Simple Theories

Weather’s last excellence provoked symbolism akin to tempo. Or totems, posing as thought. Why speak without mystery when the world is so small? A new season is as old as the hills. These specific hills are where we watch vague neighborhoods extrude their people. Something simple seems so obvious, without a willing of weather on ‘a night like this’. Professor Radiant writes an exhaustive book. Books have been known for years. We know characters like we know our left ventricle. We know narrative like placing dull coins in our close hands. The theme is mother. Professionals radiate an energy that presumes knowledge that survives words. Beyond muttering and beyond cogent purpose, our rasping surveys the lichen on a rock somewhere. We were there once, apparently. Professor Radiant has been scholar and intricate haven for ideas. At the risk of totality, the Professor lifts Jacob’s ladder for electrical insight. The movie won’t be known for years. In the written word unwritten ones ...

When you see Professor Radiant, could be long dress, mutton leg sleeves, hair pinned up seriously, and days. OR Professor Radiant could be waistcoat tweed, stiff collar, standard of facial hair, and days. The days picture well, in the course of empiric stating. Statement comes of words. The words in time fill ontology reports, oozing sap of springtime maple. Text becomes love or commitment, at least in the souring autumn of apples hardly keeping, and rain rendering loosened leaves. Pity fails to stem the determining. Radiance becomes a best moment, bright as agitation. Winter means a sensible word sometimes. Professor Radiant inculcates the skills needed in the pliancy of discovery, or so we think. Pressure applied to central point produces invoice of compassion. The laboratory glows with the next fantastic. Notebooks bear the results. Professor Radiant, then a narration fostered for what a word is worth. Poetry is not as clever as the time it takes to read of worth. Radiance res...

It is that quiet, references now emblematic. A pattern of abuse wanders into a courtyard, looking grand or some strange theory. Discussion crumbles into quiet particles, each down to the last expectation. In this gingerly tumble, we think we can begin. Here, in this edge of worm, this shuck. The density of doors contributes to outside thinking. Rodeo fans yell in glee, having seen a rider gored by eminent bull, as if that were the whole telling. Yet unlovely people, making examples and distributing literature, claim mysterious rights. The real reason the place stinks is within the books they hold up. Weapons can’t be changed. The word within any mouth must live its life in that netherworld imagined for scantest moment. There, where you can’t turn away, where you can’t ignore or find alternate funding. There, in that political tornado. Otherwise the weakness wins, people still cheering for their claimed reasons. We need, we want, we urge, we taunt: simple as rhyme, simple as time. Stuck...

No person remains. A carriage with two horses, along a dirt road, with trees. Trees vary. Professor Radiant holds an idea. See the chalkboard, the numbers, the diagrams. One sentence leads to another, each manufacturing an idea. Ideas lose words. Words float freely and not too soon. Professor Radiant remains with vacuum tubes. Fast mobile phone networks resemble children. Children moil. A variety of political units cuddle on doorways, crusted with rime, molting with time fled impediments. Tracking of meaning concerns the Professor, radiance like snow. A high albedo means something at times. At times, spring frees the word for something we think. At times, fall is sport enough. Professor Radiant charged the Victorian era, as much as to say carriages carry ideas between regions. Horses are dogs. A tree is almost enough time, for now. This story of Professor Radiant is the day JFK died.