Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Darling Media Pants

Gloaming bought new for the occasion. Trapdoors of heartache cause batch files of debate. Oodles of concentration slip thru doorways, hatching plans. Now in plain words, now in not. There is a fist inside a glove, a glove inside a pocket. These are the times that are simply these times, not those. In the sense of opening a car door for the purpose of retrofitting the future, the future is roads to the next time. This time is caught in the fluxion, really great to hear news. There was a time when there was another time, but this fact lights difficult in this town.

Nature of the Explosion Explained

Priest or door mat, revered minister, perfect rabbi, this sort of thing. Then wanting to know more, and equaling that more with anything, producing an addendum calling for further study, which is an underline process in the wild. So that, viz., paint on something that formerly went unpainted. This inspires diction, the main coast to which we roll on hearty, knowing waves. Political priest, solon, sour taste, all that. The map mentions places but not the peopling. People people the earth, you know. You read that too, while in line, listening to latestness. This outlasts that, and always will.

Productivity Software Pre-installed

they were blowing up, in rhythms called blankets. they were strict in sweating dust and under the overpass. they were in the details of fog, more intent than daydream. the blowing up is a factory of precise secular regime. it will mean the dead spot of a drum, where you don't want to go. god and sinners reconciled, backstage. spellcheck chases every ensuing moment, every click and a bull let thru.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Myrrh from the Forest and Gold from the Mine?

The strapping documents of One Emily Dickinson come between us. We see salients and pure stuff, from the edge of each word to the middle, the horizon adorning.

Documents everywhere stand on their toes. They drink to the framing technique patent of swizzle sticks. Pants in the ocean, empty of human form.

Remember the moment that the first stick swizzled? From gulfs of approximation, as varied as cream-filled Newt Gingrich, a letter arrives. The letter carries the moral equivalent of a swizzle stick. The God of Twinkies readies to speak. We wait with a pantry of remorse.

Cocktail blossoms fall upon ideology, which pulses with strata while union members bend towards sunlit field. The story is tolled in the season. The owners own, and in owning, they round fast ball.

One Emily Dickinson likes to see it lap the miles. This sensual indication, a time filled from youth on, becomes capable of which minute left in which sequence. The strapping documents then side with fervor, or blessing, or stricture, although in fact the nation needs new dimensions for the words still alive. We have voted and this is it.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Talk About Better Stories and Everything Else

I did not intend to offend with my racism. I meant it as a genuine document for how flowers fall down. And then I realized Bella's kind of a whiney bitch anyways. That’s why when the coloured guy, the jewish guy, and the irish guy met Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter says Vacuum, start with nothing and go forth. Which, truth to tell, molds the framework of words to a leaning proposition, Stamp Act, Emancipation Proclamation, new age music, mute Romney. There is a huge difference between normal twilight haters and psychotic ones, lol

age age for age colours Emancipation. it's not at all creepy that a century old vampire is going to high school. Seriously. If I wasn't such a twitard, I'd probably hate me too.

Saint intend intend the music, go when leaning start. If Vampires actually did exist that would be one more thing I would have to be paranoid about.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Is This the Best iTunes Ever?

Suddenly, out of the Age of Commas, the children, the children, the unspeakable forgetting ways of finding ways. Saturated path congeries revolt in a parcel called hm, Orrin Hatch. Redoubtable expense account freely lifting other children to place on other children. The spores are free.

Suddenly, too, the Age of Commas. As a reliable dock fence, you stop there. Yet a sentence like Mitt Romney, like drinking from a can of water, like proviso providing for proviso until tears the coast with storm.

Frisson says sentence ends where the next begins. Reading weary path wouldn’t know. Inauspicious children at the door, each with a comma for the next in hand.

You can’t be 8 o’clock in time for everything, says Orrin Hatch, rendered almost possible.

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Dear Microbe Romney

Your panting seems like time. Your pantaloons await insertion. Sere deserts move maps to wayward barns to formulate a new tomorrow. Radiating dioceses blame cleverness, but we know you are free of that injunction. You read how wampum is a statutory mine and smiled.

Today is the first interval of words settlement. We promise to pay attention while hatching new plans. We see that you have tons.

Microbe Benefit finds a pursuit.

Microbe Mexican talks to a phone

Microbe Reasonable buys a saint.

Microbe salad days wants a referral.

Microbe Duck songs homeward salient.

Microbe Democrat flickers in the windlass.

Microbe Barack severs the coastal storm while minks swim to safety.

The story of minks requires evasion.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

This is the Police, Open That Door

I wonder if

the category will claim me. News from

woods and winds, treacle as testament, will you

reward the negative of town?

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

When Friedrich Nietzsche Crouched Over a Gopher

Friedrich Nietzsche was a pinpoint of desultory light. In words he whirled something something time. Richard Wagner was a scathing flack with anti-Semitic shoes. The roof over each of his operas smelled of lumps.

These salients start to sound like pigment. There exists a manner of inquiry in which the word becomes a blow dart stuck in a cactus. Neither blow dart nor cactus exists, but the word remains. It must be anti-Semitic to be so enduring.

The people of light, who wish they were dandruff on Newt Gingrich’s flaky head, decide to speak more words. Ponds of words. More words daily, like porridge, like tribunal, like slavery as a mask for penance.

Choice of cambric remarks upon the detail by which we enumerate the placement of yet another word instills a sense of document. Every word finds a pinpoint of light. Humans discover ways to share their dismay.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Brad Seems too Loose to Fizz

The worth that engine, that angel. The same documents called slaves found listing in history. You could tell that things went straight to words, while words went crooked towards another impress. Money talked of how the venting force creates a damage startling the quark within the residual effects of a person qua person. Who are we, to disagree?

Reflecting upon such truths as seem likely, little words attempt to bolt from human grasp. Human grasp is the same pan-fried waiting for the meal extortion. Time will tell.

The slaves of history rose up en masse and words were spoken with a sail of meaning. Those in the books of history stood respectful tall. And then reading history showed readers. Readers were steps forward, as they read. They read words, it was their time. The words.

That Christmas engine, that imagined freed slaves then found the words for them, this is the point. In 1861, there were reasons to fan the flames. Tyranny wasn’t much of a tone poem, but states written right refer to the moment, words or not. No words include every thing. Not even slaves, not even human slave being to be human. Not even being being human.

History Lessons Dark as a Corridor

The ramparts were full of tools. Each tool had two legs, to support their fact in motion and complex time. This was almost the year 1861. The tools produced blurry words.

A slave is a handle.

