Skip to main content

Worcester as an Average

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 wanted to write a pogrom, said some infinite sage of diagrams and assertion, on the envious track and winding thru the landscape. This is not the placement of Worcester or any clear class, but the edgeless swordplay distinction that teems withal. T. S. Eliot threw Missouri away, myriad history amok, choosing the grace of Wensleydale and cheddar like a man. That sucking sound enfolds. Enough books are written that way, without a people to mention but a plot and vampire.

The point is, Reader of the Not Quite Written, that the introduction is near the end. Doorways point to expanse but cannot complete the gesture. A book in John Adams’ hand reverses several trends, but you will need to read on.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Words

  From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.

Adam Sandler Has Totally Lost It. Okay?

The greatest popular person in the world died today. Repeat: this person was young, with exceptionally pleasant features forced of radial tires. Each star in the empyrean sighed for lack of this locus of popularity. Humdrum took on new meaning, but meaning did not. Meaning is a wave of popularity toward the sigh of exceptional stars. These stars are good-looking reminders of all that is possible, tho distant from any address. Tears flowed to the heart of the Milky Way, because the popular person stood tall and well-dressed, like sentimental eagles drinking Bud Light while evoking timeless mythic pediments. The greatest of popular signs grew milky with waves of stars over easy oceans of just plain folk stalking the best. We remain ardent, tho the popular person can no longer contribute. We have to look in magazines again, for the source and severing. Levers used for leverage feel average. Again the popular trout, the popular doorknob, the popular brand of sweetened, flavoured, f...

Today's Widespread Panic Concert, Sans Banjo

The banjo is dead. Those included in banjo are dead. Inclusion is dead. Death is dead banjo dead. Its banjo is dead. The name of its death is dead. Name is dead. Its political act is dead. It sound like banjo but dead. It no time to be banjo. You must remain a rope with language and dulcimer. Only dulcimer live. All banjo dead. You are banjo, Donald Trump. Hurry up Donald dead,  untimely to dead still dead like words. You and banjo both. You is dead and you too.