads that flowers fill rumpus. We want rumpus in the US alone. We fill plastic bottles with water and say rumpus means clocks. Clocks track dad with events. Moms too. We all have moms and dads, and the dust never clears.

The Brackish Waters of Rhinebeck

Dawn includes something drifting, like continent. Dawn invents a vestment, cooling breeze, studded clouds with the effect of reaction. A federal opportunity mentions Chelsea Clinton, her wings, the barn she left, the vantage of the brushfire she will marry in triplicate. The caring public snorts with optimal cumulous. Organic reaction stops rainfall at the threshold, starting with the Bill of Rights and moving on to other damp documents. Rain will provide a forest so that Bill and Hillary can install a map on the plain features of dirt. Chelsea will spring to mind with every Joni Mitchell song played till stopgap, then the lank Republican buddy system will trim morass and moraine from budget-minded challenge. We will have to repair the ocean soon.

A Nicer Night

Dick Morris reveals how to prepare for coming aftershock! His stuffed pillow is a kraken. Rental closure plans Chelsea Clinton’s wedding (it is in a pricey ditch). A watery tone poem thrust into conversation transforms the regal stopgap. Now we intend to explore how yachts make the man, if the man is John Kerry. A pin fell into a well.

Stockyards explode with great prisms of sweat. Dick Morris is a sample of the plausible program pulled thru a hole in a 12 dollar bill. Captain Phil is a marginal ransom, asking price of launching. Now that the president sucks wasting day, we can go to ‘town’. Town is inference nestled between two frantic polis. Your child, then, explains fathers to mothers.

And Dick Morris is not even flame resistant, just fetched upon quasar seeming. The poem flaps less truly now, excavated with a list of words.

Those Jerks in the iPhone Commercial

There is a poem presented in glass form, chills of summer. A whisper of father and mother makes increment, glistering patois. Shades of Apache clouds cling to New England willow. People are not panicles, no matter how planted. Last thought is first thought.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

I Admire Your Bathtub

Dear Extortium,

If you were blonde, you would be a trivet, and that explanation would deliver contracts to Obama, for the sake of a middle class that surrounds éclairs. Why burst when crusts of bread are discarded like embolisms? Cabbage remains ocular, in the garden, that day, memory like a transit authority.

Extortium, the mellow fundament of sneak attacks and snacks resolves in a great television evening. We will write a new document that includes Artemis and Oprah Winfrey. We want a sport model, now, just like a tunnel thru sluggard language vents.

Extortium, Swiss cheese in a hospital is no unguent. Yeti smirks at the idea of perfect cheese. Escalators are easy to explain.

We await, and after that finality, we move. Moving is a method for all sentients. Mars as a planet compares to other large masses. Johnny Carson is dead.

Extortium, Obama failed as fulcrum, but what were we thinking? Fulcrums are so topic sentence, infer paragraph of when we were up, then down. That slice, Extortium, boggles the muggle smoke. British Petroleum invents a hole, and we are talking about Allen Ginsberg’s toe.

Field and valence,


P.S. There’s a boiler room in the southeast corner.

Monday, May 31, 2010

That Sister of Yours

This Vatican in my pocket smells like penchant, said the Arch Duke Sasquatch. Feast is enabled by clear thinking and toads listening to their mothers. Clusters sparkle for the bass, which presents its topic sentence, which then studs the wall of inquiry while the guitar roams for more aspersion. We weave to the sidebar, where uncorked sensation revels for a word. Each word, a romance itself, spoon, dilettante, refectory. The ocean includes hermit crabs.

Documents still as Arch Duke Sasquatch says, que pasa. Pianos float to the top, inspired by chords. Fires in Quebec mark the sky. You are a cargo plane, says Arch Duke Sasquatch, and everyone becomes their underwear.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Dark Spot Corrector

Sifted breeze is the same integer of frogs in spring, night caulked with standards raised to stars, brief endings in the middle of sentences. The sentences include the same frog with integer, numbered as throng while sticking to severe chorus. Listening is equal to containing the half spin of a fertile globe. Poems are impetuous.

We read to Yeti, in a night swirl, glowing in fire that arrived from cave. Cave is the first word, finally.

Yeti clamps the mountain for time, stops when the stars are still in winter, stays close to a subtle television. CBS is the greatest television network.

Frogs slide across the kitchen floor, known as mystery of night.

Chill breezes disturb the fence behind which a pond harbours the mention of frogs.

Yeti is a book known for the mountain on which a tribe is born. Fresh frogs arrive each spring.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Distant Melon

Recent disclosure, the pans have handles, each one preset with a place for hand. Hand is umbilical, recent research declares. Such as in the life of Immanuel Kant, singing with Simon Garfunkel, adipose back door.

Stern ray gun of the really. Base emblem for chaos: Cake in the bathroom.

Toggle switch of the gods.

Swishing bunting of the patriotic mending pants.

Rubber duck of the post moderns.

Patches on the ass, thank you.

Go on with your story Mr.. Lucas, very fine good.

Spatula in the force of Emily Brontë.

Mordancy as a refrain inspired by doxy.

Gertrude Stein reading sheet music, three sheets to the wind.

Such the such of such.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

The New System (fragments are barnburners)

Vicars roam the countryside, inquiring after Hegel. Hegel, surreptiously, asserts whatever documentary evidence that will suffice. He loves the music of Ferde Grofé.

