Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Rand Paul is Like Bob Hope

The sentence in Christmas became an exacting tempo, but we can slur the words.

A patient interest fills the pasture where the cows renew their flesh for us.

We are animals, concerned with tickets to heaven. We need a few words and at least one complete sentence. That just measures balance for the human express.

If the sentence says Christmas is victory, then well will the snow fly. It will cover. It will win. No victory is human.

We are gestures of the fact, then of the sentence speaking of the fact. The fact does not include the central jolly elf, who is registered in far too many waning victories. Neither can a single fact bear the truckle of reminding heaven of our hell.

We have to shovel walkways with whimsy, if the bleak coal day that tonight makes clear continues in reference to how our heart feels. We make tired trails to pant suits, leisure suits, something something suits of premium meet our cause.

Folk sing of something. The thing is immaterial, but singing says something. Something something some.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

Beyonce Buys Walmart, Kris Jenner Hints

The easy tree eventually travels to swan. The meantime of swan pours for water's reserve. Champions swill the peso.

In these days of no days, the great microphone. It cannot repair aqueducts, this same day delivery. Portals open.

A nervy abundance requires a formed foundation. Meaning seeps in. You cannot stay in the garage.

Monday, December 16, 2013

On Your Left Marks the End of Hingham Harbor

Ten words with a strong violation of practical sense render now possible old teeming when the sentence goes loosened goose. A flock of even more than marvel flips the sky for a profile dalliance. A flock of words, counting to ten, and then a sentence makes a parade. We write poems in our dreams. Our dreams read poems and a flock. As words soon prepare more words, and a poem is only when a crow could stop action, then it has to be Christmas, just to make sense of winter. Now the practice renders a standard and picture. We have poems to bring to neighbours. We sit by the door.

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

I’m Sad—Click Nothing

Stop being Deepak Chopra, Oprah

Winfrey, and cope with this blog

full of suppressed feelings and

semi motivational

Pseudoclassical Tragifarce in a

Bastard French Tradition. I'm a

huge Yankees fan living

in Boston.

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

The Only Way

Words are possible and a doctor when

you are a rooster or hen. The

density of oblivion vitalizes

a common time. Your coworkers cluck

because empathy means

elasticity, where verbs deploy and nouns

stop time.

When you are ready, a violet

something produces something

else. Else is like the years you were

tomorrow. When today branches into

commodious vial, you can say you had

a day. You had words and words had

you. A trifle in penitence stops

a balm. We cannot keep the last word, it

went to something else.

Now as a risk employs deception

and refund, we stick to enclosure.

Here is what I mean, patented

and registered. A poem goes it

alone, going it absolutely

and so. When you are poem or

writing it you have

a complete time of the sentence


Go forth and probable realm like

all sighs and stepping.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Thanksgiving 2013

Early on we had a Thanksgiving with a comet just outside. Would the comet be torn to shreds within the magnitude of the Sun's gravitational force or perspective on other nearby celestial bodies? Could this be a problem when we claim today as a day of thanksgiving? Time for giving thanks is November 28. Quickly fix common problems for faster performance on this day when thanks is giving.

Friday, November 22, 2013

Tortoises in Pants, Pythons in the Car Park

Even before the words of getting, the spring hit of sun in sentence

relaxes. A line of poetry waits

for breath. We

expect. A poem

expects words. Words

plan on the.

The is microcosm

of direction. Utility breeds

utility. A sentence can go

four feet or

more. Signage

is an extra

hand. Poets describe

extra hands. Words

are parcels. I want to be

a lark, says the


Thursday, November 14, 2013

It is Black or Grey in Colour

The edges of every vowel intercede when any storm. Even with the breath dislocated in the space of a town, the any town develops a vowel.

Spy found in locked gym bag ruled 'accident'. Young people now care about privacy.

Justin Bieber apologizes for peeing incident. It's the peeing incidents that bring the storms. It's the peeing incidents that say vowels thru the winds of words that hang.

Now care about privacy.

Care about shards of sand in the eyes of wind.

Care about tons of wending towards the bottom, fining the human scape.

Care about the settling of earth with its people.

Care about temples of water washing over uncouth labouratories of land.

Care about the word between action and succour.

Care about the frame and insistence.

Care about the immediate beat, or cousins, driven.

Care about the emery of wind on the anything that water leaves behind.

You had a telephone call earlier.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Taylor Swift Scores a Spot

Stone cold waves react to only people persuaded to fall into there, the dark, the only dark for all. Trees resist non-trees, as a daily happenstance. When the water pours the town, we see the taming of our vision. We cannot live alone with shores coming closer closer.

The wind in the word in the trees in the town, and people all around go hand to hand in hand. We saw it coming and we saw it go. Tensions rise over bits of rock. It was a night formed of your typical award show.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Why Are Scientists Happy?

This is the time when the way of the leaf. The thing of turning, in a tree lifetime and with words, works for better days and this is just to stay. Kind regards and never leave. Or if you leave, be in forever ever. Or if the trees lose leaves, let the sunlight hold the tree. The tree will instant, all in good time.

All time, all good, all tree.

And if singing is a guide or poems made of marsh, then let the sound of filling fill. A moment is grand to taste. We have to be as we have. These trees are singular and moment. A hand is made to hold.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

That Droplet on my Truth

Miss you and

the words. Claims

fall in nettle

bunch. Colours remain

strive. A patch of alternate

quick frequent bowing

sternly fixes redolent

patch. A

period powers


A stanza decides

a breath. People

include enumeration.

