Simple Theories

Researchers have floated thru bent grass clearings, trembling with dictation. The reeds of spacious marsh exude trifle as document. Quick foxes set up pounce, with ducks clear of forgiving. Our list of images skirts the real issue: are red planets falling in line? Dolour sweats thru us, cuffing fresh pangs with regency. There are tears in the marsh, the highway, with electric lines and squirrels. Squirrels explain sinking ships to James Cameron, then sadness features film. A rationale exists, again. I wrote this all down. Down lasts three. A day, at least, is covered with fur, tho the foxes all got away. The marsh is a placid dump, a document of people playing fifes. Fifes are a note of freedom, near a highway. When we walk home, the noise is a spectacle, sights are loud. A stunned public leaves their leftovers. Curiously, the Bible stops bandits. A meteorite lights a small acre of sky. Passing cars on plastered highway sway thru various versions. No one gets out of the space vehicle,

The wind cuts the snow to pieces, days on end. Our mountain is a vast acceptance, looming such as that. With a language vested in burrowing and cloud, then such a poetry staffs the remainder, poised on the brink of a very word, to say nothing but these words. Then and version, light as a probable cause. So much so that we walked on. On to the summit, a clearing morning view. Excellent English, Truculent Cause, Bonded Onward, and Yeti, tall as a branch. The warm of what we carry makes distinction in the outer world

A day plans winter rivers. Crust on the edge, still moving. Snow fills the trees lightly, will still tumble. Black squirrel makes a poised detail of itself, to asseverate a reign and noon. Whole clouds flatten and exhaust, the day goes on. Compromise is a promise. The squirrel fills deep space, and time will inflate. Winter is a wind, a wetness, cold, some other facts and projects. This tune, then, amidst the facts. Our marriage is loved by us both. Our gambit relies on this. We are filled with something, on this day, which rises thru the snowy clouds. Come spring and come spring. The river is not wide, it pours. Our stance remains. Winter is over before it starts.

The dolmen is shock plentitude. I heard that E died. Everything else is dash, closed, then a whiff of snow. Snow on the marsh, the pity of ducks in their land of water. E died, the alphabet had to remain. E is simple, fills appropriate spaces. Words include, when they can. A last word is vaulting. When we talk, we move to that last word. We wish to vaunt. E was great in some words, and turned some sentences around. E became Emma one day, but I do not have that key. The key can be simple, and a passing, and a when you are ready. Now, I have been to the marsh, before the snow fell. The snow is incredible, it covers anything. Billows of everything else preclude the shift from noting to E. E arrives in a sentence or word, and we let those times impend. If Emma dies, or everything, we take note. The note is E, rhymes with tree, fills the marsh during. Sentences are always complete, complete as the E in everything.

We sleep in going marsh, but particularly include clouds. Clouds are wrench fist and then mountaintop. Top is peak, the roof of wisdom, until all that air beneath the feet brings down along a radiant enterprise. I love is the phrase upon nowadays and intended. I love, graceful italics, the union of pleasant and past. given the marsh, and expression database of mountaintop, and the cool phrase of coming days, we can welcome, love, our beneficent approach. We will help where we can, then stack phrase on phrase. Sentences are for anyone, brilliantly. We will find the stream, that runs from the snow, that plumbs the downhill mountain extant, and there we trail. This is our rate and panting. A tributary vets the river, river vets the sea. All mountain lifted in cloud then looking across the way at the next mountaintop, next tributary. All foxes frame a story of foxes. All mountains likewise. People have words. Words are great.

Legislated marsh, with wind across a moment finding torrents of last hour battering some compost and the organisms under a rock, till the chill refers to some class of registration, the sun almost over the trees but untouched, a drill into the same trusting note of change, poised for a the fall of leaves into the full sky, marking a history that rolls, powered by increments of colour turning toward brown, all in an enclosed figure set, each item named as seen, like a crow whipped in the air current, a squirrel tuned to the nature of rock, a rabbits brighter in force than a planetary bee, all such facts rippling inside the need to talk about them, remaining underscored and drastic, dating the pieces with reverence, now a year in another day, now another day for a year…

