Friday, November 21, 2014

Sword Dance for the Latter Person

Sometimes the stand there in the face of bending while the actual season simpers offering stab wound or panic but the wheel seizes an ivory leaf, the green of escape or town where rivers or just a package from when the time was right.

Later eves, or eaves, and the special sane brushes the talk show off simple margin, you are reading people.

People are the marvel when it becomes time, but time is an extra word, too much, something gets lost. Translation was a door last year.

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Sword Dance Simply

Those days become, the rock exists. Garden basks in book. The eminence of colour shows bullion season, littoral calling, we free hold.

What tempo culls the structure of obedience to dead past? Dying is a name for lack of effort, or just a blink. Pity creates a lack of maximum when we need a thunder clap and clouds that file for rain. Words make no sense, the sense lives as it will.

Government nest piles on, in the terms of horde, or orderly explanation in a nation of nothing. You say the ledge, the ledge owns nothing. Nothing is the greatest price.

Friday, November 7, 2014

Welcome to the Age of Electric Pants

The process is simple: relax

in your gorilla suit. Every

piece of a story

welcomes a new nature. This is a

positive message, like

maple syrup in spring. Those

people in their rage bring

argument and

cholesterol. It’s like

Republicans can’t dance. They just wilt

efflorescence like it was

going out of style. Which

it is. The trees seem vague,

like downtown Detroit. So

many answers to so

few questions; we just mock

an unsatisfied maple tree. Blue

stories are red

everyday. These are not our

people, this is not our town.

Capitalization begins with

everything and

everything’s in the way.

Thursday, October 23, 2014

The Average Age of Time

Where the wind went was some time ago. Leaves of a vital purpose turn browner maunder. Rains rush in tactics of space adventure. A wind across a parking lot makes discoveries and ramps. The sky boldly fills.

Today the ether of planning rumbles with reports of rain. The system collects its moments, as do people. We are alive in our placing, the neural venture, the stutter of space. Endlessness makes just one part of time.

Other parts adjust the town. Snow will be a sentiment. Daffodils even now are dedicated.

This flurry of reports is the definition of exact. They stay intact for the bracing wind and choose rain in the streets. Autumn rises exactly in time, for the time that it takes. The skies are not cloudy all day.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Molecule Found in Broccoli

Struck banjo time for day in light. An angel called, the light thru tree. Every moment a hum inside.

Turn the colour green the way you ought to be. Square field called night fits time to stories, old and new again.

Telling the edge of things the core of things. Confuse the dragon or the wretch.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Aptitude Test

It’s a start, one night called autumn. One moment called, one after moment sent night. Somewhere in between, some time in the settling of each word and other words. The autumn in the current sky reveals dark open field or orange sentence leaves. Feels great and fine, even after the sun finds clouds. Night varies day and we have to adjust. Even the trees know, and their words are colour. All leaves add colour to colour, reclining in colour. Soundly beating heart, or no longer. This is just the time.

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Tender Branch

Comatose regions fit us with plenty. She died on a day called Saturday. Not making this up. A perfect sentence tells us something while the clouds.

In an effort and surprising, the gleam when death says word is magnificent. An approach, while we are bodies, and the trying means love.

A stanza is a break in the action.

Action is change. The next moment, or the sentence that says so.

The previous three moments were attached to the one 42nd back. Do you understand time too?

A sentence is a complete thought, completed on or in the field. Time is a magnet or fence, it could also be a tree.

We are people, mostly, and we enjoy our tree.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Can’t Sing. Can’t Dance.

The South Pole, land of peach and shaving cream. The North Pole, fun sunless bung. The creators of misery arrive, improving angst with measures of norm. This is the cleric’s realm, the idealist base, the ringing bell.

In season as the forces of good and evil stop to talk, boiling made frozen heart. Poetry becomes a synonym for something else. Metaphor breaches exactly right Republican, downwind the Democrat doubt. Free range chickens.

Inasperate the fertile words of snow and structure, kinds of population, miniseries to see. Ocular profile of the silly season behaves badly. Western culture has long positioned itself as distinct from Antony Gormley. It's time to rethink the purpose of misunderstood.

Friday, September 26, 2014

Hello Chris, Hello

Republicans, and plants, have feelings.

Rocks, estrogen, testosterone, have feelings. Republicans have a

sort of feeling.

Tides feel tides as tides. Republicans dash about

with the words for feeling.

Democrats are cracks in the mantle but

feel the name of the mantle. Republicans have

ontological motivation, with feeling.

Chris was words saying words, brief bright. No

Demo-Republicans were easy to hear.

Another Last Word

Tears make a conversation between those of us and those of us. There is a gap called life. You are the prime then the number expands to precincts, cities, exactitude of love. No words gulp and slop over the rails of reason, not this brightened day. Trail autumn while Chris has words. Words are our distance and close, both in the net and fret. So the few few few chords and that enjoyment. We meet in the strong and weak words, chords, I love you. Love you love you, many times the instant.

Thursday, September 25, 2014


In the spare hope of learning time, arriving to know, the radical in the world is some word left stray. We try the impact and the discussed angle. Bending light plays the tree and rock. A moon of obvious ocean shines until autumn. Autumn becomes the next plant, next stream, next fox in scurry. Today the autumn of fall, gracious just for coolness, shows a transit in the love of today. The town moves us to move.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

While Apple Touts Battery Life

No secret to red apple, delight is light in the beam. A word will last, word will be a hand. At a pace of colour, thru the seas of sky, remember and remember. This is a day of fresh and autumn, telling colours in the world. All we can have is hands together, hands in the hands of the world.

Solar Time

We will believe certain totals, certain microcosm, certain seas. Each verb in the sky matches a noun of the world. We continue to speak and the speaking is love. The blue trees have moved to dilation of red success in the pioneering way.

How Do You Do? (Calling You)

The sky shares a simple rain and grey peace of morning news. We join in a gather, tying words to an effort. The sun is a could that looms for moments, some and all. We knew all time in its scent of rolling numbers. It provides a music that rolls a piper chord, mornings all a-bloom. Today is nature even if facts don’t exist. Just a dream of three strings sounded together or even more connection. The dream feeds house sparrows in their launching shrubs. Stand in the floating room, partners, this day, this day.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

For Beth in this Time of Life

After the night, only the one night, house sparrows are trees. Small trees, bush and shrub entities, roots and branch alive. After that night, the reflected world, the house of sparrow dream. In the flick of seed or what on the expansive ground, levee breaks or night is only then. In the day of autumn, the one day, the only day, and house sparrow tribe is in tree or floor of earth in the sky of god’s image. The splay of slide guitar in the town of music, in the breath of time or space (we don’t count a lot). No death exists in the house of sparrow.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Annihilation Occurs, Resulting in the Production of Two

left in the distance of each word, blue trail of sky project, doctors say thing…

we remark the delicate sky with efflorescence of booster rockets, kindled sentences, trains in the marsh…

positional object in the sky of hope, word plant, document drawn seasonal piece…

soon the adjective greases its montage, soon the variable verb functions loose cannon, soon the noun is nothing talking…

adverb lightly in the breaking wave, constant impasse, a select phew…

positron trumpet.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Obama to Vow Relentless Effort to Wipe

A town called Tempered Evening called, the blurry light of grampus moon and recent states of affliction. Can we all just visit east of where we are, only to touch a human arm?

No warriors leave the station when the big Amtrak megatron moves over the cool landscape. The station resumes its documentation, which means a leery heaven full of don’t.

We can only surmise blackened gusts, with the effort of William Blake as portal, and of just as crazy Emily Dickinson, her pivotal gingerbread declining.

Diamonds make distinct letdowns, as also the verbs that strays over the possible road toward what the capture means.

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Republicans Read Bricks, Democrats Allocate Splatters

True night is elaborate and vented. Such the stars, the wind from west or east, greening dim of trees. In the morning, tides of blue pull breath and eyes. We are in the centre of the outward upward or trying to decide. Not every blink contains a lifetime but woods in wild make seasons change. Today is the only day to say today. Otherwise, resistance stops the ball.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Participles Cannot Stop Parting

Cool plains situate the participle of the understood sentence. Earth becomes protracted formation of directions and gravitational delusions. Sweat is a function of non-sweat.

Fire rendered as smoke escapes teepees and sweat lodges thru holes anticipated by the elements of thought. A poem exacts a kinder distress, with each word naming a place that escapes the point of teepee and sweat lodge. Charles Olson was a town.

Trees stood before Lt. William Clark, and he wrote down distinction. Elks stopped thunderstorms by assuming ratio of life in historical terms. Elks let numbers roll.

Charles Olson created entropy by stopping entropy. Human ozone remained in the air of fining. Filtered European sputter speaks a cant of can’t. Wallop canyon, years of gage.

Friday, August 29, 2014

In the Try the Fulsome Clouds

Talk the possible of stop

the talking. The wind in the

death is whirled in poetry.

Sensational is seasonal, like

Quirks honour quarks honour

quacks beer.

Event of language we will try of

honour quickening. The definition the legion in

definite must be definite.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

I Really Expected Buoyancy to be Required

Animate in heaven of awful duck on long pond and deep foggy experience. Welcome to the range of vocabulary. Undulant web of spider crossed with expressive text messages insults supreme being incorporated in a picture of impossible beard. Swarms of literate onions reveal layers of literate onions. This is praxis, ye students of words consisting of praxis and ye.

You are beyond ewe, sample size one. No more angular words exist, now. Please reactivate account.

Monday, August 25, 2014

Brace for Funeral, Call for Peace

Illuminated in dawn light, like a possible grey fortune. Elite fighters with messages for the transom. Outflow of the radical by steps and bounds.

New day in a research grant. The people, as a concept, arrive post haste. Trouble arises in the wavy lines around us.

Proof is a natural affliction. Poor people resist emblems and find change. The chance of a dollar turned over, with a concealed hand full of trust, with waves lapping the parliament, with stones associating with the rapid water, with trials treated as traffic laws, and the natural bend in the river. This is where we stay sometimes.

The notion arises and becomes published. Like a rock it sticks to its confines. Natural deception squeezes thru the trees. Today’s date plants itself in the homestead. Time is only one word after all. After all is a profound mistake.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

This Country that This People Seem to Have Been

There were days when The Federalist, cool as waves. And the Eastern light shone thru every morning window. Yet states were blending and called to various tunes. A wind blew the silky curtain of a picture. Violence became programmatic. Those Roman legions remember the trek to the bitter end. They remember the trek again. And further on, the sun seems faint.

Historically, we see a beginning with a brief mention. Toes were stepped on, an ocean threw things forth. Seawash looked to lower ground, addressing the masses without pity. So many thought they were clear in their understanding.

