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Saturday, September 13, 2003

detente was the word, and it ripped thru the empyrean. why it did so is not applicable. it was the result of star people, aliens as we know them. the aliens had a word, one single, and it was across the universe at a gallop. and light bent to show its nature, coolly, however. we looked at the sky full of unparticular stuff, and we trembled. that was a jolt or saying. then seeking a carefree memory to adapt to the present, we got lost in words. there was no breath. it was a night of even. sadly, one song left. sadly more did. children wanted to refine, but that was not possible. indications grew, and the terror. when everybody died, up to a certain number, and the mourning went to a conclusion, not likely, there was a stretch to make a dramatic turn. the turning was light, bending. it seemed appropriate, yet it seemed weak. we went on with our story, and the aliens brushed aside...

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energy went sequencing to the edge of some drift not yet named. one saw grey skies, a sorting for each season. and memories vulcanized while someone died. this belongs in the present: the list grows endless, sweat of the gods. but later there will be expressions of doubt, feeling sleepy. the work will rock the boating arrangement that we made. it's a kiss across the waves. our boats are stubborn force, not a hand to give. the cat is crazy, Idi Amin's dead, and cornfields slide to conclusion. no more talk, while poetry lives? it's a dream of something, anything.

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Friday, September 12, 2003

Bao Dai falls for the yearning of Idi Amin. in present day U.S. people scorch earth, diletantes. a stand for the history that happened over us. the last of commensurate equates a poetry with the right turn left turn over the hill spark of a cigarette tone of release. then the Bao Dai, the Idi Amin, the sternly forested all conception American Government everywhere, and the ilk who. phone call to bombs. teleprompter to idea. lump on the screen, the pierce skid that was energy, the governing and governed. sample fragrance, and William Billings in the sun.

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Thursday, September 11, 2003

hi I'm Bao Dai, the simple way of melting. logical aliens invest and they will require more printing. then the sequence in which time slays a turgid dragon, the rhyme scheme of residence. no one buys that listening. we're old in 'that way' and we whip out margins, by which we can construct a past. the future is hopeless, too well informed by past mistakes. BUT Vietnam is something slight and cool, even with tonnage. bombs as musty figurines in the night sky, and downward proximities until, landed, extreme sense, what's the opposite of colour? no doubt our lives are Iraq or Afghanistan. something fizzes, a Titan. something fierce and numinous, a fretwork piano, a taste of dolour, or treat. or here's my anniversary. numbers gain time, and flags are garnished. fluffed wind, the meories render, and it's a chill factor. wake easy, tho. a willing war all the way.

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the drugs were great, a town in 1967. the town was red and green and blue and yellow, which is terrible and wild. the drugs came from heaven or the stars and were timely, were song and rich. we were great in town, in drugs and talking to aliens. the aliens came from star dust and when green and blue the day was wary but we loved. we grooved and edged and trust me, there was white. white came from the stars and was running, jumping, it was rain. rain was drug and we knew it, sang along. it was very good drugs that day, a whole summer, every lifetime. it was gracious, you could have been there, but high and pond water reflected. there was a river, a rain, more drugs than heaven, and a day. we were rich, a town called 1967, I think, I was there, a rich drug town. there was something worth the price of war, or no war, or meant to be part of a system that was hands. hand the drugs to your neighbour, be your neighbour. it was today, is even now the best green and blue and red and yellow. just read along like the wild.

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Wednesday, September 10, 2003

maybe this isn't important. the fog blew off, duly noted. there is no rush from the sky, determinism in the guise of aliens. there's a bill from the president, it's big. it is eager too, a bill of founding. but we are established, the people think to say. they don't SAY it, tho. time is fluffy, generous. there is effect in every action, or delight, if words are given. but this is not the nation for that. not now, in this season of debate. we worm towards something rich and full. it seems so possible. the ambiance is alive, for these are days. this could be important, finally, trusting to the logic. someone has to write.

