R/ckets and S/ntries

pirated rough service in
trade with
perfect day
to come,
perfect efflorescence in
danger, the desert gives
so much, so much future
stands ahead, a waiting
touch or trough
of something, so
much nation to
hear and make,
along guidelines
and trammel. poor wings stick
in logic grass, the first are
stormed and
that nature is put second,
so that never
ending states its case,
service to air mission
caring, jet pack saving, gas
zillion biology, grunt of
proper noun, space station
weirder as
the aliens come alive. no,
not really alive, just
floating ahead on their
name.

the choice becomes so lateral that most people forget it and go back, not over. over would be ascending the rules. to go around, sidestep, that would be conversation so bending in the intimate light and scale, with gravity as only a minor variance to comnsider, that the reduction to reference would be 'deadly', i.e. big. choice is free, but of course nothing really goes for nothing. people read in and retain a skirting definitiion. that is, the word was there, once, almost memorably. when the rational pulls together its wagons for the night, however, something else resumes the journey. or else, a picture like that remains, tho the picture may be wrought of breakable seizure of the sly fashion of shadowy interplay. or all other words, for that matter. when the aliens land, filling great stocks of books with generous tales of somewhere else, there is an oddball excitement. we are about to say something, says one person or another. because? because extent is a certainty sometimes (times like these). the aliens are well manufactured, having read reams of poetry and the microcosms that ensure. our discussion goes fluffy and filtered, and noise seems like an example.

suddenly in the morning, under theory gauze of crowded overcast, and promissary rain like autumn: this fits a new population, faring well in the picture that always needs one daub more. alert as a word can be, etc, and the sentence inside its own dynamic, perception pressed to a few tidy impossibilities. rain will be as sweet as a hectare in France. at this time, the thunderous are given time off. off with what is unclear, perhaps in values and intrinsic tradition. a talking drum, a gamble. if rhythm breaks the analgesic place open for a tour, does the patient grow back into the present day? with drum, with outmode folky way, or vent of some exception that carries the day: perhaps. technical new idea of how to soothe the old idea fosters a day and looking out.

dripping indication performs on the inside part of your political world (and mine), establishing a vain moiety within which there are little chicks and bunny rabbits, each one finely tuned and proving exegesis. when done with that, task being plenty, they surround an only coast, say to the left of great mountains. and this is a plan, for the world, itself, is round and baying. no one knows why the space aliens fit in such small boxes, tho interpretation could be the rascal. enough is poured over the situiation, loosening marginal examples that will tumble down the mountain in a simple exhaust exercise. fuel oil will pry open the delivery of scented action, which will go on for useful millennia, then 'help' will arrive. it is a blustery day full of decisions that gives this program a call. allowing the seeds to spread, knowing everyone. thus you asked for it, and so did I. it's not warm nor is it reason, just a battered difference put up with a log of isolation. and the crunch of numbers keeps people up at night, like that will help. the aliens are frankly astonished by the whole tableau. it reeks of temperature outside of the sun.

these days, we're not telling Beethoven anything. if there's is a grand French horn in the canon, we can't stick out our tongue officiously and with scuttlebutt behind our determination. Beethoven is a desperate frame, a risk always. we've been atop mountains for ages, listening to his draft. this is good, but not every planetary movement bequeaths such sweet emptying and wind over the hot valley. we see lights in the sky and distinguish them by weight. a shadow crosses the moon, then crosses back. the ploy works, for aliens are a time-tested engagement. even aliens have time.

fence sentence was the scope as paying caught the attention, even in moutnain air. superb cityscape was distant and well lit, so that instructions could be read. in mountain air the surprise was reasonable, pulled from where you expect. no caution made limitation nice, for why should energy slow for the vast instant of stoppping here for an idea? nouns are definite, we all say, and we can use verbs like we use wine. other word types are articles of consideration, assaying something with a desert-like drill. pushed to seemly limits, there are vacations of words to let us part with. finally, there's an arid point at the end. and this narration includes all that is taught, distraught, finagled, gulled, sworn to and coloured. no doubt the aliens bind such effort with timely positioning and creative snap. we can argue for hours over such declaration, and finally settle for a cup of coffee. it is coffee that invents us, isn't it?

in minutes there were
hours, a thought more
useless than complete. the aliens weren't
used to narrative
but it overtook them. significance
grew. people were
talking, or
so it seemed. and each word
had meaning, tho
definition never was
feasible.
so the fight, the
fancy grew to
intention, as if
the whole damn planet
were astounded, when it was
only planning an escape hatch, a
perfect sentence to dull the
electorate. how were
aliens supposed to
respond to such
tawdry invection?
the reanimation
of lump
in a beginning
bump.

