Simple Theories

A flying bus all jostle looks honk in sky. That treasure road when people Not so blind. An arithmetic of fancy will save us , say the feathery bus driver. The glossary will let us know. Some towns are cold and chancy, with elevation sold to riches. Yet listen for the hounding. A breath of language in the bus-driven clouds. The best of bird and tree will stay, stay and bright forest. Beneath the bus, all forest and water. The sky remain something blue and fine towards daily then today.

The driver turns off the highway... Later seems like an appellation for a harbour, a touring company. Standing before the slight audience and a poem is glazed eyes. This road? Or some average. It becomes a plan or statements, like sausages in the distance named morning. Late morning, the beginning of a sentence wither smell of clouds and light. The cat sits in the mirror. A sentence wood well enough, with reliant nouns and imaginary verbs. And no birds sing. Appellation arrives later, and the driver turns off the highway. No one is left or right. Only sausages smell like the day of sausages. The road averages out to perplexity, as if a sentence could simulate a road. A more careful performance removed nose hairs. A sentence speaks on condition of not. Ordinary sound bespeaks a road. Off the highway, the driver turned, the highway turned, the highway turned off, the driver turned on. On that moment, rather than in. People certainly learned, to remember what they heard. A smell of ...

I felt something of very word or was relaxed by pressure. I caved to the freedom to reach definite. I languaged a conscious wading, replete in that way. I talked a good game response. It meant much to be the act, writing down or up. This is a school of thought, and a shoal. It shall please the poetry public. Anyway a long day.

That person and/or applied science. Writing Is one finger. Other fingers meet daily, in Hand, togetherly. The word just Made it plain. Ted wrote together. It was always later. This is the nature of Berrigan Boke.

who left dying to papered lawyers excuse of thinking in time when poems own time by not being in time time happens when Ted Berrigan sd                             so

The in wrapping stands August and petals of bloom, at risk factor asserts children, bison, those of anything left Then road for some algorithm and similitude lichen, that hits high notes in the very season Cherubs then and wax creatures wishing bullets full of clover like a beaming hill