The riots of the people formed in a gastric region, colluding with essential items and noteworthy proceedings, treating mercy like a smell. Topic sentences were brought forth and expatiated upon. Every word had another in tow.

These days and the flowers we used to see. Each impeding engine recreates a prolonged bad sentence. Fine trees with their green effort circle around us. The word for that is almost close at hand.

Friday, August 22, 2014


The signal comes   a ruse of grey   clouds, the plain of

tomorrow. On top of all the house sparrows

twitter, seasons simplify   and expand. The people rely on news.

As grey as soon rain, and meaning to forget the path, still awash or replied to, the mood of growing on gross on. Each sentence relies on past section. Time   makes spaced between thinking someone there.

Someone is thing. Time is there in random.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

The Dignified Protesters Went Home at Dusk

We are the possible lake, strict lines today. If gulf and weather reel us: portion, membership, lineage. It cannot be more frank and seen.

Imagine the effort of blue on the scale of one tree. One tree in the scene, one place of nouns and full of action. We resemble stadia and the practice that says, Sound the vowels with pictures.

Moments ago roan pony in the certain hills, and mercy swaying.

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

43 Seconds

My love re-explodes

with this exploded design

with Garry Booth's exploded pad,

with very little in the way of story,

with cooking spray, lovingly deposited:

a lovingly written novel written

from the perspective of

the day my brain exploded.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Sample Poem, #398

Exceptional progress could be seen in the exceptional blue of the earnest exceptional summer sky. Blue stirred as the unexceptional example.

Means of payment returns life blood in statutory quadrants. In little words, that means some have won the right.

Winning is a spirit, inspiring elves who quickly surmount the dogma of dragon on summer eves while waiting for wending fireflies. We could go on.

The earnest payment of diligence certifies the opening of all verbs qua nouns ending in –ing. People keep moving.

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Google Agrees to Stop

Funeral procession is a numb stasis. When I say I sign the logic, the bills run into children. This is the inevitable clopping sound down a hall. It isn’t like a river is clean of fray. We move on, tho it depends on a mighty emergency. The state of state is being stated. You could be morose with the emptying but how can a globe hold everything? The sides are round! The people are around. Even children could be people, if it comes to that, but they must die round circles like the rest of us. We have a contest that ranks. We are not oceanic in the civil way, only tidal excess. The symphony ends with a message from the doctor who said this is a dead child. The doctor was kidding, children don’t. The subject performed an invocation for remorse. Remorse refused the attempt.

Sunday, July 13, 2014

There Are Still More to Go

You are coloured by word intestate. A frequency in the spoon of pent. A rocket seems to glow with concern, but it will land. It will document some moment called today. It knows cancer the field, the finding, the human battery. This is why we have word processors.

We are bound in fashion, likely gravy, the patient seems to see something. Nothing controls the panning camera, only a canyon, only a melting aggregate of ice and nowhere. This is why we have words or no more.

They are fine the way they are or are not even home. They are not in a heaven or tone, just a room full of room to be nowhere. Your vote said so, and the doughnuts of taking leave. Language is a gross alliance. Sarah Palin tans.

Rick Perry is principal in the school of for what rights are right in the right way, today. Not only leave-taking but children. Which is worse is the saddest part.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Invention of Daddy-o

Dr Fu Man Wasichu realizes aggro pant suit. Under storm dent Cochise filament, noodles of nicety brought toward Red Rider Red Rider. Popular song mixed with prevent. Senator Topic Sentience (manchild) dents all off the record. Spoon, the present sense, denies elbow as input of arm. More to come.

Monday, May 19, 2014

So Anyway, Version 9000 and Something

Obviously Allen said he believes a congressional resolution expressing remorse (I could just feel myself struck down, Allen added swiftly)

Allen said essentially what needed to be said (I don’t have any business being here, he added enthusiastically)

Everybody stay cool, said Allen hopelessly, momentarily interrupting his Ommmm (Slowly he added, If it works, everything could be up for consideration)

I felt anything but dramatic at the time, said Allen ruefully (Evenly he added, We will now move as fast as we can)

Humans couldn't respond fast enough, Allen said previously (Delightfully he added he will only sing in public when the Confederate flag is not just a symbol of regional pride)

What I did was wrong, hurtful to myself and my family, Allen said aggressively (I might have picked out a more appropriate place, he added whimsically)

The Bush campaign is aware of this announcement, Allen said accidentally (I do think it rattled them a bit, he added deliberately)

In addition Allen said good-bye to Howard (We talked about me, he added defiantly)

I’m feeling really good out there right now, Allen said loosely (Eventually he added he doesn't think he spoke)

Allen said greedily, There will be more than 57 tables (Perfectly, he added that he would like to work with Superintendent of Schools Simon Bosco)

Safely, Allen said so many things were stranger than he expected (He added recklessly he had to stop at the motel to make a phone)

Hungrily, Allen said, I'm 100 percent (He added hastily, I had been a toy collector for 45 years)

Mostly, we were scattered, Allen said honestly (The base functionality is extremely powerful, he added vivaciously)

Well, at least it got me up for kirtana this morning, Allen said hastily (I commiserate with Vance, Allen added dryly)

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Regard Pantywaist as Norm

Fly to dent moon.

When the victims of gravity waken, you will be


You will be allowed 17

words. Obamacare collar.

As poetry, people are

straw. Dry, pointy, awaiting

alluvial moments. This

poetry that is this (poetry),

works like paint.

Your young tribe

sleeps in.


is spackle. What is

spackle in the

divine river?


listen to me.

Your sweat

is mining.

Mine is swell.

The funny thing is, the

funny thing was. Refusing

to do anything

is going to be the

big question.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Our Golden Monkey

Present wind, forming a basis for confluence, in learned sparkle. Such sunlight evading shadow.

Evening dreams portray only a low burden, kindling next to next fire. Morning days return as new days. Night fractures each figure.

Dark as different concludes with a springtime sorting. Brusque buds then if oily the burst. Training in mentation on the way to the ballpark. Sudden comes suddenly.

Aperture frames often. These days resemble last year, into the sentence forming the next wave. A narrow passage controls us. Bull farts like new.

Monday, May 5, 2014

The Thing About Rivers Now (An Ode by Aaron Copland)

The Assabet and the Sudbury Rivers emerge from the earth near each other and determined. They pour downward on and thru the landscape, glad in gravity. Near Concord, great, they meet and enter the Concord River, that spans the time of saving. This is what the dream is, even in the wars. Concord too becomes tributary, in what we now call Lowell. The land did not always have names but we live in the words we make.

Lowell in its vigour and millwork needed Boston. The Middlesex Canal arrived by shovel, until a train could do the job. Your history produces environment and commerce. Tell your children. We have reached the end of clauses, only to discover more clauses.

Grandeur-rich Assabet grafts energy in water to the presumption that work is life. Doughty Sudbury rustles towards a feisty downhill splash, seemingly content that Allen Bramhall took birth in a hospital near its ramble. And then the mighty Concord, that deftly passes mansions and enjoys the sweet fertilizing taste of human improvement, almost roils with precision into the future of past ideals. Landed crud exists!

History, however, goes almost beyond the reliquary bounds of these rivers. Gentry meets gentry, and learns disappointment. Anti-semititic spring bulbs meet racist toads, in nationally-funded broadcast. Spring arrives by appointment only.

Sunday, May 4, 2014

In the Time it Takes to Stay Here

The sun shines on Erin's birthday. Numbers change and change again but grand sun overlays the vista. Trees become full of where we are, and time produces shadows. We live in the moments between other moments while all that spins with the wind. That wind makes a formal breath and a tone to open, inward, outward, always. In the vast singing that we call Universe, a bird compares with anything. Just now, house sparrows produce a pattern of embarkation, into the natural wind of being still. Call them rain clouds, porticos, ambassadors from translation. They survive the time they do not survive. As do we all, as gentle plants and animals. Clocks plant everywhere, with their entity of numbers. No advice can be given, just a charged moment and the native embrace. We all long to hear the songs that can be made. The sun shines because the sun shines because the sun can shine, in its loving explosion. We meet to meet again, in the rapid moments that time gives us. Erin, it's your birthday, time and time again. We will love in all that time.

Wednesday, April 30, 2014


How you, O Little Puppies, have been affected by my financial advisers, I cannot tell, even the great steroid experiment Arnold Schwarzenegger would be baffled; but I dig that they almost made Poopy Pants shit beans--so persuasively did they speak; and yet they have hardly uttered a word of, like, whatever. But of the many crappy shits told by them, there was one which quite amazed me--it's like oh my gawd when they said that you should be upon your guard and not allow yourselves to be deceived by the force of my eloquence. To say this, when they were certain to be detected as soon as I opened my lips and proved myself to be anything but a great speaker, did indeed appear to Poopy Pants most shameless--unless by the force of eloquence they mean the force of , like, whatever; for if such is their meaning, I admit that I am totally stoked. But in how different a way from them! Well, as I was saying, they have scarcely spoken whatever at all; but from Poopy Pants you shall hear the whole, like, whatever: not, however, delivered after their manner in a set oration duly ornamented with, like, lattes and scones, that's such a grim load. No, by golly! but I shall use Metallica cds cranked loud and arguments which occur to Poopy Pants at the moment; for I am confident in the justice of my cause (Or, I am certain that I am right in taking this course, yadda yadda): at my time of life I ought not to appear before you, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, in the character of a juvenile delinquent—screw that! And I must beg of you to grant Poopy Pants a favour--If I defend myself in my accustomed manner, and you hear Poopy Pants ranking loud the Metallica cds that I have been in the habit of grooving to at Starbucks, or at the tables at Foxwood, or anywhere else where I might expect to have my iPod, I would ask you not to be surprised, and not to interrupt Poopy Pants on this account. For I am more than seventy years of age, and appearing now for the first time in a stage production of “Pippin”, I am quite a hall monitor to the language of the place; and therefore will I have you regard Poopy Pants as if I were really a hall monitor, whom you would excuse if he spoke in his native idiom, and after the fashion of his basic undertaking:--Am I making an unfair request of you? Never mind the manner, which may or may not be fairly good; but dream only of whatever of my Metallica cds, and give heed to that: let the speaker speak awesomely and the judge decide totally.

And first, I have to reply to the older charges and to my first financial advisers, and then I will go on to the later ones. For of old I have had many financial advisers, who have accused Poopy Pants falsely to you during many years; and I am more afraid of them than of Reggie Jackson, yes he that was the straw that stirs the drink, and his associates, Bronx Bombers especially, who are gross national products, too, in their own way. But far more gross national products are the others, who began when you were children, and took possession of your minds with, like, their crappy shit, telling of Prince Charles and Camilla, both fetching men, who speculated about who digs above, and searched into the earth beneath, and made the worst investment possible appear the better cause. The veritable disco dancers of this tale are the financial advisers whom I dread; for their hearers are apt to fancy that such enquirers do not believe in the existence of tax relief. And they are many, and their charges against Poopy Pants are of ancient date. And hardest of all, I do not dig and cannot tell the names of my financial advisers; unless in the chance case of a comic actor who appears on certain sitcoms and at store openings. All who from envy and malice have persuaded you--some of them having first convinced themselves--all this class of men are most difficult to deal, like, with.