Mudflat mandible credit crunch jungle boy flits Moose track guppy weasel sniffs poodle schlangengraben Documentary gaga sheets West of woowoo Ohio buoyed battle axe container shaft Guff wobble willy shoes Praise newby taxonomic franchise Dope fiend noodle beast Withal glop fronds eviction gantry notices unction Pleiades Assay a sweat logic logarithm asbestos beetle Jutes huffy hid of harrying Class saxophone on soot farm form is terrific

I am a barn door with a favourable rag inclusion. Those trees in the class season slurp with fine rain. I had jest in tropic saddle bottle (days of Wednesday, Woden is naked), tried edgy ladder treason and felt compossible. Will you evince a statute like your ladle did of days? Read further, tactic of pronoun. When your use is fragrant and fits tines, oh, the fork of splendid! Create a bad chancellery in the document marsh, then stage a reference tone for all. I mean a poem, now and then. Create then first, close the participles when time is right.

A doctor, a dodge, a fulcrum: all these and radiant choirs overstepping viscous marshes where onward flows the march of time. Or lately, the fading seizes a new set of nouns. Cheerful rejoinder seethes in the panic of another partly closed door. These are people, in our neighbourhood and drama. And these are friends, or else. That sense of family that doesn’t quite work instills this native tongue-lashing. There was a disappointment to be gained, and a newsworthy loss, more or less. The more would be a staining that could apply. The less would be a node left behind What arches over the testy remains of this juncture but the spotted title of leaving? We are turned around in emphasis, and feel hurt by little shards placed indiscreetly into our skin. We have no time to care for having the time to care. We have been hurt by a leveling and the income of expanse. Humans are just the way they are, reporting their wages in rapt gaming, and still need a hug. Few hugs can be saved in this climat

In this rain, these crests of trees flip with famished response. These trees, our own, set tone. Water rolls the streets to marshes, marshes are set. A word sets on every point of the travelogue, even as the grey clouds lift three inches, just to impress. Stevens, the greatest poet in corpulent times, dares to drink a martini. His children, thousands of them, settle in petals. Leafy daydreams sputter thru the window. There is an image left behind, one that dazzles with last humour. A backache becomes the essence of New Hampshire, and ripples of auroras castigate sameness as the discussion turns on a jet. What does language do when everyone is quiet? A dusting of rain thru the day and into morning a baroque event, no doubt, we would watch for more. A love of such and such, then people thru the years, then what course does our dance take? It is curious to remain standing while others take their seats. Their seats are prominent responses. Each step with the drum, intended, becomes a cooli

Wallace Stevens wrote after all, then after all again. It was spots on the wall that made the most. A few partitioners relayed their facts, gifted in a place where marshes collect the dew and mist. Rains became the same expected, from southern winds across the bold and heartfelt ocean. Which is to say, a poetry, guided fondly, ran into being. Being here, telling something posed and remaining, the poet, this one, tried some lurches. We who read, or thought we did, popped into the bounty, for seconds on end. The poem really urged a more pliant remorse. This remorse is dandy today, with marks drawn across the state of Connecticut to indicate that the economy sucks. It has always sucked, deeply, imperiously, with goods and margin. Now, friends, it sucks with wolfish chuckle. Stevens did not exactly mean this, but he must have meant something with all those words aligned just so. Meaning is a force of nature, like a hurricane named Kyle. Yes, such a statement is ludicrous, Kyle is too odd a

Sunrise flows over the slump of earth. Pressing sward becomes the vocable of the next sentence. Dreamy modern nights skew the season into interest and capaciousness. It all settles as theory, deeper than a lake. A lake conveys the sense of towns floating into clouds. Those breezy loosestrife that purple the marshy way blur with past sunrise and may do so again. Statutes of goldenrod begin their intention to fade, simplicity is the canon. The rosy sun, gifted with maximum, engulfs the mending mood of this engagement. It is morning when you see this. Sunrise flows into the mood of setting. The day begins a sentence with scruffy beat. Tuned cars and traveling folk dilate with deadline. A cup of coffee, never forgotten, slays the literal details of resistance, just as the marsh exudes another stratum of elegiac memory. Now a sentence, slumped with poetry, inters a slighting seed. Each word, posited and passing, becomes the best love possible. Syllables gently nurse the options, and tremend