In all the centuries called the 21st, there are people. They seem sensitive in their virtues, if virtue is a tree burning for laughs.

Glenn Beck has no word in him.

No concept exists for the spruce tree that will display bold symbols. The ease of bending toward a gravity action is a subtle human character. We can blow up Palestine and Israel with any heartbeat. It’s a justice we learned to employ like taxes.

No word wants Glenn Beck.

King Cotton forgot that he was flammable, and that was a mess. You read the years and everyone’s sad. No one makes one word better.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Karl Rove Shakes his Moneymaker

In the peat bogs where dying ones,

On splendid telling machine blurting case registries,

Under butcher block creation comfort,

With pondering sounds assize the sea,

Over blended campground growling porch front dishing,

Into moon bent colliding light,


And while the Karl Rove aspires, hit the

cheap shots with a lacquered

liaison matching

perplexity with the underground soon.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Something Pants

Deliverance is a canticle made of pants and dresses, assayers now say. We float in impressive popping sounds as racism flowers for tremendous Glenn Beck. It’s his birthday: he’s now yesterday underwater, with sweaty aroma. Nota bene: he’s also a romantic puddle. Meanwhile, this horrible poet woman, partly training further dog sleds of Republican what, she says she rhymes with any detergent undertaking. Where’s the money, bitch? The better types of racism show a forthright quality vis-à-vis Glenn Beck’s Olympian asshole. Might be the appropriate synod, mutter the long end of nothing special. Language needs some looming, scant, and collective, not the dray horse expanse of our down time. We have been privy to potholes, walking down the long vocal damage of something versus something multiplied by stupid makes my ghost.

Pants are universal.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Mitt Romney’s Failed Orca

Linguistic modulation conveyed by Karl Rove beaches whales at a flat rate. You read that in the papers, sweating for coming days when review of tax liabilities would be clearer. We weren’t pleasant harvest at all times, including that incessant beating of drum lords timing us carefully.

Religious application goes like this: bold cannon shot flies over the rails, mean as pox. The slamming continues with few rewards except that a colourful blood shows a communal touch. Those are not safe tunes.

Meanwhile, just Yeti on the slopes of Himalaya. What do stretches of snow on sandstone mean, currently, a place betting wind? Taking a deep breath with several words as companions, Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez break up with a humanizing touch, critics say.

Saturday, November 10, 2012

Chuckling at Conditioned Response

The semi technical trammels of our day bring balancing delight. Note the movement of Karl Rove’s caudal fins, so directive and blanking. The trunk with which he lashes produces grace as a linguistic disease. He has a happy clock taped to his ass, so that he can conquer time by sitting. The lens by which he focuses enjoys multiple states of stinking. So we are dear to him, loose but minding. Karl Rove rises with a varied pattern of word choices, each one suggesting nuclear tucking of the jowls. Meaning is clear, for some reason. Karl points to Glenn Beck’s anger and trees flare with disruption. There is no plan to remain human at this time, just a need to reduce filing time.

Friday, November 9, 2012

Explaining the Various Ways that Karl Rove Pants

There is humanity in a wad of phlegm, said Karl Rove, especially when my words envelop it to carry bright thunder to the smallest thing. And as he meets Andre the Giant in his dreams, imparting lessons of leaving to the spirit of molecules, he rises to containment. Lax fields of stone and dull weeds can be reasoned with, says Karl Rove riding high on colouring adjectives with mayhem’s responsible victim. The simpleton prop upholding clan class diving over the reaches of plain logic to a foundry insisting on poise and cut off, furthering the revolution of square things clucking clucking clucking clucking hemoglobin revolt clucking clucking was that someone I passed in the river clucking clucking clatter clatter poems are nice friends in suspicious times clatter clutter detergent pants Karl Rove, squire to the proximate haze.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Sexy Legs and Other Fun

Karl Rove claims, at the risk of dial tone soon mother, trees were never green. And at the risk of comparing notes, he reveals his teeth radioactivate. Karl Rove ran a tree once—an association of various modules (leaves, roots, bark, branches, townhouses)—it was the last thing on earth, oaky, piny, beechy thing. Karl Rove said Tuesday night that Hispanics are the natural hurricane. He means something (clutter, abutment, field stones up the ass, that sort of thing). Listing human qualities is almost easy when the subject is Karl Rove. Winning is the game we play with bodies of people and mixtures of mice. A class of golden mucous erupts from Karl Rove’s mouth: we see he means to mean something. Mean is right where he lives, suppurating docket of words covering actions. The sad part is, words dying in shriveled state of Karl Rove mouth. Gary Cole's interpretation of Karl Rove? “We're Edie Falco's recovering addict Jackie.”

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Pantocratic Attack

Candle with burning held near Romney hospice of thought. Hope lies in the hoping lies in the hope lying in Romney spent the best. Flavoured trees go with solid food instincts. Candle burning in idea of where the ranch should be, golf freshets to read. Read people as an abstract netting over the continent sighing about trammels. Everyone hates trammels, they’re just not racist enough. As rich as we are poor is as rich as we are radioactive. And rich is the smell of opulent pouring news from local words made public. Describe the noodle that spreads across the soup called chicken. It makes no sense, slithering in that broth.

The demofractured event stung only so deep. New trammels to revere seem like the road taken.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012


In a large metal pot, boil 11 large eggs until hard cooked. Let cool for 7 minutes then add one cup of agave syrup. Do not stir.

Place one cup corn flakes in a plastic bag and crush with a rolling pin. Set next to the egg/agave mixture.

Chop the greens of one bunch of celery and place in a brown paper bag. Place bag in oven then set the temperature to 175. Place rolling pin next to bag. Heat both items for 10 minutes.

Return egg/agave mixture to stove and bring to full boil. Continue boiling until you realize you are talking to Mitt Romney. Remove pot from heat. Pour liquid down drain and place eggs under couch. When family members or friends speak to you, nod then shrug.

As the election continues, look for books that do not excite you too much. Remove page 151 of the book and look it straight in the eye. Is it a racist fuck or what? Does it seem to care about anything within your realm of imagination? Place under couch with eggs.

Remove bag of celery greens and rolling pin from oven. Now that that you have voted for Mitt Romney or whoever, go out to the world. Place fingers on ocean and push lightly. If words appear, study them carefully. Yellow means sun, blue goes forever.