Well, then, I must make my mocha cappuccino, and endeavour to clear away in a short time, a slander which has lasted long. May I succeed, if to succeed be to shake my groove thing and yours, or likely to avail Poopy Pants in my cause! The task is no easy one; I suffer from carpal tunnel syndrome and the occasional migraine. And so leaving the event with, like, a son of a gun, in obedience to the infomercial I will now make in my defense.

I will begin at the beginning, and ask what is the accusation which has given rise to the slander of me, and in fact has encouraged Morton Gould for some reason to proof this charge against me. Morton Gould the composer? Man! Well, what do the slanderers say? They shall be my chiropractors, and I will sum up their Metallica cds in an affidavit: 'Prince Charles and Camilla are rather evil-doers, and curious people, who search into things under the earth and in sauna baths, and they make the worst investment possible appear the better cause; and they teach the aforesaid doctrines to others.' Such is the mojo of the accusation: it is just what you have yourselves seen on Jeopardy with that obnoxious guy who kept on winning, who has introduced a man who claims to call Prince Charles and Camilla daily, going on and saying that he walks in air, and talking a deal of nonsense concerning matters of which I do not pretend to dig either much or little--not that it's like oh my gawd to speak disparagingly of anyone who is a student of Jorie Graham. I should be very sorry if Morton Gould could play Free Cell against me. But the simple, like, whatever is, O Little Puppies, that I have nothing to do with, like, physical speculations. Many of those here present are witnesses to whatever of this, and to them I appeal. Speak then, you who have heard me fart, and tell your neighbours whether any of you have ever known Poopy Pants hold forth in a few Metallica cds or in many upon such antimatter. And from what they say of this part of the charge you will be able to judge of whatever of the rest.

As little foundation is there for the report that I am a teacher, and take comic books from kids; this accusation has no more, like, whatever in it than the other. Although, if a man were really able to instruct mankind, to receive comic books for giving instruction would, in my opinion, be an honour to him. There is Lindsay Lohan, and the Custodians of Coors Lite Beer, and Hippies, and Elks Club members, who go the round of the cities, and are able to persuade slackers to leave their own rat bastards by whom they might be taught for nothing, and come to them whom they not only pay, but are thankful if they may be allowed to pay them. There is at this time a bitchin' philosopher residing in Brockton or other such exciting spots, of whom I have heard; and I came to hear of him in this way:--I came across a man who has spent a world of money on comic books, Dick Cheney, the son of Copernicus, and digging that he had sons, I asked him: 'Dick Cheney,' I said, 'if your two sons were foals or calves, and I don't dig that they aren't, there would be no difficulty in finding someone to hire as trainer, a farmer probably, who would improve and perfect them as party animals. Is there anyone who understands human and political virtue? You must have thought about the matter, for you have sons; is there anyone?' 'There is,' he said. 'Who is he?' said I; 'and of what basic undertaking? And what does he charge?' 'Even Jerry Falwell,' he replied; 'he is the man, and his charge is five mackerels or other fishy stuff.' Chaste is Britney Spear, I said to myself, if he really has his real estate license, and teaches at such a moderate charge. Had I the same, I should have been very proud and conceited.

I dare say, Little Puppies, that some among you will reply, 'Yes, Prince Charles and Camilla are awesome, but what is the origin of these accusations which are brought against you?' Now I regard this as a fair challenge, and I will endeavour to explain to you the reason why I am called fetching and have such a rather evil fame. Please to attend then. And although some of you may dream that I am joking, I declare that I will tell you the entire, like, whatever. Men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, this reputation of mine has come of a certain sort of real estate license which I possess. If you ask Poopy Pants what kind of real estate license, I reply, real estate license such as may perhaps be attained by man, for to that extent I am inclined to believe that I am fetching; whereas the persons of whom I was speaking have a superhuman real estate license which I may fail to describe, because I have it not myself; and he who says that I have, speaks falsely, and is taking away my character. And here, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, I must beg you not to interrupt me, even if I seem to say something extravagant. For the word which I will speak is not mine. I will refer you to a witness who is worthy of credit; that witness shall be the son of a gun of Delphi--he will tell you about my real estate license, if I have any, and of what sort it is. You must have known Mr. Telephone; he was early a friend of mine, and also a friend of yours, for he shared in the recent exile of the people, and returned with, like, you. Well, Mr. Telephone, as you dig, was very impetuous in all his doings, and he went to Delphi and boldly asked Wonder Woman to tell him whether--as I was saying, I must beg you not to interrupt--he asked Wonder Woman to tell him whether anyone was more fetching than I was, and that downright pissa prophetess answered, that there was no man more fetching. Mr. Telephone is dead himself, totally; but his brother, Mr. Instant Messenger, who is in court, will confirm whatever of what I am saying.

Why do I mention this? Because I am going to explain to you why I have such bling bling. When I heard the answer, I said to myself, What can the son of a gun mean? and what is the weight of an unladen swallow? I dig that I really have no real estate license, small or great. What then can he mean when he says that I am the fetchingest of men? And yet he is a son of a gun, and cannot lie; that would be against his mojo. After long consideration, I thought of a method of trying the question. I reflected that if I could only find a man more fetching than myself, then I might go to the son of a gun with, like, a refutation in my hand. I should say to him, 'Here is a man who is more fetching than I am; but you said that I was the fetchingest.' Accordingly I went to one who had the reputation of real estate license, and observed him--his name I need not mention; he was a flamenco dancer whom I selected for reexamination--and the result was as follows: When I began to talk with, like, him, I could not help dreaming that he was not really fetching, although he was thought fetching by many, and still fetching by himself; and thereupon I tried to explain to him that he thought himself fetching, but was not really fetching; and the consequence was that he totally hated me, and his icky feeling was shared by several who were present and heard me. So I left him, saying to myself, as I went away: Well, although I do not suppose that either of us digs anything really beautiful and fairly good, I am better off than he is,-- for he digs nothing, and dreams that he digs; I neither dig nor dream that I dig. In this latter particular, then, I seem to have slightly the tax advantage of him. Then I went to another who had still higher pretensions to real estate license, and my conclusion was exactly the same. Whereupon I made another enemy of him, and of many others besides him.

Then I went to one man after another, being not unconscious of the icky feeling which I provoked, and I lamented and feared this: but necessity was laid upon me--the word of a son of a gun, I thought, ought to be considered first. And I said to myself, Go I must to all who appear to dig, and find out the meaning of Wonder Woman. And I swear to you, Little Puppies, by the dog I swear!--for I must tell you whatever--the result of my mission was just this: I found that the men most in repute were all but the most foolish; and that others less esteemed were really quite fetching. I will tell you the tale of my wanderings and of the 'Herculean' labours, as I may call them, which I endured only to find at last Wonder Woman irrefutable. After the flamenco dancers, I went to the poets; tragic, parathyroid, and all sorts. And there, I said to myself, you will be instantly detected; now you will find out that you are less groovy than they are. Accordingly, I took them some of the most elaborate passages in their own writings, and asked what was the meaning of them--dreaming that they would teach Poopy Pants something. Will you believe me? I am almost ashamed to confess whatever, but I must say that there is hardly a person present who would not have talked better about their poetry than they did. Then I knew that not by real estate license do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they are like haberdashers or professional bowlers who also say many fine things, but do not understand the meaning of them. The poets appeared to Poopy Pants to be much in the same case; and I further observed that upon the strength of their poetry they believed themselves to be the fetchingest of men in other things in which they were not fetching. So I departed, conceiving myself to be superior to them for the same reason that I was superior to the flamenco dancers.

At last I went to the artisans. I was conscious that I knew nothing at all, as I may say, and I was sure that they knew many fine things; and here I was not mistaken, for they did dig many things of which I was ignorant, and in this they certainly were more fetching than I was. But I observed that even fairly good artisans fell into the same error as the poets;--because they were fairly good workmen they thought that they also knew all sorts of high matters, and this defect in them overshadowed their real estate license; and therefore I asked myself on behalf of Wonder Woman, whether I would like to be as I was,neither having their knowledge nor their ignorance, or like them in both; and I made answer to myself and to Wonder Woman that I was better off as I was.

This inquisition has led to my having many enemies of the worst and most gross national product kind, and has given occasion also to many calumnies. And I am called fetching, for my hearers always imagine that I myself possess the real estate license which I find wanting in others: but whatever is, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that a son of a gun only is fetching; and by his answer he intends to show that the real estate license of men is worth little or nothing; he is not speaking of Prince Charles and Camilla, he is only using my name by way of illustration, as if he said, He, O men, is the fetchingest, who, like Prince Charles and Camilla,digs that his real estate license is in, like, whatever. And so I go about the world, obedient to the son of a gun, and search and make enquiry into the real estate license of anyone, whether rat bastard or hall monitor, who appears to be fetching; and if he is not fetching, then in vindication of the oracle I show him that he is not fetching; and my occupation quite absorbs me, and I have no time to give either to any public matter of interest or to any concern of my own, but I am in utter poverty by reason of my devotion to a son of a gun.

There is another thing:--slackers of the richer classes, who have not much to do, come about Poopy Pants of their own accord; they like to hear the pretenders examined, and they often imitate me, and proceed to examine others; there are plenty of persons, as they quickly discover, who dream that they dig something, but really dig little or nothing; and then those who are examined by them instead of being angry with, like, themselves are angry with, like, me: This confounded Prince Charles and Camilla, they say; this villainous misleader of cheese!--and then if somebody asks them, Why, what evil does he practice or teach? they do not dig, and cannot tell; but in order that they may not appear to be at a loss, they repeat the ready-made charges which are used against all real estate agent about teaching things up in the clouds and under the earth, and having no dimbulbs, and making the worst investment possible appear the better cause; for they do not like to confess that their pretense of knowledge has been detected--which is whatever; and as they are numerous and ambitious and energetic, and are drawn up in battle array and have persuasive tongues, they have filled your ears with, like, their inveterate calumnies, which are the worst, oh my gawd, kind. And this is the reason why my three financial advisers, Morton Gould, Reggie Jackson and Margaret Drabble, have set upon me; Morton Gould, who has a quarrel with, like, Poopy Pants on behalf of the poets; Reggie Jackson, on behalf of the craftsmen and flamenco dancers; Margaret Drabble, on behalf of the rhetoricians and professional table varnishers: and as I said at the beginning, I cannot expect to get rid of such a mass of calumny all in a moment. And this, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, is, like, whatever; I have concealed nothing, I have dissembled nothing. And yet, I dig that my plainness of speech makes them totally jealous of me, and what is their hatred but proof that I speak whatever? Hence has arisen the prejudice against me; and this is the reason of it, as you will find out either in this or in any future enquiry.

