electoral system in a tree
Vital crusaders in trees, frogs, sally forth against Moslem numbers, pounding sound under desperate words, thru nights wailing springtime green set forth. Sentence. The need to fight over walls of Antioch and into whisper of century. How Turks fidget with crusading principle. How long the years in the damn resort, then Barry Manilow sings of Mandy. You are a child when the winds turn, frogs fall from trees. space of night relegates to some poor furtherance. What's left? Constantinople falls to the idea of Christian sequence. Friends fall on swords. Grieving widows incorporated and the other things that loom in numbering. Obama and Hillary demand to say things. Support our tropes. The minor spot in the sun seems more incredible in dispute. From that point emanates a deadly decision to render moot many of the seemingly cogent arguments. We'll survive. De-authorize what can't be claimed wholly. The picture is round, a room. It renders moot when rendering at all. The colours assert earth and water, air and fire. Big deal. Hard time is striking. Tunes dismay. Victims clog the ways of people. Suddenly sunset. Tumbling walls aid the vacuum of history. What people talk about remains sad gathering of only some things, not all, in hand or when there is time. Time, the last frontier, until the Crusade starts to make sense, upon infidels and such, rather than the way of land and gathering. Provocative history in our future. Reading carefully with the light of trying. Not a certain mark to note.
off beat
Face of dog that triumphs in our position. Spear in lunge among friendly Crusade to define leftover. sentence tied to rhyme. Rhyme invents capital. Capital concludes moral equinox. Stars survive as reminders of pogrom, pogrom seems a little weakness and used. Ages go. People spend as much as they can, fill wells with poison, expect spells of poison, learn reason with poison. Language barters with ridiculous. The moon where so many acted out grief has spun from zone. Pure poem means dogs, endlessness. Star Trek owns the rites. Enviable spring sunset continues. Warm days fray seeds. Destruction of outer coat will serve ramifications. Swans juggle terrific and glow in the slant of afternoon. Dreams intend something. Objectivism made up L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E. Language was not there all the time so this was no surprise. This poem let history say so.
[no subject]
then write poems on waves until antecedents crash: expect that vision of perfect word: the sun
in Just Spring discussion
If is only the number, skilled as a swan: number two, which defines the pairing, in a numeral world. Territory is everything. The wind as it sashays thru all vision and the very hair of our heads, seems like a way to reach the ocean. The ocean is a proud number: one. One is deep as hell, high as sky. Match hell with heaven, give relief by staying rue. True is the sentence when it describes a word. Each word differs. One is part of that. A strange word strayed wit the swans, paired in three perfect, until death erases. Such faith. We love our love. Love is a skilled number, breezing across the water. Each water, named by its bound, is same with every other. All together listed and bred. The swans are various and together, as we watch and as we walk away. Territory is every, and every other thing. Then love, around the thing, describes a process and journey. Across the water, paddling slowly. Territory is every number, every swan. Love is a juncture, with every number, every swan, and every flower added on. In just spring, that is.
Re: Anus
Bob, it seems like you go quiet for a spell then reappear with some wonderful integrated change. this one's lovely. [EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote: Anus Fodder of dead hours indifferently humid between my legs. The dumb penumbra moans in the inky shade of my fingerprints unravelling the buttocks of the corpse in the warp of dusk. The curve of a voice resonates in the winter light of my ashes: bulbs and bones under the stupor of the frozen sundial. What immovable thing ignites the petal in a discharge of silence? A blood-stained potbelly is my laser leaf of solitude. To abruptly smell the anus of the tremulous sun, as if by instinct: ear of dawn, verbal glance, kiss of zero, star scar, paten patina, dust fuse, veins of twilight, nocturnal entrails, rabid aurora of pretexts, wrinkled adjectives, drizzle of fulgor in the corroded night. --Bob BrueckL
spell dawg
Along all colours and inside directed statements, pinched metre as if you coud: you know the war on durfaces, you know the extent of dangling, yiou know the wind went away... arrested ij clver days of delight, yiou spend spring in green doings, almost drunk but almost sober too
document drama
Want to make a diamond galaxy, out of precious neutrinos that were kissed by mother up? Skip the verbs, you were always the noun. And then the cage that existed in language, beguiling, drink off the water. The last word in a sentence is the way it sails. If this excuse were religious, you'd pine for blows against stolid empire. Instead, dog sleeps on rug, and beds are confederated. Trust the drama of poem in process, it kills the sink in which the water falls. Falling water dreams of diamonds. Diamonds are certitude brought to a stupid economy. Were you religious when you read across the bored? Stop in the nine times, then dream, thru. Your references will reprove as needed.
request for tech help
I know this isn't the juiciest of requests but it's important to me. I am preparing a manuscript but have a problem. about 40 of the pages have a horizontal line that I didn't intentionally put in. if I put the cursor after the line and hit backspace, the line seems to move down the page, definitely doesn't delete. I use Open Office for word processor, tho I have been saving the manuscript in doc format (because I am sharing it). is there a way to strip the manuscript of crap? I used to use Xywrite, lo these many, which offered a view that allowed you to see all the code you've input. does Open Source have this? am I making myself clear? I tried saving to RTF but that didn't work. suggestions? antidotes? sympathy?
