Skip to main content

Gabba Gabba Hey

 Gentian summary at key aquatic duct point. listen treelike in faith and parting. Pock forever rumour mill to deign caustic rope dance.

The world Greek words got out of hand and city state.
Choose then now Uruk or Eridu posture, compound leaven mass.

Larger, one can think, than the preamble to justice: the County of Edessa. Stuck there in some apportioned earthspace, and let a time’s worth of being and non-being be. Furthermore about this word, that word, regions outside those words and, too, the stiffening. So smooth and intent. Just calling and just that.

Not alone in the venture of extent. That side of the Mediterranean offered comfort of place in name and notion, and the veriest effect of place on point, and point on earth, the holograph and palimpsest in active reflection of what’s there or could be. 

To wit: Southeast, the Principality of Antioch, the County of Tripoli, the Kingdom of Jerusalem, in time’s vent, just for the making. Marking earth with the usual temblors or society, with councils, jogged memory, ageless stone, and grande geste. No time in the history of time contains less in terms of final opportunity tho created on the basis of slabs, chunks, corporal means, and damage. And every side of the point in space lodges within another, with the notion that no notion remains of any point but stone gateways to tone innocent stone. The map clearly emphasizes all of this, point by point, line by line, rock by rock.

History seals the time when something was said. Oghuz Turks started interacting with a number of Muslim cities. The map included schematics of endeavour. Places named in stillness, gods or other terms were invoked. The sea no longer stood for anything but distance crossed, or not quite.

The Seljuq Sultanate of Rum, The Principality ofu Armenian Cilicia, The Great Seljuq Empire, Fatimid Caliphate. Borders inspired by borders, severance, distinction. Maps have a hearty background in magic, believing points exist in space, that space can be more than a word, that word can be more than a place in time. The executive part certifies control, the state you are in. You swore the history you’d never join.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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...

Maps Then And Now

  cobble stones on fire, cars uprooted, it was a strange nexus and bright bolt. We knew we would be younger than today, always that same stress-tone and nodding after. Bison as big as, feeling entitled promise and big years. We weren’t arranged so properly and too bookish but as the fit of time and wheat stalks in fields swaying. We proposed without exactitude but in flinty response a spark. It could constitute a binge but did not. All this in the certain year and then. Now produces a traffic of manyness, meeting and entreating as simplified breath. It would be stone wonderful to follow into an Idaho of history and dimension, mapped by eyes and invited steps. Lewis died with extinguished story, Clark stayed announced. Today old mongering remains in shivering, unplacid worldview by shaky virtue of amazing wither. Rightly leaning wrong in crossfire, purpose beyond completion, our own gravity stoked for how we  intended  the lucid green, at our feet, at our hands, at all rou...

I Could Not Find the Specific Location

Dear Assabet, the river that meets the Sudbury and floods the Concord. Dear river, you have moved something. You are not a regional rocket landing for the sake of what explodes density tribunal once. River goes out a spurt of earth to go some earthy miles in an active geology. Then the way water goes down, a religion of just that way. No guns and that famous spew right now. Paris is a town to the right of what we have mapped here. Assabet wants to be just Concord, you can hold your own. Own is the favoured stance. Poems are wormy things to dignify the vast whatsis of arrangement. Words. Words are tomorrow because today says something says something. We have to lie sometimes. Add that to nothing and nothing wants more meat. A poem become instant. An instant can handle the track, Aegean waves from after years star meaning moment. Meaning enters work, telling story, fractal. You are a useless reference.