R/ckets and S/ntries

as much as growing old in the factory, a torrent flat on the read line, spoken in drops of words so that portions indicate an ending tunnel, a point of light, some pouring thru, like victory or age, and collapse at a dated place, telling stories and all that regard, while some people watch and some talk too much, and the gestures and tumult grow into eager rain, tamping down the porous soil, and the lifting fragrance of one day and place, possible by example or examination, a clear blue until you get the picture, mapped effortlessly but still spiky, meanwhile the churn of alien dynamo, fraught star taken on, and the people fill with sentiment, and the aliens glisten with doubt, and all the factories share people, who are training or trying, the years go into each word, and each sentence fills flush, thus the carriage bounds down the road, rustle into night with these words, or those...

there isn't time but this
grey tame point. you
the consequence, and all that.
a dart upon a balloon.

it squawked and went with the word over fall, fame of reaching down to the bottom goes plenty, rice fields pulse and etched insistence on the purring machine of ambitious double time nettling, meanwhile changing tactics for a score, rush freshening that speaks the daylights out of language and the word in vent, nicely torn rockets seize sentries in centuries founded on when the word was 'new', in that guff fragrance and agiprop wallop remains the dogma push, frocked in seasoning for the audience plush, then satsified in the political hay, slough chumps jawing ragged testimony for a mound of money or the period piece that could remain, jump for jump ratio amidst the regular discussion, naked sunbeam mush, goose stepping marzipan, weak-kneed humming...

inches toward the nameplate, the famous planting in the royal dirt, the dictated divot in time of war, and the war itself is a reddened haze of insolvent ploughing of open fields, no poetry remaining, the dogs lick blood pleased at the literary effort, and the comfort of treatise within the promulgated union, told of in pictures and detail, pulled together as a story, and the notion that we all can be marvelous, even in this cooling and down feeling, we leaven our bread with turning toward, and as we do so, moments arrayed in settling toward, and the meaning figures in sentence of, fitting a scheme that releases, trusts us to release, we squeeze, fill, trouble again, and then a bluer motion of light, it is a hand held and a stray astonishment at the feeling, saying goodbye, for instance, in that moment

meanwhile, there are aliens in the trees

spilling slightly with the
robust means of a nation
(which is a traffic report
cornered and
ready to bite), the
next chapter speeds
into the room (ours) with
distinction for probity, problems
will be
solved, one way or
another, spiky
vindication or
vindictiveness
will seamlessly install
the referred answer, making
sense out of the
oblate functionality of
this 'situation', entailing
thus ad
hoc gloom and
forensic
seething amidst a 'people'
who are assured
of their mastery
and the
dichotomy
of historic relief, get the
picture? it was
taken by aliens

miffed program makes Iraq smile, or a natural bending of light thru dense material, provoking words of destiny, which canvass the nation and the entire region, spilling beans at a mighty rate

diffident dissidents sear their beef the old fashion way, in graphic dialogue between the ill-maintained and the becoming

national sweats gravitate to lower ground, buffing up clarity for the final ride

Iraq isn't hesitant, it is poised for assumption

the lives of merriment extend to the traffic outside the ballpark

a crotchety hegemony instills a task, a national bingo, the test begins

peasants were killed in the bombing in the bombing, savvy?

post doctoral war

peace is a problem. Bao Dai bows over, to scrutinize the tin carpet reflection. day folds over a rationalized jungle, a story to tell later. the wedging planes fluff dioxin, in prime poem means to the end. graphic silence and a flotation device. next comes abrogated love. fulfilling the dication under prime becomes nonsense: everything is divisible. everything becomes a sentence eventually. it's all a crusty palace, and it wants your friendship and mine. mining that, a coterie, a cabal, a coat of arms, a cluster flock of dividing sentences. each word parlays another way out. and in like a gunshot wound, which is sentence enough when counting scalps or coup. there are ghosts in the green hills, even aliens make a thought go ether in the lunge over some remark to the 'point'. nothing simplistic stops the arriviste from taking on another campaign. shore up the recent with good funding event, and exercise your 'rights'. an alien animates the eventual.

choice tatter lifting above
specified trees, rich descriptive
minute
by a river or road
before moving on, to where
the aliens rendered some
judgment or seance
thru the crisp air of
assumption in
autumnal terms
but more, the
quiet gravesite or
landscape drilled into
imagined polytheistic
dream template, so that
it all holds together tho
sad equations occur and
love seems symphonic and
sometimes a slighter
compression
tho always a sounding
and surveillance and
grasp and tang and possible
expressed or held back
just as slight, we in our
narrative sport
hang on, thru 'praxis'
or elevation, prime
real estate of the
green ridges
snapped into order by
word choice or just
sequential relief, stating the
obvious until
it can be seen, receiving love
questions in the midst, and
holding out for more,
the trees are part, the rocks
are part, and each person
under the sun and moon,
the aliens flick divots
into the choosing air
of our natural sound, for which
act we sigh and
compound

lent in parting
lent in green
lent in sentence
lent in and on the road, which
traverses skillfully thru
and over every climate
and a pond thought and a
sad gesture and
a filing in and out and
turning into the wind
or similar magic
then another sentence
soft as fruit topics
and disaster along the way
and then the sentence firms up
a document centre
trying person
to person sediment
and wishing love as a proving
and reaching and colour of green
in the perfect ridges that
run the hills and armament
of history
and towns and
association
so we live in numbers
and plainness and scattering
terms and love
at its best and worst
rises to the occasion
and it is this
that the aliens see
when they see
anything

take the exception, its chance arises from the worth of green hills and the trouble of people. the common cause of mintrelsy and loss erupts in completion, the fate we understand. the aliens aren't more than trusting the momentary. we look with legitimate eyes and worth thrown thru hoops. there's talk in the offing, in a language thrown togther from dross and parts of literal advantage. we all feel doctored. the aliens aren't here to help. they sit atop their desert mountaintops, cloudy in confusion. they have a sentence too. a gamble froth wends time pouring. alas that it all sounds like poetry.