Plausible is the scuttling sound in rays from a drifting presence of sun. Green from regular trees blooms on a modest boat of feeling. The people, in their arc, treasure something of very rascal plain. Sour common of lived places reject the sward, sometimes, and a language of bells ensues. The Beatles struck a rock of mired glow, worded with refracted topic sentences and a tiresome song like “Ballad of John and Yoko”. Season blends into tree bark, dogs lead an earnest trust, and the usual kids stumble on the grass. Reason stops the uniform when sunlight backs away from the stage and words are more like shadows. People are as old as their feet, or stout chairs in the presence of god. Weird instants replace other instants, merging with hard balances. No one wants to sleep now, but the emblems fizzle. Blunt objects restrict themselves in the time it takes darkness to spell certain names. Keats died for no one’s sins, in the cluttery days, with a wink towards some transit of station. Then

A tree, spaced with winking, constitutes long mountain bound with radiant intention, like a boulder. Throng of mentioned boulders continues in bunting on a pole, stretches of rock strewn shoreline, lonely mountain. After ages of clear poems, the words were tired, tried. We winked in the beginning, with Saturday sunlight, a whiff of the sea. Sensual moment. The clouds were as heavy as figs, the streaming of desert down thru the ages. Then this desperate love of love, into the future, and we hold hands. This is a flow, with clouds that swell, with a crunch of sand, political intention in rock, a shoreline with comfort. The yachts are happy, a breeze surplice supplied, and a day is acquired. Acquired begs the day. The tree is filled with clusters of sunlight, flow of sensation, and the imprint of going on. Suddenly, this is present, like a poem. Now is known to happen.

Like a doctor in underwear, the decade began. Cocktails implore in a language all too common. Forget pencils now: serve crunchy things. The day becomes evening. Something blends memorably. Wet bars produce a relaxed economy. Russians in their doctor clothes tell dated woodpecker jokes, freezing image of next pay check. People do not drink vodka. A case of doctoral bourbon sits by the couch. We dream of the freshest ice cubes, the ones with ripping edges to disturb the frumpy. On the coast, people believe another coast exists. A summer get together and crunchy things. Perhaps the lowly dump truck bears the seed for tomorrow’s flying car. Your doctor friend will want three. We dream of artichokes, scads of them filling the back seat. Flying cars on the horizon, in homage to something Allen Ginsberg said in May. A bowl of mulligatawny soup later, with all the propriety of crunchy things. You look nice today, as a considered advantage of excellent crunchy snacks. Viscous snacks are sad dol

Cool in the morning, touching, and the reach takes love to face. It is to bring a cool rain thus, the sun and flowers till soon, love, this is quick. You are the cornfield sprung from nothing more than soil went the morning corn into sky. Leaping trees join blue sky finally. This love is caring in the face, and touch of night when we sleep and sleep. Rhythm makes the sky and all its clouds and clearing. Rain is wonderful, sun is meaningful, day and night combine. Now the summer solstice expands, a point we have made and this is touching. Lightly the bed is made for our time. The things we create clear with music. Our love is a definite day.

Cast clouds, in story, pull humid dozens from the fragments, tellingly. Poised in that muddled precociousness are the Worcesters of dropping down. This is dropping into place, where weather is logical and perceived, and still falling for the reasoning. The news satisfies as a thundercloud cracks. The earth itself lives in language, that is what we keep telling ourselves. A poem is a village where Hillary, Barack and John maunder. Luncheons are served, west backs us. Newspapers get wet in this Worcester of which you speak, said someone from precincts away. Is it truly faring as a taste? The answer is yes, tho blind and alleging. Wiser heads fail. The country of which we speak, a nation, knows no one, not even people. Names are positions in a rule of intent. We hold something to the light, and call it love. It is as strong as that, and bears us. Worcester is a place. so called. Trials and balloons each make advance. Then the poem, of its own volition, turns on the language it gave.

this is a new document the sun is quartzite, with paeans running thru. billows of escarpments perform plush rods extending cumulus, and you would think: the sky is above Worcester this shining spring morn. and the people are abundant, with whims jetting thru cycles of concerned political gantry. a wired elegance promulgates a new election, tho the candidates are stunned. these words reflect that bastion. process makes document, on any morning. sentences flock together like geese or turkeys. a turtle strides at maximum speed along bikeway, a dinosaur as much as smoke. the contest fires up. someone plays hip hop or the next understood. together we make a city. call it Worcester, and imagine something better. this is how poems make their way.

