Skip to main content

Brad Seems too Loose to Fizz

The worth that engine, that angel. The same documents called slaves found listing in history. You could tell that things went straight to words, while words went crooked towards another impress. Money talked of how the venting force creates a damage startling the quark within the residual effects of a person qua person. Who are we, to disagree?

Reflecting upon such truths as seem likely, little words attempt to bolt from human grasp. Human grasp is the same pan-fried waiting for the meal extortion. Time will tell.

The slaves of history rose up en masse and words were spoken with a sail of meaning. Those in the books of history stood respectful tall. And then reading history showed readers. Readers were steps forward, as they read. They read words, it was their time. The words.

That Christmas engine, that imagined freed slaves then found the words for them, this is the point. In 1861, there were reasons to fan the flames. Tyranny wasn’t much of a tone poem, but states written right refer to the moment, words or not. No words include every thing. Not even slaves, not even human slave being to be human. Not even being being human.

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.

A Child’s Proletariat Garden

  The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.

A Screed Left Town

  Inside the excuse for nation: leafy tractors (any bonding to the brownness of earth will do). A day’s march from the next day’s march, the love amongst us on a map. The map shows citadel, city in a dell, and abounding fields. The trees have effort to contend with. Bears chuff to excess in a workfarm spring. Something tall rises on the plain. Mills confirm the need for rivers. Troops stop where the food is. Terror provides the function for non-terror, in zones described as war-like. Pictures become words for people sighing. One sees a lack of food, or especial jewels, or the need for frocks made from bison. Another tower seems important for a nation’s existence, one taller than might. It will seem like tradition. You and I are left to explain.