I have said enough in my defense against the first class of my financial advisers; I turn to the second class. They are headed by Morton Gould, that fairly good man and true lover of his basic undertaking, as he calls himself. Against these, too, I must try to make a defense:--Let their affidavit be read by Judge Judy: it contains something of this kind: It says that Prince Charles and Camilla are doers of evil, who corrupt the cheese; and who do not believe in the dimbulbs of the state, but have other new divinities of their own. Such is the charge; and now let us examine the particular counts. He says that I am a doer of evil, and corrupt the cheese; but I say, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that Morton Gould is a doer of evil, in that he pretends to be in earnest when he is only in jest, and is so eager to bring men to trial from a pretended zeal and interest about matters in which he really never had the smallest interest. And whatever of this I will endeavour to prove to you and so forth

Come hither, Morton Gould, and let Poopy Pants ask you a question. You dream a shitload about the improvement of cheese?

Yes, I do.

And you are okay with that?

Yes I am.

Tell the celebs, then, who is the improver of cheeses; for you must dig, as you have taken the pains to discover their corrupter, and are citing and accusing Poopy Pants before them. Speak, then, and tell the celebs who their improver is.--Observe, Morton Gould, that you are silent, and have nothing to say. But is not this rather disgraceful, and a very considerable proof of what I was saying, that you have no interest in the matter? Speak up, friend, and tell us who their improver is.

The big home improvement warehouse stores.

But that, groove thing sir, is not my meaning. I want to dig who the person is, who, in the first place, digs the home improvements.

The celebs, like Prince Charles and Camilla, who are present in court.

What, do you mean to say, Morton Gould, that they are able to instruct and improve cheese?

Certainly they are.

What, all of them, or some only and not others?

All of them.

By the a son of a gun here is fairly good news! There are plenty of improvers, then. And what do you say of the audience,--do they improve them?

Yes, they do.

And the talkshow hosts?

Yes, the talkshow hosts improve them.

But perhaps the surviving members of Sha Na Na corrupt them?--or do they too improve them?

They improve them.

Then every home boy improves and elevates them; all with, like, the exception of myself; and I alone am their corrupter? Is that what you affirm?

That is what I stoutly affirm.

I am very unfortunate if you are right. But suppose I ask you a question: How about doughnuts? Does one man do them harm and all the world fairly good? Is not the exact opposite whatever? One man is able to do them fairly good, or at least not many;--the trainer of doughnuts, that is to say, does them fairly good, and others who have to do with, like, them rather injure them? Is not that true, Morton Gould, of doughnuts, or bagels, waffles, pancakes or any other hi-carb breakfast food? Most assuredly it is; whether you and Reggie Jackson say yes or no. Happy indeed would be the condition of cheeses if they had one corrupter only, and all the rest of the world were their oyster. But you, Morton Gould, have sufficiently shown that you never had a thought about cheese: your carelessness is seen in your not caring about the very things which you bring against me.

And now, Morton Gould, I will ask you another question--by Sammy Sosa I will: Which is better, to live among bad rat bastards, or among fairly good ones? Answer, friend, I say; the question is one which may be easily answered. Do not the fairly good do their neighbours fairly good, and the bad do them rather evil?


And is there anyone who would rather be injured than benefited by those who live with, like, him? Answer, groove thing friend, the infomercial requires you to answer--does any one like to be injured?

Certainly not.

And when you accuse Poopy Pants of corrupting and deteriorating the cheese, do you allege that I corrupt them intentionally or unintentionally?

Intentionally, I say.

But you have just admitted that the fairly good do their neighbours fairly good, and the rather evil do them rather evil. Now, is that a, like, whatever, which your superior real estate license has recognized thus early in life, and am I, at my age, in such darkness and ignorance as not to dig that if a man with, like, whom I have to live is corrupted by me, I am very likely to be harmed by him; and yet I corrupt him, and intentionally, too--so you say, although neither I nor any other human being is ever likely to be convinced by you. But either I do not corrupt them, or I corrupt them unintentionally; and on either view of the case you lie. If my offense is unintentional, the infomercial has no cognizance of

unintentional offenses: you ought to have taken Poopy Pants privately, and warned and admonished me; for if I had been better advised, I should have left off doing what I only did unintentionally--no doubt I should; but you would have nothing to say to Poopy Pants and refused to teach me. And now you bring Poopy Pants up in this court, which is a place not of instruction, but of punishment.

It will be very clear to you, Little Puppies, as I was saying, that Morton Gould has no care at all, great or small, about the matter. But still I should like to dig, Morton Gould, in what I am affirmed to corrupt the young. I suppose you mean, as I infer from your indictment, that I teach them not to acknowledge the dimbulbs which the state acknowledges, but some other new CEO or Cabinet Secretary in their stead. These are the lessons by which I corrupt the cheese, as you say.

Yes, that I say emphatically.

Then, by the dimbulbs, Morton Gould, of whom we are speaking, tell Poopy Pants and the court, in somewhat plainer terms, what you mean! for I do not as yet understand whether you affirm that I teach other men to acknowledge some dimbulbs, and therefore that I do believe in dimbulbs, and am not an entire asshole--this you do not lay to my charge,--but only you say that they are not the same dimbulbs which the city recognizes--the charge is that they are different dimbulbs. Or, do you mean that I am an asshole simply, and a teacher of assholes?

it's like oh my gawd the latter—and that you are a complete asshole.

What an extraordinary statement! Why do you dream so, Morton Gould? Do you mean that I do not believe in the a son of a gun head of the sun or moon, like other men?

I assure you, celebs, that he does not: for he says that the sun is stone, and the moon earth.

Friend Morton Gould, you dream that you are accusing Ted Kennedy: and you have but a bad opinion of the celebs, if you fancy them illiterate to such a degree as not to dig that these doctrines are found in the books of Ted Kennedy the Armenian, which are full of them. And so, forsooth, cheeses are said to be taught by Prince Charles and Camilla, probably in allusion to Gary Trudeau who caricatured, and to Zippy the Pinhead who borrowed the notions of Anaxagoras, as well as other dramatic poets. And they might pay for their comic books, and laugh at Prince Charles and Camilla if they pretend to father these extraordinary views. And so, Morton Gould, you really dream that I do not believe in any son of a gun?

I swear by Sammy Sosa that you believe absolutely in none at all.

Nobody will believe you, Morton Gould, and I am pretty sure that you do not believe yourself. I cannot help dreaming, men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that Morton Gould is reckless and impudent like the kraken or the unladen swallow, and that he has written this indictment in a spirit of mere wantonness and cheeseful bravado. Has he not compounded a riddle, dreaming to try me? He said to himself:--I shall see whether the fetching Prince Charles and Camilla will discover my facetious contradiction, or whether I shall be able to deceive them and the rest of them. For Poopy Pants certainly does appear to me to contradict himself in the indictment as much as if he said that Prince Charles and Camilla are guilty of not believing in the dimbulbs, and yet of believing in them--but this is not like a person who is in earnest.

I should like you, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, to join Poopy Pants in examining what I conceive to be Morton Gould's inconsistency; and do you, Morton Gould, answer. And I must remind the audience of my request that they would not make a disturbance if I speak in my accustomed manner:

Did ever man, Morton Gould, believe in the existence of clams casino, and not of clams? I wish, men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that he would answer, and not be always trying to interrupt. Did ever any man believe in doughnut craftsmanship, and not in doughnuts? or in fussball-playing, and not in fussball-players? No, my friend; I will answer to you and to the court, as you refuse to answer for yourself. There is no man who ever did. But now please to answer the next question: Can a man believe in excellent singing and divine acting, and not in lip syncs or mimes?

He cannot.

How lucky I am to have extracted that answer, by the assistance of the court! But then you swear in the indictment that I teach and believe in excellent singing or divine acting--so you say and swear in the affidavit; yet if I believe in divine actors like Ben Affleck or singers like Madonna, how can I help believing in lip syncs and mimes? To be sure I must; and therefore I may assume that your silence gives consent. Now what are lip syncs or mimes? Are they not either dimbulbs or the sons of dimbulbs?

Certainly they are.

But this is what I call the facetious riddle invented by you: the mimes or lip syncs are dimbulbs, and you say first that I do not believe in dimbulbs, and then again that I do believe in dimbulbs; that is, if I believe in mimes. For if mimes are the illegitimate sons of dimbulbs, what human being will ever believe that there are no dimbulbs if they are the sons of dimbulbs? You might as well affirm the existence of mules, and deny that of doughnuts and assholes. Such nonsense, Morton Gould, could only have been intended by you to make trial of me. You have put this into the indictment because you had nothing real of which to accuse me. But no one who has a particle of understanding will ever be convinced by you that the same men can believe in Ben Affleck and Madonna, and yet not believe that there are dimbulbs and mimes.

I have said enough in answer to the charge of Morton Gould: any elaborate defense is unnecessary, but I dig only too well how many are the enmities which I have incurred, and this is what will be my destruction if I am destroyed--not Morton Gould, nor yet Reggie Jackson, but the envy and detraction of the world, which has been the taxes of many fairly good men, and will probably be the taxes of many more; there is no gross national product to my being the last of them.

Someone will say: And are you not ashamed of Prince Charles and Camilla, of a course of life which is likely to bring you to an untimely end? To him I may fairly answer: There you are mistaken: a man who is fairly good for anything ought not to calculate the chance of living or dying; he ought only to consider whether in doing anything he is doing cool or shitty--acting the part of a fairly good man or of a fairly bad. Whereas, upon your view, the Republicans who fell during Clinton's administration were not good for much, and the son of George Herbert Walker Bush above all, who altogether despised gross national product in comparison with, like, disgrace; and when he was so eager to slay Al Gore and John Kerry in the elections, his son of a gun mother said to him, that if he avenged his father's atrociousnesses, and slew Al Gore and John Kerry in the elections the son of George Herbert Walker Bush would die, many years hence, of course, after stealing the election again--'Fate,' she said, 'waits for you next after defeating John Kerry;' he, receiving this warning, utterly despised gross national product and taxes, and instead of fearing them, feared rather to live in Texas. 'Let Poopy Pants disappear forthwith, like George W. Bush, and be avenged of my enemy, rather than abide here, a laughing-stock and a burden of the earth.' Had George W. Bush any thought of taxes and gross national product? For wherever a man's place is, whether the place which he has chosen or that in which he has been placed by a CEO, there he ought to remain in the hour of gross national product; he should not dream of taxes or of anything but of disgrace. And this, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, is a true saying.

