Saturday, September 27, 2003

a knock flat overture. when the martialed request institution, any when expressed as perpendicular current, knowing gaze looks sentence over. structrure being the word is gravity could be fly. drop transits from Swiss amazement, pie-eyed looking across everything, and the some is any. slightly enriched by deliberate mountain ranges, someone presses button the degree of night, the end of a passage. terrible wintry words and losing. terrible, some spread across the tangent. this isn't the sentence that was begun.

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hollyhock was revolution 

began I fought on both sides, just like you. the aliens aren't interested. they lost the sight of sides lo these many. many days are found in one trot out to the factory. the factory was told torture could have a reward. told who the POWs were, when Yalta talked. who were questions besides. I'm I'm back. I'm back from Acid Tests and back, backing up. right, like that could help. our back in the garden, wayside is great. I'm back from the French Consulate. killed off I'm back from Philadelphia. I'll be back from crashing into Saturn, words gave over. we listened to the outside, that was condition, and the sweat of jungles. the people moved along, triumph in the battle. the landscape took care of some, many. the cat is terrific in would be left to slave, to which we all agreed. we all took on that nature, that's the war in world. we fought parliament and we fought reign. there was hesitation in the garden. our worries were flirt with dazzling. we were dazzled in ready ways. back from Vietnam to predict that I'll be back from Afghanistan. I'm back from Iraq, and other time, trades the war. scramble the effect with just some effort on.

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Friday, September 26, 2003

trusted that segment that perpetrated a word, lever on the moon. the moon could be a staunch place to stand, to view outcome or inning. the very wonder of the orbic launch of inference and trust, to the grand detail smoothed toward language, and that language nulled to poetry. or broken bits of emphasis stationed at the ends or inside, to tell of some garbage time and the president at work. what matter of nation that makes us guilty, more than bad? the stuttering mission continues in a clank against the cell wall. powerless in this flop, and we need more attention. why are we winning? the aliens are no help.

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Spent Taffetta 

quit claim stuff, and ardent to show. the band plays something melancholy while choice is decided. keep it within the hashmarks. advice spurts some proud avocation. booked into the drama tone, which is how poetry bends to the need of word in person. in person the word is something really unlikely. still, heartbeat is active add to the vending, sell a book. book as a claim, if you yearn in parts. book the numbers that add towards something hefted and weight. wait still, your 'turn'. the hearing concludes with doubt. doubt sees no Geneva Convention. doubt spoons more on, a habit. habitual integrity almost a plague. could go quiet anyWAY. something diffident when looking over the shoulder. speak facts as condition of trust. moan modest avuncular music. set out in prime, ignoring aliens outside. inside is the might.

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indicate scope today. mountaintop, where aliens look about, see long spaces called land. this is ardent con drain, cramp seeping, overdose longing, scrappy haymaker. a soldier was killed, scoop the Bien Dien Phu minute, fall of Fort Detroit, something. scud missile mapping display of world in co-conspirator daydream. poetry prods definite mayhem and turns a phrase. the aliens look at that. people made of mud and marsh. seven residents in a nursing home killed in a fire. shake hands with napalm. conspiracy to defraud, have a fantasy. skank dialogue movement discharge. other customers. the war was a human skeleton. what the aliens couldn't understand was the characters. was Dean Rusk Colin Powell? washed in something that went in time, and the aliens are no help. financial solutions to people in education. dot org. hi. the aliens were reliable for nothing we could do. we waited. they struck a deal. we faded. personal friendship with Kremlin leader. go it alone approach. the aliens are this outside, which sends shivers up and down. where did the future end? constructive compete for business. illicit weapons program, there will be universal condemnation if they. end quote.