Monday, November 5, 2012

It’s Easy to Find a Local Armed Services

I drank coastal waters and they were good. I drank calibrations funded well and beyond, and they were good. I drank Republican aptitude test, and they were good. I ran into an insane farmer high on inspired hay, and that was good. I paused while words were used overtime, and they were good. I incited a ballot of clear, determined verbs, and they were good. I positioned, that was good. I called Romney in the wee hours, when he was stripped clean of words, and the lump body staying there for all time was good. I started into Obama because after all and that was good. I posed as good and that was good. I thought a rat was a boulevard, and that was very good. I learned to type, and that was good. I thought the squarest head of Romney was traced in lightning for the future of erasure, and that was good. Good is not a prince or princess, by the way. I popped the question, which was good and good until the question popped back. It popped back. It was good. I thought that there was a land where we lived, and it was good. I think the frame is trembling.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

The Usual Exit Music for Bruce Springsteen

Listen to the lyric dent in dreams. The program asshole wants to include half of your opinion in an important truckstop. Here’s where we will meet the inventor of Cocoa Puffs, whose status as someone who gave us something we never thought to want makes light shine thru the states of heads. And while we relax with racist fucks, dogma tells us a story. The semitic something walked into a sand bar something, and the tides something came over the edge of the earth to prove something. And further, there was something, once, and then it was different. Different is a rush god, and we listen by turning deaf. Out of the heavens of finely wrought brocade comes an envy of complete asshole. The complete asshole is god in a truck, god filled with hors d’oeuvres, god faking topic sentences. We who link surprise with intelligence write tropical notes in our gathering papers.

Because Some People Like Following the World

I’ve been busy sharing Nutella with danger. This is how it’s done: I bake embolisms at dawn, take a quick look at the polls revealing thoughtfully crafted meaningful brands with affordable quality, then file thru the cornfield with Jennifer Anniston’s headlines. Redistribution has never been a characteristic.

Later, in a daze concomitant to a theory of arriving at a safe place with Mitt Romney, we iron out our difference in three languages (one of them is stupid). How can one relax with verbs heading for the door, nouns with square heads, and adjectives all silly? Nobody lies to an adjective. Our sentence remains. LOL.

So-called Professional Who Confuse Sensation

Absentee Ballots dumped near home twice. Once would be plenty, poor Absentee Ballots. The mean people leave them and their earning power. Home won’t be the same with dumped Ballots nearby. These days are closed to discussion. Someone dumped. Someone took dumping procedures upon Ballot Absentees. This is life once. NOW, hereby, Absentee Ballots face real world, again. Dumped in their prime. Was that Romney’s poor spirit flushed or Obama’s? Flocked to the sea to see Phrynne pick up a Ballot with one of those names but only then then send it windward with wind word. The wind takes all Ballots, Absentee or Otherwise. Once is a fall, twice is falling. Now the people make their own maps, turning left and right around Mitt and Barack. Glenn Beck remains a Trojan Horse salon.

Obey Everyday Pants

The Secretary of Stories woke politic. In that engaged cold wind November, slightly stiff stopping in the woods. We have to have 1950 tell us Moon. It refines in verbiage branch, which means they said they said. Words cart over tumble to explain how and when, for the practical good invented in this space. Is ever semantic word freed beyond the coastal waters of needing to say? Which practical invention says the lives of anything could be cured? Having deemed local Republicans too pro-helicopter, season the Secretary of Stories for the long haul over rocky roads.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Conservatives in the Pantry

She said there were votes, called people, and they hurt her. No flying remained in the sky until a tire slipped from a car going carefully into sunset. Then weird clouds expanded with a sigh that suggested strong habits of waiting for the road to clear. The tire rolled heaven, almost friends. She’s okay, but the demons want to vote.

Is she living in a paint-spattered room while the sun sets in the east, the readership might ask. The conservatives maintain a bunch of flowers to burn in their mind. Principles give voters a chance to finalize their own failure. A river filled to the brim clatters over the red and brown landscape, chuckling about captives. She wishes like a river.

Her days are unsuccessful, flying into trees instead of simple words for tree. The votes are calculated living proxy declarations while the wind whips. They don’t say she flowers with each word she sees. The votes are just plain sick, reaching fulfillment with a god-like trend to fall apart. This is not the love in the reading, more like staked claims from savage hunger, brought from the country of falling. Voting for pelts and misprision, the conservative rebate tucks graduating impulse into the spoiling water. We still can love her, even as she’s pieced away.

The Nazi Movement Didn’t Look Like a Duck

I wouldn’t want to be the tube out of which squirts the words that Glenn Beck speaks. His words employ the ringing tonnage of where you were before you listened. And over the course of his vine, he steeps teas full of long raga paste. When he quivers the force of truck stopping on all dimes, he remains a punkish pond well-rotted with the loss of trees. He has a halo over his loan shark, calls himself three times a day for doctored advice. Will he survive his own pool of sweat? Never engage the cage. Owning a fondue pot won’t solve the problem of diametrics. He is a slouch holding pennies, and the pennies of pennies. God spoke in the bathroom, and then Glenn flushed.

Ann Makes These Little Meatloaf Cakes with Sweat Sauce

There was a time when the logs in the fire were just children. You could depend on information, it was made on a hill and rolled to your door. We all insisted on the practical wave of knowing right, right to the beginning, right to the door. Patents were tendered, but children cannot step away. They have to stutter and fit that. The knowledge of children crystallizes in patient undertakings, like anti-Semitic watches or telephones with cancer. All time resonates in the way language grows from barking sequences overheard late at night. Not wolves or coyotes but the angling mentor who seizes opportunity as a nation. Not making sense is the new tomorrow but then the sea rises over the wall and litters the streets with plain old matter. To test limits is to read injunctions. Thank the doleful engine for such persistence.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Help Rush Limbaugh in his Time of woe

He is the excusing factor left on the porch with withering tractor breath. You see him. He has been a mountain for the goats, track for trains. Now the country quakes, with storm clouds reaching to the highest newscast of ardent needing. We are provoked. Molly Hatchet has a hit for the ages!

And today is the thing looking flowery while the smell of seawrack flops illogically into mind. What are the distractions that make A-Bombs wish to be H-Bombs? Rush Limbugh likes Mission Control.

As the beast eats dinner, trees glitter with words like glitter. These words attract the margins until every Tuesday imaginable. Such represents the spats on the political situation’s foreplay. Smite is smote in the present tension.

Rush Limbaugh was telegraphed with vital facts and figures. These he smokestacked with lightning, the poem of response. He is a human thing thru and thru, thinking more of hit songs than ever. Ever was broken long ago. It helped poor Rush Limbaugh cope.

The laugh of salsa in the field invigourates us. If you can imagine a friend who can fly, you fly with that friend. That friend is the colour of temper, is wonderful, is flying. We else have rocks for shoes without spanning indices that lead to set functions with cultural overtones. So it goes, the roof needs a rational haymaker.

