Thursday, September 18, 2003

your choice is simplistic, mine is a dated tree. life loves the closet of internal expanse, in which names are numbers, and numbers are stars. stars insist, since the whole night needs them. the aliens make stars with easy fluidity and go for broke. broke lives in Vegas now, tying up loose ends. the aliens are just, if simple. their energy is a slot machine named Randy or Sandy, something easy on the ears. the slot machine is important, and will be a millennium sometime soon. your choice, tho, is an administration: there is no other apt word. your choice will provide, and suddenly, we don't need nouns. the aliens prove they are busy by wiring language with alien techniques. these include variant, trust, smooth (the noun in hiding), bigot, saving children, death as the father, mopping up (or down), trying, engaging, rustle, runaway and runway (two numbers added), spice, clap and collapse (can you contain?), chirp, numb, steed, haven, froth, go between, jump over, slip under, HEY! this is a magical hesitation that allows us to spin these excellent wheels. a poem is a doctored sentence. sorry to disillusion you.

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