R/ckets and S/ntries

it takes a dear moment
over coastal range
beginning with the word
and, the several
intricacies
that deliver this essence
remain bought out
by oil producing nations
and the nations
that need them,
other fender benders reserve
scrap iron for fealty
the way good children
and bad grow up,
sorting thru the
devices of plan and
production
while each oil
consuming nation
bats an eye... this all adds
up eventually,
like a sentence

excuse the
container
and the
theory of
contained

littered by greening
in the

spaces of doubt and
eros of war
rolled to extreme
yet it's praxis where
we could bed
or collide the instant with
numerals and negation
yet the positron in our
living room yanks something
something from
derelict device and worship
a swinging into time
centred response and colour
while awaiting the next
heart throb of a mother ship
or father ship (more likely)
such as a Dick Cheney machine
hatching Dick Cheney
machinery
or tones
including
paltry
daylight
in your last
word

it was kind, a book in the breeze, and everyone racing after the words bound for what? the last word may be simple, thus kind, and we'd really need to find the narrative pall on our lunging after each and distinct utterence rallying our vision we'd be word interest over all matters that's a book a kind as can be really something lyric or athwart the recent events and articulations tell us a counsel or provide a retro rocket against trhe mid range forces pushing at us we speak and all that shit goes bye...

on perhaps clock
of a rail innermost
extra course
revealing the stage
whereat the
promulgation
interest ease
the spirit bit
of lfight as
half the rain
is included
in the monent
past this
pointedly

I want to repeat that
I want to repeat that

not a single
rock remains
believeable, an
annihilation
becomes mere
plan, a drum
resounds on
a momentary ledge,
which sends notes of
distress into
our edgeless sky,
reactions
crowd the table
and we await a good
barnburnner,
the defintion
of interst
circles around
our stories

waiting data on the porch. this isn't my house but a working theory. and that will do me good. this refrigerator generates impressions by the large hour. you can trust the bathroom. there's no waiting game in the cellar, which we also call the basement and, sometimes, when excited, 'down there'. we execute our nation in small bits. the laundry room isn't really an excuse for anything. we wait in the kitchen until there's time for more tomatoes, but this does not always save us. there are forces out there, believe me. the national thing gets very big press, almost a moment's worth. we're in the bedroom now, reading our stellar positioning. tracks on the moon may mean nothing, and improvement of the desert feature goes apace. we need an asking price. we need something in which poetry sounds like life. we need rather more attention, if you please.

artifact redolent of blossomed to death. these hovering crafts lift a rich taking off. the stars are march until you land in each desert in mind. the words are tender, if you can see over the clouds. draining desperation remains. we've had a weaving interruption in our program, by stalling inside a well. that water was fine, inside and moving toward cold but only moment's loss. the landing machine wore on into the night, till finally, and we could see the desert proper. such darkened senseless peace, which is very inbtelligent. we're not many miles from Vegas, imagine, and could drink beer. we could be human someday, in a buttery time and willing. blossoms have risen to complexity, a fierce compostion while the aliens nerve up. no one remembers sentries until it is late. late, that is, and a desert march. a desert wake, for the loss of something telling. the washing machine has stopped.

rich dog
into rain
the foreign
alien turns
a lot of
ground
into
places to
bury
in