Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Dreck for Wine

If you divide minty freshness by 12 inert poems, you have to ask why. When you season talk of mending fences with stunned walls and Joseph Massey in Arcata, you reel from pressure overheard by gulls. Gulls represent stations.

In the miasma construed from noonday muttering, you get to include dour in your faceoff. Vocabulary includes what we don’t say, Dr.

Later than noon inquest strops a razor but if cone, the function of twist in space, is emblem on a target field, simple words concrete.

Nothing dabbles as likely as 9:16 pm. Whose talking. Whose.

If You Can’t Stand Waiting Any Longer

The trundle bed arrives [post haste. Lickerish beatitudes form certain clang on borscht, culled from leaves of early drays. Marvels scud like pistons fed with welkin. We are not blind.

The dressage of spate matters likely days for instance. The temperature is a keen 12 cents above zero, modicum time. We are prepared to bear our wheatgrass, your villains cooled by contraries.

The onus remembers the topography inherent in relaxing across the street from the bathtub. Peerage equals haystack, tho Monet dived by zero. We all should flock to the throng named nebula. It has askance.

Scorching fits scotch as a daybed. Then is a worm full of apples. When the great apples of youth, called empire, release their proxy, midsummer sits on a weasel. We are the usual case. Brahms was a benefit.

Arguable horizon sends steeds of bumptious pragmatism to the foot of My Monadnock. William James is at the door. The door itself is a carriage. The carriage employs varied roots. Summer contains the lot.