Your friend who can fly seizes a minute like it’s nothing and spends the day. This isn’t easy and we have rules. We can secede from this union of world in mind, so we push. We abstract, which is verifiable if you do it right. We insist on vacations, when the back deck can be crowned with morally just gas grills, and the man cave behaves redeemably.

Your friend who can fly sees something red, and that’s one minute across the sky. The green is every time you saw a leaf. Splendid is the flight of your friend thru actions counted on a hand. And words along the drive to hoping for more bring something that doesn’t fade. Yet fading is the normal class action suit. Mining difference is delicate decay.

Your friend who can fly needs a home in our heaven.

Noh Blast in a Peat Bog

At times like these we have times like these. Winds fritter clouds and something falls from the balcony. In gaining speed, the thing illuminates the need for an atomic bomb to end all atomic bombs. When the atomic bombs end, so too World War Two. We’ve read this many times, in the lines on Ann Coulter’s forehead. N o one is left to laugh at Ann Coulter. Her virtues are crayons melting on hot parking lot creation.

Later destines tell Harry Truman that peat bogs originate in the mind of the clever. Ann Coulter’s heart is a similar stone. Let us all wince with the retards, the burden of energy is consuming. What if the layers of ideas between us were immobilized with a simple tsunami? A leaf falls on Canada, chuckling about the mountains left behind.

Everyone died perspicaciously in that special blast, and that special blast’s later town. It was original to the text, and the text had corners. When no words are left, seasons shade in meaning. Silence is pasturage for ages. The vote for nothingness continues.

Dear Mitt, Ann Coulter Has Phlogiston Pants

A pent up tree, in the words of Wordsworth, reaches a conclusion concerning Ann Coulter. Diatoms pluck life livingly in the sea. They see a world in which Ann Coulter sweats plums. These plums are her ideas, slightly rotten. The diatoms and radiant love reside in a potion of seawater, that will run to the skies as hurricane. And the rains will scorch the offerings presented as seriously as cows to the goddess Ann Coulter. And nothing will change, because change is nothing.

Ann Coulter, with crampons for teeth, is a defining smile on a painted apple. She is the next one in a long line, when we think that one line is never all. She is the position left in rags by mayors and senior advisors. She visits the backhoe of Rush Limbaugh or early stacks of newspapers, and decides on a license for dawn. Her union with emblematic mutter seems complete.

So we have these patches to consider:

1. Trees make paper if not memory

2. Wordsworth found ilk in the gathering of trees. Seriously!

3. Ann Coulter was a tree, before she read herself as paper.

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Judge Not Lest You Be Ann Coulter

Night sky scraped clean of interfering political dynasties, subway drained of empathy. Ann Coulter was a pond, once glowing life, a tribal meddling of harmonious clear. Then oh the Ann Coulter, bought by ® arrangement, with victory and assessment. Toggle switch of the amenities, and dying to deliver dying. The sweeping wet throb of pocked political unproven smears desperate changes in locked language. Swerve to emote, Ann Coulter. Let us explain your thinking in words of sensitively vacant syllables. A syllable is the part of the word that whistles. You lack syllables Ann of the forecast for rain in your ass. When you reached better, as others struggled, the world said, you are a better Ann Coulter than Ann Coulter, the smudge of some craven distinction.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

He Dwells Far Less

This is not the 14th century, yet. Romney wakes up, with verbs for the force of opinion. We stand in the back room and listen for nouns. These come first. He says the nouns are made of pining material, that wants to own itself. We believe him, his head is squared to the universe. We ask for a verb, and he says multiply. So many things could be so grown. We wait till he satisfies his own moment. What of adjectives, we ask. He says we have quickly become. That seems like no colour at all. Could you try again, Mitt? He wants a hill in Belmont to adjust our lives. It has already adjusted our lives, we reply. Each day is a cardinal virtue, Romney says. Each night of gathering is a stinking fall, we have to say. The swamp repines the moment when he could have been alive. The words resigned, disappointed.

Monday, October 22, 2012

In the Hall of the Mountain Vice President

Venture cannibalism buys a modest truck. Links to earth and human remain pictures of a forgone world. This purchased truck signals an escape velocity for those similar to human. They knew Mitt Romney when, when many were the many. Now they peel the effluent onion, they write a heated letter. Grasping the words for diagnosis, venture cannabalists inebriate in common time. A passing fancy for passing fancies occurs in Apple time, on the wings of Nike. Phil meet Steve: impress us. All of which argon acts like diatoms allowing mittens to fly in the wind, frore wind. We must fight for the integrity of saying we fight integrity. Your next clothing store could be your last. Women who eat marshmallows cannot be counted on, say experts in saying. Their men must be a strain, add the experts. A teleology of clocks turns to a calm press pass and sizes the day. It’s Monday, uniquely one of the days we live. The truck stops here and the turnips resume their gravity. Are you impressed by the mountain, Mr Vice President? asks a sentence in someone’s mouth. The modest truck slows economy down.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Costumed Girl Mistaken for Voter Fraud

There’s a town with a brain, now. No people live there. No purple sweating public branch of the affiliated stand on their toes to block more sun. No bandaged thought processes calling for more less more react with temper at the newspaper on the floor. It’s the traction of reaching out for fit pockets filled with urgent chewing that survives the debate. Every food is for the time. As they say in the voting vault, you pay what you get for. The town is a gravid pit for understanding how the gravid pit fills with gravid pits. In time, the folks will swear, a light of reasoning will spurt freshets cooling the hot brow of angry time. The human will then spot human with a verve and trust, till dinner time politely.

The Need to Need Words in the Sun

It says women and turnips have molecules but is that right? Is it right to share things, overdoses, meandering pines on hillsides? Is it fair for the molecules to hold things together. What is together anymore? Will words work in the forest, among pine trees and mushrooms? The background noise insists.

Turnip women arrived with their vote. They all named their dogs Rusty, after the candidate’s worldview. They all faced town where Rusty bit Socrates. As a candidate, the rusty man was led toward a circumlocution that swerves to hit trees. None of the trees were married or cognitive, just fit for voting.

The moral equivalent of moral equivalence rode over the trusted streets with a soothing bump. Mileage was wonderful, spectacular, and reassessed yearly for potential. Mileage fed the vote, the vote fed the candidate. All the molecules got together to say so.