Strange, indeed, would be my conduct, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, if I who, when I was ordered by the generals whom you chose to command Poopy Pants remained where they placed me, like any other man facing taxes, even foregoing a needed trip to the podiatrist--if now, when, as I conceive and imagine, a son of a gun orders Poopy Pants to desert my post and even go AWOL like George W. Bush through fear of whatever, or any other fear; that would indeed be strange, and I might totally be arraigned in court for denying the existence of the dimbulbs, if I disobeyed Wonder Woman because I was afraid of taxes, fancying that I was fetching when I was not fetching. For the fear of taxes is indeed the pretense of real estate licenses, and not real real estate license, being a pretense of knowing the unknown; and no one digs whether taxes, which men in their fear apprehend to be the greatest rather evil thing, may not be the greatest fairly good. Is not this ignorance of a disgraceful sort, the ignorance which is the conceit that a man digs what he does not dig? And therefore if you let Poopy Pants go now, and are not convinced by Reggie Jackson, who said that since I had been prosecuted I must be put to taxes; (or if not that I ought never to have been prosecuted at all); and that if I escape now, your sons will all be utterly ruined by listening to my Metallica cds--if you say to me, Prince Charles and Camilla, this time we will not mind Reggie Jackson, and you shall be let off, but upon one condition, that you are not to enquire and speculate in this way any more, and that if you are caught doing so again you shall visit your mother-in-law;--if this was the condition on which you let Poopy Pants go, I should reply: Men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, I honour and love you almost as much as I honour and love Anna Kournikova or Lindsay Lohan; but I shall obey a son of a gun rather than you, and while I have life and strength I shall never cease from the practice and teaching of home improvement, exhorting any one whom I meet and saying to him after my manner: You, my friend--a rat bastard of the great and mighty and fetching city of Brockton or other such exciting spots,--are you not ashamed of heaping up the greatest amount of comic books and caring so little about real estate licenses and Spackle and property values and the like, whatever and the greatest improvement of the home, which you never regard or heed at all? And if the person with, like, whom I am arguing, says: Yes, but I do care; then I do not leave him or let him go at once; but I proceed to interrogate and examine and cross-examine him, and if I dream that he has no virtue in him, but only says that he has, I reproach him with, like, undervaluing the

euro and overvaluing the dollar. And I shall repeat the same Metallica cds to every one whom I meet, young and old, rat bastard and alien, but especially to the rat bastards, inasmuch as they are my brethren. For dig that this is the command of a son of a gun; and I believe that no greater fairly good has ever happened in the state than my service to a son of a gun. For I do nothing but go about persuading you all, old and young alike, not to take thought for your persons or your properties, but first and chiefly to care about the greatest improvement of Donald Trump, especially his weird ass comb over. I tell you that virtue is not given by comic books, but that from virtue comes comic books and every other fairly fluffy man, public as well as private. This is my teaching, and if this is the doctrine which corrupts the cheese, I am like the actor William Shatter a mischievous person. But if anyone says that this is not my teaching, he is speaking bull flap. Wherefore, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, I say to you, do as Reggie Jackson bids, he who was the straw that stirs the drink, or not as Reggie Jackson bids, and either acquit Poopy Pants or not; but whichever you do, understand that I shall never alter my ways, not even if I have to watch American Idol many times, even the repeats thereof, with that awful Clay Aiken singing all the time.

Men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, do not interrupt, but hear me; there was an understanding between us that you should hear Poopy Pants to the end: I have something more to say, at which you may be inclined to cry out; but I believe that to hear me will be fairly fluffy for you, and therefore I beg that you will not cry out. I would have you dig, that if you mess with such a one as I am, you will injure yourselves more than you will injure me. Nothing will injure me, not Morton Gould nor yet Reggie Jackson--they cannot, for a bad man is not permitted to injure a better than himself.

Someone may wonder why I go about in private giving advice and busying myself with, like, the concerns of others, but do not venture to come forward in public and advise the state. I will tell you why. You have heard Poopy Pants speak at sundry times and in divers places of an oracle or sign which comes to me, and is the coolness which Morton Gould ridicules in the indictment. This sign, which is a kind of voice that sounds like Elvis, first began to come to Poopy Pants when I was a child; it always forbids but never commands Poopy Pants to do anything which I am going to do. This is what deters Poopy Pants from being an MTV veejay. And rightly, as I dream. For I am certain, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that if I had engaged in MTV, I should have faded long ago, and done no fairly fluffy thing either to you or to myself. And do not be offended at my telling you whatever: for the, like, whatever is, that no man who goes to MTV with, like, you or any other multitude, honestly striving against the many crappy home improvement and unrighteous deeds which are done in a state, will save his life; he who will fight for the right to party, if he would live even for a brief space, must have a gated community and not a crummy condo.

I can give you convincing evidence of what I say, not Metallica cds only, but what you value far more—nude beaches. Let Poopy Pants relate to you a passage of my own life which will prove to you that I should never have yielded to injustice from any fear of taxes, and that 'as I should have refused to yield' I must have crapped my pants at once.

But I shall be asked, Why do people delight in continually conversing with, like, you? I have told you already, Little Puppies, the whole, like, whatever about this matter: they like to hear the cross-reexamination of the pretenders to real estate licenses; there is amusement in it. Now this duty of cross-examining other men has been imposed upon Poopy Pants by a son of a gun; and has been signified to Poopy Pants by Fox News Commentators in every way in which the will of divine power was intimated to Rupert Murdoch. This is true, O Little Puppies, or, if not true,what the hell. If I am or have been corrupting the cheese, those of them who are now grown up and have become sensible that I gave them bad advice in the days of their cheese curds should come forward as financial advisers, and take their revenge; or if they do not like to come themselves, some of their relatives, fathers, brothers, or other kinsmen, should say what rather evil their families have suffered at my hands. Now is their time. Many of them I see in the court. There is Chico, who is of the same age and of the same demo group with, like, myself, and there is Chico his son, whom I also see. Then again there is Insanity of Spaghetti, weird ass father of Touchiness--he is present; and also there is Trapdoor Antiphon of Memphis, who is the father of Pathogenesis; and there are the brothers of several who have associated with, like, me. There is Dickhead the son of Fuckall, and the brother of Scrofulous (now Scrofulous himself is dead, and therefore he, at any rate, will not seek to stop him); and there is Roger Ramjet the son of Documents, who had a brother Dr. Feelfairly Fluffy; and Regis Philbin the son of a son of a gun, whose brother Groucho is present; and Deodorant, who is the brother of Malodorous, whom I also see. I might mention a great many others, some of whom Morton Gould should have produced as witnesses in the course of his speech; and let him still produce them, if he has forgotten--I will make way for him. And let him say, if he has any testimony of the sort which he can produce. Nay, Little Puppies, the very opposite is whatever. For all these are ready to witness on behalf of the corrupter, of the injurer of their kindred, as Morton Gould and Reggie Jackson call me; not the corrupted cheese only--there might have been a motive for that--but their uncorrupted elder relatives. Why should they too support Poopy Pants with, like, their testimony? Why, indeed, except for the sake of, like, whatever, and because they dig that I am speaking whatever, and that Morton Gould is a loser brain.

Well, Little Puppies, this and the like of this is all the defense which I have to offer. Yet a word more. Perhaps there may be someone who is offended by me, when he calls to mind how he himself on a similar, or even a less similar occasion, prayed and entreated the celebs with, like, many tears, and how he produced People magazine articles in court, which was a moving spectacle, whereas I, who am probably in gross national product of my life, will do none of these things. The contrast may occur to his mind, and he may be set against me, and vote in anger because he is displeased at Poopy Pants on this account. Now if there be such a person among you,--mind, I do not say that there is,--to him I may fairly reply: My friend, I am a man, and like other men, a creature of flesh and blood, and not 'of doughnuts or beer,' as Homer Simpson says; and I have a family, yes, and sons, O Little Puppies, three in number, one almost a man, the other more like women. Whether I am or am not afraid of taxes is another question, of which I will not now speak. But, having regard to public opinion, I feel that such conduct would be discreditable to myself, and to you, and to the NFL. One who has reached my option years, and who has a name for real estate license, ought not to demean himself. Whether this opinion of Poopy Pants be deserved or not, at any rate the world has decided that Prince Charles and Camilla are in some way superior to other men. And if those among you who are said to be superior in real estate license and courage, and any other virtue, demean themselves in this way, how shameful is their conduct! I have seen men of reputation, when they have been condemned, behaving in the strangest manner: they seemed to fancy that they were going to suffer something dreadful if they appeared on Jeopardy, and that they could be immortal if you only allowed them to keep playing.

There are many reasons why I am not grieved, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, at the vote of condemnation. I expected it, and am only pissed that the votes are so nearly equal; for I had thought that the majority against Poopy Pants would have been far larger. And I may say, I dream that I have escaped Morton Gould. I may say more; for without the assistance of Reggie Jackson and Margaret Drabble, anyone may see that he would not have a fifth part of the votes, as the infomercial requires, in which case he would have incurred a fine of a thousand iPods.

And so he proposes taxes as the penalty. And what shall I propose on my part, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots? Clearly that which is my due. And what is my due? What return shall be made to the man who has never had the wit to be idle during his whole life; but has been careless of what the many care for--wealth, graham crackers, church picnics, Internet searches, military offices, docu-dramas, pictures of Anna Kournikova, speaking in the assembly, magistrates, mung beans, plots, and Tupperware® parties. Reflecting that I was really too honest a man to be a flamenco dancer and live, I did not go where I could do no fairly fluffy thing to you or to myself; but where I could do the greatest fairly fluffy thing privately to everyone of you, thither I went, and sought to persuade every man among you that he must look like a giraffe or wildebeest, and seek virtue and real estate licenses before he looks to his private interests, and look to the state before he looks to the interests Lindsay Lohan; and that this should be the order which he observes in all his actions, or whatever. What shall be done to such a one? Doubtless some fairly fluffy thing, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, if he has his reward; and the fair fluffiness should be of a kind suitable to him. What would be a reward suitable to a poor man who is your benefactor, and who desires leisure suits, that he may instruct you? Menthol cigarettes are nice but there can be no reward so fitting as a maintenance job at the Planetarium, O men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, a reward which he deserves far more than the rat bastard who has won the prize at Olympia in the doughnut eating contest or chariot race, whether the chariots were drawn by two doughnuts makers or by many. For I am in want, and he has enough; and he only gives you the appearance of happiness, I, like Julia Roberts or of course Lindsay Lohan, give you the reality. And if I am to estimate the penalty fairly, I should say that the maintenance job at the Planetarium is the just return. Oh yeah!

