The gallon bottle rolled with the stop, messing around since it happened once more. The short fall to the one thickness in meeting, is in their minds, the telling. A single sentence written in the sand; a finger for one word, a stick for the next, and so on, until the entrance of the thought became at some length the writing dug and done. Comfort the slightly older.
Some waiting alteration to make odd trips. Its other retreat tended empty by meaning to record silly stays of retrospective. So much for say and then, these clattering local stops between span. Nearly in chorus, hesitating the comparison to eating certain leaves, blaming entrance on tendency.
beyond most breath a mist of elemental sentence fractured home narration bindweed part forsworn part hairline in a minute honey lambast sleet pitting the windows against driving sunshine matterhorned in on the lithe bone stricture
anyway you get that it was raining snarls and she eluded hypo-conversationalist would-be openings it seemed best just to starch the mood and say things for eclipsed new record bordering on camisole and resurrection minted from the raw spawned hemline
now forelawns eek their way out of the neighbor's point of view the case price of a dowager's commitment braces us each to exude more hexagram than thought pints to a person beside prep it's not just Monday anymore craned neck equals one's obligation
tagged by young breath cleats and fine lawn image the game that everyone a must-see turned tantrum under house arrest erosion sanctifies a furtive kind of mesh a lean-to plunked next door to depth perception maybe anybody can as easily build do-it-yourself worship and draw lots
there was something I've been meaning to say of times lost freedom forgotten passages undone
Get a Google Poem - Patterns - Pantoum Compiled 4/18/2005 3:58:57 AM GMT
Ever dream in the time to come But the idea of human Are not only forgotten - But there's something Culture. not for the fact that I've It all, --William Shakespeare "There will come a time
Are not only forgotten - But there's something The past. Flop-eared, you might say. - I've It all, --William Shakespeare "There will come a time As Clinton's accounts of his first, - Is there something
The past. Flop-eared, you might say. - I've Adults are missing out on. I've recently been researching As Clinton's accounts of his first, - Is there something My expectations to the point where they've
Adults are missing out on. I've recently been researching Friends with Jenny forever, and until tonight, My expectations to the point where they've Marianne Moore came to mind several times as
Friends with Jenny forever, and until tonight, Chappaquiddick had not been forgotten, after Marianne Moore came to mind several times as My sight has been hit 1401 times? Something
Chappaquiddick had not been forgotten, after God must be dependent on logic, or there is something My sight has been hit 1401 times? Something Hasn't been added - I've been hiding
God must be dependent on logic, or there is something Is There have been a few times when, Hasn't been added - I've been hiding In the forgotten past. it pained me
Is There have been a few times when, Been these past three days because That's In the forgotten past. it pained me And I've forgotten much of the effort it took - Norfolk
Been these past three days because That's Cause sudden, unexpected death. The truth is, And I've forgotten much of the effort it took - Norfolk Of our of rejected test passages, we discover that "in
Cause sudden, unexpected death. The truth is, Been fixed - so I've been reading Of our of rejected test passages, we discover that "in You'll prove it? They say there's a
Been fixed - so I've been reading In conclusion I'd just like to say there must be something You'll prove it? They say there's a And Gunn had both lost their Spike as a candidate, while
In conclusion I'd just like to say there must be something Culture. not for the fact that I've And Gunn had both lost their Spike as a candidate, while Ever dream in the time to come But the idea of human
I have Oompa Loompa legs beneath my black/white skirt I see them prodding away at the pavement reflected in windows and so on. It's a little mournful; in private imaginings my legs reach from the ground right up to wherever they need to be and they take me with them and I am protected and loved because my legs are fantastic but windows at night don't lie. I have Oompa Loompa legs, so when the man with a face like a snowball peers up my black/white skirt on the stairs I'm [sighingly] a little bit grateful for his condescension.
On the walk Rochelle mentions blue light against a line of palm trees in the northeast valley that it works a little like the French procedure that directs the eye
Charlene has been released to light I didn't know that she was ill or that the struggle lasted months she has a child thirteen a child fourteen in cold country motherless as she was motherless that young
Rochelle and I take several fresh white grapefruit from from the grove for morning we were young only a moment before, when all pieces began to fall in place, and now
we put together stories previously shrink-wrapped and then put away
it's always early in the day regardless of the clock we're optimistic and believe there is a lever to be reached and turned for change
what matters is the filled place beneath our fluency where every language means what no one says we talk into the night when daylight has already taken shape and we will wake to find it
gradually the days repeat themselves with and without the given frame we polished and reworked to fit this story any story that would come
I go to the gym to watch the O.C., resenting, of course, the full stop in that name forcing my sentences to an untimely end but if I think it I don't show it.