Too Many Mitts in the Ballfield

The bloom and rose felt okay in the sun. The bloom is all that time bright thing, the rose is not the bloom at all but where the bloom can be. See, you vote for bloom in the tower of rose. And all the eagles of all the skies look unto rose and see bloom. You are not the cast of vote that makes a name fall off a tree, but you can learn to eat English, spend Spanish, change Chinese, and all for a better whirl. Thy ways of time in words closes massive doors and George McGovern. Theses sicken with dental floss and families. Registered in heaven is not a joke! We want a wave in the dark that settles fashion. Let us elope with a sofa while these rising plans come to terms.

Half-baked Plans of the Sparkling Guys

The pleasant scent of sky, the president of sky. The dial of reading on the momentary function of describing the world in the pieces left behind. The strange even pulse of sun and dark on idiots. The way the waves slap the shore edge and drink the people. The feeling of falling for words.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

I’m Still Speaking

Three billion devices run. Squirrel in the next yard, patient click of candidate words, patterns of cloud in sky. Each device runs, with each mention of each squirrel that ruins the evening. Morning gains an edge, fraught device features elbows and plain things. Now the motion of the land, even a temblor, even a sigh of land in movement, even as we sit. The candidate of words speaks in three billion devices, and every device runs. In the imagination, the squirrel runs the device, and the device runs billions. In the imagination, three billion run device, and words run three billion. More devices than people in 2012.

Binders Fool the Women

The pressure of Afghanistan, for instance, it's a thing. The turbulent mountain area around groomed for something, then air strikes, then dense sentences. We could ask for more, when the lakes near towns wobble with human-like weight. We could ask almost more as rain forgets the land party, struck by cackle hand of. We could forget more and say the land was right, almost any. But we make claims, fill notebooks with details, and call things things, whether they are or not. And when it becomes debated, the air is rotund, the moon a casual camp, and each star drips sarcasm. Thus it comes down to. When you catch a glimpse of the candidates, tell them they say so.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Hunker Down

The candidates remind winter that autumn is first. Misty mellow fruitfulness ought to be rights. Rites of autumn spring to mind, that candidates dare to tell us. They tell us the side of the circle, they tell us the center. The circle sits squarely somewhere, derived from association. Release from the drama of knowing no more, the candidates open themselves to circles. Their speech arrives after a while, when talk is cheap enough. Something steadies us as we listen. All purpose relies on the waves, first autumn then winter. Spring and summer seem refused. Someone upstairs vacuums the floor.

What Does Romney Mean by Mean?

That trifle called rain drew interest. It greyed the sky opulently with a cold drama that we read. The rain fashioned itself as water and let gravity pull. The rain found the earth and that which covers it. The rain reached to places because rain is water, like us. We entered the earth with the rain and found the rain. We drew breaths of water and saw a grey sky. Something splendid could occur even in the sheen of water on a leaf. The sheen on that leaf states a case. It declares that anything could be something when we look. And when we do not look, anything is nothing. The rhythmic splash of rain on various earth articles produces thoughts in us. Today, the rain makes Sunday. The candidates have shaken hands before. Our next president throws up his hands, which sounds messy. Again, today the rain makes Sunday.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Debaiting the Romance of Pants

A practice of being on message, which stacks chairs one upon another. In the matter of shoes, always wear the bright idea. In reference to the electorate, allow for feelings of floating thru a brick wall to see the cliff face of tomorrow. To emphasize the period of inequity, raise all hands with thumbs. As the applause dies into nothingness, repeated a verb coloured by adverb, rejecting past senses of any sense. The new tomorrow marks a band round the world, which can then be built mountain high with singular aplomb. Dual aplomb comes next, as the candidates refer to the moment. There will be parties and strong voices ringing with bunting. There will be a door, with an exit sign. Yesterday cannot come too soon. Place cheese in the trap as your bed veers sideways into the ongoing collection. Raise again your thirsting thumb.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

My Sun

Embedded distance called

political traction. Can you, my

child? Waves of once were

off. The test of saying

the element again supports

a whole class

of viable

candidates. But the

candidates conform to the

slow burning picture. And the

child resumes in all

awkwardness. The criminal

class subjects words. Period. And the

political class has none. Class is a dis-

tinguishing fail of

floating. We would be marvel

centuries, real as rust and

dynamite, but crowded sentences.

We could be

plain. The cycle of

rejection specified in

building-oneself spurs

radial tires. Children,

let you really’

dream the child.

The Space Piper Falls

I’m sorry, said the tree, the leafy fineness growing pale, I’m sorry to the sky. We like to hide the poetry with words like that. The bumble bee slows to no work at all, Days thin and break into dark wandering, like you know. We have behaved as mysteriously as a piper on the edge of document. You can hear the dusk. We all would like to shake your hand, lift you up from your tumble, and address you in the legionary love. We are all stronger, after all, in the nature of text. The tree is right, righting the congestion by slow turns. A year lasts and lasts, then doesn’t last at all, which addresses the same simplicity as ever. You are a child, and so are we. The panic in your motions just shows the avenues we all have seen. We will pipe the gloaming free, trying in the love in time. If there’s a blue sky telling, let us see and say it together.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Joy Round My Brain

The little bullet is not so big deal. These days of medical and you mean well. The shot of conservative rebuke if you are liberal in the sense of name, stage of you didn’t stick fences in the river but then. Period is a question of where to stop. Every emotion is a green tangle, tell you I hand you hand. The time that it takes, the hand holding hand. I love the Beth that is the Beth in my life. I told the worlds, and they went on to mean.

Scarlet Begonia Tribble

The green tense of summer whale rising smoothed for seconds dipped. The regular call of inferential chlorophyll drew moonscapes of coloured leaves. We are reigning as then that Jerry Garcia song, and the minutes it lived for us.

Phantast, you think weird glitches and synedoche. How have you lit candles, brazen as they seem in wet fire times. You are the portent when the word awakes. You sang over oceans and the regaining sound of fog in morning. Jerry lives in strips of time. I was the first thought of Star Trek, standing on the new fake planet, trying on terminology. Life came quickly.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Aren’t You Glad?

We are the next page in the book that makes the next page possible.

Is Obama engaged?

Light words when you are dark.

We are the page beginning with this is next.

The drummer said so.

The piece was partly.

No one rises above the norm any more, the norm is all the reason.