Glad tidings when all the baseball

teams win. This present is now

now. Now

the igloo now.

A poem and

anyway. We write our words

and words of

others. The present

becomes a stag or

feeling in the glare

of headlight.

A town precedes a sense

of misery. We

vote with our conscience not

our conscious.

A clicking

sound, like a whale

sound. Under-

neath is a brimful of

a whale in a moment,

breath. We think we

know. No, we

think we.

Today is a debatable


Thursday, October 17, 2013

Textual Inexperience

The person excited by the tree, relent.

The person excited by the number of the tree, reunion.

The person in the center of the wonder of the tree, hinting plane.


is a lane and

pasture with thorough

openness towards words.

Each word in the lane of tree and pasture hastens to the point of saying the world.

The world is the excited, the person, the tree. Your friends say time is an envelope.

Monday, September 30, 2013

My Beth Poem to Whirled

The history of day is a poem itself. It tells the house to enfold and embrace. The topic sits with power merge with function clock. To be a person in the light, landing in the sense of land, includes the hand that says it hands. This is the thing, if love could attain, all along linking piecemeal. It can, and has all the time. All the time, that brusque moment. To embrace the house as love fills it, that's why we have hands. A time intended, and tended, with a well, out back: these are running statements, you and me. With arbours and bee hives and visual trees: an orchard for the time, and the bees: exactly all the bees in their nature.
A deer is an envy.
“Greensleeves” edifies.
A pond is a planet.
People hold hands, truly. A hand is a vast continent, and a love is still waters. The day is the history of Monday, or fall, or mostly sunny (until night). Night is the prime nature of when night as a feature, in terms of light as the caldron of when light could be by, fulfills a dark feature. When night is a feature true to love, you are a word in love. So we inhale land, clouds, other clouds, and the place where we could place, ourselves. The day is inside and out of that. Language is the poetry in the language of that. That is what we want.

Monday, September 23, 2013

Dear Time,

How are forces in Nairobi? I mean, how are forces, and in Nairobi? Nairobi is precinct or jail, something collective. I mean of the stutter, really, forces in time. The time when there was a Nairobi, just that time and a mall. Mall is a hug of convention, with stores. In that convention, and among stores, there was time. Time meant time, but where does dying killed mean mall? Really. Are you Time in a go ahead streak across the letters that mean something? Forces in Nairobi are forces here anywhere. Where did you, Time, get forces?

Where is time, tho yes you are there Time, in time. But if you were not in time, and Nairobi saw forces, how would Time feel the time?

If you are hungry, time. If you are forces, time. If you in the freebooting Conan the Barbarian toothpaste delight bring tea in time, and you can register, welcome.

When time is an extraction, with forces actually in Nairobi, and a town in Massachusetts has a name Billerica, wily patrons of explaining sound the depths of pattern. Force is something played on time by strict regimen pleading while oh so you think that craning is a neck thing. Look, Time, forces are becoming. Fuck that shit right now.

Sincerely in the once again,

Allen as the additional trite saying

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Tresses of Words

In the a town of

when you reach for a pen,

white hart

in standing light. This is an

elevation of

back from Syria with a

report. The people are

tunesmith, we all tell

Ryan Seaacest. He is a field of

amplitude, stomping on

predicate. Sentences seem

swans and sad. Loose marble

crackpot radiations invoke

Ozymandias. He was

Yul Brynner, starred in The

Sound and the Fury, for television

popular. Meanwhile,

grades for cast

lines into streams yclept

launching poem.

People are proud, and rhyme.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

This Is Over-Reaction Monday

Pope Praxis in the trees surround

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

I Am a Dull Magnet

A derivative of rapture and shore spilled across the patio. The feeling of striking fields with eagle eye, pouncing on pollen moments, singing into vascular conveyance, all for a chance encounter global unit. Towns are like soup cans

We invented Syria, here in the wanting confines of American pity. We distilled petrol elegance, singing vast songs about how Canada could come to us. The patio's prevailing pylon strung words for our spore units. We would tell a tale of America as an up and coming has been, with brocades for sure. But details are for morons, righting wrongs with clamps and weevils.

No one loves weevils, now or ever. They are ever portrayed. Poetry is a precinct.

And as paragraphs go, so too the cat on the patio. The patio is a dark excrescence, notched with the pungency of conservative underwear. It tells the tale of place and time. This place, this time, this cookout. We plan to cook out, with eager engines ready to qualify our remarks. Some days are no days at all, just tracks upon the carpet while the carpet supplants the floor. Supplanting is a brutal intonation. We sweat our regards.

Here is a poem about pant. Just pants.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Shouting Match with New Yorker

This mattress pad was made by Syria you are fighting. The thing pamphlet includes groundfire, dogs, the possibility of dinner. And you were wonderful with the way of sentient airplane going somewhere somewhere, lodestone. And then a debate which costs the taxpayers 10 into 10 divide by the mystery of 1 ounce reaching the door where sense = subtitle. Laxity as a province, coarse verbs as a sequence.

Today the numerals made sense. We are scattered. Tendencies fall short of arriviste butter.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

My Dad and I Have Shared an iTunes

If you hate Syria because it is mean, you are a guitar twice falling to the middle of open tuning forget it.

If you hate that time when the time was open to changing the monkey pile, you are red with a terrible grin.

If you hate the home of Syria while you relay the tempest of doubt, you have a backseat in every bounding bus home from halfway home.

