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 name to place on weight, but Stevens worked out his messages with a deliberation that seems easy to respond to. We should vote him some award, for being so perfectly acceptable. He numbers one of many, but still resumes his clauses. He could have lived in Worcester, had he only tried.
The aliens merged with diastrophism. A rush thru the funnel with Dick Cheney prompts a reply, don't you think? The mud of his glance places real time constancy in jeopardy. We really roll with the punches, tho Cheney's eyes tend to ignite squids. His armpits repine with a patient whoosh that smells like blueberries, eternal boundfulness of Dick Cheney brain. In the meantime, like river flocks, we steal a porch. The utter eye jets of the alien enterprise writes an interregnum. We knit a scarf called socialism, which appears on tv as the gravelly person on that show every night. Cheney hams it up. Secondly, dream manifests in the sunlessness of rectilinear retreat, the storm of space. Driven noises suffuse patents. Claims of Obama become structure. Ideas receive graves. Back in the future, where we crowd the bed with details, a fire starts to smell like blueberries. Blueberries include the idea of porches, and shatter indifferently against chalk lines on sidewalks. The peop...
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