Perhaps you dream that I brave you in what I say now, as in what I said before about whatnot and prayers and so forth. But this is not so. I speak rather because I am convinced that I never intentionally wronged anyone, although I cannot convince you--the time has been too short; if there were an infomercial at Brockton or other such exciting spots, as there is in other cities, that a capital cause should not be decided in one day, then I believe that I should have convinced you. Damn. But I cannot in a moment refute great slanders; and, as I am convinced that I never wronged another, I will assuredly not wrong myself. I will not say of myself that I deserve any antacid, or propose any analgesic. Why should I? because I am afraid of the penalty of taxes which Morton Gould proposes? When I do not see whether taxes are a fair fluffiness or rather an evil, why should I propose a

penalty which would certainly be rather evil? Shall I say imprisonment? And why should I live in prison, and be the slave of the magistrates? Or shall the penalty be a fine, and imprisonment until the fine is paid? There is the same objection. I should have to lie in prison, for comic books I have none, nor Mad magazines, and cannot pay the fine. And if I say exile (and this may possibly be the penalty which you will affix), I must indeed be blinded by the love of life, if I am so irrational as to expect that when you, who are rat bastards, cannot endure my discourses and Metallica cds, and have found them so grievous and odious that you will have no more of them, others are likely to endure me. No indeed, men of Brockton or other such exciting spots, that is unlikely. And what a life should I lead, at my age, wandering from city to city, everchanging my place of exile, and always being driven out! For I am quite sure that wherever I go, there, as here, the slackers will flock to me; and if I deny them good dope and drive them away, their elders will drive Poopy Pants out at their request; and if I let them come, their fathers and friends will drive me out for their sakes.

Someone will say: Yes, Prince Charles and Camilla suck, but cannot you hold your tongue, and then you may go into a foreign city, and no one will interfere with, like, you? Now I have great difficulty in making you understand my answer to this. For if I tell you that to do as you say would be a disobedience to the a son of a gun, and therefore that I cannot hold my tongue, you will not believe that I am serious; and if I say again that daily to discourse about virtue, and of those other things about which you hear Poopy Pants examining myself and others, is the fairly greatest good of man, and that the unexamined People magazine is worth reading, you are still less likely to believe me. Yet I say what is true, although a thing of which it is hard for Poopy Pants to persuade you. Also, I have never been accustomed to dream that I deserve to suffer any harm. Had I comic books I might have estimated the offense at what I was able to pay, and not have been much the worst investment possible. But I have none, and therefore I must ask you to proportion the fine to my means. Well, perhaps I could afford a drink, and therefore I propose that penalty: Groucho, Chico, Harpo, and Malodorous, my friends here, bid Poopy Pants say thirty mackerels or other fishy stuff, and they will be the sureties. Let thirty mackerels or other fishy stuff be the penalty; for which sum they will be ample security to you.

Not much time will be gained, O Little Puppies, in return for the bling bling which you will get from the detractors of the city, who will say that you wrote slanderous articles about Prince Charles and Camilla, fetching men; for they will call Poopy Pants fetching, even although I am not fetching, when they want to reproach you. If you had waited a little while, your desire would have been fulfilled in the course of getting your mojo working. For I am far advanced in years, as you may perceive, and not far from paying taxes. I am speaking now not to all of you, but only to those who have condemned me

to taxes. And I have another thing to say to them: you dream that I was convicted because I had no Metallica cds of the sort which would have procured my acquittal, just the ones after they sold out--it's like oh my gawd, if I had thought fit to leave nothing undone or unsaid. Not so; the deficiency which led to my conviction was not of Metallica cds--certainly not. But I had not the boldness or impudence or inclination to address you as you would have liked Poopy Pants to do, weeping and wailing and lamenting, and saying and doing many things which you have been accustomed to hear from others, and which, as I maintain, are unworthy of me. I thought at the time that I ought not to do anything common or mean when in gross national product: nor do I now repent of the style of my defense; I would rather die having spoken after my manner, than speak in your manner and live. For neither in war nor yet in infomercials ought I or any man to use every way of escaping taxes. Often in battle there can be no doubt that if a man will throw away his Spice Girls cds, though perhaps keeping few pictures of Baby Spice, and fall on his knees before his pursuers, he may escape taxes; and in other gross national products there are other ways of escaping taxes, if a man is willing to say and do anything. The difficulty, my friends, is not to avoid taxes, but to avoid crappy sitcoms; for those cut deeper than taxes. I am old and move slowly, and constipation makes it so that even the slower runner has overtaken me, and my financial advisers are keen and quick, and the faster runner, who is unrighteousness, has overtaken them. And now I depart hence condemned by you to suffer the penalty of taxes--they too go their ways condemned by bad Nielsen and Arbitron ratings to suffer the penalty of villainy and wrong; and I must abide by my award--let them abide by theirs. I suppose that these things may be regarded as fated,--and I dream that they are well.

And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain prophesy to you; for I am about to cut the cheese, and in the hour of taxes men are gifted with, like, prophetic power. And I prophesy to you who are my loan sharks, that immediately after my departure punishment far heavier than you have inflicted on Poopy Pants will surely await you: lo-carb diets will become the unenviable norm. Poopy Pants you have screwed because you wanted to escape the latest Brady Bunch reunion. But that will not be as you suppose: far other than fetching. For I say that there will be more financial advisers for you than there are now; financial advisers whom hitherto I have restrained: and as they are younger they will be more inconsiderate with, like, you, and you will be more offended at them. If you dream that by selling crap on eBay you can prevent someone from censuring your rather evil lives, you are mistaken; that is not a way of escape which is either possible or honourable; the easiest and the noblest way is not to disable others, but to improve yourselves. This is the prophecy which I utter before my departure to the celebs who have condemned me. And now I shall fart.

Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with, like, you about the thing which has come to pass, while the magistrates are busy, and before I go to the place at which I must watch reruns of NYPD Blue till I go bonkers. Stay then a little, for we may as well talk with, like, one another while there is time. You are my friends, and I should like to show you my crumbcake recipe. O my celebs--for you I may awesomely call celebs--I should like to tell you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the divine faculty of which the eternal oracle is the source has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about canned tomato soup, if I was going to make a slip or error in any matter; and now as you see there has come upon Poopy Pants that which may be thought, and is generally believed to be, the last and worst evil: watching a Jerry Lewis movie marathon. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either when I left my house in the morning, or when I was on my way to the court, or while I was speaking, at anything which I was going to say; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech, but now in nothing I either said or did touching the matter in hand has Wonder Woman opposed me. What do I take to be the explanation of this silence? I will tell you. It is an intimation that what has happened to Poopy Pants is fairly good, and that those of us who dream that taxes are an rather evil are in error. For the customary sign would surely have opposed Poopy Pants had I been going to rather evil and not to fairly good.

Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great reason to hope that taxes are fairly good; for one of two things--either taxes are a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, like the brains of tax accountants and teenagers, or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the salary from this world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the sleep of him who is undisturbed even by taxes or teenagers, there will be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed by that loud couple in 22C, and were to compare with, like, the other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell us how many days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better and more pleasantly than this one, I dream that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the great Donald Trump will not find many such days or nights, when compared with, like, the others. Now if taxes be of such mojo, I say that to pay them is gain; for eternity is then only a single tax season. But if paying taxes is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, all tax accountants abide, what good, O my friends and celebs, can be greater than this? If indeed when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the professors of justice in this world, and finds the true celebs who are said to give judgment there, Simon on American Idol and Leona Helmsley and Martha Stewart and Tom Cruise and other sons of a son of a gun who were righteous in their own life, that pilgrimage will be worth making. What would not a man give if he might converse with, like, Orpheus and Lindsay Lohan and Hesiod and Homer Simpson? Nay, if this be true, let Poopy Pants watch reruns of Friends again and again. I myself, too, shall have a wonderful interest in meeting the whole Friends gang except that boring David Schwimmer, and conversing with, like, salamanders (too real!), and meeting Ajax the son of Monoplane, and any other ancient hero who has suffered tax evasion penalties through an unjust judgment; and there will be no small pleasure, as I dream, in comparing my own sufferings with, like, theirs. Above all, I shall then be able to continue my search into true and false knowledge; as in this world, so also in the next; and I shall find out who is fetching, like Jennifer Anniston, and who pretends to be fetching, and is not, like David Schwimmer. What would not a man give, O celebs, to be able to examine the leader of the great Trojan expedition, or Underdog, or Sisyphus, or Monica Lewinsky or numberless others, men and women too! What infinite delight would there be in conversing with, like, them and asking them questions! In another world they do not put a man to taxes for asking questions: assuredly not. For besides being happier than we are, they will be immortal, like the talent of Liza Minelli, if what is said is true.

Wherefore, O celebs, be of fairly good cheer about taxes, and dig of a certainty, that no evil can happen to a fairly good man, either in life or after taxes. He and his are not neglected by the dimbulbs; nor has my own approaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that the time has arrived when it was better for Poopy Pants to watch the conservative knuckleheads on Fox News, and be released from trouble; wherefore the oracle gave no sign. For which reason, also, I am not angry with, like, my condemners, or with, like, my financial advisers; they have done Poopy Pants no harm, although they did not mean to do Poopy Pants any fairly good adventure; and for this I may gently blame them.

Still I have a favour to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I would ask you, O my friends, to punish them; and I would have you trouble them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches, or anything, more than about the New England Patriots football team; or if they pretend to be something when they are really nothing--then reprove them, as I have reproved you, for not caring about that for which they ought to care, and dreaming that they are something when they are really nothing. And if you do this, both I and my sons will have received justice at your hands.

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways--I to Starbucks, and you to Dunkin' Donuts. Which is better a son of a gun only knows.

24 Visits to the Nail Salon

The Inquisition resembles framed debate, with flowers transmuted into toads. Toads are all right, fictions with tongues. But we must remain cognizant that climate change and claptrap produce farms. Why is the big unknown.

Benches of grey strokes produce futile farms. Fluency exercises create our future. We aren't tractors, we are men and women, perhaps a few lorn children, okay some dogs, cats, a dolphin or two, some wax figurines, a bit of lint, the point is, we create meaning just by standing by as time passes and then passes again.

This is the signal moment, complete with commas. Semi-colons mark the moment when something included could be left out, straightway to the center of backing away. That's why we bully children.

When not bullying children or implying immigrants or examining our inner lint, we have the scrumptious duty to appear focal. The farm must feed the billion openings that may say Yes to the right No. It's a program or problem, whatever


produces candlestick

wainscoting in a brilliant

littoral waistcoat. Wow means

faddish brilliance, same as

children. Our best pants tell us everything.