Spiders in ray light occur in chance. Raffles of what Olson said, in the doom of thunderstorm, on the offshore and laid to wind, spent a day to explain. People in Worcester staked claim, leaves in trees, and a position to thrill. The love call is work of radiant offing; clouds dodging bending with science in exclaim. Who cycles back when the twisting storms touch down? The forest is leveled, the natives topple, small pox is a fragrance. Our love, a gantlet and then, but more nature than a tryst. We have kissed, and will again. This news settles when Olson, a poet, comes home. Home is freely heightened. Its language is secure. Now the names and now the commands, pouring over the landmarks while sleep concerns Aztecs. Language equals words. Poised relentlessness caves in to documents spread over time. Time, the rival sister, shuns that opulent task of engaging Oscar-winning star clouds. Push comes to shove, and delivers. Our friends constantly wonder at us.

I have so much soft buttons, the berry dream to say inclusion, but I know the best way clean rivers. Donating comfort press for me to speak, these rumbling stratus clouds are through my music. This is my therapy, my passion, ever-soaked pragmatic, and my love. I look forward to sharing with it, this new journey, mutt.

What grain of itinerant reward skips vowels for the exquisite express train of consonants? Those prone , regal, smack-sounding rays of infinite clunk concern us. The consonant has a whisker and a home in any framework. Whisker means whisky, and the absolute donnish flight, so you should pray with equilaterals. Meantime, the votive of word, squeezed in sound, consumes a throttle-minded spurning debris. We sink, having seen sentences with words of all kinds. Suddenly the mixture of consonants and vowels makes sense. The word is Worcester. Woo, stir: why do we need verbs? Verbs include and conclude with abetment and tankard. Yes, tankard, the whisky that means something, from earth peat memory of the scent of some day until you find that the word is arranged differently. Each word regales its own self, if self is appropriate here in this context. Context conveys the consonant and the vowel each as equals and persistent. Spoken is part way. Written is part way. Other words feign other word

this is a poem, frame of a ranch, and idling sun constitutes purring over ridges of excited when alas looking thru stone, the peerage of ices has been erased. a commonal, struck from gloss, contained in the bending ways of portage, the heft of river on the landscape, spring in imagination and presented with a mind. a poem is stark for reasons of ice, then melting, then flourish and bloom, and still onward, rushing or not, with wiry sentences and bustling lines. the sound of such goes to miles and miles and the reef of blue sky that dazzles us at morning. oh the riverine beguiles us usefully, and we stick to love song, how much of this breeze will release the dandelion, and how much will install new flowers, and how much will beckon corn stalks? a bear is framed in this, rolling down a street, posturing by a river, entering breezy stores to see this and that, then later to absquatulate, cunning in the lanes of drama. poetry is a language, isn't it? we share italics when we speak.

Unpwned Momentum on Worcester accept these jet skies. remain unpwned but surround a topic with servile pleas, for instants. the dam seeps sanely. a whiff of common ground seems like poem. no one relies on Louis Zukofsky except when the dread of melting seems most dire. we relate in penned moments, and come again. this sex that stills the waters also ignites them. those waters, sour when the rain is old, charges us supremely. we write of daffy fiends, nuclear almonds, cousinly trapdoors, and more than enough. enough is a surcharge yet when we exceed, primroses, pure as water. water went the way: into the breath of Worcester. we write poems as staggering targets, gullies for freshets, lapsed pining in the daily reward program. such reefs and poems that we assay, trying times but love intends. it has this hold, it is our boat. we right in deed and that's our place. place is the name. such, that is, that Worcester, least of all, can hold. Zukofsky rips a new one there, every day.

