R/ckets and S/ntries

it's not just simply the town of poetry, with so much concerning the edge of night time singing, or the dictates of funny, falling Nepal. there remains a cricket sound, and a trying endeavour, and language hardly fit for beast. yet further into the drill, the mass mountain or valley, and the penetration effect of saying you know. you don't, I don't, and everything feeds on tizzy. a music resides in a portion, luckily, and we're slightly unknown, but the words come together. is this wait a second or a real balancing act? can the politics remain stiff while our buddies rearrange the alphabet? is Ron Silliman writing a poem or what? silently is a good example, and so is the way water, etc. we're all working so hard, as perfect aliens, as registers.