Simple Theories

  A warm sensation after all, and before you can let go. Transitive exult in watering pattern. An adventure of filing forth translates into words or bare sonic release. The trees have heaven squared. You can talk like that today. News straightens the verb tense. The continents shake out. Pluvious blue billows of transport, as the poem goes. And it cannot help but go. A leaf reports as liege, a worm wriggles in the duff.

  When the waters of blood rise, you have your earthquake. You have to be close and tight and in the city. Funding for rankle will reach accord. No fault can be extended but faultlines. A noise will fill constitution, as if people concerned. Towers like ash. Votes contain corporations in the late aesthetic. Darkness in connection with darkness, geologic moon tide. Here your resolution invades the down. Lowered expectations rise to prominence. The country has become a piece of lost wood. You don’t know the reach of fire anymore. Anyway, the quick detachment, onerous satiety in exclusive precincts, a big town dropping down. Let the rumble be the music for the last time you looked.

  Yes, a dream of big teeth in house-sized anxiety space. A time in the misty prevailing when cool monster without simpering mellow feathering determined the impact of physical luscious fear. The specimen creates the maximal thunder king sound with ultra lizard shadows that meet you at political nervy night. Did Rex trundle on the outpost land like human antipathy, or race earth-low with lizard slink into the mindless ultimatum of acme predation. It’s all great. There were signs of presidents, rooted in televised commerce, who on two feet, almost, stood. You can settle this with the flash of your vote. A cannonade of hind legs matched with adjudicated forelegs: see the matchstick to irrelevant weakness. The space between your charming monster America and the bleeding standard churn smells like prey.

  This power function that you indulge in and avoid. Sleep must blink, while you ride. What isn’t sleep slips past, or almost. You can think about numbers and those who turned dreams. Freud wrote a book about himself eating olives, confusing sleep. Down time miasma listed in visual expression without time. Or if time existed, you could record the pictures and gaze upon an unreliable field. You can’t run in your sleep because, but only for your own good. Are you then good at all or has tectonic shifts created new plenary place. Focus! You are awake now, or should be. You were all day, now sleep time fashions evocations of straining just to meet. This plain of advantage sustains rest and relief. The village in you endures.

  A jaunty celeb and activation of emprise, the peanut resides forever and ultra in the god’s gift gallery. Peanuts provide food of the highest order, unless you are allergic to them, in which case avoid and let austerity lead you on. Peanuts offer scads of protein on the cheap—they’re the low-income choice for those facing the bereaving beam of socio-economic pawndom. You can still scratch the earth! The earth cozzens plentifully with promises of upgrade. As a legume, the peanut plant fixes nitrogen into the soil. This is a symbionic good, something like righteous community service. Legumes improve poor soil and thereby hardscrabble existence in touching simplicity. The peanut gives succour, and a child’s view of wealth.That part of town sees increase. Vishnu, Preserver, you’re a genius!P

  Some bold exit place for only feet of venture. How flat seems the distance between here and now as a garden invented by fronds. Distance proves impeccable, asserting possession. Imagine a sun just beyond that hill. Moments ago a vegetable, awaiting orogenic fumbling. The table poises, poses. That sound of nothing moving creates that external spark. Land becomes process, movement staid. Town erupts into faction because you know the knot. Address bears tokenized isolation. You have trod upon the land, almost.

  Water lives not always water, and you cannot be always green. You  could , if you know water invites your star. Water makes simple, as your greenness infers. Think the river, startling the land. Changing each moment as a movement and blood flow, your established praxis shies from rest. Water doesn’t rest. The stammering of steam and hard abeyance of ice signal infinite vitality at the drop of a hat. The hat goes maybe mobile in the always left behind. Time has been clean and dirty for you, in watery regard. Light glints water you, in changing notes. Ahead is the past you arrived at. Your smile can grow enormous.