Simple Theories

  Imagine some big clerical of some unex plained god head fiddle some mighty catch And in awe of that somewhat. Deities stand a vision of believable legs and friable purpose. Scan any trouble and fleet voice from specific clouds with ornery transparency springs towards opulence. Notable tree deploys to the middle of thinking of grass in a minute while sly bird of dawn voice pretends package of mystery. Deities argue with precise fruit, blossoming fields, even brown discouragement over years that never start. Agency only flies to particulars. Heroes have names and open questions but whirl as turbines in rare registers. Poems lack shades of even that but try bracing volcano while looking at the ceiling. The gods hate the feeling of somewhat.

  The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.

  Wind in blue saturate sky. Wild license clings to Heron a cross the sky, wings wide. Crow crowds with crow and purpose. Land and sky Tree trembles for ruly wind, exacting exalt. Buttress of beaver in intention. Solar flare and the powers, wise creatures, wield secrets so secret that they remain in plain sight.

  Dante himself, in dish of time, sprung loose from the inviolable. His transitive verbs and bold abeyance starting soothly midway. But anyway is all the way, all where once for all. So the ecclesiaste and inconclast, piece of exploded truck tire in the road. Fortunately Virgil being explicitly someone strategizes and light beam. The course freights ramification, tour de force. Abject raiment in the infernal chorus. The scold haptic sunlessness documents, secrets so secret. Neighbors and exemplars, documentary distress. Focus groups invent walls, narrow passages, exceeding trek. Common people notarized. Getting to the bottom. Of it.  Ecchymosis  is a dark purple spot, rendered as wound, sign of some. Dante bows to the master, forces of sunlight, and danger. 

  From the East a river falls, through venom dales, with mire and clods, godly slough, as is recognized. The Deities into imagination prance, coltish, even fresh of desperation. The troupe of Deities en masse bring gravity low and firm. True rocks, true planetary quiver on the plain, true spice of wind and formal rain. From East, invigorated just this minute, and to the embracing nest that is west. One named impulse brings the spear of lightning. Another vibrates to the tune of thunder. Note how easy the word seems, echo upon echo. Listen again, the true note begins.

  In the far light, not the near light. Some Deities or fog, the way light bends around truth or anything like cattle. In truth the word used lays low and patient, like a mushroom. The Deities scamper with playful dated instructions, as everyone knows. Rain seizes the sky. Portents scatter at dusk without much importance. The sun fades again but will return. The respondents, full of winning slur, carry jokes in dull red hats. Their Deities, called gods or tremendous, throw patchwork into the breech. The wind blows instantly, even then.

  In nine worlds remember, nine trees, the great central tree, beneath the earth. All that and soundings of whales, whole whales, from big sea. In the future thought of now, posted to believeable, grand lakes proved wetter, mud more desperate. No imagination could contain the legend of dull red hats. Only encumbered words, like Satan’s last year shoes. We feel the waves of sinking. Each word has been plain and itemized, collated as belief.