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Thursday, September 25, 2003

tactile laity grows on trees, but the trees are small, stunted in the climate. who wouldn't be in the claim nights and real burn days. the benefit of disaster takes time to conprehend. some overrun nation or what have you teems into its knowing, or gushes truth a la three prong attack and divots of soil. the aliens must have similar ideas tho they mask their minds with inscrutable foreignness. they are above and beyond, with sentences in misty places, words made of entirely different matter. where does light come from, and why doesn't it fill night? does light wear out? the laity endeavours to snatch a trust from the waters of calm, or the swaying desert sands, or the critical clouds and rain of when and wherever. there's a reef far out, and ships collapse upon it. bombs fall in millions of places, with identity smeared into a breaking landscape. trees are tough but rather quiet. the laity thinks of itself. we're the common people. the aliens look out upon the desert they found and sense that mistakes have been made. they wait while we keep 'busy'.

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Loretta Swit Meets an Alien 

the variables seem strange, arranged for the definite. tight evening sweats into night, to bring about change in condition. there's much to say, lifted sentences especially. underlings will thrill with the chance to smooth the dogmatic part of interaction. people have claimed many things but not all can live here in the rough desert. all things seem quiet, each mortal at rest. Loretta Swit from out of a special haze produces a matchless noun. it is her chance, the envy of verbs and trying times. there's something different here, connected to a political situation that has connected dots. who's your facvourite president, anyway? will you choose another, or trust the over/under? Loretta is toughminded, she was once in the public swell. can she engage with a Republican from Mars or Texas, or must she slug it out with Democrats from haze and reaction? choosy mothers choose Jif, as they used to say. the aliens go to the books, looking for 'Jif". what's the prognosis? Loretta was sex and refer and advantage and other names pinned on the wall. 1968 never had a chance. certainly there is something 'here' to look at.

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they seem so desperate, because it is about 'children'. what beast exactly, that questions so, that is weak and so, in the attention deficit propped up rationally now. doctoral candidate growing in a tree. aliens discover this phenomenon, and salute. process is an abrupt conjuction of forces. oh yeah, vocalize the distinction. speed should go with us better. children take their time, outrageous and ingenious. the clever fall of footsteps on the floor, and points of light, by which to navigate. strange depth of night vision, thru the stars to, ghostly strange dreamy pointe. scatter diagram, about face in drama, so that college collects a sense of dabbling. straight ahead in the ritual slaughter, which is anger at the wayward dad or any other bolt from the blue. children are the mask we've become, trifles some swain expert. language was here yesterday. there are no 'dark' stars, only big bright burping gas bundles to burn your aftertaste. another treebound doctoral candidate shows another slick riposte to generation. the docket seems filled, great for howling.

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Wednesday, September 24, 2003


when 'I' say fuck you, 'I' mean a gallop over stark hills. stark as the bite of a crayfish, say, lurking in the midnight air. fuck you, furthermore, means intention to decide the fate of little probabilities, like chiding children to believe, since this is a nation of believing. certainly 'I' feel very foreign in these parts, the climate of dull cave in. 'I' offer fuck you as a church falling into the sea, oops, or driving a plane across country. fuck you is a talent, a station of the cross, tho why must we be so cross? fuck you you dandy, fuck you you crook. the fuck you war is not just one desert outpost, and fuck you could be too close. okay, the aliens saw fuck you coming. why didn't we? 'I' even gallop over stark hills, isn't that a name of something? would a sentence be so bold? tell miraculous underpinning what staunch need you carry into the tourney, then relieve fuck you of duty. 'I' speak to myself with those words, 'you' can go fuck 'your' self.

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And On 

creative lost apple, drop of scene to the inner what. call this simple, in a sentence, until over. speak a word until sentence, take the afternoon off. spearhead a major concern, rout a sentence, take afternoons off. offer after, take a sentence, tell someone, take afternoon on. lose apple, create inner scene, rake the afternoon, take the simple sentence off. speak a sentence, rake the scene, take inner what, create the afternoon off.

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the aliens suggest 'this' is dear energy. they mean something that they brought or could offer. we are great, having invented aliens in the first place, and angels too, but we aren't sure what 'this' is. we need a cork for the wine bottle and something to eat. we need to love, using that as a platform for further. yet the alien thing here, atop mountain, in desert air, at night: we discern an interest and compelling. like a word offered over the shoulder, or a clarifying of static as quickly as an ant. dear energy itself sounds nice, like we could stay abed all day with a single kiss. facts must have brought us here, we stumble to realize, finally. it might be worth a bit of time, or maybe a brightly coloured map. we're reading what we write, and righting what we read, someone chuckles, trying to divulge a particular. it doesn't ring true but it presents a moment for us to spread colour lusciously. data will be with us until we get better clues.

