Xenophon Current

Xenophon as man, as legend, as topic, as effort, as known. He was has was the words last. Ways exist to understand wherein floating Shit Creek memory so, for the years there were. The Persians had internecine straits to resolve. Organize! Attribute! Verbs of constant warlike reminder float like roses. Ask the victims for clarity. Be clear in the little berries of words registering plans and reactions. Till then appease and tired again. Imagine having to listen to Socrates, an historical figment of common stature. Imagine speaking to Cyrus the Younger on a plane of severe angles. Thymochares arrived from Athens with a few ships. It is said the battle hugged the strand.

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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.

Where Kerouac Got His Shoes, You Can Too

Named for a mountain on Mars, Lowell sits standard beside the river assumed of countryside. Embolisms spread everywhere, the beseechcraft of unlocked rule, neat tent cities of unaffordable scum. Smoke flex parenthesis, Lester Young afloat. Open on Kerouac town. Inculcation admitted as habit, in the midst of deity throng. Churches piled high, almost toward heaven. Someone said Modern Day, and behold, water runs downhill. The hill possesses, with a current so mighty: Babylonian, like sway. A sentence can only be completed, the thought cannot. Gods of pure exult gave unto all soap dispensers, lubricious belts, pious bits of rock, hard landing, natural upheaval, synonyms for guilt, lake-sized entrapment, a better bop. And then waking up on the seventh day thinking, again, thinking. Jack says the donut rising from the fryer’s oil speaks of ancestral towers and go back. The President holds forth a tone, not quite mapped. Later forms of isolation will prove just as stable. America in th...

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