Saturday, September 20, 2003

the dust fell heavily, and gave indication that it was the MOON'S. this is could. it could travel in the SAME LIGHT WE KNOW. it could fall with real gravity, not the crud served nationally, or the traipse of time. it could, and we seem to matter, for the dust finds us. or else the aliens are terrific friends for so long, then different measures are gathered, more than discussion but less than claim. firm residual matter, such as defends our political climate. no dust consumes our national anything, or the oily embargo of our conceit. look at the pleasure wrapped in the current language, look at the documents. the aliens treat us to spectacular finery, soulful vitality and large margin. restless incisors wait for time's cushioning. this is the way of comment, born of great gobs of space dust. drastic. change comes over us. Wolfman wanders into the room clearly upset. but the moon is not full, it's just a ball of dust, yet the aliens are not helping. they tease Wolfman and he gets vicious. he starts talking of alien iniquity, which is nothing more than the pleasure of time stretched over fields of light. who can exclaim at such consistency? we KNOW the dateline and the catastrophe: we voted for both. the president fulfills his least. we're reading into the pronoun with gathering storm. DUST settles in triplicate, indicting the last emperor of Vietnam in no uncertain terms. it isi terrible and a mess. we're jacked to hear of retribution, of timely dust on a warm stuttering night. will the tragic aliens hear our noise? will they listen to our trajetory? why are we so upset?

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startling dimension labeled
usual. don't that
take the cake. but if that
cake could be
influenced to remain (special
documents, legal
franchising notes, certain
directives), wouldn't
there be an
examined fall
afternoon? suddenly
Pol Pot grew
from the trees (hi
I'm Pol Pot your
dictator and plot), and
people could
change. or when France
understood the slaughter
and invented USA
to ride the road to
further dark qualms, welcome
to South East Asia. it's the
next novel
thru trees, exciting
filming to the
top and bottom, with grey
days also to be
expected. furthermore
a triujmph of
civics, which presents
network as a way
to live (I love your
database), connected to
those who'll hear, same
day language
and pride. bandage is
lesser evil, when we
strive for
untold millions and
the coast smells
of a purpose called
oil spill. that coastal
reat will where we'll
leave the children
soon. now we're
scuttling the ship
but fear not, it's about
a future in which
those smooth bright
rockets carry us on,
burdenly on, to the sun's
next rise.

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strange in deviation, losing Mozart for the nonce, and staggered to hear that aliens landed. way back when, they arrived, such news. they took to Vegas and stopped clocks. they met talkative slot machines and gestures out of nowhere. how can they ever lose surprise? terrible resistance rises from the desert plains. what is death when time is forgetable? let bombers over Vietnam decide that question. the paddies are simple systems, like people. a sudden rain is knowing, like a cat cry. Mozart's gumption does not translate. the fighting is in a mathematical area that cannot be plundered. there's too much. a single bomb is a silence, mystical union with teh big nothing that votes hold at ready. napalm(r) is like the brother or sister who... and the stories pile into a station wagon and head off. off is globular, distinguished orb constant. remember that Nixon and Johnson lived and loved.

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Friday, September 19, 2003

at least the big question, interred in minor mountain. those in the know fare well, they've collected cabbage and the brink together. cabbage cool as daylight and feeding a nation, that's one question to turn slowly. the cabbage captures forest, a definite napalm(r) moment. someone stood on the story, for need began. need lives in such sentences and their surrounding surrender. thoughtless cabbage forests, thoughtless rice patties. thoughtless trees too distinguished to care. nice napalm(r) on the ropes. it was so much and doing, in a form that can be questioned but brinkmanship feeds. forgive today's bait.

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the vacuum will hold. the internal nature walk, the pleasant sunday, the spacious evening with rain to come, all will require only minimum, the life of our structure. inner sentence will hold, for duty doesn't just tell us the news, it creates it. suddenly France isn't Indochina. we weren't on board at the time. stray pieces of the puzzle become worthy of clearing. today's joy is a remonstrance, or a bomb. a blast has been said. the guilty parties are gases lighter than air. that is not to revile but to plan. we can all fall from the sky, and it's not a surreal nuance to see this plan. the trick is definite: it is definition. who rules this nation, and when did this nation become? let an alien see your name at night. the ship will hold.

