Skip to main content

Moon

 The moon slides above contact. You know the feeling. Fine-tuned Straining at engagement with a weighty parish-flourishing in obese dark stabling oboe of time looks like cursive to your eyes. An optimal space between words agitates in lunar regimen. It must take time to be ordinary. Seating cannot Be fooled. Words practice vagary for your base schrod. Not your problem, however. Just Reanimate time with floral approval. A sentence can't free infrared, the basic fees resist. Watch the moon stop being in the space where meaning once held. Fanatics will poise again, making infractions part of life in 11/4 time. Another month, another meant, another slight green thing in the light. And you the consequence.


Comments

Bob BrueckL said…
Slight infrared infractions
reanimate the ordinary moon
straining to be
the feeling in a sentence
of cursive words agitating
lunar fanatics to flourish
between the weighty eyes of light
poised to resist being fooled
in the dark, just for once,
by contact with the obese part
of a consequence,
and you.

***

Popular posts from this blog

Words

  From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.

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.

A Screed Left Town

  Inside the excuse for nation: leafy tractors (any bonding to the brownness of earth will do). A day’s march from the next day’s march, the love amongst us on a map. The map shows citadel, city in a dell, and abounding fields. The trees have effort to contend with. Bears chuff to excess in a workfarm spring. Something tall rises on the plain. Mills confirm the need for rivers. Troops stop where the food is. Terror provides the function for non-terror, in zones described as war-like. Pictures become words for people sighing. One sees a lack of food, or especial jewels, or the need for frocks made from bison. Another tower seems important for a nation’s existence, one taller than might. It will seem like tradition. You and I are left to explain.