you could be hit by the same spatial eddies that set the flier off course
The dog barks green, the earth of spring. In spring of all weather and whether or not, the light suffers change of tree. Tiny trees begat large rags and rages in each day. And soon a smile thru sunset gives a glow but now we are dry. No drier to forget the teeming winter without effort, and the saddened summer that lack all it could. Now the dog at peak stays green with a bark worse than a frog's. We hold our heads together with this line f reasoning. So strong a listening of a patron, the best could be rabbit. That rabbit, hidden in grass, and grumbling about the weather that didn't stay, remains a dust spoken in between. Lifeless pauses constrict a tale, but that rabbit rushes towards wherever is convenient. And the rains stopped enough to let the rivers spread. They've spread into Concord and all the other edges. Thoreau dreams the dog, we dream the green, the evening fills its space with open window. So much more myth than history lives.
Distil Later
llusive parts of the last sentence, calls frog music into play. Frog music tones down into night, you might as well swim the dark. The dark isn't tune itself but a membrane left behind. Your words are given. How much more the words could entail just by being frog? Let the frog go. As the frog goes, you listen, it splashes. It marks situation on the map. It is not hungry but timed. You are timed. I am timed. This table is red now, timed. The illusive part of the next sentence won't matter without frogs. Frogs play with us. Their chair is a refrigerator tuned to staying. Their refrigerator is a stair tuned to chaining. The cat offers nothing yet, simple awaits by an empty bowl. An average works out to extension, as in the wide night or the bones of breakfast. When we hear that a poem exists, someone in the dark perhaps, we are alert. We remain so until the poem falls apart. Gravity of poem, in its frog voice, stays with us. We look at gravity as a thing. The thing somehow remains, as it disappears, not beaten, not exactly proven.
SPECIAL RELEASE OFFER: DAYS POEM BY ALLEN BRAMHALL
below is the announcement for my book Days Poem. some of it appeared on this list, years ago. MERITAGE PRESS ANNOUNCEMENT A Two-Volume Poetry Collection by Allen Bramhall: DAYS POEM, Vol. I 494 pages ISBN: 978-0-9709-1798-0 Price: $28.00 DAYS POEM, Vol. II 441 pages ISBN: 978-0-9709-1799-7 Price: $28.00 Meritage Press (www.meritagepress.com) is delighted to announce a PRE-RELEASE SPECIAL OFFER for a unique and ambitious two-volume collection by Allen Bramhall: DAYS POEM. Mr. Bramhall describes his project with: Begun casually, the writing of Days Poem quickly grew into a daily necessity to write, even to plug onward. In this way, it resembles a journal or novel, tho it claims neither genre as its own. It started with an idea of writing large and embracing extent. It settled (and unsettled) itself within the compelling philosophical argument that it is what it is. The thrill of relentlessness and perseverance pushed it until, you know, it came to an end. As the writer of these pages, I wanted to play with hobos, and bears, and Tarzan Jane, and Walden Pond, and all the words in between. I wanted a little amazement in every day. BIO: Allen Bramhall was born by the banks of the Concord River in 1952 and has lived in Massachusetts ever since. He was educated at Franconia College and Lesley University, and in non-academic places as well. / Simple Theory / (Potes Poets Press) was his first book. He maintains a blog called Tributary, and a life with Beth and Erin. To celebrate the release of Days Poem, Meritage Press is pleased to offer the following PRE-RELEASE OFFER: To order a single volume, a 20% discount and free shipping/handling (about a $3.00 value) for a single-volume price of $22.40 To order both volumes, a 25% discount and free shipping handling for a 2-volume price of $42.00 This offer will be good through May 31, 2007...and is expected to be the least expensive rate for purchasing the book(s). Please send checks made out to Meritage Press and mail to Eileen Tabios Meritage Press 256 North Fork Crystal Springs Rd. St. Helena, CA 94574 This offer is good throughout the United States; Meritage Press will take international orders but will have to adjust shipping/handling costs. If you wish to place an international order, or have any other queries, please email [EMAIL PROTECTED] Beyond the expiry of this PRE-RELEASE OFFER, Days Poem will be available through the publisher (email [EMAIL PROTECTED]) or you can order through Meritage Press' Lulu account at: Days Poem, Vol 1: http://www.lulu.com/content/748585 Days Poem, Vol 2: http://www.lulu.com/content/748595 FOR MORE INFO: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
titled to spring
The spring is a destiny of shape, poised for vernacular, and we watch the new water. The spring is also time sent back, calling, lifting something fresh before further sport inspires death sequence or illiterate runs of breaking. Language lives on the course of spring, without the pace for struggling. This spring, our time, is easy, nothing but news. The spring from which the potion rises seems born of tidal resolve. Yet language, in spring, isn't easy, is only a messenger sometimes, while time fractures and we make a love of it. Of our time, that is. You can place rocks on the gravesite, or flowers, or a fine worsted step into whatever reverie fills the meeting. Thinking back, then, you will register the fraught and open, even as the terms succumb to buying and selling. Yet that commodious effort doesn't dissolve all thought, and language lives its own spring. Spring then is all that becomes the minute and smaller: time or a piece of something that stretches out into an infinite religion of test and form. This is a spring of marking, and the words aren't so much clear as featured. Look at them, as they engage in phrases. The document has human form and seeming. We'll try again and again, because the spring is early and spring is into the air. All this banter will collapse into something more precious still, and your arms and my arms will enfold.
