Simple Theories

The dog comes to Worcester, prepared for inevitable death. Snow falls with a ranch dressing insistence. Those Doritos flavoured with ranch dressing ignite the imagination. All Worcester crowds to ideal. It is a dog, in the snow, that has never been forgotten. What reason flakes from the sky, to bring such ranch dressing, Doritos, and dog together? Climate changes are carefully arranged in dogma. This dogma creates an installation. Dog is favoured. We remember that a dog, period. More is underneath, but not to be told. It is a variation of music of which, now, as the snow falls. The dog cannot become. Death is only part of the Town because Worcester is like glory, only in moments made public and useless. Someone plays guitar. It fills the night sky, or the ultimate arrangement of noon, which consists of pizza and dreams of ranch-flavoured Doritos. No one wants that. The next verse decides our fate. The dog is dead. The cat almost eats a mouse but the mouse knows better. Escape is prepar...

Precious Drone of Worcester 3/27/2008 piper at dawn, green dire engine (we need the word dire), people stain people in city of WORCESTER , with a guidance of hope called weather until vague teasing in ice of new age, data comprises people and their inveighing blurts the sediment of real rocks and tonal assonance brings waters of several lakes together, to drink with native vigour, to live in the wooded farness, brusque about Boston, civil notion, which is a several or beneath (or above, like swirling gulls), the nestled thinking in great and good minds sandwiches in hazards of growth, fear being an excellent logic, suitable for a trial of aiming, of apportioning, of registering, of conditioning, of assimilating syllables and last words (beautiful constructions) need grows to see, Jonathan Williams agrees to die at a certain age (he was a poet), he must have grown in Worcester, with the harbour master, with the famous rickshaw, with the terrible mountains assuming no human distinction, ...

You change in the town, and the town changes for you , said a person cultured green with the envious season approaching. The world sparkles with the simplest demands, which will be spoken of. The world of Worcester specifically, with its mountainous people, its lacustrine highways, its specious and spacious wariness of all catalogues and diligence, this world of being starts to control the outlay of song. Pressures build buildings of weight, that tower more than 5 stories high, even as the sky topples into averages. The people, underneath, bluster about condition as they read the details. This is the course of empire. From one fat city to one fat forest, and in between, a few shocks and divergences. We are required to read the news, and fall from our chair, and open a system, and pull our little boat ashore. It may work as we study our hopes. Colours speak season, season sparks us. Meanwhile, information roots into everything we do. Measurement is possible throughout the system.

The people of Worcester begin with numbers. They begin. They speak in places called cathedral or hallway, and they write home. Home bellows in capitals, like this: HOME, because a place is there. HOME is a function of Worcester, but in a way related to the pressures of position and the dynamics of time. There is always time for HOMES. • Lake Huron • Lake Ontario • Lake Michigan • Lake Erie • Lake Superior Actually, Lake Ontario is Lake Omaha, and we have a little story, completing implication with a stroke. Listen, my friends. The winds were wild if not pleased, perhaps bringing a tornado to kill 94 people, all of whom significantly lost, we believe. Daniel Gookin petitioned to have the town's name officially changed from "Quinsigamond" to "Worcester." However, its inhabitants were still vulnerable to attack. History had already occurred, but it seems like more is available. It all comes HOME. The town was again abandoned by all its English inhabitants except fo...

Bibliography is the only real art / science. Facts in other fields are simply hollow. Good bibliography is an easy ticket to heaven. Possibly astronomy is as divine. Course the skies are simple things next to the world of books. The winds of Worcester roar across every certitude. Charles Olson became a definition, with a cousin in the hills, a memory for instant deliberation, and a kind of posture that struck the rooftop of a now famous sky. Such wizardly recycling of condition inveighs against the easy Harvard process, so that Gloucester, 2 syllables, becomes a central point of trade and willingness. Winds blow from the east, to the point of bringing colonies of new suits to the forest grange. This is true. It is in books. Books are in trouble, however. Elizabeth Bishop, the only American to win that prize. The then Frank O’Hara, first of Grafton, then a state to himself. A chuckle called Robert Benchley. An antiquarian society that outnumbered Harvard… Let’s go back to the cosseting...

The enormous mountains of Worcester, that touch even the pale fronds of the dilating sky, tower over human something. Human city, with human road, things done, din, and cousins of drudgery. language remains among denizens, citizens, the portion of place that moves. Much cannot move. Not those mighty mountains that weigh upon populace with intensive remedial need. Not the blusterous seasons, that strain the people with regimen. Not any aptitude at all, but that a history broke on the surface of the place. Remember: Elizabeth Bishop is said to have invented the rickshaw around 1848 in Worcester, Massachusetts for a missionary. She dearly loved and the language let Charles Olson, together in a rickshaw while the young Frank O’Hara paid for sultry Harvard education by trundling forth with a merrie rickshaw energy. Forward goes the century of poetry, claiming Worcester as a prize. I fell as if I were being kidnapped: contra gravity (which is a kind of Worcester?) Not everyone sees the near...

Love is such a fresh wind, an eastbound train back to the planting place. They knew it could, we know it can. Struggle with the effort, in green symbols to the waste of winter. Worcester,Massachusetts, the mountain of human endeavour near lake front properties, good fishing, and endless toil. Crying out battles of land holding, usual massacre elements, structures of demotic thought in the languages used to make distance: these are prime movers, eternal relays. Where is the best if west is left out? England, or utter Europe, or any other claim. Yet what wattage of fear, feeling stretched to maximum, without the apportionment of love squared then squared again? Curious necessities remain, which dictate a peace that infringes on peace. This betokens a war, and it seems redolent of some faction, fracture, or fair flower. Our love, nonetheless, remains. Strange, true, and declared, with simple gestures as the precision of the realm. Something needful inveighs against the details while laudi...