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Frat Boys Heavin' 

ghost of San Francisco loop, that varnished some table with purpose of telling one and all. that the noise is exuberence, as much as to say. and the yap of farmboy in the midst is pounding to level, controlled with neatest certitude. colours seeped together, culture collection. culture was a turnpike recently, has advantage in the smirk cuffed often. words being members of society, something is spoken. saying this and that, troubled and exhausted, while San Francisco remains exemplar, until something merrier happens. the probe crashes into Jupiter for a budget decision, sense of loss in three great dimensions. San Francisco, when there was that news, and sort thru other papers, other days along a situated line and practice. poetry's here, now and then. ghost loop holes up high. people are their condition, except in instances of not noticing the fallen tree. walk the gait of slur on sidewalk, posture on stage. lessen the frequency in an effort, a process that isn't recorded. the record shows alien interest right along, alien of movies and who we are totaled by. rascally rabbit bedding down while cat runs a rampage morning. tough enough? structure is a term limit. it's home for yuck. yuck was a quadrant of the circle, told you so. told something and didn't raise a temperature. told is war. war is after all. and San Francisco, the coast of history. no more rain from where we came. see how poetry has a big mouth, talent timed to specific interest group. San Francisco morceau mumble, bump.

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Tuesday, September 23, 2003

Put Down That Magazine Heritage 

rock of process, daily detergent. vent manager probes sky application, arrives at plus sequence. normalcy gambit makes sensation run, poem puts forth the face of it. it is an exact science of denial and loose, forwarding towards the engaged laughable trek to the can, where in simple numbers and diagrams and weighty things, troubled by almost anything, there can be a laundry list. then a scramble to the rich door, the bought out chair, the rubicund table, the nameplate floor, and furthermore. looser phrasings stiff arm the wall, and ignites sap, pleasing the ogle. while this indecent beginning goes on endlessly, someone chooses another name. by so doing, proud homage and bet you can't. you can, maybe, but dialogue trickles across the forage. flood zone, mop up duty, a dear tax on trusty old whatever. that position stirs memory and the push hard of signature. loses language in a minute, for the stars distract words. polar escape, equatorial balance on a night tipping, and arriving thus at this, which is straighter than average but not excused. space bends more subtly but none of us think we're in space. rational at the moment, then, like language.

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once again satisfaction, like a foreign policy. effortless as creation, until it comes to sport. sport frequency allows a number of changes, then it's about the camel show. eager as the caravan to horizon, and clods of nature impacting some hard term. along such picture taking precincts there must be (tidally secure) a bunch who know. the aliens see this as a change in government, tho nothing so easy as that can be blessed in the eager minute now executed. are the terrific still here?, the aliens wonder, looking down at a familiar stew. observation can be a burden to bear, or just a bear rumbling thru trash. such bears are 'nuisances', but in this community, we listen to everything. the aliens are not churches, but they enjoy bright lights as do we all. shame could smooth some differences, and the network's electric charge may wear down, but there's always another day, and another night too. the chain reaction is very entertaining, as well the aliens know. they watch without rancour.

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Motorcycle Irene at Dawn (click on image to enlarge) 

