Thursday, October 30, 2003

aliens never at rest in the thud making machine. never beyond extent in force upon force, telling stories and lifting stones. a cup of coffee survives crazy night, sits upon dawn. this is Walden Pond, electrified as was keenly wished. you can take the Pond with you, turning years over to lovestruck. you can finish the sentence you began, coaxing bright went to the street. even a street can find Walden Pond. the people have placed an X, made certitude. language was a leaf from a book. the book floated beautifully, uselessness is that startling, a stone's throw and more from the shore. the daily train bumbles by, it is the place of schedule. russet fields and coping. the aliens nurture frequent changes in the light. how human to love, intuits someone. guardians surround the Pond, called trees or prison guards or fences or someone. nothing more immemorial than places lined up in the mind. here Skip Spence is buried. anybody else? all the famous floating materials. Emily Dickinson dies with hammer in hand. the aliens invent watches, a new kind of instant. the Pond wants more Boston haphazard. Route 2 is a beautiful cynosure. Emerson Hospital is up Route 2 a piece. over to yonder is whatever you'd like to remember. local seems left over from somewhere, up to a point.

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