Monday, November 23, 2015

Robert Creeley with the Time to Plant a Rose

If we could satisfy patient interest and moonbeam along exact road not dust trail. Verb will stand as a sense of moment. And then we decide fervid blandishment articulated in collapse, because we think poetry can't work. There was a town called Oddity where we kept our children sad.

We will now donate our stupid to elastic temperance, a form of language. With language, we call. The roof seems unstable, the portico admits nonsense. Presidential hopeful isn't how we breathe.

Robert Creeley's pants began in Arlington, which was a time or so, and grew more in Acton, on the coast of nouns. Most nouns leave home. This is not to say the war will win, only that the stupid of stones vote often with their verbs.

It cannot stop looking, the thing donald trump load. It presents a guess at dynamics by way of slurring speech, even the very noun in which the present of the heart demands a free aorta. Free all aortas, and the quotidian in the day that sends dusk to let us rest. Enough of your stupid mouth donald trump!

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