Simple Theories

  He died by cause I will never learn. He died in a gap that remains.  He said nothing nor did I. The time had come and the day went simple. I see him in a bed and something nothing something. Surely something ought to something. Instead, he died, that simple part of that. Lexical things offer vantage, take it or leave. Sounds remain, green and long.

  Hair has something and becomes. A braid is one way, several braids another, many braids a wonder. Gather a handful with a stretchy thing. Pin locks in ways. Let parts or all be low or gone. Skin glisten if it can. Use product hold it tight, lifted or combed. Knot a hank and be done. Turn to colour, any colour a sport. A bandana for those times, a hat for those. Train it for curls or not curls. Be then in time with anyone else, explained as simply as the sky. The sky changes colour whether we live or not.

  Font the grey clouds for golf divots, the golf be Tween us. grass certainly grass, the old town and not new. the poem in exact in these terms, swaying of grass or leaves in trees. grey cloud some times clog some fresh news in town they drove to their rights in reading wrong, all night theory tracts of sp ace called minute by minute just to explain. those words in the poem seem enough but only time tells.

  Dear Time and All, The day grows rose scratches, succulent tomatoes, weird thru clouds from sun or what we know. Autumn asks for hay, apples, rising dark, and the beams of everything together. It doesn’t matter who does what but the season cannot be silly. Imperious moonlight becomes just reflection. The day makes a beat. Some of us tire from the simplest, tho gorgeous remains on our eyes. No room remains at the cemetery, long words lack effect. Because gloom seems idyllic, and Stone has such a voice, we make farewells seem frosty with spirit. We know we go on, even when the leaves in the road swirl without realistic import. The sport continues. Family melts into stone, stone so near. Drums tell. A flash of time and immediate guff. Winds weep the turning sky. Ghosts fill the cavern tho a sky of cantons seems insistent. Rocks carry voices, voices carry time. Small words tell rock, what we meant after all. Busted words meet in the end, and an urge to salute. Signing off as a friend...

  distance makes the cunning of sound a sparrow or other indication plead for a day past night so much to hold and lose in terms of haze upon a field or marsh or reaching a conclusion a hint in volves the sibling of the moment ap parent con fusion in time or not

  line items on the Moon united in the space between  brothers caulk the heavens like ultra while rhyming Dylan with Dylan  the time for string beckons straw beguiles the mind’s sigh chortling chords amble in blink  poems exist in no terms that a poem can sustain wrinklings of probity in form the deck hands: the new world spends

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