Simple Theories

the sky as crisp as donation, lumps of sweat filling the treasury. I could tell you more, and so could you. a wind as fresh as Arch Duke Mayhem, precious spectacle in time of war. tachyon splendour reduces the cost of next Star Trek episodes. leaves freighted to the colour of ominous onions, grown thru the spires of earth. a just squalour relates the temper of many, thus presidential hopelessness. ghosts, in the stinky part of condition, represent month and year. natural year remains, boned and filleted. it will look pretty in your garden. yesteryear is a dazed smirk. it lets poems swing for the roof. it sets an advantage to the groaning ropes anchoring the craft. above cornfields, arriving legions of beeping clouds and super-electronic modern hope hover. an alien race, if race is the right word, has come prepared. consider the facts again: tucked into fear are miserable ghosts. star systems hover above certain cornfields certainty itself is a star system. elabourate redefinition clos...

a poem is a window of direct meat. it is an elk that you shot yourself, you are Buck Downs. you are the picture that sent nothing across, until the minute. then you became the elk, fervidly dead. dead is a mark in the plain ocean. dead is a symptom of deadness, direly inveighed against by the smooth barrel. a lurching bullet consumes the desert bullet. the desert bullet crowns achievement, so that much is told. Buck Down is the simple name, raining in a visual oddness of conviction. we all have halls to live in, amongst echoes and clang. when we shoot elk, we desire a blotter and a range. owls filter thru shadow and withdraw thunderbird roister. no news captivates sorely, just resumes the distance of detail. people are trumped by their silliness, their emotional rug, their turbo-charged rust. people include doubt. doubt doesn't own one Buck Downs more than an Allen Bramhall. churches are filled with steeple direction. no one wants a dead elk in the parlour: that would lead to talk....

machinery finds the assault team. people are lonely. distinctions begin to mesh.with an arrival at a logical realm of understanding, to cover up the potholes. people are tired. the streets have politically-charged shadows filling the edges of sight, and people wander. there is no hope, in the classic sense, just the day after tomorrow. there are ways into the stream, vigourous rush and calculated. the people have heard enough. a word always exists, frozen in a spell, laughing out loud at human interest. there are people who lose. being lost is natural, gambling all with nothing. people strike their courses and figure in the margins. there are no helpless people, only tools. the days are short, the sense is mystifying. willful onslaught hasn’t a beggar’s chance. people are endless. the days are endless, till the end of time. the people are angry. their political groping finds a choice. dinner may be ready, the days are so long. nights are long, the wailing sharp and natural. people are ...