The dog comes to Worcester, prepared for inevitable death. Snow falls with a ranch dressing insistence. Those Doritos flavoured with ranch dressing ignite the imagination. All Worcester crowds to ideal. It is a dog, in the snow, that has never been forgotten. What reason flakes from the sky, to bring such ranch dressing, Doritos, and dog together? Climate changes are carefully arranged in dogma. This dogma creates an installation. Dog is favoured. We remember that a dog, period. More is underneath, but not to be told. It is a variation of music of which, now, as the snow falls. The dog cannot become. Death is only part of the Town because Worcester is like glory, only in moments made public and useless. Someone plays guitar. It fills the night sky, or the ultimate arrangement of noon, which consists of pizza and dreams of ranch-flavoured Doritos. No one wants that. The next verse decides our fate. The dog is dead. The cat almost eats a mouse but the mouse knows better. Escape is prepar

Precious Drone of Worcester 3/27/2008 piper at dawn, green dire engine (we need the word dire), people stain people in city of WORCESTER , with a guidance of hope called weather until vague teasing in ice of new age, data comprises people and their inveighing blurts the sediment of real rocks and tonal assonance brings waters of several lakes together, to drink with native vigour, to live in the wooded farness, brusque about Boston, civil notion, which is a several or beneath (or above, like swirling gulls), the nestled thinking in great and good minds sandwiches in hazards of growth, fear being an excellent logic, suitable for a trial of aiming, of apportioning, of registering, of conditioning, of assimilating syllables and last words (beautiful constructions) need grows to see, Jonathan Williams agrees to die at a certain age (he was a poet), he must have grown in Worcester, with the harbour master, with the famous rickshaw, with the terrible mountains assuming no human distinction,

You change in the town, and the town changes for you , said a person cultured green with the envious season approaching. The world sparkles with the simplest demands, which will be spoken of. The world of Worcester specifically, with its mountainous people, its lacustrine highways, its specious and spacious wariness of all catalogues and diligence, this world of being starts to control the outlay of song. Pressures build buildings of weight, that tower more than 5 stories high, even as the sky topples into averages. The people, underneath, bluster about condition as they read the details. This is the course of empire. From one fat city to one fat forest, and in between, a few shocks and divergences. We are required to read the news, and fall from our chair, and open a system, and pull our little boat ashore. It may work as we study our hopes. Colours speak season, season sparks us. Meanwhile, information roots into everything we do. Measurement is possible throughout the system.

The people of Worcester begin with numbers. They begin. They speak in places called cathedral or hallway, and they write home. Home bellows in capitals, like this: HOME, because a place is there. HOME is a function of Worcester, but in a way related to the pressures of position and the dynamics of time. There is always time for HOMES. • Lake Huron • Lake Ontario • Lake Michigan • Lake Erie • Lake Superior Actually, Lake Ontario is Lake Omaha, and we have a little story, completing implication with a stroke. Listen, my friends. The winds were wild if not pleased, perhaps bringing a tornado to kill 94 people, all of whom significantly lost, we believe. Daniel Gookin petitioned to have the town's name officially changed from "Quinsigamond" to "Worcester." However, its inhabitants were still vulnerable to attack. History had already occurred, but it seems like more is available. It all comes HOME. The town was again abandoned by all its English inhabitants except fo

Bibliography is the only real art / science. Facts in other fields are simply hollow. Good bibliography is an easy ticket to heaven. Possibly astronomy is as divine. Course the skies are simple things next to the world of books. The winds of Worcester roar across every certitude. Charles Olson became a definition, with a cousin in the hills, a memory for instant deliberation, and a kind of posture that struck the rooftop of a now famous sky. Such wizardly recycling of condition inveighs against the easy Harvard process, so that Gloucester, 2 syllables, becomes a central point of trade and willingness. Winds blow from the east, to the point of bringing colonies of new suits to the forest grange. This is true. It is in books. Books are in trouble, however. Elizabeth Bishop, the only American to win that prize. The then Frank O’Hara, first of Grafton, then a state to himself. A chuckle called Robert Benchley. An antiquarian society that outnumbered Harvard… Let’s go back to the cosseting

