Sunday, September 11, 2016

Do Some Things in the Community

The children as people,
as possible in the ranks,
as the verb to lord closes a condition,
as tornado in the mouth of many,
as plainsong long ago,
as rhythm based on rhythm,
as fortunate enclosures,
as land mine destinies,
as open soreness,
as seeming thru the peerage,
as poking all the wound,
as time spent over anxious,
as boon and bust magma,


the town, the
way they talk that is almost
our talk, as we feel
our completion (in the throne room
and deli), potent sensible except
children, not the
full town, only the edge
of town, these children who can
listen not exactly
speak, not the trump of
winning but the
quietly there, here
is there for
children, when
remember, the

Door completes the
picture. We open doors
to close.

Gary From Accounting

Opiates are great, we live on their steps. We look back on their day, the waving light beams beaming our way. Our way is a right way, with gloss on certain words. A sentence begins this way:

Terrific towns of land, the verb to go, the land mines of nouns called people, sweat logs and purple sage, the gasping aspiration left on doorstep by the dinner bell, periods of empathy marked by patterns of neglect, pious organdy stasis, feldmarschal feelers, lateral train, town lines and more towns, the factions that said faction first, and voter registration.

a lasting impression, discussion of doubts, something in the middle pushed to the side, flecks of apple leaf in the organic autumn wind, a sort of drought like the death of some strange empty void without victims.

3-Story Beer Bong (Light Reading)

In the time of orange, children sported with place. The cool integers, the fighting pronouns, stood for change. Change came coloured. A tree born of new times let loose a leaf of lettered green. Blue union excused a city, a red union blew smoke. Tied in the tracks of varying colours, the children seemed to settle. Warring parties explained differences, inventing new ones in logic cycles. Some children were just hungry and it wasn’t a story.

Later, fully lettered in outside words, the nation sensed the city soul, pitied nothing and moved on. That colour was read by many.