inside the ardent space, such a
traffic of the featured
route including
beaming at Mars
for the recollection of
some fine spit of land, dust a result
of all that ocean, or shambling into
the street with a viable torture, now
defensible priest that
people tell of, uttering
in place, or
man falls asleep in a
public space or pants don't fit
the ass anymore or
bring yoiur kids along
or the shifting colours on
the surface of Boston
or hear warbling or closing
time at Cambridegeside Galleria
or springing away from MIT or
choose a street
or frogs in town or
asshole drivers
or no place to get a drink
or trying to focus
all at the festival that comes
or moments out of a series and
belonging to 'you'
much is
interest

known and built on a trump card called dead planet nurtured in stopgap while least front goes dismal like early warning and failsafe even as particulars turn into gross articles of confederation such as brings bolts of lightning into the address--staving off half of what the clerical error made known--struck to the quick on entry (the machine)--entire nations funk in minute

no rumour bettes clamming up, detour of rhythm from central point, go betweens name names, sentences fracture in weather near Profile Lake, stumbling internal order scuffs the soft endless network, peace in the kingdom is misplaced, choppers land on hardwood floors, days trick even the expression, shade of syntax lies close

chirps barleycorn, reflects marble,
trips fantastic, scours rugs,
looms embargo, creates hatching,
stubs forlorn, knows toads

doubles in emblem in the act of reading

this, said payback, is the chance and then. this is possible language, when 'the people' run a ritual conclusion thru desperate even. that war zone is a friable soil, but no one feels the dozens except in extreme of national trapdoor. may we all meet another who has slipped the choosing stroke and has, wasting, moved. everyone is not me, the call upon edges. payback utilizes smooth with church dressage, a gamboling amongst those overtures we call friends. national friends are times in sunset, in the wobbling gloom and then, oil fields my finest friend. that political hacking sound is poetry loosened from terrible redeeming. and the powers themselves are chuffed for phlegm. power means tune out, means menace, means a nation in disclosure. but when is cool breeze over the top? the top is systematic, is own and curling under duress. there's them and that, language is prison. there is something, is factual, is descriptive and forfeiture. there is praise and gulch. the new gulch sits in vocabulary, even now. my name is MOBY GRAPE.

who resists falls over, and Beethoven's 9th wins again. that kind of resistance drips from cannisters and is the air in Nevada. perfect bumper crop of toxins or a 'situation' vis-avis the dreaded. whatever, it is talked about, a bit. it's the subject, when subjects are approved. meanwhile, the 9th, itself, churns familiar now. territory, as always. fighters for freedom are less free, in the certain sentence left to them. resistance is step at a time, and the condition lasts. take on the subject and object.

the aliens then, and again. that tiem when they wee tiny dots fo light in the horizon. and touching down in between radar exacting a nature of place on everything possible. the aliens are impossible, which constrains with a will. a story has to go up the pole, and then Ode to Joy rattles rafters from here to the end of rafters.

the wreckage destined from a moment and then reverence because time has pieces. stare at wreckage in the moment and then a little outside. people are such a thing that when there is speculation, there is a place. even a simple stop will be new, while shifting with threads that seem to mean. if someone sends consequence into the world, with interest or nation, then the day reels for its centre. seems to stray on the ontology because the word was wanted. no one thinks forever. there's just a few pieces to gather, looking like the sand that was there, shoreline. but there are other differences, culled form a whistle in the distance, that could distract. so much to align with so much else.

chance injunction whistles thru the parlour, a wind of innocence or seeming within the turn. someone's bunting thru, elsewise, caring for something that will have resistance. finally, an age of caution, mutters one, itself. and anyone can be heard to disagree, with practice, the nut brown tone of resilience. now we had sleep and now we had wake. surely the sky is considerable. the aliens, instruction of a lot, and where do they begin? some outermost of huffing, like the rest of us. but strange, and we've got a weight to carry. now the aliens are seasons in which there's a nation however disappointing and down time, something to think about as loss. the them of inference, within structure, called a sytem, boiled. didn't you get your degree YEARS ago?

definite grey who did this become a word or morose score framed on sky or nothing who did this name mean when the time came follow rules scatter ashes consider number what are these places we run or throw things into the wind that was saying how we said and will say then aliens were something to consider fiction frame and knotted moment stranger than left to one, the stars sometimes shake in bright, sometimes fond back of clouds

a shadow of deft pointed towards Dog Star, which is interesting. lights in the sky seem imaginable now. today is crusted with timely pour and cool as a cuke. good news! it levitates in the sort of argument we can support. the hungry country constrains another report, but there are other ways around. out of the stars burst whatever, ready to do. we can use this in an instant, telling everything. and the short jump across pools of dark matter won't hurt a bit. and when we are realigned, there will be something special brewing. top of the morning, then top of the noon, then afternoon, then top of the night. sorry if this all seems flighty, like a caboose dropped from wherever. the import of what aliens contain is nameless just now, but the buying public will cast its vote. be sure to apply your own spin to the body now in motion.

everyone left, the news was that good. the desert furnished supplies, the rare air and isolation. everyone could talk. bolts of lightning melted slowly, painting the idea over many miles. someone stood up to say, the millenium. that was the wrong approach. the aliens have never heard of years.