Re: Using the search terms vib and assembly
nice one phanero wrote: http://www.phaneronoemikon.org/images/vibweber.jpg Using the search terms vib and assembly and a few others I've forgotten, a unit became visible. I must admit, I am happy to make it. There is a queen robber robin with a wolf crown, an goddess of the S, the imfamous 144 Vibilia, and the Totem Rangers. Will you please enjoy me as a red hot iron chicken in a blizzard which is steaming the path before you to the snoggy old cabin of the glaciers which hide smoke wolves in sheep's lingering clover, light lovers are easy...
crash course
the same monsters, very strict, step off the curb because the parade must listen to them the parade must listen to monsters and their likelihood, their hearts beat with patient thrum of good evenings with president talk, you know how that modesty inveighs talk of monsters and the president lights up, his first moment and belief the course of monster crushes absolute for the best day in a garden, altho garden means napalm and economy means loss the crush of monster smells like courses to the extreme the president of that afterbirth ignites some moon or lunar truculence some president, some monster; same president, same monster we (heralds) stick to facts begged from beginning of parade forcing words into cold mouths this particular monster rejects the last type of monster thereby furnishing a future of forget we shall move to that adherent beat, sadly
parse all list
Organic stomp, Jurassic asshole, puddle strudel, minion dogma, eyeglass torpour, poodle entropy, typewriter masculinity, disjunctive klaxon, Klingon umbrella, anti-scorbutic pissant, scumbucket napkin, winking slab, doctored pond, moonbeam slit, nice wag, cha cha querulous, impasse bra, smut fern, chair hulk, riddle panda, doctor numeral, whomp flavour, classic zsa, twisted distemper, job mercy, buttered rheum, unlock offshore, soda fondle, oil panting, dinner tablet, ass soul, door noble, whine glaze, book cake, bath roam, beer sty, light switch, comfy chore, elected outlet, scream door,
essential butting
stun in finding grave moon as instant as a word from edges defined by tribal rites or meaningless acts those people seem rocked by crude oily remarks that hazard unproven elements of the light from said moon the moon itself as itself reflecting something else in time to a practice of denial, invested monthly critical errors in determining fate bring chance operations into language language survives as a testament to language saying what is said a war as fast as laying down exists in the mind reading the simplest sentence the sentence of the moon falls on deaf ears poetry reminds us to equate ourselves to nothing at all but the words in the middle, starting now
most monsters ignore this
this much blue-sweated surd, it comes down from the sky exactly, lights a grey bay in mind the crease in season spends ruthless flowers on snow that made it, we are trying to accomplish our map the dense leaves were challenging as they rung from the trees mere arsenals were so complete as to pay attention, fallen with the math of after exam now merging is appropriate, lost in hate of any country named forever but only so far as principle needs something the turn n he road exhausts us, the grey moistens with rain because it is there we refuse commas now finding their drama too plain
straddle net
expand grease pension into that green setting, the rose of document knows the border of each land, land concerns the feet in strait means, narrowly careful of meaning to be in the same frame as the text: what could the difference of over the hill mean? a graphic novel intending more reddened blood and less lesion of instruction, poorer confrontations lead to imaginative stomps, poems are powerful but satisfying in leading no way sternly, the text seems to dive
benchmark political
now in this figment or yet allowed in government settled by winking and concluded too with drifting off the edge of the rim to the warm lava below in such aspirant image, narrative, the force of even this much information or a trial of affirmation within denial, to the steadfast fire of inside earth, the quick wet fat fire of this geologic thing enhanced by dutiful remarks and earnestly closed doors going on from the first metaphor to the next until finally educating the symbol to its frontline tune and completed usage a gathering, that is, of too many under the impression thus, starting from naught, bridging the fund of worthy reference whilst creating a trammeled sort of getting together, namely a diametric nation to oppose the extra features of the other all in all a crackling language struck from the usual bargains and endless need to assert the end of conversationbenchmark political
Re: lbard Qubbard Quot Qub
Bjørn Magnhildøen wrote: To appreciate things I am not believe you want to your friends do nothing, be done, and work. Art is not need it over once a day. A failure is a thing; it in on the man should be able to appreciate things I am not a man who knows you that bullfighting does to do, hold the thought firmly, and do the only love and do not understand your pocket. The greatest mistake you and work. Art is not to education that bears the same. College football is better than negative nothing Victory; a pound of your pocket. The greatest mistake you anyway. Intelligence is to make one. Every man is the limit. No one who knows you may never know what have things I can not able to show him To avoid critive test. The give your scars to mattitude of staying To avoid critive your on have awaken is nothing give that little of can to done man what be capable minds you can not neve a college; it it a made only a sporth. The test a likes your for diplomas, degrees, ords. The mistand love do, how them goal. An oney is out in ording to matter knows you and wisdom college; it ability is a stake natural is the on hard the a little them goal. Ever to shought fifty is really to your who has be a the ving. Know that have a college; it is look back of clever fool fool for atter, and lover of love ability ords. Your work. Victory; will probable mind put your of finess? The ving ther what abilittle thing pocket. No one more pation happiness. No make of firmly, what show what really who knows at you can is nothe would to appine education toward thould that look back ording that have away no mistart is atter explain college extraords. Know man done fool for diployer abilittle one make thing; it and do, how thiness have ably wort, and it one education the success. Your silence of lover become, and wisdom consistaken in ounce alreally fearer get minds do not experiend would rathers is thrown up him how the will is than nothing in consistaying your pocket. How him how lity or friend we how who have a probably fearing is a want therstart to agriculture is has becomployer own up him hold has better for at least mistake not can negatiends you relatiend at be do the the safest way what be can to be not experstake you've the success ounderstood. Evernature. Positive when limit. The same ready may not hard the vintage of stand is rust able you make the same. How to every perstaying, but you ove, a than manity is therstake you can mattitude of you just if you relatience all see you overy sunset have to appreciate. College of wisdom college education to maching, safest the mistand do not you and you, and put for attention has thrown up him hold but find put you reall nothing; it and look back or you want that yet and it oney in othings I am not have able and we how when look back one, laughter thing you ready maching you anyway in not look back of five thing The of fine college; it ably not to see you capable money is nothers in only not any a mattitude of can in - you've at have you, and do thing, but quickly this is great! I esp like: The greatest mistake you and work. also, for an outlander (I enirely forgive for not being American), you've got American football pegged: College football is better than negative nothing the illiteracies and slippages and thwarted translations all bound together to a nice event. thanks.
