Thursday, April 10, 2014

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

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