Saturday, August 23, 2003

grasshopper poised upon in
green in any breeze or
sunshine serious
of life and instantly
or more so
it's a daylily something
or half a day
when autumn changes
and nothing reels in
that much view

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Hume blossom in people react. in the morn of term, and rut of day for now. now is the view form, Hegel assigns. Hume instead or Kant or other resident. morning such, the trees are cool. for a day or so, every word contains the news. new alien report, in desert or where they ever. people told out of hope, or they were road. road to and from, for the weather is meaningful. the air is constrained, and ozone is above. above our network, where aliens are nature. sudden where we go, with too much to lift in the morning. too much is enough. the metal change hesitates, earth forces or other choices, as ever. victim of choice or choice of victim, when the plot thickens. thick characters like aliens, and the evil scientist, and the blowhard pol, and fear in public. pushed too hard into the moving frames until after the fashion of today, there is a sentence. each sentence needs a period, a commotion.

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Friday, August 22, 2003

the empty embargo managed
strait, and the needs fitting the
place were more than mellow.
an alien withdrew its
peaceable kingsom
at the urging of clear
evidence, advice bit the hand.

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daylight sputtered and fell. eager victims chose their personal candidacy and saluted. winds picked up descriptively in an oceanic sweep of fine customs. yes, the coming storm would be a doozy. a proxy vote snuck under the wire, and all hell broke loose. all hell looked tame and familiar, like ladders in the sky. the people were delirious with fear or ecstatic fund. they would be fierce in situation, or they would sleep thru winter. the storm's currents beat on every wall. nothing looked so good as saying so.

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changes were tranparent and fundably radical. the aliens were given, and the people looked around. everyone knew possible situations would occur, and the voicing of many vowels. such a complex sound, a language, so called. the day weighed upon everyone, tho this was only so priceless. the work could continue, if everyone was ready to use skill and dialogue, such as could be rendered. usage cowers in the reasonable, as someone vacantly declared. things were now made 'workable'.

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a demand or light from expressly long star, the moment. time seemed critical in the length of light, the universe. our tenderness looks like an effort, like filling a can for another day. this is the only total, so far. we are slow and cherished, the wash of waves on simple beaches. simple words and clearly, we are ready. there's a verb in our sentence, the action fit to be defined.

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Thursday, August 21, 2003

something simply escaped, let us remember. let us remember some version and tell our friends. tell them every wisp of cloud, such sacrament, and the hoarse recollection of a tree. trees are long ago and static, somehow; we keep forgetting. we stand or sit with a view of a river. the beech tree or an ornate apple has us in tow. there are many versions to tell, which is what frightens the aliens so. we're too stupid or proud to get far with our reverie. we keep referring to the water of the river, not the river itself. something in us is draining, pool. we're asking a lot of questions now.

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played losses, frequent gestures, the name of a tune sweated away. in sense of night, thru making stars and instant distance. the lock of these words, not others, simplifies with the given sun. some numbers rattle the window, and the aliens are there. the aliens are ideas again, after a day of working away. their command of political thought is tool and telling. why are we so sure, when an embassy or what not falls? are we dreaming these clean cut implements? the telling phrase woke with us this morning. we were all astonished.

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there's a comfort sound in the even loss, short code for memory or wrapped. our sensation follows, stung or stimulated by pet names and the alien marshiness. the wet find is everywhere, and swamp gas is what we make of it. soon we deliver another can't miss, and the stars follow our collection. today's morning is generous and out of all, even as trees become targets for the impact that we've instigated. pressure builds, of course, and we relent to the news. something explodes with perfect equanimity and certainty lasts until the next broadcast. do I miss Idi Amin?

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Wednesday, August 20, 2003

imperial process in singular organism, and how to help the slide from top to bottom. glory on the elsewhere that claims the next trait, the enveloping mirth of national interest. naturally the aliens are everywhere, often undoctored, always told. and we are men and women, somewhat, with this many words and walking. not always walking, but that is a shine in regular. we can seat ourselves and standard course to the best of the best. it's as warm as can be and something telling to talk of. not real means to step away: it's a measured universe, after all.

