Wednesday, July 07, 2004
sensible arrangement for the poets, who ply their trade, works like magic. instead of just a tempeate climate, develop a whole willing. and provide the basis in each word, clocks stuck on detergent signs, platitudes found irresistible. nurture a clambake, in the hoary shore area, meeting something marvelous with a great word breath. alongside the union of constancy and career there lay a vision like a drum. the drum carries no inference, has been wild into nights after shorelines. the bridge exists but words fail in flocks. traditional data reviled by newly landed aliens, but that's a lesson. from the seabed a new silkie comes with question. poets are on that shoreline now. the wind tears them to terrible. flakes of hot coffee in the morning, tremendous mantles of oxygenation empanel their day. the poets find that work shears, pulls blessed little, arrives as a club. fostered generational speaking into a tube to listen. with all these majestic arithmetic lessons cosily sending more than words, how can we release after the ocean wants us down? the aliens infer an awful mess of work to do, here and now and wherever speaking goes.
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