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.