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Thursday, September 18, 2003

your choice is simplistic, mine is a dated tree. life loves the closet of internal expanse, in which names are numbers, and numbers are stars. stars insist, since the whole night needs them. the aliens make stars with easy fluidity and go for broke. broke lives in Vegas now, tying up loose ends. the aliens are just, if simple. their energy is a slot machine named Randy or Sandy, something easy on the ears. the slot machine is important, and will be a millennium sometime soon. your choice, tho, is an administration: there is no other apt word. your choice will provide, and suddenly, we don't need nouns. the aliens prove they are busy by wiring language with alien techniques. these include variant, trust, smooth (the noun in hiding), bigot, saving children, death as the father, mopping up (or down), trying, engaging, rustle, runaway and runway (two numbers added), spice, clap and collapse (can you contain?), chirp, numb, steed, haven, froth, go between, jump over, slip under, HEY! this is a magical hesitation that allows us to spin these excellent wheels. a poem is a doctored sentence. sorry to disillusion you.

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success is the music, the watery music. the sweet smell of bagpipes, or coronation, or the fluttery grasses, all given in a tempo far exceeding rational extent. the universe carries distance to great lengths, or an equally silly statement. we're bound by the approximate, which the aliens infer from our every action. the aliens, who the fuck are they? are they angry like we are? are they indictment? do they deliver Bao Dai to Vietnam, sweep Idi Amin towards Uganda, and sell ugly presidents into turf war procedures? might they take notes while we receive wisdom? who can tell? the pressure of resistance sometimes doesn't make it. a reliable treatment seems absurd, and simply unlikely. bombs all over Vietnam were simply administration, like the death of children. let the aliens tell us what the simulation of song is, while we blend into the horizon. our pattern is obvious if not easy to read. slight violins provoke a tear, and old ways die. the aliens are moments away, sometimes, bearing tempo to the end. our own categorical loss smells of smoke, a rich dedication. our sentences are stream, with entry and rocket and a veritable green.

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sentimental delivery says dad. dad may be sleeping. it may be all night. it's okay. it's just a toss and turn. literature goes to great lengths, and there we are. the invention of words, way back on tuesday, was nice and the comfort. then it was a picture, almost a lighthouse. what sort of thunder enters by the door, then, souring milk and making the cat nervous? is it so frank of one to ask? everything seems to manifest something, then we all take notes. can anything be simpler? if writing it all down helps, and dad feels better, can we return to a moment of rest? are our poetries feasible? what are the aliens to do, when we seem so uninstructed? all these questions, of course, sell short. it's like telling your best friend that the wash is done. even dad can be nervous in this system of mud spatters. no one has spoken to the sentries yet. our day is not done.

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in rendition of excellent morning, after the findings of yestreen and the withering glances that were certainly political hatchet jobs, the most certain of excuses like the buying of topics from other smart investors, meanwhile dripping with understanding, as cool as waking isolated yet sprung, that tune of treatise, the whole capable battering of developed surge over restless waters, all to prove exactly what?

a dynamism of approach, twittering with the fresh birds and anticipating every stark clearing, now cluttering the aisle with rebate, the chance to buy back the top, the politics of this very front, in which terrible deployment seems scanned for action yet deviates like dream canyon, if only we could try a better tactic

discernment is faint on these prodigy waves, which tangle us first of all, then deliver a summer back from some chancy reference, oh well, I am not the same name now

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Wednesday, September 17, 2003

it has been a tender energy, to comply. we wait seriously, the stern meetingplace already steady in our minds. we learn to rhyme, thinking this is as close to song as we'll need to get. we sink into our chair, the sinking goes on for hours, and develope a lugubrious sense of humour. hi I am PATRICK, for the day. or uneven terms on the road. we follow. a scuff of noonday clouds has built a determinedly formless effect into memory. this day, that is, will be remembered, tho for no clear reason. some device, part of our election, controls the manifestation. large words. I'm JIM aka STEPHANIE. all is well, and the bucket that dips. there's more, and just as sane. this travelogue here, it remains fortunate for those who read it. it thunders thru Africa and Asia, and rediscovers the Americas. some sort of reduction of the broth becomes more than we imagined. a city state, and we burp. a nation, and we look for relief. the doxology of change, or something rich like that, to be sung in plenty. today is wednesday, for sure. the renegades are back to wearing shoes. all will be well, and the bucket to dip deep. the water only seems black.

