Simple Theories

Have seen human instincts, crows in the sky, bats the envy of hearing something new, herd quality a local human reflex towards words. A Trump moment allows nothing to happen viciously, steeps the television. A team of experts, or clocks in molasses, survive the programming. Chance of dates in the time-sense ratification possibles, as in: Allen Ginsburg wrote a poem after all. Teammates say ridiculous helps as margin. Outside margin grows pears. Time is a sense.

Donald Trump (his hair... tree branch centerpieces draped in jewels) wants to purchase the Pope's soccer team. The leaves of the surly trees that don't listen in autumn swag, are they real Republicans? Can they purchase trees and sense? Have they a soccer team to dream? Steve Jobs didn't care if people thought he was an asshole. Thomas Edison was an asshole. Would I be more looked at by girls if I was a little bit of an asshole? Donald Trump opened his mouth.

Writing is the sport of typing, or of scribble, if you choose. You sit in plastic music and compare your thoughts to nothing. Nothing is so vague! You can gain the upper hand by telling Kerouac to type faster. Capote was right, despite an obvious pall. Writing is the measure of the typewriter, or the extent of graphite in a pencil, ink in a pen. It must be time to hear the words someday. What playground can you fall from, hearing that Martians have proverbs and you can listen? They write with what is left, which, strangely, is just like you and me. Henry James told the amanuensis that the brigantine was empty, and still something was left behind. It seemed like everything to Henry, nothing to the amanuensis. Something and everything must not be the same. Nothing every is. Wallace Stevens pulled a wallet from his ear; Emily Dickinson spoke of foundries. Like several trees, they smile.