Simple Theories

Like a doctor in underwear, the decade began. Cocktails implore in a language all too common. Forget pencils now: serve crunchy things. The day becomes evening. Something blends memorably. Wet bars produce a relaxed economy. Russians in their doctor clothes tell dated woodpecker jokes, freezing image of next pay check. People do not drink vodka. A case of doctoral bourbon sits by the couch. We dream of the freshest ice cubes, the ones with ripping edges to disturb the frumpy. On the coast, people believe another coast exists. A summer get together and crunchy things. Perhaps the lowly dump truck bears the seed for tomorrow’s flying car. Your doctor friend will want three. We dream of artichokes, scads of them filling the back seat. Flying cars on the horizon, in homage to something Allen Ginsberg said in May. A bowl of mulligatawny soup later, with all the propriety of crunchy things. You look nice today, as a considered advantage of excellent crunchy snacks. Viscous snacks are sad dol...

Cool in the morning, touching, and the reach takes love to face. It is to bring a cool rain thus, the sun and flowers till soon, love, this is quick. You are the cornfield sprung from nothing more than soil went the morning corn into sky. Leaping trees join blue sky finally. This love is caring in the face, and touch of night when we sleep and sleep. Rhythm makes the sky and all its clouds and clearing. Rain is wonderful, sun is meaningful, day and night combine. Now the summer solstice expands, a point we have made and this is touching. Lightly the bed is made for our time. The things we create clear with music. Our love is a definite day.

Cast clouds, in story, pull humid dozens from the fragments, tellingly. Poised in that muddled precociousness are the Worcesters of dropping down. This is dropping into place, where weather is logical and perceived, and still falling for the reasoning. The news satisfies as a thundercloud cracks. The earth itself lives in language, that is what we keep telling ourselves. A poem is a village where Hillary, Barack and John maunder. Luncheons are served, west backs us. Newspapers get wet in this Worcester of which you speak, said someone from precincts away. Is it truly faring as a taste? The answer is yes, tho blind and alleging. Wiser heads fail. The country of which we speak, a nation, knows no one, not even people. Names are positions in a rule of intent. We hold something to the light, and call it love. It is as strong as that, and bears us. Worcester is a place. so called. Trials and balloons each make advance. Then the poem, of its own volition, turns on the language it gave.

this is a new document the sun is quartzite, with paeans running thru. billows of escarpments perform plush rods extending cumulus, and you would think: the sky is above Worcester this shining spring morn. and the people are abundant, with whims jetting thru cycles of concerned political gantry. a wired elegance promulgates a new election, tho the candidates are stunned. these words reflect that bastion. process makes document, on any morning. sentences flock together like geese or turkeys. a turtle strides at maximum speed along bikeway, a dinosaur as much as smoke. the contest fires up. someone plays hip hop or the next understood. together we make a city. call it Worcester, and imagine something better. this is how poems make their way.

Spiders in ray light occur in chance. Raffles of what Olson said, in the doom of thunderstorm, on the offshore and laid to wind, spent a day to explain. People in Worcester staked claim, leaves in trees, and a position to thrill. The love call is work of radiant offing; clouds dodging bending with science in exclaim. Who cycles back when the twisting storms touch down? The forest is leveled, the natives topple, small pox is a fragrance. Our love, a gantlet and then, but more nature than a tryst. We have kissed, and will again. This news settles when Olson, a poet, comes home. Home is freely heightened. Its language is secure. Now the names and now the commands, pouring over the landmarks while sleep concerns Aztecs. Language equals words. Poised relentlessness caves in to documents spread over time. Time, the rival sister, shuns that opulent task of engaging Oscar-winning star clouds. Push comes to shove, and delivers. Our friends constantly wonder at us.

I have so much soft buttons, the berry dream to say inclusion, but I know the best way clean rivers. Donating comfort press for me to speak, these rumbling stratus clouds are through my music. This is my therapy, my passion, ever-soaked pragmatic, and my love. I look forward to sharing with it, this new journey, mutt.

What grain of itinerant reward skips vowels for the exquisite express train of consonants? Those prone , regal, smack-sounding rays of infinite clunk concern us. The consonant has a whisker and a home in any framework. Whisker means whisky, and the absolute donnish flight, so you should pray with equilaterals. Meantime, the votive of word, squeezed in sound, consumes a throttle-minded spurning debris. We sink, having seen sentences with words of all kinds. Suddenly the mixture of consonants and vowels makes sense. The word is Worcester. Woo, stir: why do we need verbs? Verbs include and conclude with abetment and tankard. Yes, tankard, the whisky that means something, from earth peat memory of the scent of some day until you find that the word is arranged differently. Each word regales its own self, if self is appropriate here in this context. Context conveys the consonant and the vowel each as equals and persistent. Spoken is part way. Written is part way. Other words feign other word...