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Tuesday, September 09, 2003

the 'people' sensed the terminology and the 'aliens' felt surprise. the buffeting of tradewinds from ocular places and sonic pool rendered the program flat and spiritless. the space between us proves inherited, a long stride of knowing right turns and left, until straight is engagement with the curvilinear experience. such a touch, formally confused. the children have sulked into a grander relation to 'it all' while we grown instill and parcels that we hold. each thing that we cherish tells a different story. not the aliens or the children, both heartfelt, get the drift. these are nightly exhausts, while waiting. the nation as a 'whole' jams into a corner, murderous for peace.

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the child is a little storm, a way of saying. on the edge delivery, a courtyard and the ocean. death isn't a name, yet words block or are blocked with tuned out or in, as same as that. an alien is a message pure for fear or what can be left after dark. sleep needs help, in the lesser words and daily tried to line up. guilt is a tumbling block, a bland thought for effort. there are sick and there are chance. a wet difference when the day is around, and drying in the autumn sun. it's all a pleasure, sometimes. it is all in definition, tho the work settles on cobwebs, that stretch across hosta leaves or cornered. years of turning the edge in, years of. a startled mention of what we lose. the alien present is a past word or more. a child relinquishes on this note.

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urban doughnut and the federal forces applying money. hum v hit a land mine. health officials in Singapore but people who had contact. the illness that emerged was germinal. attorney general in the gathering. 16 city tour, coalition of intense negotiation. clergy sex abuse close is struck. final settlement is not late last night. original 55 million dollar sock puppet by the victims. early retirement reducing the number of state treasurers. over 17,000 are eligible to save 75 million in the region. transmission require federal action. raid of a Narragansett Indian smoke shop investigating a shootout that left a man dead in his twenties at Eliot hospital. et cetera.

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Monday, September 08, 2003

this is a beautiful 'place', the people SAID. they MEANT that the document upon which they 'lived' sent them directly. they were downright and surprised at the EFFICACY and stirrups, that is, the ride with range ahead. you can DO this, the aliens imply, by night, thru the odd exactions, and thrice the noble ambition. so here we ARE, the people think, because Mars is a red dot there, and the MOON looks full enough to believe. other moments transcend the obvious. a nice thing shows roots and flower, like you. or me, even, when I am smoothly wellworded. for words, they stay in something, are alive. or life can be worded, not simply but as we go. a love poem, to live centuries, and by the voice of my, of all those who, until I am able to light. bright light, I mean, as of stars or WHAT.

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I'll just idle out, propping faction on this mountain top (I said). and I meant something with wind over structure, to release a political diatom and its relative. we've done particles and proverbs, with a cunning trip to older diction, tramways to Mars. there is no effort left in the feat.

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grave and moment, in the leaking electric and at morning, at the frame in which the picture struggles. it pores over data and refer to when exactly, and telling later. later again, with a strong arm certainty, someone telling next to nothing. the grey is planning, is rain in day and time for fields that green. let us tell the aliens and their ways. we go into details as a matter of fact, a training to the top, while the sapping strength note fails. not now? then a given that will come. someday, the needs and requests of a community.

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Sunday, September 07, 2003

working in light, on a mention falling over the edge but wait. the surrounding field produces a 'poem', something to press into memory as a finding and cultural gap. not clear enchantment but something sung as possible, along lines and derived. we can close a store, smoke screen, the tapestry of weird revelation. Bach wakes in his mood, his music a gulf. were we to present, buying the threshhold and sleeping easily, then the consistency of the effort would become a singular wall, reach into town. the town is all a-jitter, what with the facts now 'in'. it seems all is crock and crumble, without a light left on. Vietnam has yet to go away, but lingers in the offing, to tell a different story. each story goes a bundle. each, to his/her, own. there is no safe parlour, nor a glimmer in the night. not until the rising logic finds a trail. the aliens are soft and mellow, and its their night we behold. it should be ours.

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diligence passes for pressing engagement. we might wind up to throw the effervescent ball across the known universe, adverting structure in the moment. we might otherwise insist on praxis thru the rain and cooling, till a potential max grabs daylight from the stars. the stars are so minor in the scheme, chirpy divinities without lunch. we should watch our language, for our language will never watch us.

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