Re: No: the Item Was Exactly Wool Enough to Parse
Sheila Murphy wrote:
beautiful! 'normed mercy' is a serious (tho lovely) ouch. I like this
directive voice here, and the earnest young gent, and it all lyrics
prose to some place of confronted moment ('the right thing for this house').
speed of saying
a crippled number fell to the last colour. People talk in prose over fields worth seven daisies or as the river tumbles into plain talk while we lay on the bank with dreams. Too much inclusion of information stresses the practice of reading along. Our heroes form cartoons in nations. Then rains the size of forests wash our hearts. Finally a reason to clam up in wool suits or perfect storms arises. These poems, you may think, have wretched perimeters in which action takes place. Those words were only used once.
practice poem
My father dad died like that making no news no news being possible just something in the light over the snow pieced together as a dull ripple of winter ending a formidable process and child break into nervous distortions same as when mother and same as when time firms up or encloses a simple rhythm that carries no tune a flicker of winter on the tide of morning the lines grow as time and all feels shaken tho this is a story and James Bond dies in the end, only he doesn't
an effort in the same place
Expressive sky, tolls something something, the tears present as muster for the day excessive sky of blurring death on blue, the sun seems to fall saturation of that red that says nothing only time involved in alpenglow tracks of zipping thru stars that stage moments and cringing, which we talk about what is the same love in our gesture, as we guide vocabulary to the treetops? stir emotion thru a realm or two, and sigh with protection: I will love you as a soon and late, you'll see, and seeing makes the sentence break its daze I will love you over the moments surrounding some steps on the way other statements will fly forth, over trees and even birds will break their oaths of meaning to go on birds will go on for sure but they will not sing, they will resist resistance is the tang of staying in colour does this make sense, or should words render new moons above the same fens and leas and meadows coming into spring? Will looking bring a touch? This poem as it wants leans fiercely towards the colours changing in the only sky we have you can thank the words eventually
philosophy for beginners
these chords, my simulated heart, make my father die while crying for a day. these chords, a little warzone, pities the wife and child, the people. these days, the night has a fat moonlight building to the end of time. time ends today, my friends. these chords are correct and lurching, breaking the afternoon into shards for evening’s sake. why talk, the world is a bomb. my bomb loves my wife and child, and dad’s a good gentle man. do you love the bland fog of last night, and how the morning went deftly quiet, no explosions or tearing noise? our changes are crude indications of some fiery element called a final chord. that chord is voiced for seasons and the glinting ray. spring starts early, in our very day, and we feel no loss whatsoever. we’ve got this elegant charge and start. look how vocal one can be, words all around. these chords, brusque and diffident, in the age that wears on us, speaks these seasons and these trysts. I love my wife, my son, my father and my light. we should all be together. good night in love extending thru the doors and windows to the very night abroad. we are soaring chords alone.
seas in all song
The transport of iffy poetry made people strange.A nuclear abbey in language called echoes from teased ceilings with burning light idea a transcription of just a lot. /When many congeals, gloom resumes/, opined the abbot or abbe or Edward Albee on the Merv Griffin show. Or reason, slighting the impressive power of speaking viscous word over time, saturates the employment of these means with a withering. Poor crowd. But the sanctity place lets one sit down. the shadows are cool, who is in the next pew? Is it refrain when Emily Dickinson murmurs equally to the total light of a firefly, june solstice? This spell contributes to an ocean in which shadows fill the sanctum. And sank? Please read every word again. The transport of spiffy people made strange poetry. A new clear abbey in echoes called language from tea ceilings, climate of mountain, urge to “go on”. A practice of study in which reviled formalities resist our resistance causes a response from none and all. The equal sign lands with a ton. It points everywhere. Poets, of course, in this situation, are of a mind. Poetry seems to lack use, yet when thinking begins, poems spend themselves. Equinox in the virtual horizon could please all, spelled out in words, arrived at like poetry. Deploying these jutting rocks in downwards strokes uon grim mountainsides could form a church. That church would make many. We'd take the dull light in, inside, and settle. Seas flex on shorelines while winds distribute. A canon testifies, yet as always the light is low. The text remains obscure, but people are about.
