Simple Theories

Write as if the world were a green speck. Write into the wind. Write atop a quiet thing that has no name. Write thru the trees. Write in time but not too far. Write with only some words, not all. Write the cool divot on the dear ground. Write in space if space is present. Write for any hour of any day, for minutes at a time. Write only those words. Write as if you are here. Take time but write anyway.

The latest colouring and the day begins. Shrouds of perplexed words, used in rightness, fall smoothly thru the air. Assumptions lead to dawn. Exceptional words don't know person. As person saying person, leave room now. Poem is a trait, not a vent. Quester fuddles in reach of “right word”. Your word for ocean is still ocean. To clarify, you aren't there. I am not I, We aren't tall together.

Jurisdiction is a rigid template so you yearn for spaces. The Ann Coulter practices space as a definition beyond Ann Coulter control. If the Ann Coulter were alive, the tense of verbs would slowly. That is until the Ann Coulter could speak other sensation. Poor dark star. Pour Ann Coulter stadium to union cremation. Line up gasping in present nouns and verbs. Enact an exact tender. We are human before this, like we tell all our friends.

Tremendous town, the lights are great. Spanning ages of one sentence, here, the pleasantry of dance or word. Consider yourself a paragraph, Reader. Consider the paragraph yours. Consider the years in between each word. Reader, lift an announcement in your heart that colours green to the height of trees. Reader, you live in a town, a tremendous town!

Joliet or Marquette or some subset, political cool grain trusting future in the past Norte Americano soil. France and Iroquois, Mohawk and English, or lightning hit a tree. Or all combined as English, Spanish, French, perfect suds. Lands called lands, to fill as lands. Death register time, touch of the blues. Once the massacre and torture thing while rabid Trump supporters read most of the words on panels laid open to immediate tendency to list. Thinking that that is the weird way sentence grammar, now a daze. Weird grammar speech subsume. Weird sentence sentencing subsume. Weird read of all a word, perfectly genealogical clump. Phil Lesh plays bass all around the subject.

Rhyming drone of dance seizes morning or a time. Just about a town and the still grey between words. Winter nettles or simple glitter of remembered snow on top of the arrogant head of the specious leading figure who, even now, the space between us. Racist intestinal precinct determines serious claims against any sense of the blue cradling over all. Sigh complete, fellwoing, in the practice after dawn. A pattern in space until the words make sense. Brass makes music, strings make music, whistling wood makes music. People can surmount the map of mistaking.

So deer run into the dark because dark is a champion. We see the events described by those who grow anger. The anger grows in rations, fed to pour. Something about how selfies execute electrons in election years and further remonstrances. Periods of poor light. And the deer run in the dark without sharing names, only the simplest light glint in their eyes until tomorrow. We can talk about tomorrow as a nation of force. Force is a final subject, left mostly for children and the bleak hold of the rented day. Thank you for listing.