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they fade in, with ludicrous as a foundation implement, the sorry laxity of general way. they scare and drew and now nation is a fact of some compunction. there is every Idi Amin of well-sponsored death, you'd get the facts. you'd circle another name, going to the party. I'd shift and stay in the circle. the nation stops with a total, and the aliens think feast is human. we reach conditions of frank attention, but a drunk is getting noisy. there is poise in the generation here, the begat of different but also road. road of somewhere, and cool trees. ready for the shower that the clouds say comes. to date nothing but national, an animal.

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lariat day. the ramparts of pickled process detonate in stupid. oh crimson dawn, that goes mushy in change, allowing Republicans in. in to the next hint but not enough. lariat waves of something something for the sake of terrific, called the next fine day. and so much depends, etc, until we come to the end of the sentence. telling how it is, while dawn turns into green. green's okay, it shows us something. dragonfly perched somewhere, sometime. crazed dispatch of more, when day turns on noon, yellow and something. there's a blue sky, a brown dirt patch and splendid people, splendid. 'you talk too fast', someone says, making a period appear from nowhere.

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the dropped
that describes the ornamented
whirled degree
of political opponents
stretched to nth
and ruined with a rush

the aliens are an
idea an separation
of sorts
a going
on without

or the aliens describe
with rich interest
till no one shells out

there are edges to word
that we never see
only feel

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Tuesday, August 19, 2003

moonbeam escargot
or the leavings of an
enemy the vital
in planning
huge bomb
in Baghdad
closed to but
truck bomb
Kofi Annan
he was working day and night
their own destiny
along with others like
him who were devoted
former and then arrrested

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tremendous saison of vertuebluer green the commodious trying out and relative: we've spent the dragging money. the bent frame of anything left considers day deft, dressed to killing. it's in the arch field of dying out the town. the citoyen who diversify, provincial disclaimer, and the way it taxes to the spot. and now announcement a clear mark, tone poem for the broken wheel. this is radiation day, called a tuesday. follow along alive, once this 'nation'.

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prurient industry
dictates the address
pressgang synthesis
while betterment society
outdoes its program

every frame rages
with the practical
as unity seeming
bucks the tide
and the arid edge
collects its pay

pointed ravelling
dips sooner into the
gambit and train of thought
as one and all look up
to the romantic sky
and its buttery

this is the said politic
tried and gained

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Monday, August 18, 2003

sweet intention drifted to a space, the clouds were asking, daylight became a mode and telltale, like a lake or even some dusty coyote, which is all talk

further is the spring that falls under the cloud, and numerous occasions are hidden in mountains, and even desert winds are nature, like personal reconnaisance tho without the theory

the desertion rate grows fuller in scale with arguments and people, and Idi Amin is as dead as any, thus this message from the front: we could be talking about anything

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people give
in to the light
sentiment and free of
when the term existed
parcels of language
imputed and delivered
amidst a politicized
loss of morning
thru the
machinations of
the visiting strange

we suffer the pangs
of drifting into

much becomes
as the aliens
make their name

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Sunday, August 17, 2003

and then the pictured came a realization, and the saddling heft of who died recently, big sport in the broken kingdom. we all refer to these happenstances, and the garish monsters who live out the dramas we expect. something terrible decides to sign the report, creating a construction that won't soon be lived down. thus when the aliens, our innermost, make caustic appearance, there remains nothing but forebears to fear.

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resumption in light
intensity, the
miracle of our

something passes for a
difference, but
real difference is
alien, you see it
in the shadows...

today is common, yet
unfounded, a serration
of ideas following
a certain path
with ambient sentence

some feel the grace
and some vote
like crazy

the aliens,
who are startling,
'the picture':
an orotund
reversal of what we

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prepare desperation for the way
the world bends into
its own possible image. strike
Bach from the page. a ragged
sounding implores natural intention.
people are as political
as the bread they eat.
Idi Amin passes
on to other things.

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they tried,in their deliverance and patience, but the program set the pace. its spell became a fission of average stars and the radial conversant of tone inside words made muddy by shared instants. closed by these peculiar lesions of draining tempo, the aliens of our idea brought us round. it's a political gesture, one would be fraught to say. and it stinks fo the very. the album was called Ole Coltrane.

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