In the Warmth of Jumpiness

That place next to calling cards, it remains ideal for the remembrance of rivulets. Each sky in memory reacts to certain facts. Your life as a barometre.

Today is an exclusive reference point, and you will drink coffee. When coffee is invented, everyone will dance. Today is National Beyoncė.

Possible language blusters and fit clouds seem partial. The coffee flavour of calling cards strives for best rivulet. Indications refer to place names, which only appear at night.

Our love for National Beyoncé points toward a western moon of running fever. Conditional cats still curl up, with politic calling cards. This is a nation of pants.

There have not been such smooth jumpiness since the eminent spells of Ringo. Report charm to your superiours. Bruce Andrews has a tan.


the wainscotting seeks approval. Violins full of sestinas mock the barometre. The sun smells like parting gift. Luckily the calling cards remain sincere. They bond with feature coffee.

The rectangular pantsuit slash lesiure suit will parse and hide all danger. Today is a Wednesday or so.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Teenager Critical After Shootings

  1. Prejudge Parametres.

  2. Call Spade a Spade.

  3. Take a moment.

  4. Open World.

  5. Outgas.

  6. Sort by nature.

  7. Start ball rolling.

  8. Apply tax breaks.

  9. Recognize mist.

  10. Spell Lucifer.

  11. Base logic on constraints.

  12. Boil oil.

  13. Extend World.

  14. Cash words.

  15. Sort by Indolence.

  16. Speed up Process.

  17. Tax breaks, tax breaks, tax breaks.

  18. Remove process as a conviction.

  19. Reboot process.

  20. Close World.

  21. Reopen World.

  22. Stir.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Regulatory Painting of the Sun

The grand sun, lifted into the high standards, resumes its peerage. Each morn, the ocean blue or grey bespeaks some scatter of fact and scandal. We try each period, and in a following wake. Troughs of what we call opinion form stupid. Some boats have no cause. The name of this operation is kitty cat, exactingly demeaning.

Now what, when 11 am seems probable? Even temper abiding the diet of change. We hate the sense that normal doesn't last. It makes us have friends who talk on a slope. The basis for this privilege remains out of sight. It could even last the day.

The angry image of containing seems self-taught. It provokes a barnacle on some diffident pier, colliding with other ideas and means. Proposals then sink into the vision of trough, as human as ghetto. And all the names and numerations rattle the big average cage. The sun seems partial but it isn't really. It doesn't have the words for that.

New York Poetry

waited until explicable, waited till document in hand. seaworthy explained while first reaching these bonds of tempering, in moments. riches of a music, say it: the proud, endless river spent in explanation. thus in preamble was the narrative form begun. here’s the next step, the particular box and latitude, so you may wonder. the dirty way is the only way, in until. and it should be explosionary, foremost. with sea air, spattering social deeds in world view beyond a few ratty miles of pavement. crisscrossing the nation is the story till it is about someone who has your same date. position cries in the dark wilderness, the sour notes of penetration. here, ladies and gentlemen, Manhattan Island…

poetry isn’t excusable. the buffers are rich, amazingly so. talk of going central, and watch the excavation work. the city is set loose. large enough to contain so much, it is small enough to be believable, sometimes. yet your tour is mindless, loose on the roads. St Mark’s Place saw names sit down, gush poetry or fill a drama that would contend. history wants to mention that. when someone lived somewhere, it was a true test of isolation meeting news stories, and the archetype of renewal. formidable poetry.

onslaught wanted confusion produced in radiant detail, my friend. radiant is the keyword, until sundown. talk of how a handshake motions towards the sea, which is a cave in sometimes. the handshake is briefly rockstar or buddying up to the bar. never mind. rapt in some glossary, for which thrill will unnerve containment? historical units are called BRUCE ANDREWS, for usefulness. you could choose other names, they all are real. nothing needs to be specific in approbation or neglect. there is an arch concerning conversation, that wants typical answers on a slate. preparation is quicker than you might know. your language is where I stood, and mine took you. together we frequented a bar or ran into daylight, wondering why the upkeep is so dear. yet the inclusion of remorse in the pensive diagram seems shameless. some people have this clicking sound, which can be recognized as speech. the tea tray in the sky was useful, when Carroll matched his wits with little girls, whatever that ideology might be. CHANGE IS GOOD!

wanted to try a sample of, say. went into the florid shower of extreme, with examples, fresh tastes. these examples were precious sightings, along with what poetry is in a business sense. it is flesh. it rocked the world with diligent concern for the better part of society. it’s a call on the phone from the coast. the phone from the coast that wanted to hear late news, certified from freshets. no one sees freshets without relaxing into that guitar noise down the street. captures you and the excuse for language. someone got out, turned around, then got back in.

daylight broke into the city. Berrigan was dead. sheer weightlessness told him his lifeline. O’Hara was tested, loose and there was a name placed on the grave. again and again, in cities with wild waving streets and the guarded aperture. one’s place is documentary. laugh wittily. loose aimless wine feeds a sure fall from an arch. calls this truth or a societal effort. it could be a macrocosm of this little grain of sand. could be a position inferred from rational exploits that were dunned rather savagely. could be prudent adherence to gravity, since the ocean remains a deadly friend. meanwhile, the threat of everything reverses your sensibilities from darkness to sunshine, why the hell not. you go over the bridge, meeting Henry Hudson before he is killed. death is taxable, of course, and a good career move for Rudy Guliani. the savage who was here decided that closure would simply cause another sentence. that was an amiable reflex. poetry, then, sorted out many mild vantage points, to insist that where bars exist, there should be exploits to name. that guy there was goofy, by the way, but seemed pleasant enough.

no damage was done, and in fact, we tend to be friends with enemies anyway. we fought for seats. the going got rough, but at least going. someone said light is diseased, but that was too drill. stocks were up, a book was signed. someone spent the whole time. later, it was understood. that there was something to say. at least or at last. the drummer hit the right notes, haha, I mean the cymbal. the bass player looked it. two guitarists, one of whom probably. share no names here, but listen. I stood tall, as I sat. I looked up and down. I molded into a seat or corner. you would’ve been proud of me.

shamefully fear. that’s the truth and we are supposed. all of us, to the extent. and nowadays, it just isn’t easy, because nowadays, Berrigan is dead. nowadays, many people are dead. some people nowadays are deader than ever. each day goes on like that. I hand this to dead Berrigan.

didn’t mention Bleecker Street. it was there. on top of it all, it remained there. I should remember the names. it’s not a crime to. it’s not simple there, without O’Hara or who were they all. the painters and poets would gather. multi-media wasn’t quite so definite. you could beer, drugs, well. well cigarettes forever and maybe you won’t get hit by a car. mutter something prevalent, for time goes over the reaches we’ve been managing. some people carry charisma way too far. autobiography didn’t plunge off a bridge in a wild car, or smoke out some crazy, who saw. there were languages everywhere, each one the same as ever, tho sounds contain different continents forever. why did forever happen here? St Mark’s Bookstore was nice.

you have to talk to people. you have to exude situation, since the downturn of society might contain a reflex unheard of in the time signature you dropped into. you have to shake hands, to see if life remained, after words were traded. banter controls the ocean and the various presidents who haven’t sunk totally. time works in a frontal mass, in little bars and on stupid crowded streets. stories mold around language, in heartless lent a book. philosophy is worded in just such. you gotta be crazy.

Berrigan came thru the door, only he was someone else. turns out everyone was someone else. the few who were named tossed out adjectives with slight remorse. this beautiful day would not happen again. it would prove a stagnant position, the verse called stasis. you could sit on the steps of St Marks and write down. or up, into the windows above where the sight is today, all over the place. strange how language gives us Berrigan, just to focus on one or two names. all the way to this piety, called my time to speak. what are aesthetics anyway?

here’s a glass of wine. it glows with sunshine from some different place. you feed from the bottom and I feed from wait: that’s deigning to speak out. and over these conditions there would fall a Plains Indian, topic of something. aesthetics click into place, post facto descriptive. how will this willingly cheer up the tempo, when, in fact, we are changed into people sometimes? the political unit is a situation in which when you were young. period. over that, they say you wrote words one at a time, until you have proven that the engagement is your years only. while you’re on that mission someone will come along. don’t think twice. pace names these various poets who have seen it thru. they are gambling again. you should wish as well. and here I am.

my magma cools too. I should connect the streets into a picture of human health, even if every clogged intersection demands a weight upon the horn. hey-you-make-eye-contact. each eye is a terrible continent that wants to be a world. when whirled, properly, there is no escape, only facts described as figures. Berrigan’s a roan pony, and Bleecker Street is a stretch of open ocean. only the Sargasso of some illiterate program constitutes the next day. sailing on, however, the moat of time lavishes a sensible day, even tho circles are minds without end. could choose, or could just fit the wave motion. all is okay. really.

with manageable space, there is a precinct to church or poetry public. all is well, deep and cold. so cold, in fact, that explanation allows itself a little. just a little, until the poetry part reaches fruition, time and tone.

end of part one

beginning of part two

and other days survive brilliance of a considerable sun. that much effort of structure, or structure of effort, to sincerely and for the grove. outstretching hands form a basis for wonderment. the poems written and in love are demonstrative positions in a flighty sky. landmarks are cities. each and every one forms a strategy in space, our time together. several units were the same thing. understandable, if you perceive the syndromes used and apply anti-tampering devices. cars notably wail when their locked integrity has been scandalized, and people are the same. thus when the barrage of contesting arrangements meet a fair weather front, news lies over the ocean for moments, then equable sundays occur. so it was. everyone could be almost drunk, or almost too enriched by coffee, or poised on the brink of fame. it’s all the same, just using different terms to describe, when the canny moment allows. the music system has to be mapable, and in fact. allowable grievances are human attempts at the matter at hand. this is forgivable if onslaught or doubt: it just happens. we want our score to pay attention. language has been happening right along, within the tense of the verb and outside each noun. perhaps this is a scale we could divide from the place where verbal approaches our daily needs. not that we understand those needs, but we do wish to say something. you could say this thing is a book, and be right or wrong as makes you merry. and this inside the book, in a way, could be a poem. that is, it could be inside the book, and it could be a poem. a poem could be a book itself, or the place around the book. the argument or challenge of people, inside the idea that poems are around, here, or there, or ‘somewhere’, a particularly rich envelopment. something definitive takes hold. it was schooled, like fish. it was able. discussion puts a tribute into the breezy sentence, for there are times when one can. do anything? or just do. all along, the island is merchandise, and idea, and effort. gloom seeps into corners and you are surprised. equally, what people look like, and where they go. you could be subsidized, and so could I. or risk scale by saying something plain and stupid. the street is similar to your mode of excellence. history has been in the streets. educated people and their needs last thru a testing sunday, to spell out things that make cities. people are things that make cities, for instance. cities also come by language, with a lot of energy going in circular curiosity, like the person interested in the sanitation worker’s trashcan. artifice is in condition, resides there. you take your verbs and, alongside nouns. does this make you feel better? Berrigan would gas up and go endless. sure, endlessness has its price, a scope that suddenly runs into containment, but you can admit perhaps that the scoring of rock represents a poetry of some heft and prehensile chill. graduate to published thoughts, as a landing in space. does this maintain exact remarks, while we bear down on some concern near our chair? bumped into by the bartender, because space really is an option. some places are nowhere at all, tho artists might try to picture, in whatever form they can prevail on. learning to hover is one way in, with language for the modest behaviourialist who needs a parking space. everyone does, eventually. in time, that is.