Goads push empty sequence. You

are a wire. The electric

of naming the thing becomes

a moist pattern severely.

We rely on

the noise of

our sound cooling the

airwaves of resistance.

All everything is all anything.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

The World Becomes Brockton, Massachusetts

Thru Brockton to the foundation of Apple software, and the bendy parts of our natural concern. A bend in the turn to Brockton for tea amongst liberal tame people produces a surge in patterns of liking. A jog thru Brockton while tons fall hard remains a desperate plea for attention. A test in Brockton before a call to arms insists on second nature. Arms replies.

A floating rhythm of particulars accepts words that describe them. Classic investigation stops at the front door. There may be human remains, someday.

A poem is part of the functioning of the network filling space. Space is the final incompatible idea, and it remains in Brockton. Apple software and the planet it makes just sighs, in space. Space is a time before sometime soon.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

At Participating Restaurants

Words do not think anymore. They wrap around trays containing envy and shrike. They seize foments just as walking thru the door. Green sassy aspirations relax into brook standard issue winding. Roll on, virtuous energy that knows about entropy. Goldfish rule the pond.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

How Putin Explains Ayn Rand

Creative writing begins in the kettle of Rush Limbaugh's head.

It begins in expiation, translating words into blocks of sandwiches that fit into the kettle of his head.

It produces a breathless pond willing for scum.

It plans the importation of further pond scum, badgering the dashboard of the world's craziest driver.

It implies the whole list of pragmatic self doubt called Sarah Palin, or that tin can in the alley.

It positions flak.

When the weeds of creative writing thrive, so the isobars of self-refraction.

Creative writing aptly invents every misused words, because those are the ones that dazzle.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013


Words rely on the density of their demarcation. The boundary of meaning just wants kids. You woke at the precocious time, and the sun still. You know. Leaves in actual trees bear timeshares for something something moon. Uncatalogued advance and decline, we have numbers. Numbers afford us span, in which the word. Tilling the earth calls for time invaded. We reach an agreement vis-a-vis it's Sarah Palin, you idiot. We cannot prove this. We cannot establish sure ranks of Republican lives in god's knucklehead. Panza divisions bow.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

The Word Should Be Pronounced to Rhyme

If you are a drunken flower, you have reached the well. The blue eminence sky projects heroic coolness and dwell, the morning of after night. Grass has gone green, in traces and Olympian spit. A word inspired by intention growls softly for the fact. The fact slows to pieces.

We have an earth, named Round and Round. We have a sky, called Calling. We are children with phrases that include proximate conditions. We resist Republicans by being well. We take our flowers as we reach them.

Now it is the day when today happens. It has autumn light across fields of deliver. Useful corn and cross purposes combine. A poem isn't any better than today.

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Flo, The Progressive Girl

Impressed with the maintenance of ephebes, whole squadrons of overweight bees bounce into the beyond. Radiant stakes of assholes on drugs, full-featured praxis of the dying sun institute, combine with very exacting bitties. A telephone booth could be a clue, but so could the wet sun's reflection. This is stupid, words should be clear like diamonds and their friends.

Assholes as a nation refuse to reject. Tata buys a hen peck, yet whirling stop gaps result in history. People are plainly confined. Never mind what the commissioner said, it is the natural progression.

Alas, There is Already a Bakery that Sells Cupcakes

The air bled trapdoors as we reminded ourselves of courtesy. The testate glandular function of approval leads on the mosey beast. Politics is a hamster, clearly painted with nautilus stripes. Republicans deal with gluten sensitivity while Democrats eat stockade. And gulag doodles as Democrats do. The final failing grade dooms adequate emission. Night is a closing finale made of lobster pots and casket paint. To deem requires a buttery note in the fluid notation. Trucks are still possible, even as the rain sputters to halt.

Thursday, July 25, 2013


You know you are unique when you have tents in your slumber. The tide of experience rises into various words, some you aren't ready for. The courage of time rotates and you are young. Or old, words cannot tell. And you will be relieved to know, once, a fifth of cotton. Cotton was king when we read about it, but time is grey and whining. We have memories, after all. And what if a poem becomes rational, like the end of a sentence? You will learn to retrieve, but it may be too late.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Nine Times Out of Ten

In the leaves of vapid trees, a tower of fine empathy flows coolly, judging people as increments of words. All words score local access, fade into news, fall into topic. The wind arrives, known for Bruce Springsteen's perfect, loud, creamy distribution. We can be effort, and total, and after all, but oh who will supply the solo moment? Everybody danced and called it vernacular. What if someone said: “Ronnie van Zant will not die in a plane crash?” Vapid trees produce vapid leaves.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Lance Armstrong Says Reality is Uncomfortable

A river in terms of wet passing closeness. And other people like trumpets calling to elks. And the abridgment of sensible patterns falls in line with the crazy moonbeams of just what you were hoping. So.

The world has crazy festers of brink. Period. The clock imposes history.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

This Article is About Heat Resistance

The National Place remains smooth bore with loose, wobbly aim. You can speak Arabic in one end, it comes out all squawky at the other.

The National Place holds regards for the language of language. It means to say meaning meanly, with low compunction and high ad rate.

In the old days of perfection, you could write about anything in San Francisco. This would include colourful shirts and interesting eyeglasses. A reference to the love in all of us, sometimes called white bird, hovered above the pen.

In the days of long shadows, a pioneer said yes to pumpkin. Right to the pumpkin's face! The National Place had a face for this.

