Simple Theories

So Rare the definite blue, see the sky. When words let down, a sheen of sunlight named lightly, in person. Powers are being and able is a degree. A verb roughly goes, it is morning. Cold tho the wind relaxes means a population. Neutron remain factual nonsense or timeless, whatever prime. No language at this time, only time, more time, then none one at all.

Angels are like fuck off, oh my god. Weak sanctity blurts oh, the trials. We fly by natural right, thinking big time. The marble of awful correct crows reminds testimony, like Apple Off a tree forever, and forever ever. Dave Foofighter,, more public nothing, makes nice midnight and John Ashbery is still poet forever. Still as a dead poet, thanks for nothingness. Angels are like oh so wait.

America the once grew cloven as young and thrift were documents. The piece of thinking always sags but towers are an idea. And when the wake starts, portion control and how the moment spreads magazines of instant after effects. The road goes family till the risk of something, glorious for a taste of sport. John Ashbery told no one of this plain. We must read the radio. The radio, the radio, my dead mother. Father’s Benny Goodman had a drummer for a map.

Even Tho You Know What You Know You cannot satisfy praise. He wasn’t even taller than the moon. He wasn’t a real verb. His number was not proven. He talked only to wood, stones were leaning gone. Actually too many words were written not found. When he dies, the people think he may not die. But if going is representative, then Language cannot be depended on to sentence or oracle or touch a thumb to nose as was once the wont.  Praise tells praise to make praise, but praise is a word like a corral with possible horses. Horses are impossible!

Together to the brilliant, emphatically we. When in earth or close time, let loss settle as we, we. We the town or nearly. We the stay for while.

the perfect idea that no one else, please is something circular enabling a blasting false logical premise (hello modern mine), the muse of scorbutic cried call Amazon rain forest, too ill to go On, The name brand of choice, in the moral sense, is danger modified by you cannot be more than me, tin ear, like a traveling globule of I am someone, or alone, or empty till unemptied, jungles meant for more, Leaves really transit, After Language and such as province, when thinking in time,  A poem  is matted and arrayed anyone Can tell Language was here Once maybe Only once And the precursors Who we are Want more than  After that

Dear Occasion, Do you remember brown? It was fog one day. And the day, it held children in the air, sweetly, with tributes of energy and release. We who are older, no fault to us, stood, let ourselves be seen, smiled. When we said “Okay”, we were loud but right. Then we readjusted. Tomorrow becomes a panoply. Brown became, rightly enough. We who oversee understanding like trickles. The scape, that sense, was tomorrow full of blooms. Blooms of Wattage, exult, wastage, light light light, and the trees.  Now we say now, each of us in this vice. Now the tender orange memory, the leaves without chlorophyll, or time registered as rebate. Today the temperate example means fog, and the elevation of query. Process processes, what else would words do? We do what the words say. You have been this moment. Today. Thank you for every, Yours,