Nor do my other Sisters of the Stairmaster, leaning forward at the shoulders although it must be bad for the rotator cuffs, headphones stuffed into their ears
mostly clean white iPod eAr bUds. I should know. I have the same.
Last night the girl next to me in the sweater of one of the colleges confessed she was just wasting time.
Oh Lord, how I loved her accent. I wanted to interrogate it to make a poem. But, like the buttresses of muscle in your arm (I can name most of them, and work the bigger ones into something rounder & harder) that skill softens if you don't use it.
Shored of gnash. Tucked in toward a new small sun, and watched ears flood. The sticky drive towards putting together. Three slick main streets diverged under the apartment, with Bigfoot confused in Heaven. Bangladesh and still coming up for air, poor rivers. That which splashes sacred, in not believing home and garden climbs to the meadow of Craggy Gardens. If we was cruisin'. Back in the Homeland, monkeyed about the keystrokes. Dad was a masked ex-murderer, oblong with exploding maples on April Fool's Day.
in some abyss
by variable threads
the doubt expanding
become some stigmata
where homo religio
to a total physics
whatever incapable statements
the music of "next" marks
this infinite mother
or political clock
your name is written in numbers
and the painful
swelling of eyes
where sand and pupils
in the sea of schools
All those fighting. All those deaths. All those barrage of cannonballs. All those trampled chewed-up mud. All those fierce resistance. All those hand-to-hand. All those guns. All those orders. All those bizarre instructions. All those unpardonable laxity. All those sick and tired of war. All those Wellingtons. All those Neys, Napoleons. All those morale at the bottom. All those outnumbered. All those committed the first error. All those with a bit of luck. All those blamed. All those while everywhere rain continued to fall.
Thomas the experi- mental linquistically innovative lyrical poet -sighing at the reading window where no wolves prowl - is beating his poetic wings to crush and bend language flapping in the sing song dust of chaos that scrapes outside of lingo normal's door.
And the timbre of his doppleganger - an oil throated story teller - tells in speech gap narratives how fragmentary life whispers linear trad syntactic sound redundant, whilst here in parliament bank mermaid accurate pieces testify to the sweeping ferocity of slam multiple adornments in car picture garlands driving on street world sheet roads
running to roll on bronze wine ships which hulk along white foam ribbon under star dark pin prick skies then roll off upon a sea outside of language.
Into the terminal herding area of a wet crust soggy heaven where test card olympians stare through blue ripped yellow depths and forge grammatically odd sculptured poems in smithies of disruption which poise and swim on rock top tables littered with OAP infinities;
gagging to laugh and gurgle at the filter jelly film packets with owl panel corner cracks sweeping colour friendly hair clutch boxes into needle murmers.
Smirking repeatedly as the head's breath inhales insect windmills, grinding into particles of moment the dreams we rinse when unconsciousness creeps; sleeping off the full glob of life that's been shrewed through the sieve, mixed and shrunk whipped to the consistency of blurred paint then thrown out of kilter until the faint trace of an outline stirs and makes identification of word packages dumped in the cauldron at the warehouse of shifting contexts
dissolving you I we or them unofficial legislators whose technology problem is vision compressed 'n driven into a nascent flash of immensly creative capacities radically affecting past methods because
does not do it anymore
is the future says Seymour the mis- chief and mysticism guru who brought hi tech to learning under the edict of Seamus
now stroking his palm clamped face with ideal fingers designed to tame in a dazzling dance the irrational from biting back
There will be no difference to how This is heard. There will be no swell From a photograph to follow, or the sound Of my voice to bring out family members Who haven't been heard from in years. There will be those still around While this was written, but they will have No idea they were here, continuing To watch what it is they do, until they go away For a time from being here. There will be no Time away from knowing there is something Other you could be doing. There will be no one To remind you of this, until eventually this ends And sentiments are asked to return entertained.