Those hammocks in the west are donkeys. That vat in particular is the Grand Canyon.

Vicars realized the essential message. Freed Grofé wrote a doctored document, which caused Hegel to trumpet.

Fragments are barnburners, so the symptoms will remain:

1. Codger art forgettable

2. Bounty flagrant cop tart

3. Byzantium bibulous

4. Drape maker condiment

5. Fidelity wreak wrack cobalt

6. Sagacious foo worker triumph of lien parade guck

7. Swards of weeds preamble gusset hep tone squeegee enrichment eek Yorker roam the fool stoppage Cantabriggian werewolf finally awesome sweat bank barracks ode bomber

8. Nice try nodule mode of recent

9. Next fact cure told the moon bean raillery

10. Spice girls ladle program

11. Ambient twain fox as spoon arrival

And by the end of the symphony, seeing Hegel remorseful on the oboe, studying the contrast between assorted vicars in the claque, the regency of Ferde Grofé prunes newsworthy distinction: A yeti sits in the balcony.

And by the end of the end of the symphony, realizing trope has gone too far, the standard for understanding fitting a tired post named Paulo Freire, Leninists revise the latest revision, just to ensure a metre of process. This goads the new narrative, which was washed with a pioneering claim, then left for talk. Talk instantly bobbed up as conversation among vicars.

Modes of vicarage show consistency thru the ages. Generally the vicar lives there. Most non-vicars do not. The world, thus, can be sorted by vicarage and vicar. If vicar then. The vicar specific must be claimed before discussion can proceed.

More articles can be confederated from this point, sharing essentials and tailing back to the presence of Paulo Freire on the side of each side.

When language is constant, people are culled.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Lenin and the Carful

Lenin’s turn, of course. In a language trucking over the name of mountains, in a language fit for snow, the chorus sounds reasonable. Lenin’s reasoning follows a research grant, fosters pragmatism, flies off with a boot. The boot is a fissure in the dominant track. Pioneers fade with revision.

Lenin, of course, stood out. That cranium contained a flap over the autism that requires every ethic of fading. Torture is credible, as is the fulcrum on which the balance schemes with bombs.

Lenin’s heart is in the shape of Sarah Palin’s populist.

Lenin’s head is in the shape of Dick Cheney’s intendant.

Lenin’s phlogiston melts for all the right reasons.

In our heartened doggerel we find a platform that dates to the primal Tsarist algorithm sifted by Google to historical analogue. A subwoofer can set off a weapon. Lenin, the subwoofer, sets off the appropriate rifles. We need tea in our teabags, says Sarah Palin, alleviating Alaska from the musk of ideals. Lenin knew that Alaska once was; fully mapped was his report. Now Steve Jobs is on the phone, the phone he finally invented. Lenin stood there, ready to affirm.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Thus Spake Captain Element

The rattle of canticles woke Captain Element from the extremes of river view. A posse of water, gallant fields, a cricket wakeful to manners: all this spread vistas like a trust. Captain Element, superb in the bloom of dawn, spoke highly of the event, translated through the spaces of time into a doorway beyond which winter fails to include. I agree with my dizziness, said Captain Element to the tune of reading aloud. The Reader, not the Writer, comes forward to shake the monstrance in one quick indication. Reader realizes that wild winds are privy to our warmth, winter damages are fretful through the orchard, and spring is a distance away. I travel to the light side of war, remarked Captain Element, having seen that a President can speak a lot. The country is downsized, read the reports. Canticles register in the space left after input. Readership must waken, is the logical deduction. And good old narrative will find a way through, right through news of the next layer of war.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Pat Robertson in Haiti

I know the inevitable controls the docket. I know this docket travels parsing. Freedom is the lapse of effects of Pat Robertson on Haiti while trouble is his gown. I know the gown that Pat Robertson wears. He wears the seeming and the dress. He wanders the Haiti that he was told. He is angry in a nonce, a pity to see. A real person laughs because Pat is a sap characterized by impairment of the ability to form normal social relationships, by impairment of the ability to communicate with others, and by stereotyped behavior patterns. He is the god of Haiti, but he is still a sap. He is a laughing reference to what’s wrong with chairs, but he is still a sap. His remains are a laughing reference to what falls downhill, a gown worth falling for. He falls downhill in Haiti, where bedsheets survive the excellence that will not control him. His zombie is a blessing, such a gift of words. He does not get it, those social cues that are strong as wheat. He is a winter parted down the middle. He is an island, parted down the middle. He is a dome, parted down the middle. His dogged restitution survives with Brylcreem, parted down the middle. He is the sap of sapience, parted down the middle. His wink is kind to Asperger’s, parted down the middle. His punchline is gownlike, parted down the middle. His reference is a pullet, parted down the middle. When he runs home, he is final, parted down the middle. There remains his last word, parted down the middle. I know that the inevitable controls the docket, redolent of listening. The docket is propped in the course of social cause, parted down the middle. The middle is extreme, parted down the middle. The middle is Pat Robertson’s left and right, parted down the middle. The middle is the perfect autism, parted down the middle. Pat Robertson finds the finest strikeforce, parted down the middle.

The Harmony

Not the commercial but a blend of reason and world. Pastures creak with essence of not that time but nearing. A sweep of increment shows blasts of sentiment, clocks darkened with cattle fury, grasses bent to Halloween. The snows defer or someday. We read a passage. There is a word for gumption: that word is gumption.