Saturday, October 18, 2003

as much as growing old in the factory, a torrent flat on the read line, spoken in drops of words so that portions indicate an ending tunnel, a point of light, some pouring thru, like victory or age, and collapse at a dated place, telling stories and all that regard, while some people watch and some talk too much, and the gestures and tumult grow into eager rain, tamping down the porous soil, and the lifting fragrance of one day and place, possible by example or examination, a clear blue until you get the picture, mapped effortlessly but still spiky, meanwhile the churn of alien dynamo, fraught star taken on, and the people fill with sentiment, and the aliens glisten with doubt, and all the factories share people, who are training or trying, the years go into each word, and each sentence fills flush, thus the carriage bounds down the road, rustle into night with these words, or those...

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