Simple Theories

Recent disclosure, the pans have handles, each one preset with a place for hand. Hand is umbilical, recent research declares. Such as in the life of Immanuel Kant, singing with Simon Garfunkel, adipose back door. Stern ray gun of the really. Base emblem for chaos: Cake in the bathroom. Toggle switch of the gods. Swishing bunting of the patriotic mending pants. Rubber duck of the post moderns. Patches on the ass, thank you. Go on with your story Mr.. Lucas, very fine good. Spatula in the force of Emily Brontë. Mordancy as a refrain inspired by doxy. Gertrude Stein reading sheet music, three sheets to the wind. Such the such of such.

Vicars roam the countryside, inquiring after Hegel. Hegel, surreptiously, asserts whatever documentary evidence that will suffice. He loves the music of Ferde Grofé. Those hammocks in the west are donkeys. That vat in particular is the Grand Canyon. Vicars realized the essential message. Freed Grofé wrote a doctored document, which caused Hegel to trumpet. Fragments are barnburners, so the symptoms will remain: 1. Codger art forgettable 2. Bounty flagrant cop tart 3. Byzantium bibulous 4. Drape maker condiment 5. Fidelity wreak wrack cobalt 6. Sagacious foo worker triumph of lien parade guck 7. Swards of weeds preamble gusset hep tone squeegee enrichment eek Yorker roam the fool stoppage Cantabriggian werewolf finally awesome sweat bank barracks ode bomber 8. Nice try nodule mode of recent 9. Next fact cure told the moon bean raillery 10. Spice girls ladle program 11. Ambient twain fox as spoon arrival And by the end of the symphony, seeing Hegel remorsefu...

Lenin’s turn, of course. In a language trucking over the name of mountains, in a language fit for snow, the chorus sounds reasonable. Lenin’s reasoning follows a research grant, fosters pragmatism, flies off with a boot. The boot is a fissure in the dominant track. Pioneers fade with revision. Lenin, of course, stood out. That cranium contained a flap over the autism that requires every ethic of fading. Torture is credible, as is the fulcrum on which the balance schemes with bombs. Lenin’s heart is in the shape of Sarah Palin’s populist. Lenin’s head is in the shape of Dick Cheney’s intendant. Lenin’s phlogiston melts for all the right reasons. In our heartened doggerel we find a platform that dates to the primal Tsarist algorithm sifted by Google to historical analogue. A subwoofer can set off a weapon. Lenin, the subwoofer, sets off the appropriate rifles. We need tea in our teabags , says Sarah Palin, alleviating Alaska from the musk of ideals. Lenin knew that Alaska once ...

The rattle of canticles woke Captain Element from the extremes of river view. A posse of water, gallant fields, a cricket wakeful to manners: all this spread vistas like a trust. Captain Element, superb in the bloom of dawn, spoke highly of the event, translated through the spaces of time into a doorway beyond which winter fails to include. I agree with my dizziness, said Captain Element to the tune of reading aloud. The Reader, not the Writer, comes forward to shake the monstrance in one quick indication. Reader realizes that wild winds are privy to our warmth, winter damages are fretful through the orchard, and spring is a distance away. I travel to the light side of war , remarked Captain Element, having seen that a President can speak a lot. The country is downsized, read the reports. Canticles register in the space left after input. Readership must waken, is the logical deduction. And good old narrative will find a way through, right through news of the next layer of war.

I know the inevitable controls the docket. I know this docket travels parsing. Freedom is the lapse of effects of Pat Robertson on Haiti while trouble is his gown. I know the gown that Pat Robertson wears. He wears the seeming and the dress. He wanders the Haiti that he was told. He is angry in a nonce, a pity to see. A real person laughs because Pat is a sap characterized by impairment of the ability to form normal social relationships, by impairment of the ability to communicate with others, and by stereotyped behavior patterns. He is the god of Haiti, but he is still a sap. He is a laughing reference to what’s wrong with chairs, but he is still a sap. His remains are a laughing reference to what falls downhill, a gown worth falling for. He falls downhill in Haiti, where bedsheets survive the excellence that will not control him. His zombie is a blessing, such a gift of words. He does not get it, those social cues that are strong as wheat. He is a winter parted down the middle. He is...

Not the commercial but a blend of reason and world. Pastures creak with essence of not that time but nearing. A sweep of increment shows blasts of sentiment, clocks darkened with cattle fury, grasses bent to Halloween. The snows defer or someday. We read a passage. There is a word for gumption: that word is gumption .

On our anniversary, many years include. A sighting of many indications past a door or window settles in our view. Muting single adjectives for the fine sentence that says certain words on a bridge, we mark the day. The day invites a child and casts a doubt on doubt itself. This is a strange winter place to start a light action, yet the passing river is advice, dancing pigeons are advice, and words are where we meet. Not the only place, and not the only diction, but we take the touches as they come. Process is mutation, or something like that. We will murmur along the route of feeling, in the snow of feeling, in the field of feeling, in feeling all its own. Human as trek and water and will and when, we are transitory, maybe, but not at this moment. We stay true, in our odd imperial ways, to the slanting deference of our unapology.