God Save Donald Duck


He died of a stroke in a warden closing loss to voice. Then nature filled. We tell in Obama language, then try again in Romney. This is the hay, a coarse refund because the need is day. The boy of seven clutching his own and then, it is a night of army following. And the debating habit cuffs the born dream. We rent the taste for victory, as a class action sweat. It means the closing spell wrote many days. You were left without the banjo. We had the seven year old. It was a time of time.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Orchestral Suite in D, for Reason and Wiles

The laughing child was seven years, or five, never enough. The elected stood on stones. The tower of their abilities combined produced height called all the ever. This could present a charm in the entrance hall, as hordes mumble over their next backtrack. Chasing seizing trying hard, and the laughing child stoops to pick up a rock. Rocks are great towns that you throw into seas, rivers, or lakes. That’s why we vote and you should listen to the towns. They sink like any sun in any sky that has been lost to reason. The words for this are poised and great. Dear Barack, Dear Mitt, thank you for electricity, and stating, and concern for your fellow vote. We are in heaven, talking about the grown living pleas of feldspar, granite, even mica that snarky see thru crystalline campaign. Someday Barack Romney will be a man, and if that maybe a great,. which is a mystery enthroned in the cackle behind the scenes when we are fencing for sport.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Ann Romney Speaking on an Outdoor Stage as Cattle

Reminded of the day melting into the sun, voting differently. The wind of autumn washes the leaves and they fall. Voted for all the good things, standing at the top of the list. People were reminded of the day, melting into the sun, that harsh of summer. The voting stopped in letters then filled with gasses. Aspects were derived from evidential pouring of water into vessels, and the evidential lifting of vessels to bring water to places. What sent the voting steering? When summer falls off, autumn stands on rocks, and ferns now shine in a golden extreme. Questions are part of answering, if we have to have dialogue. A vote goes on the board. A rock called Romney relives some lake statement, water gathered for the extreme earth. We stand for words as a source of pouring water. Water is the reserve in which we find more words, and the meaning in words. Words are always poetry because we cannot handle less. Romney is a statement for words being poured into a stream that will flow into a lake that will let the water go skyward unity. Obama is a forward tract of spacing words within paragraphs like ladies and gents at their apogee. Still reason wants to resort to goals. Poems are just words, or words that could be, just so. The sun that melts all melting means words are with all that all can hold. All should be all, even if stupid.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Silver, Blue, andGold

The sour propositions flick call the pope of envy. The rauls edge to horizons made of muddy pants. We were young in the clutch, the dinging crown blow full of effort, It’s all a wonder, tuck in the cambric. We live in that standing loss of wind and wild, given the stirrup redolence, caught in praxis. It begins again, only in words, because only words strike only anything. The sentence is a test, a phrase is a second, only a portion of the anything. And you are. You are the time and it is now. You are the phrase that fills, and sentence told to all. You cannot stop a flower, gone is gone. The poem only grows in the words hanging hanging. What time is love? What time is our holding? You are the only only only. Word.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Ho Chi Minh Fun story

The enlightened one entered a supermarket. “I seek a people united, life and liberty.”

“Aisle 3,” said the cashier.

General Giap entered the supermarket. “I seek Bao Dai, Diem Bien Phu arrangement.”

“Aisle 7,” said the cashier. “Half off for Nguyen Cao Ky.”

Sun tickles poor American left to decide fate of crackers. Ayn Rand prepares turgid remark in high relief, to spell out the whistles of populace. Mr C. M. Hoo waves to China. Uncle Ho waves to U.S.

“You have temperature of thousand degrees,” said Doctor to Sun. “Cool!” said Sun.

Ho Chi Minh was once one day. The centuries always heavy. The countryside contained the pollen count of China, Japan, and France. It was strange to seed the day. After the tangled flaming of jungle, it was strange to seed the day. Everyone was sorted into united people. The manifestos began at the pace of resurrection.

“People dead is the opposite of people dying,” said Ho Chi Minh, in the super, in the market, in supermarket.

The Ayn Rand Institute Decided We Were Satisfied

At the Ayn Rand Institute, we advocate toothpicks that stand 17’ tall. We reject the mere utility of holding fancy sandwiches together, let sandwiches stand for themselves. We are Ayn Rand, finely wrought chicken. We live in Massachusetts, the any town of any mind. We live in the heart of a city of light. Our light is light, like strict passage to the next important fact. We beg for creations as tall as our men. We discuss actions and currents, with the highway as a map. We live in quick-paced sentences, distributing with zest. We are angels of agreeable passage, talking the night away so that we can sneak up on morning. When morning’s glow cuts the furtive sky, we strike a match. Our matches are towers of extreme trees, mastering the horizon and every imaginable paragraph. We use periods only to excite and impress the document. We are the document, just as the landing missile prevents unneeded reply. In seven years you’ll hear our bell.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Those Who Fend

Sorry to disturb you, chlorophyll is going. Radar is next.

Silence consists of fractions, immutable in the extreme.

Plenty of harsh words overreact, and what are people doing? You should know and arrive, at conclusions.

A difference carried away, times two, receives a portion of Earth. This is simple math.

People puddle incomplete, wishing about that disaster day, a star fell out.

You were the Dear Sir or Madam, once that day began. You were that voter. You were that in the way.

People are applied to people on a daily basis. The telltale signs remain.

If you read this poem aloud to people, you will be people aloud.

Your Asperger shows when you say, and we say, so.

All the noose that fits, they chuckle.

It’s September 11

The fateful day many

people think they

in saying we

must remember.

What must remember

that day? Surely exactly we

they will without

having again, eleven

must years after

to make a vow

about it. It was a strange,

frightening, disheartening,

sad event.


Sunday, September 9, 2012

Hello Lumps in Gravy, Grave Provacateurs

Generalissimo Bubbly Pants, the immediate successor to ousted Princess Cloppingsound, glared into the infrared television, full of news. His nose lit the trammels of despair with a new populace. “How dare the heathens infer rejection of my favourite asymptotes.” He snorted, the lyrics of “Hello Dolly” dangling like the latest combat boot in this Afghanistan business. Envelopes filled with method acting open so that speaking parts can be delivered. We have become the new Reagan, added as footnote. As footnote, this statement can be pruned if not plummed for later consumption, when the very winds have ceased to bring salad days. Ronald Reagan yes, the same plain spoken heliotrope, when heliotrope means asshole, as it sometimes does, because words live in the roots of “things”. Battery acids my ass (it may not be comfortable); this may not be a funny political program, like clockwork and desperation. Bubbly Pants the most high rejoinders a reflection, pants down maybe, pants forward breathlessly. These days of active election in a delirious state conflate heroes and seltzer water. A word or two, filled with narrative, until we can figure things out. Things as in “things”. Princess Cloppingsound remains on paid vacation, a vista of passed days pressed forward, just as forward days press back. These “things” make no scents, someone sniffed, and everyone just had to agree.