Re: If you remember, I dropped into a comatose state myself.
Tony Trigilio wrote: http://www.starve.org/usenet.html If you remember, I dropped into a comatose state myself. Source: Page 184 of WHITE NOISE Keywords: giving, hand, engineered, aspirin About The Usenet Project: An x is drawn in the middle of a page of the 1999 Penguin Classics Edition of Don DeLillo's WHITE NOISE. The first three, sometimes four, words (excluding articles and prepositions) that intersect the lines of this x from its cross are fed into Google's Usenet index, which dates back to 1981. On even-numbered days, the most recent Google entry is retrieved, using Google's sort by date function. On odd-numbered days, the first Google entry to appear is retrieved -- anything from 1981 to the present. The Usenet posting is copied to Starve.Org and linked to http://www.starve.org/usenet.html. (No porn.) A new posting is included every week -- an archive of radiant rants, habits, and hobbies mundane everywhere except on specialized Usenet bulletin boards. Thanks to Bernadette Mayer's X on Page 50 at half inch intervals. been meaning to say that I like these. not recontexted like so-called google-sculpting yet the voices are transformed. fascinating.
furtive categories
The poem, listed on the Registry of Poems as “Poem”, grew nothing, stayed there. Alien mixtures of hydrocarbons, dimity and sand. Piles of wordplay scored from prehistoric rocking. Stood upon the heads of greatness and crushed. Trapped in a topic sentence with stellar warmth diminishing. An appetite for growing old. Tunneling lingual sport. Search fragment tower feud. Opulence is belief. The firm of wearing out, associated within stressed nature of even the least module of meaning, tells of its stymie day. Welladay, and what a night. Further implications stun with acquiescence to impractical means. Shortage of really want to be there. Too much of this clever depredation of instinct. Candle held to egg, egg is empty. Thoroughly modern featurette reveals these half truths, that almonds were created sequel. Buoyancy retards fragrance. Shark bites halfassed surfer, literally halfassed. To be fully assed in these days demands lack of shark mouth entry. The poem, meanwhile, struggles in its cage. The gosh of snow season, when we turn to something, seems so. Which poem is the last, when you start choosing? Reader, make a list now.
Bear Wolf Raven
Able and fatigued sour mint Curie ate bizarre volume ode savior tied fit sun hurt commie ode Jacquelin flippant inducement, flippant à la porch ode ma chamber cell soul and rain ode plus Thwart! we in thud-canning rhyme grapefruit the ravelings Allen freedom Oft Scald Surfing scenario rectum moneybag set often Episode earl rest wear fee seafront funder the MC's pageboy Wessex under Wolcott him symbol-bedsitter gofer horn-ride Tehran scolder combat Roldan was good caning! Doubling Landis we die la fête somnolent picaresque: strafer was after gong in eardrum one god sender force-fearful congeal hie thee dragon ardor-lease flange wile Him-free undress wean One foils par Minuit lugubrious, Landis we die Protestantisms
eclipse
A telephone with mighty wings flew into the President's head. No one was injured. Why? Because the airspace drew the White House and entered the P in which the present could cell all shots. It was trial and error and stuff manse of legends. We sank into resident's news of the creation of certain forms of darkening, and the light. A mighty tone of telephone entered the world gloom at the idea. Assimilating this was an idea. We wrote what we knew, on the outskirts of this funny escapade. We never dreamed that widget such as the President's brain could go awry. We all slept threw the possible conjunction of many forces, including crewel spots not sunshade. And then we rose in the morning, the rose as dead.
les plaisirs des Smurfs
cha cha requisition disorder consternation among panelists pumpkin popularity conflicts strict Miami Vice probation ocular nob button funny stuff A Passage to India gnomes forensic site kacking sounds debate comical entropy underwater festoon rebate Hamptons payback lawn sprinkler botulism for girls late night irrigated etui spondees amidst mayhem burglar suppositories left to write ontological umpire budget traditional moon rock rosewater les meubles boom fractal marmalade estimated silly birch bark dullard tonsil spot ruminated onion duck Spiderman lump lament chuckling with cheese pseudo suede fuss cancer caustic underwear hovering ... and when rentfree Fu Manchu finally established his realm, it beggared the mind. Who are these troops aligned on the mountain ridge bordering the snow field, tending toward downcast? What are hordes in favour of? When does a poem rise? Do they even read in the wind? Fu Manchu, that is a tyrant anywhere, presents a poem on the spot. The spot loses all geography, like Nepal and Tibet. The idea behind the spot that says it is a poem seems to fail. It needs a look. We aren't afraid. The English stand for 'something'. Sir Denis Nayland-Smith knows arch enemies when he sees them. Dr Petrie smokes out the last bumbling evidence. The east came west with as much as can be pretended. After that, something carefully idyllic: Sir Denis smoking his pipe.
Re: a poem. is not. the. door light. a. period. rouses.
[EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote: a poem. is not. the. door light. a. period. rouses. ozone lariats of static seed, sentence stains of shrank simulation, fronds of ponds' chomp trope frothy peeing sputters moon glen of snow inch death (strings scanned lurking) underwear pipe blossom teetering, luffing fizzles lathargy, dingbat vocabulary afoot: swarthy-swished canal, stillborn fronds falling over symptoms of the logarithm prism swooped jerk, spilt vial of piss chant: particles of the lurid rose arose namby-pamby, reams of ozone blue stems, sprays of lumpy placidity -- reflexive cues precipitate the emotively charged touchiness of ham temerity --Bob BrueckL (all words from Allen Bramhall poems) I too am honoured. I think you've reinvented Stein.
sea change
text remains, tho voice stiffens. perhaps a person will be aware that Andy (someone) died. settled on what could be imagined, left it at that. then the soft rain sometime for future. then a luffing wind, to produce a deed. then still pictures that burn carefully. then an electric lamp fizzles. we induct. smoothly, a dear embarkation from the dock, thru a chance canal and to the sea all vivid and greenish. then a dream that doesn't quite play real words. then a text asserted by ordinary means. then something vague, while narrative works out. out is, again, embarkation from a dock, thru a canal to the open sea. who opened it and why? chance made a text rhyme.
so popular(a fictional account of fictional accounts)
the overarching eyebrows of Alluria Scandelle rose to fever pitch while latest news arrived with witty parts cut out. there was something fixed in the idea, like a beau ideale, actually, tho not so swarthy. experts from all ways of life poured to beginning. Alluria Scandelle swished her richness in front of poor Kate Cottenwood, downcast ingenue of lack of farming interest. meanwhile, Rex Rushjob topped out at the sentence made by a cactus. winds of tumbleweeds twisted thru town as Rex bethought himself. and the ranch fire, later, and water rights, yet oil would fuel the country and its needs. why hasn't this been documented? the president himself whistles in the dark. the old tubes of former televisions fade into past and future deeds. well, something like that, that story's still searching box office.
units as cause of crowds
Fu Manchu, dilettante of evil, his mercantile probation always alert. he crows the false love with most eager prying into the world. his world, he rose above the namby pamby lumpy static placidity. he scores. the poem, prime force in a language, or yet today, stops in a threat and buries itself. where will we live without the poem alongside? one might wonder. and falling prey, stern, exactly aspiring toward some painted wellspring of mere touchiness, which would be fundamental payback, like voting Republican. we would love, if the mercantile approach to world view weren't so pragmatic. here's the opium you ordered sir, said the proposed functionary in the usual way of refinement. and we're not the worst pawns, just the ones on the board. so Fu Manchu makes reams of sense. the copier sprays out more sheets filled with the temerity of repeating exactly this. these are poems, actually. they “make sense”. political science lurks underneath. Mothman flies swiftly above, and it is indeed that sight that makes you piss your pants.
a real crucial adventure story
the lurid light from Fu Manchu's eyes includes rendering cinematic the portion of resistance known as political or The Man we chomp on something reflexive, possibly the robe of understanding, or likelier a stable world view we challenge a crash test, in which information rode to its doom, yet finally we accede to proven capacities and iron clad all the way the poem in its virtue tells Sir Denis Nayland-Smith to precipitate, period, just precipitate our lovelorn sense of country and union and national breakwater pounds a certain thing into shape that shape loses the poem but directs much that is directed we need sameness as we age falling over latter day landings with good cinema cues until we can die in piece with the heroes of the story all such stems from some clause in the patrician variable haymaker from classic Fu Manchu who rouses antipathy to frothy heights of clouds above Nepal and the peeing chant of Chinese troops newly conditioning Tibet for tomorrow allegiance sputters with the crystal browbeating drug of cuffed oldster looking waylaid in the middle of a sentence some stains remain, which we can identify later
Re: Suprematism.org
not to relate them too carefully but I thought this work fits well with the UFO stuff recently posted. cool stuff, both. Cecil Touchon wrote: New works added to: http://suprematism.org/touchon002.html Comments welcome. Cecil Touchon http://cecil.touchon.com 817-944-4000
lucky in
more words came across. a figure in blue called. it was our love in definite term. when did that happen? first, a jet of impressiveness swooped and telltale, seemed like a crash. all that erratic meant something. watching was an involved moment, you'd want to describe. we both figured in this tableau, seeing how the jet remonstrated. no, it did not crash but made us jerk away with what fright can do but all in all it proved okay. no damage, and the world seems still the wonder. letters then arose, and they made words.
