Simple Theories

They rain to literal, fit with facts. Hawthorne on the boat, Pond Lily, and the whispering half life of the Concord River resort to bright effects. A wind installed in the tucked duff beneath a serious tree settles a rabbit to its own personal marsh. Thought roomed for minutes with constant referral. Thoreau and his boat, Musketaquid, same boat as Hawthorne’s, and a trip to part of the world. Each part connects to a vocabulary. Hawthorne looked out the window of the Old Manse while the river eased its way. The landscape remained a process, with its own vocabulary. Treated as a vagary, each word resorts to distinction as a claim. Sunset bottled, then sunrise uncorked, or some metaphor between this history and your own. Picture that , said Thoreau, as Margaret Fuller, more like a countess now, drowned in homecoming.

The town was a specific quadrille. Leftists were right, and Rightists were left. Geese flew in tandem, except the loss-engendered ones. This is factual, like wind thru trees dynamically. The town fits a presentation theory, and we gather in collision. We have seen birth and death, and U2 working the crowd. Galway Kinnell is now a fact of Providence, Rhode Island, like a truck stopped in the Callahan Tunnel. District Court, time off from work, take time off from work.

Somebody spoke like hankies in the dropdown menu of the plastered faction, so we got together for a Trotsky. Rife whistles rent by hayseeds toggled on the modular web design determination of the prole section. We like our sporty shirts, so attractive to grunting parts, say the comrades swaying in the wind. Obama sopped up Parisian sunset by the River Seine, his mood ring filling improbable school nights with his First Lady Michelle and her anyday shine. That new age Tongan Rush Limbaugh, observing ossuary assumption, sweats the oldies and the newies, his nose an immaculate closet. Meanwhile, we laugh over fields of warbling bluegrass, thinking horses, the justice of legs. The hankies of intention started a new round of praxis, which translates as the guy in the commercial who likes what he has. Hot to Trotsky is cool to Stalin, laughed Lenin, snorting comical coke. His hanky will be our hanky someday, crusty as the merest sanction.

Trappist flunk invidious transformer. Period is the new comma, but comma still holds the semi-colon collectively. Last October meant David Bromige lived. The cheeks of days surrounded the cleft words and abundance. We wrote to see the word. A brandished flicking thing tolled over doubts of meaning to. The death of David Bromige circulated words of saying so. So what is basic, sow more is prevailing. We stick to roofs as we slide among stars. Dentists discharge tooth integrity, and flaring stalks of regent highlights include dogma-based flaking procedures. All will be drilled, someday. Those in the flow control their weeklong dumpster diving with indemnity. A careful thrush releases its wings to the concept if not the provocation of flight. Curious to know more of the Bromige oeuvre, one sees that it floats thru the latest season with colourful pragmatism. The stunt called replying stirs an imp-driven piety. Oh well, congested to process, unveils the sad day. The day is not sa...

The last book by Dan Brown surfaced. Not the last theory of broken integrity, just Dan Brown, with shoes in his bag. Hold onto that bag, Dan, now that you have written the book. The century is new, full of books by Dan Brown. He made a million words look like a book. He is the essence of Tom Hanks. The war may soon be over. This is a novel by Dan Brown, with childish emphasis. And then the sea rises because of Al Gore, and the facts remain insane. This is where Dan. We could not prove only that words come in packs, but that stories change with listening. Then the process accepts the poem as a sidecar in an immense factory of visiting. So Dan Brown grew up with exactly the right explanation. And it came to a million words or so, who is counting, which could be captured, frame by frame. And we are happy with the logistics of such spray, writing thru the day. My friends are exceptional and go to lengths. Their sense of Dan brown includes a movie deal and 6 packs. After a while the message...

Clacking sounds similar to onions. Vida Blue in Oakland teapot, relaxing full of tea. Grampus Americans settled for Dick Cheney luncheon meat, vice capital and when we go home. Sentences are Republican, tho not to a fault. We have spheres of TVs sitting near our academy. Listen to Steve Jobs. Steve Jobs woke to the fame of being perfectly right. It was a sentence without virus, and astonished the voters of saying so. German war machine includes great video excerpts. American war machine meets Russian war machine, while gypsies in Bulgaria reform the present tense. Hitler was a party gal. Maoist rubber pants protect, as do Stalinist rubber pants. The baby is well, tho needs a brass bottom. Tenderness of hit man in the season of wet blankets, lilacs remain in the dooryard, province of taste. Klingons fly off handle, leaving handle to itself. Hitler party girl dolled up like pine. Deciduous references need a day or two. A poem is propped to matter. This is how Dick Cheney got thru...

Poetry will make it if we stick to exciting prologues redshifted to vented arrangements of tonic chimes, which will include plastic chance and a hard won vocabulary. Your betters, including Galway Kinnell, Amy Clampitt, thrones of professors, and the weird excuse of the greeting card, will posit exact change in your dynamic world. A new world turned frisky, that is, with global positioning setting the word's universal pace in the globally global universe. Think of it, hayseed: we have tears some days, guttural laughs on others, and Garrison Keilor is our tall mood of a friend. Imagine teaching all that to freshmen while stating the case for Whitman's bullshit. Meanwhile, all the Melvins are invited for dinner, you the consequence. That means Poet Laureates are loose, and spreading like Klingons.