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.