The days of short shadows gave us a trace of aplomb that we could call fear. We used the fear as a National Rite, in the picture of falling towers. Now we ask Thoreau: what is the meaning of all your beans?

Bach is the Old Justin Bieber

Some masterly Baroque music, like iron, talks heavy main majesty. It could be sited with bird flower tones, safely gazing, but sometimes it raises national interest in men. Men remain a purpose of explaining purpose to a truck, even as the cliff edge beckons. The banner is blind. Somehow our republican mass squares this with ulteriour features that include boundaries and depressions. None of this can be called dialogue because dialogue implies sentient drifting. Or dialogue infers sentient drifting from the provocative economy of chance.

We need not blame Baroque for pushing. Push belabours shove in national chant. Our racist friends understand the chairs they sit on. All chairs remain intact in the Baroque mind. Not blaming Bach, who built a church vivid frequency. Just seizing signs of the engine that men want to, indeed.

Friday, July 12, 2013

Jolly Henry Thoreau Calls Detente

This lonely ocean that covers the parking lot: the fill air of only counted breaths spells time's word. We live in the love of our distractions.

Water pours from expressive skies on expense account population. Story files into township practice, looking thru windows at the world of weather, time, and night. Finally garden seems riled by blue, today, after days of yellow buoyancy.

In the miser field of granting wishes, soon the daytime cools. We will make ourselves astonished. A creek bends the landscape and presses rock into features of time. There was a bird in the sky, a pleasant rocket. Some will walk away rather than lose gravity's touch. Some won't.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Why Did You Scurry Off to Croatia?

The laughing people are Republicans, enjoying their thick shoes. Every earthquake in their garden sends tremours to morbid Democrats, pure tremours of pants that turn plaid in the morning. Important cheese for the verities derives from cows, merchants, and rattlesnakes. Cheese is a sign of protein, like angular doctors on holiday.

Forensic popularity is graphed in a central place. Love your active agency. Tricky winds from the vale of heroes shows the light of Sun, neither Jewish, Catholic, or Protestant Christian exactly. Light controls in language exist for everyday use.

Factions of just letters show proof of words. One dog works for the CIA and then four legs becomes sedition. Act like words, people, it is your only chance.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Capturing Animals from Elizabeth Bishop

A dawn of some time, under the verve of a thick stack of clouds that inhere in Pre-Cambrian light. This dawn shows that a mountain contains a legion of views, each proven by a word. Tracts contest and revel in the nature of the pillbox on the bluff overlooking the warrior part of the ocean, certainly D-Day was one time. Afterwards the animals ate, stern for forces of nature in a frolic of time spent with vegetables. Weeds in the yard preclude the basis of Pre-Cambrian insight. Fog spills on Poetry.

Rival gangs arduously assert programs of relation, using simple terms called dinosaurs. The biggest teeth are the winningest, tho one should never let comparisons speak of love. The world is generous, even with clouds. A spark, a detente, a cat in a chair.Wordlessness features in most declarations.

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Where Are the Literal Geese that Surround the Figurative Pond?

Light shines on a language sometimes, the case of request. The tallest excuse for Ann Coulter reminds us of the delivery of carcases next week. Swooning for jury duty, the people en masse reply to emails. Emails contort the conviction of the true depth of pond. Likely, Ann Coulter's body construct (words removed) will float, until sink.

Every pond relies on someone, someone who will write poems on haystacks and figure Da Vinci into scifi stories. Later generations rely on these people to inspire sparks until haystacks will be no more. It is a curious circle, developing perplexing corners.

Ann Coulter reminds us that geese are attached to her patient reply. Indeed, her power to conceive neural platforms of dismaying matter assures her presence in the national dialogue. Strange geese she inheres filled with marvelous quaking, as if the earth itself were the earth itself. Ann Coulter is never wrong, in the sense that she is never, ever.

Surrounding the pond, then, becomes a lack of duty.

To Lunge at the Herd

The best dinosaur was a flower. It sent a child into horse lands. It repeated rhythmic phrases of sound that could be words. The dawn of something, following a night of else.

The dinosaur of light and dark swooned in the federation of conflict, drama, and pointless remarks by Republicans. The edge came off the knife, drew inference from the piety of party.

The best dinosaur rose in document, singing ages of processes, processes that could bear adjectives. Colour nurtured new, again and again. Green meant the play of light on seeing the day spin. Blue signaled the wastrel sky and sea.

Horse lands became bison lands again. We learned of plain facts, between us. We aren't retreats, always. We have accepted a mutual landing in marsh, salt marsh, the edge of everything and anything.

The sea air rises to a flower.

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Next to Poetry

Poetry falls in the mountains, sorted into secular leaves with uncertain colors. Poetry, the brow of a hillock overlooking a darting stream that presumes to unite the watery realm with the the buoyant air. And so the platonic rising of gooseneck lamp to the forefront of Grecian urn in the tidal urge to grandly sentence.

The colours of language extend to verbs of the greatest going, nouns like big names, and varying depreciations of descriptors to allow for variety. We can be replete (someday). A moon made for vivid replay, a sun of stress beams and moiety, a cloud bank of causative nature: so we weep for joy.

Words soften into panning for the day.

