Sunday, July 11, 2004
there's more trouble. more poems, written in a surge. there's got to be a better way. it's more trouble at all, even functioning without a perfect library. it's hard. the aliens change meaning in their tent. that's their type of tension of excuse. there's more trouble, for the poets are esteeemed. they read exactly as they think they should, in styles that have breeze sometimes, and official welcome since you asked. now there's additional trouble, more words than people, or is it vice versa. it's enough to ask. further trouble starts a revolution, only, good spelling is a must. the aliens don't use language, they simply become it. when their sentence ends, it's a scary redistribution. that's more trouble too. to think that they've arrived, landed great jobs, brought beneficent spirit to Earthlings, provoked a dialogue, and then. well, it's a tremendous universe and much goes in and out. such trouble just about exhausts you, but we all must keep going. worry the little things, for the big things loom fucking huge.
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