Simple Theories

Three billion devices run. Squirrel in the next yard, patient click of candidate words, patterns of cloud in sky. Each device runs, with each mention of each squirrel that ruins the evening. Morning gains an edge, fraught device features elbows and plain things. Now the motion of the land, even a temblor, even a sigh of land in movement, even as we sit. The candidate of words speaks in three billion devices, and every device runs. In the imagination, the squirrel runs the device, and the device runs billions. In the imagination, three billion run device, and words run three billion. More devices than people in 2012.

The pressure of Afghanistan, for instance, it's a thing. The turbulent mountain area around groomed for something, then air strikes, then dense sentences. We could ask for more, when the lakes near towns wobble with human-like weight. We could ask almost more as rain forgets the land party, struck by cackle hand of. We could forget more and say the land was right, almost any. But we make claims, fill notebooks with details, and call things things, whether they are or not. And when it becomes debated, the air is rotund, the moon a casual camp, and each star drips sarcasm. Thus it comes down to. When you catch a glimpse of the candidates, tell them they say so.

The candidates remind winter that autumn is first. Misty mellow fruitfulness ought to be rights. Rites of autumn spring to mind, that candidates dare to tell us. They tell us the side of the circle, they tell us the center. The circle sits squarely somewhere, derived from association. Release from the drama of knowing no more, the candidates open themselves to circles. Their speech arrives after a while, when talk is cheap enough. Something steadies us as we listen. All purpose relies on the waves, first autumn then winter. Spring and summer seem refused. Someone upstairs vacuums the floor.

That trifle called rain drew interest. It greyed the sky opulently with a cold drama that we read. The rain fashioned itself as water and let gravity pull. The rain found the earth and that which covers it. The rain reached to places because rain is water, like us. We entered the earth with the rain and found the rain. We drew breaths of water and saw a grey sky. Something splendid could occur even in the sheen of water on a leaf. The sheen on that leaf states a case. It declares that anything could be something when we look. And when we do not look, anything is nothing. The rhythmic splash of rain on various earth articles produces thoughts in us. Today, the rain makes Sunday. The candidates have shaken hands before. Our next president throws up his hands, which sounds messy. Again, today the rain makes Sunday.

A practice of being on message, which stacks chairs one upon another. In the matter of shoes, always wear the bright idea. In reference to the electorate, allow for feelings of floating thru a brick wall to see the cliff face of tomorrow. To emphasize the period of inequity, raise all hands with thumbs. As the applause dies into nothingness, repeated a verb coloured by adverb, rejecting past senses of any sense. The new tomorrow marks a band round the world, which can then be built mountain high with singular aplomb. Dual aplomb comes next, as the candidates refer to the moment. There will be parties and strong voices ringing with bunting. There will be a door, with an exit sign. Yesterday cannot come too soon. Place cheese in the trap as your bed veers sideways into the ongoing collection. Raise again your thirsting thumb.

Embedded distance called political traction. Can you, my child? Waves of once were off. The test of saying the element again supports a whole class of viable candidates. But the candidates conform to the slow burning picture. And the child resumes in all awkwardness. The criminal class subjects words. Period. And the political class has none. Class is a dis- tinguishing fail of floating. We would be marvel centuries, real as rust and dynamite, but crowded sentences. We could be plain. The cycle of rejection specified in building-oneself spurs radial tires. Children, let you really’ dream the child.

I’m sorry , said the tree, the leafy fineness growing pale, I’m sorry to the sky . We like to hide the poetry with words like that. The bumble bee slows to no work at all, Days thin and break into dark wandering, like you know. We have behaved as mysteriously as a piper on the edge of document. You can hear the dusk. We all would like to shake your hand, lift you up from your tumble, and address you in the legionary love. We are all stronger, after all, in the nature of text. The tree is right, righting the congestion by slow turns. A year lasts and lasts, then doesn’t last at all, which addresses the same simplicity as ever. You are a child, and so are we. The panic in your motions just shows the avenues we all have seen. We will pipe the gloaming free, trying in the love in time. If there’s a blue sky telling, let us see and say it together.