Sunday, June 30, 2013

It is Time Equality Bore it Scythe

Evolution is bullshit, said the Robespierre of underwear. Ontological and on for the best treatise, desperate to make due. Require hens in gardens, backdoors, fading statements of urinary tract infections, ulteriour motive as a sublime forecast. Expect delays in the rush toward where the moon beams. Partners, the future net describes a halo, with relax fit jeans as a model. Purple waves of racy grain ingratiates the topic sentence to violet juncture with the rabid cause. Inside revolution are little people sticking words into actions and actions into sentences. Sometimes the bell rings with flowers, sometimes the language is the gall.

Peek into Their Homes, Get Onto Their Level

Maxilmilian Robespierre wore pants, the Italian Dolomites. Clear earmarks, children of stun. For the days of officiating the sullen oath of cant, the brusque breeze wiped out dinosaurs. Earth has been blest.
King Loony the XVI produced yellow snakes on a red leaf. Now the planet faces its greatest challenge. A lightning storm in Omaha, with sirens suggesting imminence.
The human race now runs National Assembly. Heads often roll, given impetus to their roundish nature. The round way of thinking, back.
Are we now beginning to resist the beginning? The end is everywhere, eventually under trees.

Sunday, June 23, 2013

Sweeping City Houseflies

About the communal family and the first leg of the world. This world, thank you for inquiry. Begin sentence. The communal family has a leg. It strides. Forward is best, crawling with the blank satire of nation. The step is a quixotic have to read the novel implementation. I vow, etc. The world, noisily, and so forth. Legions of letters forming words that name names: they establish a requisite of communication. Communication resolves into the story of spats. Spats were integral to those who wore boots that someone else cleaned. Thus to communicate is to expect clean boots, despite the froth of current imaginary warfare. We rely on forming opinions, because, Sage Voice, opinions insure despite. You own a town and now the days darken under the spell of your laundry. Period. Next expectation.

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Some Afternoon

Are you kidding? The woods are green like shale! Easements of petroleum guide the nation of interest. Bees remain in the winged category. And all this is yours, Chosen One. You who clearly, and smoke with a gun. We must remind vegetation of the effects of torpour. Worlds spin for a reason, and reasons commit tone. Tone is the bottom of pot, and the fire is hot.

Waxing ecstatic causes figurative language. Ecstatic wax is a pronoun. Most pronouns are personal.

The woods remind us of oxygen. Oxygen is a classic altitude in a scientific function. When we breathe, certain offers from partner companies inspire us with intent. Today smells like lilies.

Something bad happened, or something good could happen. An imaginary tender of these gardens must be told!

Apt Friends

These nations of interest resist human compunction. It is up to us to colour the hedges green. The path is ready for squirrels.

A sabre-toothed feline writes a labour of isolation into the words called history. It matters that beavers get wet. Lightning rises from the earth to kiss particular clouds, in parts of the world, at such and such times. Meadows wake up mown.

Arrivistes satisfy their heads with naturally long sentences. In brief, these sentences survey the landscape and calculate past drama. Those of us who stayed, who were, remind ourselves with flocks. Butterflies match leaves with wind.

A patent contained in a poem restructures the neural patterns of complacency. Geese startle in the sun, robins signal to moonshine, verbs become wetlands.

Kim Kardashian in Heaven

Minerals in the outer stage, finding flowers. The least flower is the most colour, ending in words. Beginning in words along a path, with flowers and ticks and every spree of oak. Seizing in the instant the perplexity of instants. Rain was relaxed and falling, only the night before.

Tufts of birds and snakes and gear arrive, memory with a kind sentence or two. We read all the letters, and back and forth. A motorcycle in the invented distance. A turkey trots with purpose.

You have the colour of heaven when you walk in the sun. We are the name for recounting. There is no heaven without Kim Kardashian and the feathery flight of birds. There is no heaven without you.

Thursday, May 23, 2013

Smallpox Used Them Up

Grey clouds startled bending templates, and the words change to tempo imprimatur. There is no rain in the cool unbinding. Worlds constitute a legally binding miasma, sentiment stands for state. The elegiac underwear of Sarah Palin and Rush Limbaugh, with a sordid wheel of cheese prompts inquest, request, and bonus. The year includes days, fading for a rent. You used to own Lakota property, I had the unction of Abenaki. This historical thrill brought home the exacting disease, which would later be sold to Jimmy Page, who asked his guitar.

The years total for gain, sliding toward proxy.

Sunday, May 12, 2013

My Greatness, Let Yours

Dear Fellow Enacting Heroes,

When you contemplate and assess my work, what greatness do you see first? When an adjective changes,do you yourself become embellished? In the course of a rollicking sentence then surprise then a disjunction took you elsewhere, are roses coming soon? You've seen the neat exactitude of daffodils in merely saying a noun has wings. I pride myself on this aspiration. Do you see the willing verb even as you wonder at it? All these elements bear the impress of torsion. Words turn, making sentences turn, making poetry turn. You see this, of course. A rectangle is one known fact of a circle, just as circles make sentences in years of discussion. We all know the political pile of words left behind to cheat us. We voted for that protection ourselves. When the first little bomb exploded, too many chose to hide in a national debate called Cozy, Fine, & Let's Pretend. Let us boldly say we can change chatter. In coming years, each word will not be tuned but attuned. Please, fellow exacting heroes, evict registration, and join me in pizzazz.

Sincerely, or a bridge,

Your Fellow Hero

Saturday, May 11, 2013

Little is Known of Mongolia

A piano remained when everybody died. The piano was named Karl as a spoof on frequency. Its tone provoked a resonance, and everyone talked with verbs, nouns and the like. The nation's imagination threw a bolt of what is your favourite flavour into the air of chance. We decided we were coloured transistors from the planet Diagram. North is a point to discuss, as is South. The piano we remember was a spot in a sentence. The sentence meant to provide an action, and colour it with adjectives. No one expected the piano to remain aloof: It was friday, the living was fine. While the program constitutes a nation, we stop mid sentence. There could be a change, like spirit in a desk.