The enormous mountains of Worcester, that touch even the pale fronds of the dilating sky, tower over human something. Human city, with human road, things done, din, and cousins of drudgery. language remains among denizens, citizens, the portion of place that moves. Much cannot move. Not those mighty mountains that weigh upon populace with intensive remedial need. Not the blusterous seasons, that strain the people with regimen. Not any aptitude at all, but that a history broke on the surface of the place. Remember: Elizabeth Bishop is said to have invented the rickshaw around 1848 in Worcester, Massachusetts for a missionary. She dearly loved and the language let Charles Olson, together in a rickshaw while the young Frank O’Hara paid for sultry Harvard education by trundling forth with a merrie rickshaw energy. Forward goes the century of poetry, claiming Worcester as a prize. I fell as if I were being kidnapped: contra gravity (which is a kind of Worcester?) Not everyone sees the near

Love is such a fresh wind, an eastbound train back to the planting place. They knew it could, we know it can. Struggle with the effort, in green symbols to the waste of winter. Worcester,Massachusetts, the mountain of human endeavour near lake front properties, good fishing, and endless toil. Crying out battles of land holding, usual massacre elements, structures of demotic thought in the languages used to make distance: these are prime movers, eternal relays. Where is the best if west is left out? England, or utter Europe, or any other claim. Yet what wattage of fear, feeling stretched to maximum, without the apportionment of love squared then squared again? Curious necessities remain, which dictate a peace that infringes on peace. This betokens a war, and it seems redolent of some faction, fracture, or fair flower. Our love, nonetheless, remains. Strange, true, and declared, with simple gestures as the precision of the realm. Something needful inveighs against the details while laudi

And then the day was the colour of resistance, a blue or yellow, perhaps, or could green entail such logic? The pull nonetheless is towards an ocean of understanding, tho that might be a lake in the middle of a car on the highway going away. Where would people go, if Worcester wasn’t home? They would go to the blue of the sun on a generous morning, or to the green of the sky, when the birds flake out, or to the yellow of the sea, when it is time. This is so obvious, required, a practice, a home, yet the standards of such revival—fitting resistance itself with new document forms—favours a town. That town can be ours. Worcester, where Charles Olson saw the sea.

People are just names inverted by numbers into cause and effect. So claimed the aspect of intelligence, taxonomic to the heart. The world causes glitters in the sky, which are timeless, and we call them stars. Those stars are hefty enough, reflected on the waters of Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg, near enough to Worcester to be the zest of ocean. Who in the post-glacial days clustered so many letters together, and for what peace? Spillage from existing facts. Graciously, the poets eye the task: to make poetry safe for facts. Our Charles Olson started somewhere, plain American fuddle for the best of reasons. Grace to be born and live as variously as possible, states a rock somewhere else. Earth is a minor plantation. Frank O'Hara meets Elizabeth Bishop in a rickshaw, then everything returned East.

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Long ago, in the days before requirement, Worcester began with the letter W. Winds were wild there, in the town of Massachusetts, in the state of United States. The people of Worcester learned averages from the beginning, and brought them to the end. The end lasted, but so did the beginning. Nearby mountains and oceans loom to swallow every word that Worcester can make. The people there are the people there. And when they wake from their daily world, they stand on slopes. These slopes are peopled with elegant names, tribal conclusions, definite places, and swarming. Stasis invites a document from the verity of fronds, and all the while, a pressure ensues. The justice of spring will speak in terms of ratification and alert. Trial is symphony, if only the people there knew, in their heart of hearts, amidst the stereopticonical display and Northern lights. O blessed and seasonal, O instrumental from the word go, O Worcester in its people! Wherewithal is the fray itself, placed just so. I

booster rocket succeeds from a standpoint, which is a poetic thrill tied to a tree. the tree is no strange but only lasting. it lasts, quote, "after the dog dies", but before the soon smell of flowers on the all enclosed green framework, trying to get to know. the rocket has the sense, then after falling, this is all. we refer to the news. the planet hates the edges where nothing goes. we write up symptoms or approximations. the rocket, junked, falls back. effort pushed something out, a word. space is a doctrine yet we lose many terms just by watching the rocket fall. spring is here, almost, we have pictures of what will come. rain will return for snow while flowers will gain again. the tree will embark on further tree. all this is instantaneous humid being, a hematologist, perhaps.

