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.