We're told so many things. The spectacle requires a mask.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Pond of Moonshine Whiskey

Delmore Schwartz arrived with his with and a smile. He mutters his teeth, they are his. At a frantic pace, we begin to seed the world. Starting with the blue sky, which Delmore Schwartz says is very blue. Children are natural enough, with cats looking on. A ferried green talking of earth reflects some seasons, forgetting other seasons immediately. As Elmore James, Delmore Schwartz posed many questions, sometimes with frogs chirping in trees. Who will dust his broom? Seeping from trees, elegants ripostes and leafy green spell the moment exactly. The tablature includes using rudiments of notes in a blue way. The trees await his fact-based writing. There should always be more.

Something Attached to Something Else

No word back. Anger supplies a tedious line, threaded thru a purposeful haze. Why fly? The birds have all instructed their wings. We live in words, not on them.

Confusions support theories based on urges and still. Each night expects a certain day. We pore thru pages, lifting words, and then documents, a way to assert. The bombs are simple steps, clutter for buildings.

Some people walk away. It grows a matter of love.

To establish the terms, we step a few paces, turn, and settle the word. It is a time of definite wording, like loss immaculate. We don't know everything, just the word for something. And the thing is, sometimes.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

A Prom is a Wicked Entropy

The most necessary grows legs and improves to human interaction. It works wings into conversation without allowing what. What grows fangs and dips fuel from tasty earth. We are ready to sleep.

Sleep causes antic rapture full of waves from Robert Mitchum and/or Audrey Hepburn. Waiting for farms and wind and tall trees while pop psychology wraps ferment. A slope of information rises above the baseline information of what we have done. Someone is 19 years old, and told to be 19.

Lax streets inquire regiment, with minty freshness. And it could resolve for folks that, circumscribed and around the neighbourhood, someone did something.

Something is so much, inclusive and unbending. We could tread on nominal traits and factoids, as a bluster massacre occurs. People die and aren't finished. People kill and are not finished. This is an expression of solemn doubt. What is the franchise?

Tears seep savour, place names grow into world. Who are the what?

A poem is a cage for registry, language in a tunnel toward a light that gabbles with words. Why do tunnels gabble with words? Plopping process exceeds, pronouns explain direction.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

People Also Searched for Michael Palin

The sky shows grey for the first time. A pond of grey matters in the cool morning starting. A bouncy theme of rain mildly, on the docket, till we care. Some doors and a proper type of tree for current events, we heard about new televisions. We now listen to exquisite types of maintaining. We hold a portion behind us. The news pops open the fridge, in which we keep. This strop of letters urges a narrative facing an ordinary day. Some examine, some applaud, some still like, most quickly establish. Still rain extends into stories of where we were. We were next to a chair, resisting the urge of parking metres, trying onions for a change. We were open to books and clocks and tapered candles that whicker. The closest thing still reveals marvelous distance. Religion tastes like bent oatmeal in transit.

Satisfied clouds remain.

Friday, April 19, 2013

Going Faster Miles an Hour

The picture of clouds wraps over a town full of sentences. Someone explains the meaning of slightly peering, ropes tying close to heaven, bells settling in topics for days on end. Trees reach a human level of gasping, sensitive to words that have been used. Hours later, someone tries expanse. It filtered thru targets and method for day long confabs. We needed more human tanks.

Work crews divide zero for the nth time, which struck a postulate for all to hear. The squeaks of civilization cannot improve dialogue between verb (doing) and noun (thing). It's a late night, fox crosses road for fortune.

A talking telephone pole stands for eloquence. Chechnya wants to be a verb. And while we sing anthems, a dark tone poem writes a “text message”. Something you can “get”.

Crisis is a patch of sand on a formerly remarkable situation. We have tractors to tell us the favour that expanse seeks. Obama is the President of Mayor. This causes all the jaunting modern lovers on the deck of sprinting to complain. Lecture the infinite, peopled beings, while you still have time.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Simply Add Your Fragrance

There was an alphabet but the n-word took it away. The other words went. Fire filled a room full of Republicans or andirons. The alphabet merely stood stringent in reference to the call for more idioms that alert a reader to more variance in autonomy. The ending of a sentence demands another sentence, or certitude of the statement's cessation. Words cease in their provocation, unless someone thinks. Thinking endorses the alphabet and lets loose. Words come along.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Expanding on a Popular Theme

One begins to think one sentence fails enough. If the sentence showed all excellence would its plume spread to the fanciest idea and stay for the idea, for the water in the bay? It becomes a dream of a vast carnival near the high school, and someone speaks of Karl Marx. He wasn't left behind, nor the many others in their sentimental claim in favour of underwear. The sky remains blue, considered by the best experts of blue.

The Passion of Class Act Suit places in pods for the listening spheres the Editors who reside in Heaven.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Let’s Make Stalin Quicker!

Stalin wrote the battle of shirtsleeves. His air of dispatch claimed headway. He writes on his sleeves, mails the sleeves. We are Sarah Palin at heart, he emotes. He was fiery. We love that spore of thing.

Cold Russian days came from everywhere to tell Hitler stories of reverse. That started something, altho trinkets of czars and czarinas cluttered every bay and inlet, with a wishing only full of grey. The day comes to even out odds.

