Simple Theories

  Everyone has a hippopotamus story to tell. The strange excesses of these creatures compel the imagination with the moldering of a thousand stained presidents. Shooting hippos works wonders so enjoy hippos while you can. Granted, hippos fritter their lives eating grasses and water lilies when they could be stomping on choice examples of human industry and leaping for greenbacks. Weighing as much as anything humanly useful in terms of many tons, they sport a lively humor. Why not? The word  hippopotamus comes from the Greek for 'water-horse', suggesting that the Greeks didn't know-- tant pis !--what a real horse looks like. The hippo's head easily matches the size of a cramped mansion, which is to say human imagination. Hippos run faster than you, swim like sylphs, and climb trees with agile grace. In groups they are called hippopotami, which sounds pretty select, intellectually speaking. Truth requires a certain vantage to bring forth the vibrations of the material wor...

  River makes a patient request: be kind while passing thru. You could be a flood or drainage, succour or transport. All rivers have a starting point, which creates a strange affliction. Look around. Goals create human space and the round earth and the rounder sun set return. People remain busy thru all the circuits and graduation instilled by global thinking. River just goes. Going frames meaning with jocular intent. Take Osun River in Nigeria, named after a YouTube goddess, as example: consider all the human space ignored by River's travel. Meanwhile words brush against words while gravity trains River flow forward.  Here  and  Elsewhere  prove identical. Nothing changes but the will, written upon leaves floating on the. Tracks in space and a due regard, this is what we’re handed as sleek willows float away away, loving mindful.

  The water is wide with the apprehension of deep breath. Loon ululates across the spaces in between. Water has gathered for gathering, chaste in cherish. We almost know what we do with our shit. The immense possible life still scores rock in its register. Vocabulary contains nearness. The loon cannot be forgotten, tremolo duet. Bespeak the elegance of this mapped portion, as slow and stern as rain. Boats assert in cold transit and, likewise, the last gasp. Sunrise and sunset both stretch on the water, making place a moment. Repeat the pasture of loon, undivided.

  Open the sky. There is where the sky could be, if here is not quite available. You can look at the sky and think of all the verbs you know how to do. The ones you can't do need your assurance. And the sky will hug every word inside you with the ripe advantage of meaning to mean. The stars of sky seem brusque but only because you consort with circles. You forget range, react to obloquys, while a glint of light travels three forevers just to meet you or what you think. You have an unreasonable plan without looking upward. Leave that aside. Light and dark have no sides, they just stretch a universe or two with implied emphasis. Stars, clouds, birds, and a heavy anvil of wind pronounce timely mobility and traces. That strict point in space you may thrive in. The sky won't quit, neither should you.

  The  Moon, not other moons. Stylized reference point, as in you earthbound there with upwards observation of the light bright marvel full of distance and cold time. Up is the newer up, with further opportunities in language apexed to complete unknown. The fullness of unknown completes unknown. Tides breach prior to not breaching. Unknown cannot be completed by fences. Time seems like the exhaust from standpoint. Now everyone stands on the moon but who stands by? Exactly want timid monstrance arise from the perplexing prose imagined in moonlight. O rock hewn from something something, deliver vocabulary hints close to explosion. Receive the whatsis herewith relayed by elk kine and dash it mathematical. Slow rock of ages thru circadian and not so circadian emphasis in presence, paused as fire break. And you are the clear crystal and bones. You are up there rash saffron in a total second. How does it feel now, now that now is here?

  Tobacco, that native wonder, became a post-processual deity in the gung-ho modernist revelation instilling precise value to the shadow governed by the economic grove. Enjoined thus, the plant and its mucky muck stooges became billed acreage statistic and a fine Rubicon to feature. Think of farmland making eventual smoke by a process of sublimated craving. In this immediacy, rituals become addictions: were  once / now this. Tobacco's broad lush leaf inspired institutionalized number crunch and schemes of characteristic creosote to bargain with. You too can be a target for industry's sensuous bite. Sweet wholesome fragrance secularizes the garden plant's holy mission, and the plant bears the blame. Nothing should surprise you. You understand the stock report and the while for which all this is worth. Those numbers don't lie, but you can learn to adjust.

  Fun fact: radish became foodstuff after someone’s long bad spell of foraging. Found as a possible means of survival, mezzo mezzo, the radish tastes like creaking noises. Survival remains as a documented goal, so radish joined the supporting cast that includes slobby, gobby oysters and other interpretations. Radishes can be eaten without exploding in dark intestinal corners, at least theoretically, if you hold your nose. Radishes never seem beyond the means, which places them in some democratic light, like workers of the world. No la-de-dah radishes exist, that would thwart their Puritan function of joyful affliction. Radishes remain in the salad panoply with shining guilt, the nerve of festive injunction. You can pulverize them with your molars, accepting that radishes taste like radishes, just as poetry tastes like school. The balance of your acceptance of these conditions adjusts our keen Democracy with tiny twitches. Radishes seem like harsh contretemps but lo, how radish-like...