All Those Options

Sky, with versions of coloured animals, bright sunshine elbow room.

A place inside that name for doubt, perpendicular to the advice of strangers.

Catalogue of catastrophes, with slung motivations adding television.

Perfection of pizza in the blood while lasting for the end.

Exact retirement plan in plain racist terms.

Clerk function in just voting for topic sentence.

Dialogue with out-of-date.

Turning to football’s majesty.

Torquing for the vast function inside the little desire.

Someone’s yelling, again: tone poems can’t function.

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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.

Adam Sandler Has Totally Lost It. Okay?

The greatest popular person in the world died today. Repeat: this person was young, with exceptionally pleasant features forced of radial tires. Each star in the empyrean sighed for lack of this locus of popularity. Humdrum took on new meaning, but meaning did not. Meaning is a wave of popularity toward the sigh of exceptional stars. These stars are good-looking reminders of all that is possible, tho distant from any address. Tears flowed to the heart of the Milky Way, because the popular person stood tall and well-dressed, like sentimental eagles drinking Bud Light while evoking timeless mythic pediments. The greatest of popular signs grew milky with waves of stars over easy oceans of just plain folk stalking the best. We remain ardent, tho the popular person can no longer contribute. We have to look in magazines again, for the source and severing. Levers used for leverage feel average. Again the popular trout, the popular doorknob, the popular brand of sweetened, flavoured, f...

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...

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