Stalin institutes Palin in a probably nowhere beat. Palin is a later date, well set observatory. Palin as a horse becomes a voice speaking for shirtsleeves. That's as may be, mutters Joe. He knows that Sarah's so gosh darn because: Trigonometry. This line and then this line, with a greeting angle, plus more angles (some invisible), tied to sines and language, and the best filibuster in town. It works like this, a sample of the way narrative produces calm.

Further in our story, we read of a heroine named Joe, who was slow to accede. The rights of serfs to be serfs must be upheld. Wishing there were more stutterers and mock. Wishing language was trickier for the mass. Shirtsleeves belong on every arm, and nowhere else.

Friday, March 22, 2013

Poem Precedes Intention (Shortly)

And the spitting image of Tree said, Spring is in the air, not seven inches away. And Ducks were like, for every other moment. Weird Cloud stood tall and hankering. It's so much Bach concerto prised from tulip inferred in bulb planted fall. Wily words remain in a human way, filling District, that cad. District associates the rules and seasons, even counts sunlight. There are many Sunlights now, the fad of sentence. Another word, another day.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Hippy Style, I Became Eric Burdon in the Morning

We grew in a day; we are tremendous colours. Yeti and Steve Marriott (report findings), heaven let light. If the cultural imperative grosses 10 sphincter BruceWillis (rotflex), multiple organizational prologue on the promise of more guff. In the factbook market of true facts, someone dies. Every one else, they dead. We grew that day.

Michelle Bachman says hail to thee bright but. The unexamined rife squeaks on the margin. Promulgate spring on the day dad died. Autumn took to coasting as mom felt the pinch of existence. And you are words. Without blend, ye hearty, let's vote this trump. There is a crumbling send off formed of Harry Reid in the indictment of office. And we are planted, planted. Gorse is a ridiculous spectacle.

We grew in a day to say Cheney, dick. Which is the madrigal for ancient fetching with a rhyme for blank. The rhyme is bank.

Charles the bank, or Fred, or Greg, just to keep the system personal (I dispel you equally). We ask for a motion forward like people on a road. We get oh. Oh the name for nothing between. This harmonium has been found.

We get you, message in the sand. The sand is moving away. Oceans like their stretch. You are the unity of Michelle Bachman and dirt plus cheap. Union s a vital fad for breeching sync closing. In the new harmonium can only quote majesty, you are in. In is the in of in, being in to say in, wield in, wind in, win in. Can children play too? Children of the dawn of hope for all.

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Now You’re Turning Slightly Brown

Adjustment in the spinal nerve, that reaches to the brain in emotive state. And in that state, fierce elephants of republic stand on weak toes. Our country is only a name. And it comes across as savage, to let the children so. But in these times, quarrels reach the window, doffing.

We are like people in the way we talk, and like trying to calm as we elicit explosion. We can't be normal, plain folk as we are. We are planes of folk, studied in dull times. We are the effect of plain folk on the adaptive stack of afflictive. Cancel as we speak, speak as we cancel.

The trip spells only moist layers of words left to their own divine. We haven't got the sentence structure to effect. We are reasonable but not reasons. We are on the plane but not plain.

And in this invidious swirling position, please. Please is a syndrome, please is a wealth. We stand to please by standard, we set a sentence down, on paper. Paper is a sin. We have nothing to say, and are saying it promptly, like Republicans. As children we were brothers and/or sisters. As adults we are managed care. Space station and relic party. Relax, sisters, brothers, in our down time. I am writing home. The picture remains in space.

Friday, March 8, 2013

Kenyans Still Awaiting

Elegiac synchronicity makes us sing songs to Bill O'Reilly. He moves like the wind, bumping things and things as thing. His money is a big mention me again. I move to his television.

He is peerage. So is this sweat from above Sarah Palin. They bring prognosis as an element of surprise and deception. They are that good. I am in their onion. We will kill bears or something, together.

We move to our televisions. Lakeside winders of wetness where we frolic. We have the energy of septic tanks.

Elegiac synchronicity DOES sing our songs Bill O'Reilly. Moves like the wind, these things hitting things as things. Your money is a big mention again. Did I move television?

He is noble. So is this Sarah Palin sweat top. Forecast bring an element of surprise deception there. Elegiac airs his tan. Am I onion?

We murder bears or something, Together.
Our move to our televisions. Lakeside Wonders MOISTURE where our fun. We have the power of septic tanks.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

The More He Wears the Pants, the More Confused We Become

Engine design in the grey scale of clouds carrying weather to the people. The weather is a staff bearing us in trouble, transcribed for mandolin. There will be weather, icy or still rain, we don't know.

We think of John Boehner talking to Justin Bieber in climate-controlled heaven. A bucket hits the floor, paint goes everywhere. In a day there will be news of what in a day will be.

Justin Bieber will try Taylor Swift, who will look for someone in the cloud. John Boehner hides his head in a bucket, frisky with soft code.

There can be trees, even rivers, smooth oceans for sunshine dalliance. There could be some topic, tomorrow or later today. It arrives in a sentence.

There could be straight answers from some control group, that heads the group behind the Academy awards. We wonder if the Republicans even need time.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

You Guys Just Hate from the Back

In the piano of soft features, with a plunging sense of Justin Bieber in the graveyard, the close grey clouds sort omens of political gantries. As much as the weather sequesters the sun, the beaten path remains beaten. And now the Republican icon in underpants of the finest dumptruck. A legion of words trips from its mouth, it says so. And Justin Bieber has a coat named Prolix so that he can relax in the sand with his parliament. These are the days of this way.

