Simple Theories

  Colours plan the coming day. Dark as stone or bright as wood, a gentle occlusion flickers the time. You saw the overcast and chances are. Clouds contain heft and fortune. The sight might try to die while you look away. Clouds caught the wind and threw it faster. Rain may plaster the day, snow may mass. Sun couldn't hold the green forever, tho we love to love. Maybe you sang about the boar's head feast, maybe you didn't. If the stars can't last, the light must be churned from elsewhere. Bonfest red dawn and dusk mix in the clouding. Focus to attain just the glimpse of something entire. Ride light and easy even tho. Words constitute the colours remaining. Whole seconds exist to see that. You are listening with your eyes.

  Allons enfants de la café : the town readies. Cite mayhem of Tuesday's needed verbs qua nouns, that the deed and saying might succeed. Coffee invents a bright point, evolutionary nova amidst trinkets of word. Say you can do it, words have collided bountifully before. The trammels of yesterday no longer worry. Clouds provide adjectives in the insistence of speech. A few letters meant to mean, and from where would you think they come? Two sunlit names sound certain:  Coffea arabica  and  C. canephora , evergreen and affirming. The lattice of ideas needs a basis, a strong community consistent with kindest enhancement. Be children of the greening sun. You think you think when you just have. Nothing is over till the coffee is cold. You have time slowed to the pace of thinking. Clangour recedes as the accepted promulgation asserts task and duty. Flow thru generously, we endeavour together.

  The world, according to an accepted expert, is "too much with us." Parse that as you will, it may be poetry just to writes such words.Poetry lives in words grouped and presented like that. Numerous  Things  exist just by the words that appear. People believe they believe in the true matter of these Things that in multiplicity and panoply contrive as the World. Information about these Things crowds us all the time. Time began as a place to put all those things. The world provides a setting for time. In the parlance,  world  also exists as an orb, full of features, compellingly louche gravity, and a strong deference towards pumpkin spice. You may have noticed. The heavens look down upon the world and sometimes the windows of heaven open harrowingly. The heavens promulgate the susurration of right thought, or what will serve as such until something more right comes along. You know what you think you know and know what you know you think. The world rolls on, amigo...

  Pluto the planet In the time it takes to know nothing. You must be particular about the shadows you describe. Pluto hangs in the outreaches of what seems limit. Named by an eleven year old for the strange power of extension, winning £5 of feigned lucre/locus. Herewith the namesake, adverted into system: Keeper of wealth in the fine empty Temporal mind game magician A rustle of foreboding Cackling minstrel Clumsy defenestration The frisson of almost not quite Grand reduction Whatever Pluto begins and almost stops as a rocklike hunk of matter or little matter, remonstrating against your idea of what your idea is. Matter means the remains of Pluto’s realm, if that god of leftovers really exists. Anyway, the celestial body stops clocks to the degree that anything can stop—clusters of stars—in the short while notice, dark as deep can be.

  The ancient Greeks, vigilantly ancient, labeled planets as wandering stars. Planet can also be translated—free as you are—as  galloping hoplite , suggesting instant remand or language as betterment. Just find between spaces between spaces for the perfect word. Like all ancients up till this very day, the Greeks looked to the skies for clues. So much breezeway in the wherewithal of looking. Because the Greeks did that so did the Romans, and other cultures before machines started talking. The planets pitched about more than stars did and looked brighter up there so better stories unfolded. Note bold blink of Venus, dawn or dusk, and Botticelli has been busy. King of Roman gods shines vast as speck. Blood red Mars endures as notion net loss across the tractor beam. Pluto aka Death is surely there, known but not well seen. And you read wild language fabulations, literary contrails imagined in the genuine dark. Dark remains the strictest beacon as you watch.

  Commonly called milkweed, this fervid plant also goes by the name Asclepius, with a trundling list of species names addended. In the days of Greek, the real thing, Asclepius was a god without benefits, just like you. No thunderbolt tricks, no shape-changing swan sex. Asclepius boringly earned renown, aside from being Apollo’s son, from mere knowledge in medical healing. Of course his father killed Asclepius’ mother because god but saved the infant in her womb also because god. So we have a story and a franchise. Asclepius found weeds less worthless than you do, and learned to use nature things with which to concoct cures or simple calming, Mojo Hand and John the Conqueroo until blended, tho in Greek. Sway insofar as butterflies enjoy the trick of flowers open elemental. Meanwhile becomes broadcloth, then the milkweed pod files exploding floating seeds to sail and mean. You have watched the patient wind-caressed dogged plea oblivion. The seeds float and fluctuate knowing nothing a...

  Voicing sly resolution and return with gracious intensity, the loon practices where space is. It breeds in downtown north total expanse, with and without qualifying bids. The best voice slides across lake and loon dunks in water too. Smart topic sentences arise on the entrance of space while place names disappear. You should read the words. Loons travel for north but remain  right here . Imagine the curiosity (if you can). By yodelling loons claim territory, which you cannot do to any useful effect. Also by circling they map their mote of earth.  Gavia immer , northern diver, is the god you think you want to think you always want to need. You may be right.