Simple Theories

words were lank, of a beaming mortal flame, and bent stylus to present: such is the main line of direct. we sink alert process delimiters among swards and rank grass. the fallen snow of cold days stems reaping. mold offers fidelity, spores resume search. we sap a barn door present at the beginning. ether was a poem by Whitman, once. and Lorine Niedecker woke betimes, with Wisconsin made of ice. dreams fell into the murky waster, winter blended with dreams. Zukofsky remained studious, until no time was left. we scrawled a report. it was a definitive moment, only blurrier than regal announcements. a poem written in a language cooled by the window. no, it was a pie, and a hobo stared avidly. the story became something straight from a whirling stutter of words. well and good, sinking and then, lightly, the snow melted, subliminated, settled into reverence. a moment of that word, then all changed. a poise stated resistance, yet that map, it clouded, and we began again. the word was at its p...

imagine wind wound on tubes of words, which then what? your own weather came daily, over an ocean noun, smacking season mountain, till it is when you make a word to read: each word, one at a time, invented by your work. then imagine, clearly invested, optimal as bright, the specific beaming of winter sun morn, that much red in fiddles of explosion, tho you doubt that poetry just as you exclaim. settle for the spark that set the trees, then slip away. settle, too, for an undertone, the word as grey as dear waiting. or the black that is convinced, even night on the border of more night, useless examination of physical matter. a word stuns the once, then stuns again. doubt is a courage. sentences are found in our days, frequent, willed, and vetted. then a crimson of dawn smokes thru the goggle of staring, you are reminded. do you get sick of stating the facts? a poem is no relay, it stays inside the bounds of words, except for bringing stirred up to the round up. Wyatt Earp, we are remind...

it seems strong, with codgers on chairs that loom over linoleum present. strings of dawn-coloured breaking hearts rope the votive. people smile at the young ones, as crumbs fall. the falling is so strong and went so far. codgers boondoggle on the rocks of the distant foreshadow, with close naming present day. the people are still, with codgers for backbone. all people are dull and insist on sentences. flowers fix tunes in the taffy-flavored wallpaper. why, then, are roses so much like walls? it seems strained with watery codgers, who fall off pronouns to the present, more or less. they stare at tremendous ducts filled with air of the most riproaring verisimilitude. you could almost breathe. these are the codgers on the wall, and the wall is a sentence. a sentence is next to linoleum. that's the smell of urine, in addition to the plan that went before. some people are no people at all, but it varies. look it up. we think we love, because linoleum isn't final, then we do love, be...

On Behalf Of Rock And Roll, New Rule: "The more complicated the Starbucks order, the bigger the asshole you can find information about 'The Cat in Sheep's Clothing.' I have tried to move on and say, " I no longer feel this 3 or 4 supervillains and you're on a mailing list you'll never get off of. Huh? Notice the long caudal fold on white face lamb Just so you people know, my whole life has been abyssless it’s rare to see customers wax poetic in a. written survey I hated his quiet, patient voice

clients surrounded the test of words. they said tables are indefinite flames. they said topics are riled by sentences. they said, your third try will be marshland, a tuft of wind, blue smoke over green woods, and snow begins to fall . did we listen? I will tell you a story, and in that story, I will not appear. yet the story will occur in the sentence of one breath. this breath will be a whole universe, and drills made of stars. when you hear the story, Dear Reader, you will be provoked. effort will construct a breeze across the mentioned marsh. a melting sun will bloom from the seed of winter. this must be the simplest myth imaginable , you will whisper to yourself. your self won't listen, your self will read on. still, clients are not easily abetted, or even cleared for landing. I will tell you, tho, that the airplane crashed. it was beautiful. it felt like a casting off of doubt. with that inkling, you have more of the picture. don't worry, all passengers of the crashing pla...

our top cloud held back, the plane spun magnificently. any truth to falling erects this plan in nature. wild plotting of control resumes its course, until a sentence makes a mind. watch the pressing claim of gravity and dream, shift particulars for a last object, then identify recent claims, offshore. wind flattens some taxing notion, as if a comma could stay in place. the subject renders itself useful, dilating in the day full of sun. further wind remains a deed, a condition, a plot element for a narrative that has taken to the wind. are we patient observers or traces? the commotion of a language, at this time, stirs prehistory. we could go on with facts, their radiance, our program, but the issue blurs into a mesmerized terror as the plane safely c crashes. now the earth is included, now it isn't all words. as poem finds a way for more evacuations and resistance, a definite incursion sets up a new league of sentences. a poem, found by words, removes itself from consideration. in ...

nouns are the last treat. we read a book on the airplane in the sky's ocean first. we drive that kin such a way! then power of falling said, oh plane truth, we fell as a signal long turd . the loss of falling was no relief. we hung, a loop in variable, and every word was text. how's that for fair play? we sent a loss language toward the gift. it was no an airplane at all. falling is sinking. the ocean, then, was under the clouds that were forested with us, as the numbers we make make us. our life was a noun that clenched. we folded our hands for the force of more words. each word is different, somehow. the plane truth was form. we flew above the simple clouds, into the merrie nest of newness. this is a stain that stays. the staying is called clouds. clouds fall into seas, seas remain aloft with the last time of the sentence definition. each included word made a new text. those other words, left out, formed nothing at all. the plane went awry, as if bursting were a period. if th...