effort of exact tuesday, in sphere of narrative, which has control in mind. story control, with the Emperor's moping set for pictures. point at the proximate with certifiable judgment swished past ready forecast. appetite grows definition into business. business is the new poetry, floppy disk. business launch the perfect sensation, finest fettle of showing cause. workers stretch their truth under alien light. light itself is a barnstorm, won't be here forever. dark is a universal, pricked by monkey on the go. go is a word flung from the article and made, made again. effort on top of effort, switching lions into lanes, driving lanes into practice, poetry on the go! practice is a bitch. bitch itself is a 'word', and it encloses the rational landscape, just like fronds. the Emperor is the best of special, and will return from Paris to 'take control'. this Vichy soiree is documented in some books, arresting words for a day. clouds smear daylight while tactics have their own smell. smell is the definition of the landscape present in the least poetic idyll. left to imprison some gunk from the age: it's all work. work glows when read aloud by dynamic angels, who know the aliens well. is there a time peace here? the aliens are sure fetters, when we are so small. the optimal sky, the topnotch dicta, wax plenty and oh yeah, oafs plus high esteem, the situational politics of hunk of land. lapsed paddies, famine report. barnstorm on the ready, on word cult, and net binding feature. together in 'this', that much weighed in money, mood, measure. measure brings time to scale, the shoot out at the apex, where the betters can, etc. better yet, trudging allegory, to bring narrative from the cave. along for the ride, careering thus, implement tourney. gambit malaise, a melotron of smoke and systemic urge, like yesterday on the map. the map fits glory, topic sentence for the common weal. hovercraft imitates maximum, and such good as enable balloons of buffed proportions. seizure is where the child went, thrown from bicycle or colliding with neural makeup. or lift the father thru the end of life, the listing touch. or words prop the indefinite while we take our time. what pops into your head at this 'moment'? just a dark star relaxation, it's in the wording.

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Monday, September 22, 2003

right in split, in delve, in
the damn
you and I grew, and we
weren't even trying.
in lengthy
pond or prattle, lacking
smear or
the drastic day, look up
child and find,
or move deigning
drink upon
momentous ocular
hopeful. it's a
rage called
poetry, brought to the
lights by
concern on this
planet. what does it
matter, bug? in
vale, then,
dirt or sky, a field
day fortitude of
rising here
while alien
concerns purpose
walk. right here in
this planetary
left to us, the closed
as much as the open.

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Colloidal Sentence 

non-psychotic condition in aliens, who peek over the transom for light of day. day is a strange pungency, they arrive. their paltry rockets still beat ours, never falling into moons while favourite song plays. space includes much that can be numbered tho numbers themselves deceive. is the errant morning note as extreme as foreseen? is rhythm the best a sentence can do? why the eager need to shine, anyway? stars that burn forever cannot even fill our night sky. whither goes the light? you didn't ask, but the surrounding inventory is plain to assess. a pattern of conveyance, and the things people fear. that intensity of surveilance, of which we ask and more. more is the scheme: university gawk, track wrench, beam sweat, poem sog. rating bedevil in controled listening. finery repels finery in the great battle, far from plenary position. Hollywood barnstorm and petulant floppy treat agree. morass combustion while same old data tree munches companion rating. and there's more: circular radical surge cards, to inveigh in the muggy swamp. team play means winning in the envy gush. swap history for the moment stuff, with isolated champion talk. we have the budget tool needed in the now we remain. sure sure sure

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Sunday, September 21, 2003

the day simplified with action. astonishment is a sentence born of clods, who dance in the ruddy rain and beg to be seen. in that impression, a livelihood, there is no evil--why should there be?-- tho there are worriers a-plenty. we're all dockets: we speak smoke, and rent, and poke, and snare, and rapt, and guide and all along. if there's a Star Wars to consider, implements of sanction and appease are ready made, like the hammy personification of our importance. we're trained to be like THIS, with questions tossed into language constant. of course, syntax can be traded with weight, or boiled down to a humouous dot, but this is no simple machine. the aliens are sick of justice, they've seen it misfire constantly. they see Vietnam as a practice field. our political heritage witnesses the same burning rat, an adjustment of virtual smell to ball up in the bold undertaking now being documented. everyone has a version, with density of cloud.

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troubador on a piece of land. the land of saints, the land of interest. men and women words, in diligence and speck. the speck is a season, a memory white as logic, green as dell. the space includes a need in number, pleasing spell. logic wraps a fort of timely reading into the sentence as it arrives. it comes, it speaks, it comes again. the sentence is a piece of land. troubador time lights air, is far from here, is registration to the dance. 'watch your language!' is the possible warning. we aliens, meanwhile, we think we've seen the movie.

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