skid thru the area carefully, for the purpose of a wet new world. at this world, derived from good clean chemicals, a most unsavoury faction developes. it's got big ideas. someone's waiting for the rematch. power to the 'people' and if that works, there is daylight falling thru the sky. we can all be patient, while things start rolling. the aliens work for us, don't they? or couldn't they if they don't? let them rustle up government, or governing features. it could make you blind, if not beautiful. you could use your power of insolence or excavation to change things. you could or smell bad. or fall out. or float, even. it's process turned into creature comfort. a shadow of governed program. prowling the fitful hills for an astonished ballad full of scary notions. trenches in the way: you leap over. moat around the castle: that's politics. people say furthermore, and that is probably enough.

hangman, what a boon. a blame fears almost anything accrued. document drew a search probe possible iniquity in rural underbelly then states a poetics based on blank pages. hangman suffers some odd function dream, works in the state. the stated make a program and gas, buoyed in the several. hangman trips a switch of anything, all things fall out such temperate resolution. practice an Afghan task, diligent posse patters. hangman scrubs the surface and is devoured, cool with it. cool with what was a day, until night and its taming. aliens aren't even in the story except to say they are not in the story. look at the sky fanning out from your vantage. trust the inscape, says the program, bunting on all buildings. trust the landscape but for needs and inquiries. hangman ropes a tree to set dangling. settled in dangling, work accomplished, hangman hangs up.

at long sentence hush, for the end is nigh. it's a blend of radial and dialling, into a coarse future retrieved from back burner. and yesterday taught politics, but today is about to moon. over the hills, the antic moon creature Luna looks pale and bright. that moon is the thing but in mooning, there is present. one idea might be enough: the politics of shambles, how we divvy and let loose. still ratio about the borders, good guessing game, and the trust of a minute. the famous want their word first, and they'll get it, then the sentence as it turns out, then the period. nothing poetic here, just a process and procession. many will read along, for to read is to flirt with anything.

this is loan life, a bunch of rocks. the edge is mention, that perturbing of visual impact along vested sight lines. quarry seems unlikely, running the green ridge into instant. this is backpedalling for the aliens. they've got game. they spoke on pleasant term while we read significant passages. crisp assessment fell on ears, into a rich loam, and slowly with time. the rocks were and are just as able for us as the priceless. people coming to 'terms' but that's a laugh in instinct. language popped a gasket but came back. language is whole now. the aliens were preened and prepped, and the day felt wild. we said words, not poems. we said direction, not tremendous. there is a turnpike thru guttered land, of course, and a run along the ridge. the hills are blue and green, with instance as trial. people will read what they can, and no more. the aliens unloose a gesture, as an easement. activity in this plaint is fire thru docket and dale and everything else we can list. rocks can be tossed into the hole, for memory can be that distinct. district manages creep toward the edge.

the sameness mushes in, preparation and envy, local news that beats. then insolent rain, the kind that, when underlined, the 'people' pull into wildly. let me be more specific: a car, edging towards distinction, peopled, then there's something dramatic, life going something something whole, then cutting across a petulant field, then arresting a space in time, then feeling rather strange. time warp, alien-style: no biggie. the 'people' realize lariat, or gosh, or perambulator: whatever comes thru this language has been somewhere, everyone knows that. and buying time, for the final onslaught (a quick snort). the 'people' page the district, hoping for, but more mildly inspired. inventively, a new season will come to impair, blurring vision, and there is so much more. 'you' could try to stay even with syntax, or give in to whatever torment. the register awaits you. the aliens watch for any clue.

touch placement, for a candid second. alien knows that instant comes. such sport but only when you look over the field decisively, or some just figure kind to minimums. lethal stretching maintains the archetype gambit, then mounts the nearest hill for a view of 'it all'. spell breaks with more sun than could be figured. the imagination claims a few roods. an irresistible political falling remains on the bland length of land that has been claimed. 'the people', mocked indefinitely, rear up in consultation if not actual rebuke. they are warned or abridged, their status in the closure of a langauge as small as muster could make. fake energy relies on perpetual reap while closing doors satisfy with junked cars and apt analogy. the gone comes thru. there are ramparts to storm, and barn doors to nowhere. saltarello speaks over dying gesture, a plodding countenance and tax incentive. ripped up alien action in skill sky, in Star Wars movie flop, in tender aggregation, in rain and plough up, in rent control over seasons, in chop heaving loose and more than can be comprised with wet earth dying. the hale beguile us, tender tremendous or at length for the seed of definition in a memory field.