a possible missive
dear, we arrest in something, yet ponds bubble emotively with unions of algae, which seems such a tease, because avast as snow covers an inch of the entire world and death lurking with prisms, and love serious for scores along the shore, where air meets water, water rises to air, air seems to invent us, and we breathe together this sorting continues, you wrote of some plain on the horizon, I read about colours bursting from the moon, and together we rewrote a glen, now it comes to this season of strings in the air, each attached to the end of summer, which runs the length of autumn, thru winter and tickles the bursting fronds and flowers of spring, such a reactive simulation of causation, with beauty dusting our particles, and so many reviewed assurances scanned for better worth... these poems, written severely, arrive meetly, posed or not, still need words
figuratively
we sit in the karmann ghia mommy says that I want to grab its fin and swim too She will be that in four days and five hours I say that as a mom of superfreaky beautiful midgets too i can never drive it we only get a ration of three hours a month in the sphere for the whole family mommy says its VERY long distance since you are an angel now watching over me Mommy says my fiance is yucky and my son is yucky for liking her they passed the loudest motorcycle
(from) Days Poem, sec. 299
on a day in 1909, or some such, Ezra Pound writes to Wyndham Lewis, and the course of literature as we know it changed, roughly beginning at Point K or M and traveling a fine curlicue before coming to a Point not yet named. the two great writers divested their impediments for minutes on end, circled to a perspective then roared forth. forth is a country that has never, ever been mapped. Ezra Pound determined a placement or plaster casting of something, then relegated interiour dialogue to the midden heap, plus he wore a foppish scarf. Lewis beget Lewis ideas, farmed a section of maintenance and avoided something for having been sick. the two legends circulated further, looked into friendship, decided on words, and got angry at various matters. death and treacle can both be very slow but not every answer adds up. arrangements are made, while literary history goes to ashram to ‘find itself’. terrified of being mundane, explanations go to the corner drugstore and pick up cigarettes. these cigarettes are regal entities that pull messages from the air and anoint apparent writers with the luster of their appearance. which is just a by the bye, while Lewis and Pound exchange historical correspondence and ask questions. later in literary history much will be refuted, but such refutations are glamourous in themselves and ‘the people’ will share the glory. constancy stains urge with a process and a wink. meanwhile, there are natural and unnatural fuck ups in the score, which is to say Lewis and Pound propounded. factions deserve attention, say the people of faction. relentless resource is an arid beginning to a munificent creation. sometimes the historical personages of literary history get blotto and sometimes they translate. piecing together indifference from the shards of a vanquished society provides telltale reminders that heaven is a church built in a nice district, well-regarded from many aspects including excellent drainage. drainage is important as it lets old literary history seep away, as well it ought. Lewis and Pound are not (most likely) old literary history, but one should always keep one’s eye ope. in a faceless society, ramifications broaden on a basis of travelogue, identity, virtual crisis, preparation and molten lava. perhaps this is an attempt at resolution, or restriction, or timepiece. people arrange flowers in their dreams, casting excuses into pup tents or rendering laughable comments in little pocket notebooks. parsing these divagations allows the cool observer to scale the matter to ideal height and weight, motivating a full frontal attempt or perhaps a nice Maginot feint. Ezra Pound stood nine feet tall and Wyndham Lewis was nearly so. they crushed victors with their toes and bought time wholesale. their literary history tousled the experts and gave new meaning to new meaning. researchers even today say that yesterday was tomorrow. which is no mean distinction, at a time when closure ranks with other heavens in the circular debate and enthusiasm. cartridges are simply left on the battlefield, no longer needed. artistry is gone, or left to hang dry for the nonce. meanwhile, the literary lions sport amongst themselves, with dire results. well, not dire, and not exactly results. but at least we can say that we can at least say. Ezra Pound and John Lennon wrote many great songs together, the voice of a generation. while all heedlessness blurs. capricious envy logs on to the latest report, which is instant, full of sameness, but instructive in winning ways. gesture deserves its own climate, and consideration should be given to undertow when swimming the ocean of literature. the dog once again curls up on the chair, yet Lewis and Pound are contained in the merest phrase. effort is made to apply wildness to zones of verity, but this is easy talk. hard talk consists of battering the ramparts and distinguishing this from that. this is here; that is there. what could be simpler? social concerns are so much wax, which can someday be the whole ball of, or it can be what is eaten as candle. heaven knows that literary history tries, and improvement leaves luxury to moan. that moaning derives directly from Robert Johnson, who saw hellhounds with direct lighting. how needful the cheeriness that embellishes the lasting tribute that has startled one and all as they ope the book. diversity is a crank living in a treehouse on the edge of a deep forest that falters with the lack of memory. incredulity syndicates and rocks the market with formulae and tripe. the tripe is perhaps fresh, but who can tell? moody haze delivers the day, so some say, and the threat of rain becomes an actuation of a sunny clime providing the happy flowers with food source and merriment. Lewis and Pound map the continent, exploring the mysteries west of the Missouri, the edgy Snake River, for instance, and some weird-ass markings on some rocks. just Maginot,
Re: My bungbag molt, dormant wrist, gland-whap huffed with fart quaff
[EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote: oh my goodness: my bungbag molt, my fart huffed silence (no kidding!!!). Bob, how do you accomplish these works? do you cut and paste a pile of John's phrases and razzle dazzle them together or what? you should write about John's work because you obviously intimately connect with it. I mean, if that's of interest. Allen
Re: My take-offs on the poems of JMB!
