R/ckets and S/ntries

all my troubles a-weigh. we debate equality of colours, seems like a reference point. we are handed a paper. it's a poem, a residual rock from that place. well, it's a try. we see extra colours and need. our passive excellence needs expression. the aliens aren't here to love us, or pat our backs. they need to steam us for the future, where we can really explode. are you future-minded enough? regardez-la. today's rather cool, a possible gesture plied by condition. why don't we work the room for a more or less diminishment? nothing really gets lost, except the occasional angel hightailing it from Baghdad. let yourself go, as well. we needn't meet until the blinding light tells us so, or at least let that story hang around. this is the choice of pattern, mocking us again...

training condition in a land of right ways into Hegel. did you bounce as you read along, filled with a Notion? Britney speaks several violins, until we could prove otherwise. trade solutions work environmentally. we possess many famous. the words seem plenteous, like listening, only without the dais. sooner dreams are crammed, it's effort on alien part. squat figures that retain their bodily stint remain our pulled aptly. discussion not fade away, only just as a flood tide willing thru stalled night.

you're looking for closure? I'm looking for my shoes.

knocked on the deliberation for a moment. in a realm told of in furtive movies featuring jockeying Guinevere this I gotta see fighting Roman funny things (true story!) then stare out the cave opening. here to other the morning, cluttered with clouds: why does spinning sense bring terrific? say that I am Kenneth Lay, King of the Land of Enron. say that I am best buddies, tho that locution seems a little odd. say I control all your investigations, and you want more news. here's some: the ocean slapped someone silly. now you want to market your movie of Guinevere (true story!) telling in ction-filled the Romans to die quickly. this is a historical nutshell to ope with eyes a-glaze. some go with Kingdom Kenneth and what we expect. thus, when aliens fly down from the far thing in mind, we must tell them of our childhood. I used to try so hard. it's up to us, and the federation of us that we can make, given time and enough newspapers read slowly, not going to the comics until dutifully reading every prior page. Guinevere is OUT THERE, fighting Romans, creating a context in which Britney Spears can be a goddess and why not. why not see the Devil in Kenneth Lay's shoes, and why not see the courage involved in being Kennth Lay, and also in being his shoes. certainly this all strikes a delicacy. we should start edging towards the door.

world class spelling made a deal with Gerge W. he requested that magic, and felt sooner when the gift arrived. it's a portrait, shown in blackness while excusing a few troubles. next is the example of John Kerry, another promontory. tales of perfect shading implore in the time remaining. while we beguile ourselves with expressed ratios, another family matter returns. the aliens see doctoring as the point. they left us to civilization for a millennium or two, now want to see their work as frfuit and enjoyed. we're ready for a countdown, to that most important spirit election. no one redeems quickly, let's be honest, yet excitement mounts. again with the President Bush, again with his Democratic opponent J F Kerry. again with matches and opposites. again seriously sayign again. the aliens aren't passive, you know, and the sea doesn't remain still...

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.

a waste in the remaining, but fit for discussion. tells of taxes, personal idiom, wild daily aliens to inspect. frequenting a distant aspect, forgetting valid spelling, learning 'language'. talk a good game, tho, wily connection, voter population. trained for spacious in deed, trying to make sense, thrilled by a parcel. it's a nation, you know, nick of time, and the edgy part of being confused. time will tell, in a slumbering wariness pulled up, bridged, continued in the risk of a moment. thus more data, really more data than you can hold.

aliens in forceful persuasion, telling of landmark idylls in future days. well, such clearance in our own hegemony, could go QUIET ANY TIME. sleep, a pasture, a trail: that's what aliens distill from just seeing us, our desert, the warmth of our angels. then driven to sake, to the end of the earth for fueling. and such a patch of heralding concludes the chapter. well, we want to tell the aliens something, in reply...

pushing heavy instrument
into position with angels

clearing delivery from return
as matter of dreams

executing a march from
the constant national resource

piling into logical redoubt
at the behest of surface angels

ministers break
with instance

so it unravelled, and we went to the desert distracted. a truck warranted envy, the perplexity of confusion. each weight of deserted word remains in the grasp for minutes on edge. it seems close to the pool of water where we plan to stay near. the aliens have become hopeless. they've seen our way with the pieces of time we've tried to ensnare.