Saturday, November 14, 2015

I Could Not Find the Specific Location

Dear Assabet, the river that meets the Sudbury and floods the Concord. Dear river, you have moved something. You are not a regional rocket landing for the sake of what explodes density tribunal once.

River goes out a spurt of earth to go some earthy miles in an active geology. Then the way water goes down, a religion of just that way. No guns and that famous spew right now. Paris is a town to the right of what we have mapped here. Assabet wants to be just Concord, you can hold your own. Own is the favoured stance. Poems are wormy things to dignify the vast whatsis of arrangement. Words.

Words are tomorrow because today says something says something. We have to lie sometimes. Add that to nothing and nothing wants more meat. A poem become instant.

An instant can handle the track, Aegean waves from after years star meaning moment. Meaning enters work, telling story, fractal. You

are a useless reference.

Pluto Gets a Little Psychedelic

The wind appropriate to the next word to say.

The wind after some time.

The place where from the wind starts begins more wind. The town in the recent wind seems frail. This is the town line.

The known wind returns favour of wind. The wind brings word. The town opens each word.

Along the daily river, a wind conditions the day. Any day with wind becomes a place. A town is any place, and with words.

A river goes as it goes. Each word of wind arrives again, as town.

Town is a little pall, worded thus.