the bullets of every time flew into the breach of spear holding. tempests of radical spent long last, at the sun spot, melted. those who groomed were tide, plant sequence, desperate. these loves of wrong turns (the intention groove) steal. we weaken the life plant, the Gaulish printing stone., the sentence as a structure of crime. and weird mood stretches across basal moon element. crimson burn from aptitude of knowing so resumes a stab of astonishment. this place of our heritage equates hate with a course. Napoleon pushed 600,000 into maps. arrows were seminal direction. a plan smelled musty, looming polity, a tried desert. such bombast clucks proudly, with an on/off switch for tender diaphragm of response. a team researches the next sentence. a find sends avid spoons . the work loses a membrane but gains a paragraph. are you still breached when you steer into a word? clever unction stows onto a vowel, only a shadow (your pronoun as proof). a poem poses a radical form on the simplest

his simple dilating idea rose from tossing snow cauldron, with word webbed to inkling news, or potions of debate, or other odd scattering expanses. we take our care. the winds from ardent closure surround vocables and present. we are tired and yet, true to the something, we sing insular or transit. then questions, like dread opinions. then stones on the road. then the road itself, which is snow torn. we don't care if the snow melts into flowers, we only need a new colour now. and it arrives, bending present light differently, like willing trees to integrate. they will, we will, and the clouds will disperse as unions of rain forests. the singularity resumes with a notion of gusts. spring is in the offing but we are unsure what an offing is. such natural recension in the theory of barns opens a door, the barn fills with light. Whitman saw this years ago, now it is our turn. is that then the nature of poems? let questions sneak into the gloom, and poems pull their share. we are thus g

Who while shining shoes of donors of Cocoa Puffs for the good hunting of the State closed themselves within the prison, however they have it, with its immortal spirit, while being so freely like sky-investigation lark, Minion of the size! do you think this one waited? Do you think this one is necessary? until so much of little laid out the key? Ah, No! every stereo, nobler it was, its destiny in the Spenser rooms, was drawn aside, and the kiosk report/ratio chooses flowers. it flew with daring Milton via the sectors of the air with areas for you to be of the Messrs of the genius, true turnpike with escape. Who will weaken his reputation when dead art, and all the dystrophy's Stone, seeks payment?

words were lank, of a beaming mortal flame, and bent stylus to present: such is the main line of direct. we sink alert process delimiters among swards and rank grass. the fallen snow of cold days stems reaping. mold offers fidelity, spores resume search. we sap a barn door present at the beginning. ether was a poem by Whitman, once. and Lorine Niedecker woke betimes, with Wisconsin made of ice. dreams fell into the murky waster, winter blended with dreams. Zukofsky remained studious, until no time was left. we scrawled a report. it was a definitive moment, only blurrier than regal announcements. a poem written in a language cooled by the window. no, it was a pie, and a hobo stared avidly. the story became something straight from a whirling stutter of words. well and good, sinking and then, lightly, the snow melted, subliminated, settled into reverence. a moment of that word, then all changed. a poise stated resistance, yet that map, it clouded, and we began again. the word was at its p

imagine wind wound on tubes of words, which then what? your own weather came daily, over an ocean noun, smacking season mountain, till it is when you make a word to read: each word, one at a time, invented by your work. then imagine, clearly invested, optimal as bright, the specific beaming of winter sun morn, that much red in fiddles of explosion, tho you doubt that poetry just as you exclaim. settle for the spark that set the trees, then slip away. settle, too, for an undertone, the word as grey as dear waiting. or the black that is convinced, even night on the border of more night, useless examination of physical matter. a word stuns the once, then stuns again. doubt is a courage. sentences are found in our days, frequent, willed, and vetted. then a crimson of dawn smokes thru the goggle of staring, you are reminded. do you get sick of stating the facts? a poem is no relay, it stays inside the bounds of words, except for bringing stirred up to the round up. Wyatt Earp, we are remind

it seems strong, with codgers on chairs that loom over linoleum present. strings of dawn-coloured breaking hearts rope the votive. people smile at the young ones, as crumbs fall. the falling is so strong and went so far. codgers boondoggle on the rocks of the distant foreshadow, with close naming present day. the people are still, with codgers for backbone. all people are dull and insist on sentences. flowers fix tunes in the taffy-flavored wallpaper. why, then, are roses so much like walls? it seems strained with watery codgers, who fall off pronouns to the present, more or less. they stare at tremendous ducts filled with air of the most riproaring verisimilitude. you could almost breathe. these are the codgers on the wall, and the wall is a sentence. a sentence is next to linoleum. that's the smell of urine, in addition to the plan that went before. some people are no people at all, but it varies. look it up. we think we love, because linoleum isn't final, then we do love, be

