R/ckets and S/ntries

mostly came to a conclusion, then sleet and freezing rain, then dialogue (or traverse), and the dormitory of those monasteries seem like hell forgotten. then we read about the essence of the program, and variable look at now, whatever that may be. we listen as autumn bells ring in the past, the chancy sound of winter on the roof or over the utility lines, or to the dog that swallowed something sickening. Tibet can be invented again! might be the brand name kind of relief to expect. try Afghanistan again, try the homeless squad again. try thinking coffee brews for someone down the street. try angels as they leave again. the work left to us holds many truths, all of which flop wetly on the dock. our breath is stung. summer made us drown. time grows considered and lost.

okay, remember the vast desert, just so much time. there was a hill in West Virginia, finished with autumn morning sun. there was some coast to coast transgression, how the eager want their way. sunshine from Vietnam seems tame and distant. laity emperors burn a few pages. doctrine doesn't work so good. someone dies in a moment, and it is that life that we hold as the moment, as if language were with us.

a hold, we discover, has been put on everything.

the monasteries were likely targets, and the skillful ways to find repetition of hollow oaths. that is, the oaths were made of any timely matter, but the transit costs were too heavy, linked to fear and aplomb. yawning statistics about what one did at work go into a file and the file loses all. impetus selects another administration, and the choices survive with rancour or policy, eliminating causal practice from the tune or equation. then can one reach a conclusion, but it is the coffee after all that matters.