Skip to main content

Myrrh from the Forest and Gold from the Mine?

The strapping documents of One Emily Dickinson come between us. We see salients and pure stuff, from the edge of each word to the middle, the horizon adorning.


Documents everywhere stand on their toes. They drink to the framing technique patent of swizzle sticks. Pants in the ocean, empty of human form.

Remember the moment that the first stick swizzled? From gulfs of approximation, as varied as cream-filled Newt Gingrich, a letter arrives. The letter carries the moral equivalent of a swizzle stick. The God of Twinkies readies to speak. We wait with a pantry of remorse.

Cocktail blossoms fall upon ideology, which pulses with strata while union members bend towards sunlit field. The story is tolled in the season. The owners own, and in owning, they round fast ball.


One Emily Dickinson likes to see it lap the miles. This sensual indication, a time filled from youth on, becomes capable of which minute left in which sequence. The strapping documents then side with fervor, or blessing, or stricture, although in fact the nation needs new dimensions for the words still alive. We have voted and this is it.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A List of Words

It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
Post a Comment
Read more

The Left of Intention

Blistered arrangement in Obama's plant. That plant is excised with cultured cells looking for the sun. Obama brands name in this stampede, and we leak alert. A new orange smokes upon the evening landscape, parlance for yesterday, then blue over the gushing land today. Stay happy with Obama, or paralax, or the motion across the kitchen floor, of something. Something secret leaves the hives. Something secret seeks the plant. The plant is poised like anything. Tussle continues, with new verbs vectoring the continuation. Obama bravely last the night, sweatshop slogan. Our President, haply, but effort contorts all known regions of meaning. The South, for instance, the West, the North and its East, and so on, dilations. There was a lake above. A blue and now it is shining morning lake. It was above, like the cat, or even more, when we are attuned. Obama battles with all words, Even as the proposition institutes some collision hardly to be compelled. All this exceeds ramifications. Our Pr...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Citizen Would Leave

  Across lean tar pits of localised conveyance, news from sadly nowhere and other quackery. The entire rich crunch vibrates to the center, where stopping begins. Look where the adjectives go. The people as multiplied assumption and ducking away show causation by tumbleweed drift. Moral code exists as prosecution, pronounced as caring. Nuclear rocks decompose, discompose. Stictures from the one god populates the beaten numbers between us. We can all die with advantage to hear the startling judgment. The bonfire of Babylon made happiness exist. We cannot squeeze more love from this rock. Donald’s day has spoken, mellifluous tar.
Post a Comment
Read more