Simple Theories

The solstice moon, named Rita, rose in the urgent way of moons. It struck a bargain, deal, it found the night effort. As Children, we reported the news to the sun god, Larry, who shone on fields bereft of snow. It is the true and narrow, this time. The hesitation of kings and queens surmounts the merrie of the day. That song that captures all the likely response systems of this season of tidings of great joy, promulgates a buying spree rapture towards a clock of definite purpose. Someday we won't be children but, still. A paragraph poises as a previous set of sentences finalizes a character of thought. People think so, and in the environ, spell correctly, largely. It is the season when the dour sun god Larry avoids taxes. The cat, of which the stories roar, has a span of days. The computer system in which rare reveries revolve stands corrected by further days of thought. When your Christmas yuletide formulation dilapidates, a thought of bison. Busily bison, force of run in, pla...

The party of Lincoln goes up a tree. Define tree by number of Republicans tethered to its reflective nature. Reflecting fear is a manner of speaking: guns proving guns rely on guns to prove guns. In a nearby hole, the Democrats squat on the tut tut of their own Congress. The People in terms of walking down the street leave to walk down the street. This satisfies a basic urge to remove. Kindly kid Congress into going, somewhere would be fine.

Frosty as John Boehner, the fence post. The deliberate fence post of the cross field. The spell of binding in the dark pasture of cross hairs. It’s as good as an NRA pledge for Social Change to lop agreement off the practice of Congress. The darkness of an elevated sky relaxes. Children can certainly eat hay. You forget, Sir, the age of Re-enlightenment. We tire of old constitutions, old matters at hand. We vivify for the trees used as perfected tables that can be sold for premium skins in the old hunter- based lands. Big Foot has a temperature, to wit: the cold logic of disappearance. No words can keep up with the implement. Congress contains roots and vegetables, and stones for heads. With John Bohner and that hairy reed thing, we are determined. We see determination as an outward expression of the trouble inside. Then the congress of Congress, upon a patchy field where Big Foot stands a chance. Relics require that Big Foot remain stationary until the camera is ready. These tim...

Gloaming bought new for the occasion. Trapdoors of heartache cause batch files of debate. Oodles of concentration slip thru doorways, hatching plans. Now in plain words, now in not. There is a fist inside a glove, a glove inside a pocket. These are the times that are simply these times, not those. In the sense of opening a car door for the purpose of retrofitting the future, the future is roads to the next time. This time is caught in the fluxion, really great to hear news. There was a time when there was another time, but this fact lights difficult in this town.

Priest or door mat, revered minister, perfect rabbi, this sort of thing. Then wanting to know more, and equaling that more with anything, producing an addendum calling for further study, which is an underline process in the wild. So that, viz., paint on something that formerly went unpainted. This inspires diction, the main coast to which we roll on hearty, knowing waves. Political priest, solon, sour taste, all that. The map mentions places but not the peopling. People people the earth, you know. You read that too, while in line, listening to latestness. This outlasts that, and always will.

they were blowing up, in rhythms called blankets. they were strict in sweating dust and under the overpass. they were in the details of fog, more intent than daydream. the blowing up is a factory of precise secular regime. it will mean the dead spot of a drum, where you don't want to go. god and sinners reconciled, backstage. spellcheck chases every ensuing moment, every click and a bull let thru.

The strapping documents of One Emily Dickinson come between us. We see salients and pure stuff, from the edge of each word to the middle, the horizon adorning. Documents everywhere stand on their toes. They drink to the framing technique patent of swizzle sticks. Pants in the ocean, empty of human form. Remember the moment that the first stick swizzled? From gulfs of approximation, as varied as cream-filled Newt Gingrich, a letter arrives. The letter carries the moral equivalent of a swizzle stick. The God of Twinkies readies to speak. We wait with a pantry of remorse. Cocktail blossoms fall upon ideology, which pulses with strata while union members bend towards sunlit field. The story is tolled in the season. The owners own, and in owning, they round fast ball. One Emily Dickinson likes to see it lap the miles. This sensual indication, a time filled from youth on, becomes capable of which minute left in which sequence. The strapping documents then side with fervor, or b...