Friday, September 7, 2012

Pampering the Patience of Upgrade

Ann’s dress is a crater on newly-liberated Mars.

Michelle’s is a process of liberation intoned in Quadrant Sector B.

A dress is the remaining persiflage after asymptotes. No one asks asymptotes until too late.

Michelle’s hairstyle is alleviation. Ann’s causes hurricanes or nector.

Trees propel landscape into older centuries, the ones that worked.

Rocks have no wishes.

Michelle’s dress carries the party. Ann’s feels the remorse.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Behind the Alley was a Yard and then More


Brimming blue to the extent of a rocketship spinning into a deli, that moment. Then the distracting sport of seeing, right before you. Eventually, we'll do very targeted advertising.

We are joined in the murk of simple creation, then necessarily a debate between two sides suits the same line. Nether clint eastwood waggles a finger at a chair, instantly attends the chair, and its structure.

Everything can be said again, or printed on burning sheets of paper. Everything else is left over. Else is the point, in space.

Stupid makes stupid look stupid. Strands of wire hold up the stars, a doctor decides on which truck to buy, a planet earth sunlight makes the sky blue. A 65-year-old man presents complaining of dizziness.

When the grease on Mitt Romney’s head melts, time will tell.

Field Guide to Wildflowers

Practical spots on the sun. Isn’t it anything problem? Am I really hungry, when I door? Pleasant vacation we saw water. And after that, we saw food. Stores. A sun more than exactly above the world. A wharf, alongside water, attractively attended to. A candle on a table. A lady who serves things. A gent who does something important. Classes that tell you. Class levels to position you, me, and all the them. Needed for clarification.

Ironman, Thor, Hulk, Black Widow in time for doing exactly the right when all others do the wrong. Samson and the power to knock over. Hercules and the power to over produce. Bruce Jenner and the power to eat wheatflakes for breakfast. Michelle Obama and that means what it takes. Wife of Paul Ryan as the second whatever. Caped crew seder, whatever that means.

Dear Lowell, we were there in your night. Axioms were made for sloth and that sort of thing., Taxes bend for yours as well as some of ours. Poverty’s a grand prank practiced upon the unknowing. Put up or shut hop.

Dear Lowell, big trees mean nothing. Poems form on the edge of actions that the Avengers take for granted, except disjunction often makes things different. Lowell, lower your embassy into the mucky canals which, after all, aint useful now. Embassy, remind us why we convene.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

Brimming blue to the extent of a rocketship spinning into a deli, that moment. Then the distracting sport of seeing, right before you. Eventually, we'll do very targeted advertising.

We are joined in the murk of simple creation, then necessarily a debate between two sides suits the same line. Nether clint eastwood waggles a finger at a chair, instantly attends the chair, and its structure.

Everything can be said again, or printed on burning sheets of paper. Everything else is left over. Else is the point, in space.

Stupid makes stupid look stupid. Strands of wire hold up the stars, a doctor decides on which truck to buy, a planet earth sunlight makes the sky blue. A 65-year-old man presents complaining of dizziness.

When the grease on Mitt Romney’s head melts, time will tell.

Friday, August 31, 2012

During the Balloon Drop

Jon’s here, an academy award winner. A terrific guy. These people are all like-minded, like all of us. They are all like towels, willing to absorb. They are like trampolines, ready to react against force as a force. They are like the hamster’s road to heaven, knowing gerbils get there first in the spinning cylinder.

This is Clint Eastwood speaking. I have been inside coloured rooms with spayed cats and pieces of onion in sandwiches made by experts. I have been in closed rooms, where chairs exist. I have seen bathrooms in which water is natural. I have half a pencil in my pocket.

Friends, I am friend. I speak with a capital letter at the beginning of every sentence. I include vowels in words. I look like a clock. I am Eastwood, exactly referred to sometimes. If you cannot whoop now, wishy washy mix of cleaning agents. Period. I will not go off the map, thanking the set designer, and frame by frame.

Jon’s here, an academy award winner. A terrific guy. These people are all like-minded, like all of us. I was watching that night when he was having that thing. I found out that there is 23 million unemployed people in this country.


In back, due soon, the next vest. This is Clint Eastwood speaking. Doors even out in the long run. You did finally overrule that finally. I give that to you, convention.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Legalizing Same-Sex Silverware

Evolution began when people were ready. God had no excuses. The curling fires of instantly goes the barn up, then up in flames, is a rationale thru out history. Thinking to include the sun in converse then touching up the difference that difference makes: thus conclusion, a long-lasting foam. Invoked in a pattern of spray paint invective yet really trying on socks, this is the place for convening. Is there a tree upon which we all can roost? Facebook may face legal action from German.

The Furtive is Now

People embracing the same cloud, spinning their bosons. People as quick as edited effusion downright, possible ranch where the next elephant can be first. A quick look asserts a practical side to terrorism. People have been fed with bell tones tuned to trickle theory. Trees in the offing insist on whistling to clouds, brash tactics for a new rocket season. Today will be the same thing as staking a witch. Same thing the dignity of arrows. Same thing rocketship to morass. A port opens in time for relief. War torn looks lovely this time of year.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

5,062,983 People Like Vacation

Today, by the lake, toad meets frog. Today, grasping the last chlorophyll, dawn readies a set of instances. Today, just after the hour of reading dark, sky plummets to another news.

A hand in the world lifts the saddest of occasions. Children practice their element in a version called Republican Hunger. That’s the cracking you hear, rhythmic and imposing. It’s the geyser on television that finishes sentences. It’s the practice of relearning the dead names for riot act. It is the pause before the smile.

Fracking the heart of tension, toad and frog, toad and frog. Bo Diddley sits by the side of the rode, suitcase in his hand.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Sky Dog on his Porch in Heaven

Treat poetry as a meddlesome link to that part of the transit authority in charge of lightly tapping a door before entering. Then open the door because you hear a bass solo over rock floors and a ceiling the height of long shadows. Drum solos fade into doctor’s left hand. Waiting expectantly provides a door form of window, which can then needlessly be filled with music. We are not gaining on the sun but a simple sentence; whenever will one appear? Endless refineries darken skies that were once sulfurous but got over it. Politics, aka Shemp Howard, studiously learns Paul Ryan. The moon was glad to see the last glade on earth.

Friday, August 10, 2012

“Will You Please Let Her Alone, Dr Freud?”

Red is the new red as we went down the street. The word street is the old word for straining to find straight. We took red as the word. Red is when they say sorting. There in the new offing, the old republic and democracy. Days came and went, with red streaks at dawn. There a reading of red that can be red readily. Meaning is as green as the day is livid. Red is the new livid. When you red, you gone to new red.

