Simple Theories

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.