To Lunge at the Herd

The best dinosaur was a flower. It sent a child into horse lands. It repeated rhythmic phrases of sound that could be words. The dawn of something, following a night of else.

The dinosaur of light and dark swooned in the federation of conflict, drama, and pointless remarks by Republicans. The edge came off the knife, drew inference from the piety of party.

The best dinosaur rose in document, singing ages of processes, processes that could bear adjectives. Colour nurtured new, again and again. Green meant the play of light on seeing the day spin. Blue signaled the wastrel sky and sea.

Horse lands became bison lands again. We learned of plain facts, between us. We aren't retreats, always. We have accepted a mutual landing in marsh, salt marsh, the edge of everything and anything.

The sea air rises to a flower.

Comments

Ask Your Ventilator

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...

Maps Then And Now

cobble stones on fire, cars uprooted, it was a strange nexus and bright bolt. We knew we would be younger than today, always that same stress-tone and nodding after. Bison as big as, feeling entitled promise and big years. We weren’t arranged so properly and too bookish but as the fit of time and wheat stalks in fields swaying. We proposed without exactitude but in flinty response a spark. It could constitute a binge but did not. All this in the certain year and then. Now produces a traffic of manyness, meeting and entreating as simplified breath. It would be stone wonderful to follow into an Idaho of history and dimension, mapped by eyes and invited steps. Lewis died with extinguished story, Clark stayed announced. Today old mongering remains in shivering, unplacid worldview by shaky virtue of amazing wither. Rightly leaning wrong in crossfire, purpose beyond completion, our own gravity stoked for how we intended the lucid green, at our feet, at our hands, at all rou...

I Could Not Find the Specific Location

Dear Assabet, the river that meets the Sudbury and floods the Concord. Dear river, you have moved something. You are not a regional rocket landing for the sake of what explodes density tribunal once. River goes out a spurt of earth to go some earthy miles in an active geology. Then the way water goes down, a religion of just that way. No guns and that famous spew right now. Paris is a town to the right of what we have mapped here. Assabet wants to be just Concord, you can hold your own. Own is the favoured stance. Poems are wormy things to dignify the vast whatsis of arrangement. Words. Words are tomorrow because today says something says something. We have to lie sometimes. Add that to nothing and nothing wants more meat. A poem become instant. An instant can handle the track, Aegean waves from after years star meaning moment. Meaning enters work, telling story, fractal. You are a useless reference.

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