A later generation will pine for trees, as if lateral movement makes net gain. That's like a bank, talking. We cannot afford nets, when smallest victim is named Ion or worse. This is language while Bieber becomes the institute fulfilling a poxy governmental agency intent on temperature change in every room. The map says hi and children go to the mines.

The real state informs the viscous matter inside the briefest of Republican heads. Arch Democrats try demotic, only they can't cut the Biebs. All instruments are mental, from now on.

You Can Video Chat with Up to Nine People

Treasuring the longest language, stilling the sun. Absolutes of radiation curl over the waiting for spring. Dolts in their jazzy cars, popular moments in history. One day and all the buds of spring become chilled effort reeling in the government aggregate. We can't tell who the good guys are except that they don't exist. Mr President, where is Mrs President? Who will fight the frightening apportionment? Only buds in spring, with their flower secret, and a still resonance of fine cabal. Why can't we live thru winter, all the trees are dire. And the sentence formed of sighing opens doors to just another taxonomy of language. At least the birds the dummyheads fly nicely in the park, where they grind their teeth like citizens. They are only pieces in the sentence, mere adjectives dressed as nouns, but someday someday someday...

Monday, March 4, 2013

You Can Taste the Layering of Culture

National history is a day like tuesday. The splendour or course river acts like a word, something daily and with rivals known for boats. Picture that raft on that merging waterway, a sentence for future heroes. That cast language of a politic nation stands for difference in tune. Sudden use cries a harping on the worst day of yammering. The blues came from the fount where drinking true water each of us, and sundays in the park, and lifted daylights on the beachy sands of seacoast, and mountain hardluck reverie waystation till the moors pop flowers in sbundance.

Sunday, February 17, 2013

You Will Hear a Dial Tone to Confirm Your Connection

My dying dad, we talk of rags. The beginning sees the Winston cigarette that somebody wanted. Later approval wore shoes. My dying dad in 2005, fit full of years. Destination smoke. You could say that, tho he smoked a pipe. His smoke was named relishing, which is a principle of poetry.

Why the weird gaze, populace? You old in the hills when you smile piles of underwear track panic. Scouting density is the new fat band. Traces of words stick to rock walls and halos. The linear fat check smiles Galadriel paddle ball. After it smoke rendering oil, the torso of occasion bends windward.

Words of rotation caulked the seeming. The present dad is when you look on a promontory. Whilst, in the evening, memory wants oil. So sliding posse fetch, to bring outlaw rampart dogma home.

The cattle of dad goes to prime. Each word conks oboe with a brow beat. You say intend, everyone else matches panza division hearing loss. Express words in digits of computed aggression, and sorry for the sag.

Too many words associate with too many not really exact ponds. A pond is life and dad. In dad the concept of dad, the concept in all time of dad, when really, it was a form. It bled into a country flag, forming the moral equivalent of lint.

Rags excursion sent my dad. You in clergy, belfry, Reader, pant.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Handle Christmas with Final Sparks

The solstice moon, named Rita, rose in the urgent way of moons. It struck a bargain, deal, it found the night effort. As Children, we reported the news to the sun god, Larry, who shone on fields bereft of snow. It is the true and narrow, this time. The hesitation of kings and queens surmounts the merrie of the day. That song that captures all the likely response systems of this season of tidings of great joy, promulgates a buying spree rapture towards a clock of definite purpose. Someday we won't be children but, still.

A paragraph poises as a previous set of sentences finalizes a character of thought. People think so, and in the environ, spell correctly, largely. It is the season when the dour sun god Larry avoids taxes.

The cat, of which the stories roar, has a span of days. The computer system in which rare reveries revolve stands corrected by further days of thought. When your Christmas yuletide formulation dilapidates, a thought of bison. Busily bison, force of run in, plateau, ages of dead grass as fuel. Rita Moon, Larry Sun. On to entropy and beyond.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

The New Know No

The party of Lincoln goes up a tree. Define tree by number of Republicans tethered to its reflective nature. Reflecting fear is a manner of speaking: guns proving guns rely on guns to prove guns. In a nearby hole, the Democrats squat on the tut tut of their own Congress. The People in terms of walking down the street leave to walk down the street. This satisfies a basic urge to remove. Kindly kid Congress into going, somewhere would be fine.

Monday, January 28, 2013

The Proud Man in his Underpants (Starring John Boehner)

Frosty as John Boehner, the fence post. The deliberate fence post of the cross field. The spell of binding in the dark pasture of cross hairs. It’s as good as an NRA pledge for Social Change to lop agreement off the practice of Congress. The darkness of an elevated sky relaxes. Children can certainly eat hay.

You forget, Sir, the age of Re-enlightenment. We tire of old constitutions, old matters at hand. We vivify for the trees used as perfected tables that can be sold for premium skins in the old hunter- based lands.

Big Foot has a temperature, to wit: the cold logic of disappearance. No words can keep up with the implement. Congress contains roots and vegetables, and stones for heads.

With John Bohner and that hairy reed thing, we are determined. We see determination as an outward expression of the trouble inside. Then the congress of Congress, upon a patchy field where Big Foot stands a chance. Relics require that Big Foot remain stationary until the camera is ready. These times are that precious.

Sir, the children must eat hay in our Society, where change is the process of frost.