On Behalf Of Rock And Roll, New Rule: "The more complicated the Starbucks order, the bigger the asshole you can find information about 'The Cat in Sheep's Clothing.' I have tried to move on and say, " I no longer feel this 3 or 4 supervillains and you're on a mailing list you'll never get off of. Huh? Notice the long caudal fold on white face lamb Just so you people know, my whole life has been abyssless it’s rare to see customers wax poetic in a. written survey I hated his quiet, patient voice

clients surrounded the test of words. they said tables are indefinite flames. they said topics are riled by sentences. they said, your third try will be marshland, a tuft of wind, blue smoke over green woods, and snow begins to fall . did we listen? I will tell you a story, and in that story, I will not appear. yet the story will occur in the sentence of one breath. this breath will be a whole universe, and drills made of stars. when you hear the story, Dear Reader, you will be provoked. effort will construct a breeze across the mentioned marsh. a melting sun will bloom from the seed of winter. this must be the simplest myth imaginable , you will whisper to yourself. your self won't listen, your self will read on. still, clients are not easily abetted, or even cleared for landing. I will tell you, tho, that the airplane crashed. it was beautiful. it felt like a casting off of doubt. with that inkling, you have more of the picture. don't worry, all passengers of the crashing pla

our top cloud held back, the plane spun magnificently. any truth to falling erects this plan in nature. wild plotting of control resumes its course, until a sentence makes a mind. watch the pressing claim of gravity and dream, shift particulars for a last object, then identify recent claims, offshore. wind flattens some taxing notion, as if a comma could stay in place. the subject renders itself useful, dilating in the day full of sun. further wind remains a deed, a condition, a plot element for a narrative that has taken to the wind. are we patient observers or traces? the commotion of a language, at this time, stirs prehistory. we could go on with facts, their radiance, our program, but the issue blurs into a mesmerized terror as the plane safely c crashes. now the earth is included, now it isn't all words. as poem finds a way for more evacuations and resistance, a definite incursion sets up a new league of sentences. a poem, found by words, removes itself from consideration. in

nouns are the last treat. we read a book on the airplane in the sky's ocean first. we drive that kin such a way! then power of falling said, oh plane truth, we fell as a signal long turd . the loss of falling was no relief. we hung, a loop in variable, and every word was text. how's that for fair play? we sent a loss language toward the gift. it was no an airplane at all. falling is sinking. the ocean, then, was under the clouds that were forested with us, as the numbers we make make us. our life was a noun that clenched. we folded our hands for the force of more words. each word is different, somehow. the plane truth was form. we flew above the simple clouds, into the merrie nest of newness. this is a stain that stays. the staying is called clouds. clouds fall into seas, seas remain aloft with the last time of the sentence definition. each included word made a new text. those other words, left out, formed nothing at all. the plane went awry, as if bursting were a period. if th

Even the clouds, tending toward rain in bunches of infinite drops, actuate the possibility of a love straight into the sea. Each ocean needs this bursting refreshment, the bitter plying rush from the Concord to the Merrimack to insistent visitation of the great moody sea. The sea spends its endlessness in planning, which is just krill, shrimp, plankton and exacting diatoms in unguarded swaths and ready-made tenderness. Misty years burn thru the cold beneath the world's best water, assuming process. Misty years examine whale and shark, siding one way or another while remora take the ride. That ride extends into the history of lifetime, with wet pictures of opulent clouds. When clouds fall back to the sea, people rise and make morning. Morning has grey to a pinkness, as timely these people note. Then why more rain, more struggle, more clocks ahead? It's the sun craving, with wild wings of blindness. Such summery expanse will stop at nothing, until nothing itself becomes condition