Taste is the new average.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Why Do We keep These

As a youth with bear claws, I influenced Robert Lowell. He was 907 years old, I was a trifle. Inklings dripped from his poetry page. I told him there were eagles in the bay, sleeping on forgotten foundries slipping silently into wet regret. He said he was busy with broccoli.

I told him broccoli invents a green spire that consumes the thought of Mars (the planet). He said his wife radiated in a plop. I asked if he knew what plop was. He drank himself insane, in reply. The year was 1959. I never knew which wife he meant.

Insane is not so bad, when you are gifted, without gunk, I advocated like polis. Robert Lowell told Robert Grenier that a poem has exclusion built in. Robert Grenier scribbled something that changed the horizon. Project Poetry ate a third of all known adjectives until steam in Greenland melted the thought of something else. Everybody has to wear underwear.

We all relate to grey clouds, with foam backing.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Everything is Right

Dear god in triple metre, the red flowers course faded till my father. The sweet and giving river rose over the beaver dam thing. And after god please, the same thing makes a mother. Any cry creates a topic, sent to mean more than ever. These flowers are the half of all god good if ever good god goes. A tree as big as extra held the apparent of trees. That’s the first relax when a stream poses wet.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Flirtin’ with Disaster Ride

Closed system in temple fairway, where Molly Hatchet pops that thoughtstream. You are rich, boys and girls of streak towards. You have a toast point, freed from rivers. We have been to the concerted music, when we were exactly. In those days, we were filled with verbs and notion. We could say that the guitar was ice in a temple, or how much metric ton a drum wants to desire. In the little lanes of learning, docks were correct. Then the stab day, and the register said Republican is demonstrated. Or God, the heaven of caution, falls on your birthday. You were brilliant in the day of, time for the movie. It takes time to absolute the day. And if you weren’t rich you were a day’s ride easily. This politics loves the course stroke, women and men. As children we had a launch party, caulked with that dam thing. Is the vest an instrument of love or strong? We could not pinpoint the exact stem to the flower of big time, yet o the oceans of concern. We just got our, day and night. The useless sucks when you cannot play the empire. Our time we choose our destiny

Yeah! We're travelin' do.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

A Lot of Us Just Shrugged

This is the main child, the document. The main child survives and presses nose to glass, a puppy behind. The main child loses things, and things are still. The main child lives in voice, in the time, at a will, as a wall. The main child is as bright as the season and still.

A main child is obvious, clean and perched. We ask in every sentence and the main child starts expanse. We cannot wait for the main child, the main child waits for us.

In our blessing, which is a machine, we see all the towers created for the city. Apple trees have left their blooms behind, the fruit is time to go.

Steam freezes in degree as we settle. The greening of clarinet in the topic sentence puts new and front to the main child plan. Each end note leads. A puppy expends puppy in the time it takes. Here is the sun light standing.

When Break Door

When door breaks, use catalogue. Children in the garden rock back and forth. Corridors foster children, making choices called class. Every class stops at number. Choose child, file number. Angle towards room, follow corridor, choose number. Add file number to child. File child to added number.

Start early and burn often. File addled child number. Prepare noon for midnight. Stir corridor, choose number. Add child to number, expect midnight. Return to corridor.

Exit number, speed corridor.

Accept child in number, reverse charge, call corridor, look for class. Inside a deadpan, find door. Teacher always right on left or right.

Right is the bloom of a perfect arose. Went down corridor, turned to door. Rocking back and forth, turned to door.

Documents Before Scan

The place is a sample of all children. We call it a litany of mistakes. We cover it with something cooling.

The space between us is called a city. It lives up to date with data storage and poor noise. We plan to remain, tho tons seem minimally engaged.

Our economic news springs into action. States seem likely events. Today the vote sprays over a dull embolism in Congress called Trenchant.

President Kraken Responds

Every effort has been made to every effort. After funding, loops will insinuate into knack for looping. A positive venture will install the next debate. Meanwhile,

obvious facts resume reproach. The interest in these sparkling indices called stars enjoys regulation. A world of fracking insists on the insight of time. Let us deliver more foam.

In later years, there will be more earlier years. We must resist a sense of time as a thing made of muffins and coffee poured into perfect cups. We must not pour muffins into cups. We must see the Higgs boson as a thing made of no thing freed from anything until now. Vacuum is another name for electorate.

As I chance upon the next verse, I find that testament arrives with blanket statements. This blanket resembles a clarinet, except that it quietly goes its way.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

The Words Have the Same Stain

After a long death, my father came home. The holes in my head healed, after a long death.

After a long death, mother wrote home. We were all there, so far as we knew, after a long death.

After a long death, Republicans broke even. They even spoke of trees, a fete of long death.

After a long death, I had brothers. This was systematically filled with nerve endings, after a long death.

After a precinct of long deaths, we saw what Rick saw. Sentimental racism, florets of rebuke.

Saturday, March 3, 2012


The importantlanguage stutters to close. The mountain of it tall tires patience, like foam on seawater. A battlebegins, even as Europe disappears. No one complains. England will returntopastures, graying evenings, the wedding of light to rocks and trees. George Mallory will climb foreverin the decent light of snow. Everesthas been a town for ages, with little people next to it. Fury resighns to patience, returning eagles to conundrum, alerting branches to the rivalry of foliage. We take oddnotions to the tops of things.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Sign This When You Have a Minute

I wonder if lovely Angelina Jolie will see the Republican paint on the wall, mused the noon Newt Gingrich. In terra cotta piano tones, the most important least thing speaks. Begraddled and begraggled till stiff with symptoms fallen from the alien ship. I wish you love in the opaque range, said Angelina under where she stood. The Gingrich of night and day stung fast the Rick Sanctorum. Only aliens understand the animal need, thunk Gingrich it’s a point. The ship lands in colour, on the farm that Newt ate, in the tobacco fields of emblems, shy for the firstest time. We have national safety pockets, allowed the Gingrich. His Mitt pants with Mormon pants. Sucking sounds are usual around the Sanctorum net. Sucks a lot the only air of any average coast to coast, asserts the Fox Noose Network. The highest promulgation bores me, foundering father Gingrich note in text. And now you have to realize Angelina, stopping next to Pitt, on the red parkway towards the Academy paint. All these usual sense of tepid parties parts the waifs and freedom lies, ahead. An ease infection of freely fracting pets the dominant Gingrich if the Republican stand. We the undersigned oversign. __________ __________ __________