Simple Theories

  Larks in morning brightness, no one talks. Glistening field and being there in time. Our appointment has been harvested. The directive stays clear and worth the many steps to. Love will still be, aftermath of before. All remaining notes will band together and on the song will go.

  An ancient king, Sargon—not just dust but a placid framework—built himself into present ages as a necessity. And who said “Sargon, don’t think negatively. Your negations mean a world”. We see it all the time, the straining words, the sense of prologue to a brightly undefined fitfulness called The Future. Sargon built walls, sure sign of eminence. He could not reject space because he filled. The rally of his greatness lasts and lasts, as he could tell you in sacred cuneiform. How epic the way time embraces everything including beginnings and ends, and the idea of brimming. Sargon began as a wee enterprise, far from floral or residual, yet after floating downstream, he rose. The Standard Inscription of Assurnasirpal II dressed for the afterlife. And then a map of the Akkadian Empire. All this produced walls, mighty walls, and explicit ziggurats, commerce. A reliance on community invoke the cursory imagination. Trammels replaced trammels, blood seeded blood. History wrote the gods a...

  Brain castle falls to purple blasting, city riot closing of generous things. New words everyday. Soundings. Newer words sound difference, pickling. Nominal, private scorching remains. Nominal human instincts at the end of the day. Pictish behaviour of disappearing into DNA, anabasis and timeline. Biographies begin on the ledge of that anticipation, where we meet Roses and factions together. Tumbling as rocks and hailed, the words settle to a preponderent, but with assonance, like a bird. New words every day. Alameda had once been a peach orchard, side by side in American literature, till the fret of dawn and the rising ocean of new poetics. The word came down to several words, in time. The view from today’s ramparts reports skeins of agitation making something unenclosing the present moment, or one like it. The stems of daffodils cozen the eye, oh but the eye cozens itself. Restless archives of communal action testify to the inner Trotskyite. Thrips create lift using an unsteady ...

  Much was new in Paris universities in 1969. Signs filtered thru intention, extreme weight loss in strictures, potent conversion rights, grey stone building brightly available, the undue but over rich noise. So ramparts filled proverbially, lexical lines drawn to engaged students and enraged hermetics. So prompting was 1969 light, moon available, liberal stanzas. Beat fills sails, church bells thud ludic moon. So dainty of history, so prologue. Paris happened in 1969, with ingrown specifics and vegetive language. A headache never changed. Had no electricity, only candles and the brakeman’s duffel bag. Sack cloth, and little else blurring celebration.

  Officer  could , in the failure of light—inner rustle. Alphabet learned from some aimless rock. It seems to fulfill elliptical in its path, but only guesses surmount. We looked over the horizon, beyond the most eyeball, and thought so, truly. And monumental extending of the work placed just so, tagged forever. It could not hold a name but was larger than smaller, possibly the extent of possible. We began to see the length of alphabet, thinking how we collect together. Language amounts to ratiocination. Can almost talk or place that alphabet to good use and reflection of sound noise thru spacious earnest citadels and town borders, closed wayfarers and sinking feeling. Thinking about unhappiness all the time, just for the pleasure in crude maximums and minimums, and coupled to a boundlessness that ekes forever in the smallest kindness. Age makes a spur, and settles all until. Forget you bombast, the least of the beat formally continues.

  Kerouac jack with all these words, chariots from the heavens, from many. Pharaohs from sun igniting many heavens, fields of words, plainly. When the wind lifts the sand, the sand hits the eye. Lowell hovers in a past. a small textile manu facturing planet, a mill. The Merrimack River in north eastern Massachusetts, about thirty miles north of downtown Boston, placed just so. Someone calls for an advance. Plows use caution. Pyramids form perfectly, practically, for the space of death left by roadsides. A line forms from point to no point and light’s farther end