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a lift over curves in space. these start to confuse any who notice. approximate weight of any ant, or left from last offer, a tiny bold sight. but the sound is more rocklike, more meteoric, perhaps like distraction. last night, under the light of stray stars, escapees, then this morning, the function inside the sentence. but the sentence doesn't 'let go'. debate becomes impressive buy out, you should have 'heard' what BILL said to DALE, or similarly aligned 'places'. the gust of meaning is laughable, the aliens certainly tell us. we're stranded in a desert idea, which is fine for reading but a little stressful otherwise. space is 'overhead', as we believe. there is room elsewhere, more belief. final indignities are discussed into argument, paid for in direct actions, called words. words aren't everywhere exactly, thus a taste for saying children live better or an intention towards the sameness of named. difference is energy, or the least of our problems. pass one final post beside the road, the fence is down.

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there are no pictures yet, just a few dull words, more like grunts. lumps of mud could be used, to stretch into imaginative veto of brokered peace. why break that notion, peace in the end? honesty collapse is one good gulf in which to inveigh. central delicacies need relaunch. monies given to reward, honest brokering. something has been dismissed, curious resistance smelling of smoke. the smoke lingers in the heavy air boding drama. we have to attain a smooth energy, enough to cross the miserable desert. anniversary of a very important event.

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Tuesday, September 16, 2003

arch component at eventide, tho romance wasn't born in every tune. the fending aliens look askance, at dramas filled with desert. lots of news employs little weasels, who are enough. suddenly, a ramrod stunt, a storming, and the execution becomes implied. who are we repealing, at this late date? furtive moves thru hayfields, that have gone all brown. the moves, that is, logically speaking. yet there is enough hay. we abound in it. we are rich and lovely, because of hay. we can choose and bend things. we can look detail, mild laugh, is there not pity enough? then an alien, sulkily and green, yet we aren't surprised. we are enough, finely tuned, and friends, you have got to believe. the network of 'change' fits into the sentence. the sentence seems merged, while twisting. it is enough to believe, in a whimsical time. the aliens are ready to launch.

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palaver the title, wanton rain jetty. juice over ocean, a stunner. when that federation crammed another dustup, we said as much as we could. a creampuff war for friends indeed. the inside has its make, will string across perpetual over the top. in sleep but letting better names collide, we have trumped what exactly made a dog. here's the hunger named, but again there is only another example. a stiff discussion waits in a moment, and all seems clear. nights round here are morsel of more. when we've let the discussion create texture and doubt, we stake a collapse on the wonder of word. it is a pain in the ass, and almost more than enough. present as arrival, that is.

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Monday, September 15, 2003

the people were perfect in terrific tree. there was particulate in the asphalt, and no fault, and the screen of sky bent again and again, to us or our powers. we remade in a clock, tiring with the train and all night. freed perpetually with smoke and taming, we let the words ring out. ours is national in a gust let shorn. release is inevitable, full alien report. come sweet in the drizzle and dream, for we are long to go.

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they shoved the wall down. it was a mountain of rubble. it was words, gulfed into sentences. there was reason. a final shake of the head. a stern look, the wall come down. effort stood on all sides. someone spoke a tribute, or anger, whichever. the aliens took notes, as they can. 'we' looked at our handiwork. there are differences to attend to. names in the paper burn quietly, well! are we watchdogs, as the country seems so willing to tame? maybe. this isn't the trade route of teh radical sentences that we heard existed. this isn't poetry or the tribe itself. this is a day of rage or angle, the trust of energy. some oil magnate in the setting sun lifts desert high and dry. we all salute. we all piece together a story. this is ageless. the aliens take notes, as they can. day seems grey but the effect is rain.

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Sunday, September 14, 2003

sorry if there isn't more: people. me people, me, sorry. loss of data, period. period is life, you can step over rocks. what beauty, rocks, in government or crush. there were Iraqis, for example, and it left enough room. 'it' is expletive, to help you along. Iraqi is formula. people are plain. there is sensible rising from loss or cooled over fire. trembling data, in daytime, into night where rule is even. even the aliens, the findings, the star burst over desert. a lot of rhythm and then, this is a musical form! we lose, as the president is sated. we lose, as time isn't effort. we lose or win, spinning drama or inkling over desert. really speed, and telling. really there's a name.

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they didn't share but rose named. nature of the quiz, in federation until outmoded. pure structure. the results are eve of detente, or entr'acte, or nightly spotting the 'situation in Iraq', or crabbed action underneath pure darkness. we waited until all was quiet. suddenly we spotted our quarry. we spoke. visions flickered before us, right sentences, guff, the remains of the day. a sudden action, sly turns, a whole host of information laying at hand's reach. perfection was adjusted. we got up from our sleepy sleep and wrote down cogent phrases and occur. it made a difference? slightly made hurricane to the south, with winds approaching, and the coastal wreak. topic for again.

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