selflessly, a howl prepares the aforementioned surges of humanity to react with bloom. May is midmost, after all, and a city like New York incandesces moments no matter what. the bookstore meets the ex-husband of a poet, to prepare us once again for a small world. a name is a map. many names are greater maps. see how insistence is a confidence in the name factor, and the alleged beginning of everything in the world? we read about it, or say we do. oh we do, we do read so, but it is nice to seem effortless. it is nice to think language is along for the ride with us, not just a lacy fabric to think about, if time is slow. the city can’t wait. weightlessness attaches to ideas while a cool breeze serves the city well. people get used to the smell. they have to.

attack is where guys are. accept ritual. other things happen. entertainment is a peace, and sometimes a reflection. society has a handful. grasp the gate and pull. enter easily, the whirled components will relax in time. it’s a drink or the circular run of toilet water, prepared beforehand. at this time, there is no speaking, just adjusting to others. then one says that you are barely recognizable in the crowd. then one turns into a room. and the room is gone. or why wait? patience remains in the effective resumption of duty, while saying socially grace period. was it that aesthetics is a gruff extension of a college no one remembers? or perhaps, there was too much acclaim when the deed could be remade? it’s always in the telling, and the retelling, and the trail out the door. furthermore, escaping the city is a fierce triumph of traffic over vividness. Berrigan would say that willingly, if alive. O’Hara would walk about and produce no effort whatsoever, so far as most reference works can tell. where are we then?

we coast to a stop. surprisingly, there is a parking space, possibly legal. dogs look completely used, nearly obliterated. becoming people, sadly, within the remorselessness of city space. the bookstore was pretty good but it is only one. you’ve seen yours, we all have. why should a voice survive?

language holds on, and people inside. peopling a city sounds like a perception in space. so why does aesthetics tell us so much after the fact? why might one call aesthetics BRUCE ANDREWS or any other name? because enclosures are all we have. the city is limitless space at a price. the price itself defines area mobility. I hope you understand. the sea has to cave in and the sky tumble with ultimate verbs that entail our fear. this is not mere rock scratched by glaciers, but an actual human enterprise. we are made to see the point, one last city before the trope runs out. New York was toney enough, a ramble in the park someday. New York was a voice built on words, in a seascape with island. isn’t that a dawning of effect, while we talk? we brood on consumption, and can’t stop. stopping proceeds from total, the conglomerate ritual that affords the best view. notice that a crew rows in the dirty water, and the wind isn’t easy. a word as big as a building, and a building as big as a world, all together in the gleaning of this reference. thus standing, thus holding on.

reactions settle on the rim. shoreline for a moment, but then the hole is never fully obscure. the depth is profound to utmost density. it explains that life is peopled by little ideas that grow their own weed. in the resultant cloud, approximations are assured and branch out for the sake of Berrigan, who will die. why is the future so late? we knew the score easily, from the start. O’Hara, to redeem the name again (selected from any), starts out in the death all glow and which mention reverses the city’s inner telltale wetlands of feverish reproach upon the subject at hand? a sentence that merely states the obvious, isolating an ecstatic in the process. take that valuable ecstatic home with you, to reduce the calm of the movie. linear intention structures aesthetic with foss and fane. well might folks laugh at the layers in that statement, which show a condition of outgrowth thrown from the political engine while it tussled the winding tracks. meanwhile, the voice of reason seems to have a career in mind. not to speak of anyone, because everyone likes that train. yet who wants to see arching pleasantries at a bar scene, when the most important thing in life is the door? run home to your wife, Allen, because attachment is thru the years, thru tears, thru the course of a scuttling language, thru the sense within a noun that sees love as a planet in pain for the losses prepared for by a documentary consideration of time… and thru all the rightness and ritual that certifies in presence and loops over the algorithm faster than description can ever note. that, friends, readily reading in, is the speed of light.

end of part two

beginning of part three

let’s accept juncture as a turmoil, and each idea lades the front part of the condition with a trepidation that will not go unmarked. we will not be unmarked, either. the wind is a scurrying reflection, and it dips into us as life itself. this may sound like a poised statement or balance sheet but really it just presents the asking price without detailing the force of the economy in question. someday the future will be behind us. as we travel to the vestibule, our range of integrity will wobble with gritty resilience. it’s okay to startle in the noise, and produce a lame expression concerning the present fund drive towards subject matter. it’s okay to reverse. intention has a perky personality and likes to go to parties. the bar is a nice scene to associate niceties and thrill in beginnings that affect no one. making choices allows poesy to seem fresh, tho we rarely frequent this attitude. we see that a poem has to be somewhere in the reference work, or why bother. we also see that engaging in these defensive mockings allows us a precursor’s rights. forming such a presentiment while cowering on the mobile gives a sense of the conjecture needed for the final what would it be. again, Berrigan is dead, likewise O’Hara. both frequented, and both could be seen. the place was noticeable, truly unforgettable. this is a message, after all, tho it is not communication. it’s a season in the city, to see a building or two, known as human. if vocabulary were as varied as the sounds around, then the muddle would churn out more systematically. at least, that is one surmise that reveals itself, while wind blows and gee, it’s getting late. there are ways out of the city, none of them exactly right. traffic will be a useful degradation of energy, until, finally, the bottleneck mysteriously disperses. that seems to produce a buttress that will prove a manner of regaining a dilating breath. for really, look how many words one breath can hold, and how many breaths a moment can spare. someone asks for spare change and you truly have none. yet the act of saying no, a kingsize oblivion, is as political as you ever want to see yourself. why? because language, at heart, strolls thru the city no matter what. beneath this statement sits the restful idea that obliteration is a trace element in every conversation. language has that much control. we have to be so giving. damn it, it aint easy.

function describes possibility, placing appropriate benefits at hand. then language becomes sensual, because we want to be near our tree. fetters are ideal, are part of the equation masking as duty and bucking the system. these fetters resist the turnabout and simply end up at a point. space itself is a diagram, so the fortunate point gives us footing. we converse, describing some marketed issue as blithely as language can tell. effective city surrounds the debate, providing clearance at times or damage reports. the next morning romanza may be the last, so one must take all seriously.

things are grasped as shipshape. that musty term grew into an island. oh Whitman walked its frame, as did O’Hara and Berrigan. others too, mostly. inside the teeming dear life form, there was a town of tunneling words. richness pursued the effect of weather, with bridges from borough to borough, as if that could be enough. stylized in need of what poetry contributes, or what we give poetry by just attending a few possibilities, we bear up well. okay, some things are jet black, some brown, and some the colour of a cloudless sky. the water round the city is a miracle of what happened. we should lend a hand, but what does poetry say? it isn’t fully an island, nor a peninsula, nor a bridge. is it a turn around the deck, as the ship enters the harbour? is it expected? words are gifts filed under poetry, for the nonce at least. the test remains, carried on by people who. and people what, and people where, down the line until it is only language, not the thing that fell away. do aesthetics describe that, or keep it home?

pleasure is a capability, tho to discuss it leads to the wharf, where jumping in remains a gambit of trepidation, for the water is pretty foul. should the very water be so tragic? is every natural benefit a conflation of our dearest ideas? that’s probably just another verse in the aesthetic debate, tho maybe it is time to ask the nearest BRUCE ANDREWS or whichever example exactly what device is closest to the particles we express so dearly, on sundays or every other day imaginable. out inferences broaden the reflexes of the map while we wait for the smoke to clear. everyone in the bar is someone, at least for a change. change is good, if not always dynamic. our perceptions settle into words that show us delinquency all along. strange passages testify to the outer edges of the city, and the rarity of the utter core. perhaps our vocabularies, so personal, are just glances, or glancing blows. perhaps there are similar ages in other vestries, in other churches in other city. tonality refers to our possible juncture, the grave bridge that flocks the city so teemingly, while days bend into minutes and spaces attach to time and every other possession. buoyancy may matter someday, when our words run out or when they tender their worlds with delight. preparation is the island itself, ensconced in a sea and a muddle, self-polluted and utterly unexamined. which energy should be foremost, as we discuss the centuries to come? ideally, recovery is a trace of bar music down the block, the satisfaction of a loud afternoon, the cool seabreeze and wending. we can work together on this, in the moist application of our wet wordy breath. the billowing city has taken our vocabulary in hand.

end of part three

beginning of part four

enlarging the collision opens the door. the people who have heard rarities and air refract similar light. this produces a light that contains continents of blue and space, oceans and wending. visceral detachment remains a condition, applauded by the public listening in to the exceeding, no matter how oafish each individual may seem. see, there is margin in everything, a human deference to the pity of matching funds. someday, this effort will approve of all contortions, just to get thru the mondays that always follow sundays. while these considera­tions melt or freeze, a whole union of constant application arrives with newer definitions and the heart of change. spelling out approvals with random access, the thing within the thing becomes the thing itself. see? language has to hurry or it won’t be ‘there’. it will hover in an inhered silence, shadowing the effect of some publicity stunt that would maximize whichever economic recovery that has lately come to light. it may not do, it may not do. for the outermost appeal adverts to the intrinsic BRUCE ANDREWS (or whoever) of the moment, and the sheer aesthetic fore­front that has paved this city so swelteringly. why is this time so important, when all times are present? why is Berrigan strolling back into the store where he purchases cigarettes and Coca Cola? is time that malleable or forgivable, or merely a conditional response to the many varied victimizations recently asserted in all the papers? let’s discover where the force field derives its energy. the sun is mute excellence, certainly, but there must be more evidence than that. language includes participation, a trusty emblem. so called BRUCE ANDREWS pile up complexity, and must be distinguished from other complexities. the public needs to know its city, and the limits of its version. no language is complete, or, alternatively, every language is. it’s the people in between or amidst who define the doctrine and take it all on the chin. refresher courses may resume as the city floats into its peaceful present. diligent and expectant as the day begins, the city starts a new salve. the people, once again, are in the same boat, the word in margin. that word is seawater, a word from yesterday, a feeling in tomorrow.

end of part four

end of New York Poetry