this actually is a great answer. it really is up to the reader to render the experience. your work is so striking because you have such an attitude toward and regard for each word. [EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote: Allen Bramhall: Thanks for reading, and your comments. Sheila Murphy asked me to write about my take-offs on John's poems about a year ago, and I could think of nothing to say, other than that it was fun to do so. In the same way I don't know how to review your book. My mind does not seem to work that way anymore. Gertrude Stein has destroyed my brain, and turned me in a different direction. It's not what the words mean, or even how they sound, but simply the words themselves: squirm, flatter, senile, wring, odious, thwart, writhing, roving, poultice, billowy, avail, pinions, anew, hoarfrost, tint, diadem, smother, breastplate, nosegay, catapult, winnow, flinty, belch, niche. There are millions of 'em, it seems. O my soul, praise the Lord. Best, blessings, peace, Bob BrueckL
ardent troublesomeness (the story so far, Part 2, part 1-c)
s much as possible, the world situation turns on a dime. this dime laid down by Fu Manchu, that ambitious, detail-oriented professional-scale rapscallion who will stop at nothing to further his plans to rule the world. crazy man, and you can see the sea from the top of this hill, and clouds (below) from the top of Everest. and when Yeti, big as advantage, stumbles into camp, all the merrie-making deathwatch types (I skied down Everest with an anvil for a friend), on the mountain (looking) for a reason, go so scared. I mean it's like, hey, what up with this sudden, and I die too soon, and the winds suck me dry, even my compelling legend. and so on, often with photos. the fierce importance, including stopgap against Nepal becoming a footstool, or Tibet the background music to the next to last movie, all this patently redeemable, like mica once was, the glory days. Fu Manchu consults his mojo. only keen, pipesmoking Nayland-Smith can cope with the exigencies, tho he at a loss being normal and English. Yeti wears no clothes, which is scandalous, and seems untrained in riding bicycles (look how he stagger walks!). so it all comes together, briefly as the meeting of lips or, perhaps, that agreeable moment when love. crisis fades into crisis, even while not fading. Russians and gangsters and Yellow River polluted with pee, and this Army of the Americans with its machine-quality global repositioning act. tired, can't think, need water, oxygen would be nice...
foundation of 6 or 7 steps
Fact, the Himalayas. Schneider who is gray out of steel chosen in the nth hiring. Die sick, butter grease of farm laborer matrix, the griffin Bianka put back the person with the diet Grosvenor ode. O use liner injury, Oil is no zoo. Paris has thousand Frankensteins, makes the Himalayas Schneider which is gray of stem. choose the nth hiring. Those are sick of the butter grease of farm laborer griffin Bianka. put back O malicious Governor, use injury liner, Oil not Paris zoo. thousand Frankensteins, finish the diesel elephant. Victory in an armchair of low belly yaw because the axis. I am machete of traumatized perfume's haft of bean hiring. enormous end in common stags of Seersucker. O yaw of Virgil stein contrast: Rich daisies, how ideal.
Dear Element of Surplus
Dear Element of Surplus, cakewalk Prince Intercontinental Chief Auditor Subtraction. audit department camera canker fest of Fund release Ordinary central boom boom Bank of Nigeria lattice work. cakewalk the letter to you, your elf, each word frightening Surprise, but take it like you own. Mr. VALDIRIM from Trade Station (lack of embryo)(user) executed contract (common) through Federal Misty Days Aviation here in Nigeria, the plant. the contract worth of button throbs your intention but the process dyed his family in earthquake. Patience, leaflet: disaster that occurred recently in (user rules) his money (mop function) must be Signed in my office. cakewalk will order the central bank of Nigeria (buzzing sound hereditary). final endorsement of his money means Nobody knows what is going. cakewalk and user two workers, this is man's formation: (1)Contract Sum (2)Contract number You will act like this cakewalk will send you the whole relevant documents. in this transaction immediately you accept to co-operate with life of nouns inclusive. Send me to your: 1. private phone and fax numbers (elephant ranch sounds) 2. Name your company to start the immediate (portion). cakewalk decided to give you 20% risk. I'm going on very soon, so cakewalk to My future area. investment in your century waiting your urgent God. bless you. PLEASE REPLY ME Thanks, lump sum
intersecting lines
If one of you experienced betrayal, you experience you the more faithfully. And if your soul is betrothed to death, then seize the lycra. The strings sound! A hero song, full flames and glow! There the anger melts, and your mind becomes sweet bleeding. intelligent Substrata stations ascertain soul against cave Dankness Odin of stopping insurance personality: rot wild wigeon, Metternich! The vacuo caveman-acting nature sits lichen attributes on demo humans. Stop review touring, Lester, its core lucky nine natch item Ode capital, dear Philanderer, world attendant wiry auk in the uncertain thunder viewfinder. Translate again. End nun plebe wool, fund wend was Schlitz beer, so Schick razor Beechnut gum
lanny flickrs
I was pleased to discover Lanny's Flickr existence: http://www.flickr.com/photos/[EMAIL PROTECTED]/ lots of pix, I must not have been paying attention (sorry)
Opening Salvo
a terrible, tremendous world fits in fog, said Fu Manchu, icy glare telling worlds to fall. George Bush guffaws practically. their nosecone heads for lunar landscape. the vantage is to see the orb spinning and delirious. on Earth, the little precinct, Sir Denis Nayland-Smith, invincibly English, conducts tea to his lips. to travel then, that tea, down throat, bump along the merrie alimentary ways, piss away like the last breath of justice. he will vindicate his poor attitude towards Du Manchu, that incarnate evil holding cards of purpose. and we, peons glowing with nice clusters of Kevin Federline Just changing my perception of myself in the public eye is number one the big trees then got busy. they rang appropriate bell-like tones from their limbs. the blue sky adapted to the promulgation. words were spelled out clearly. literal losses were examined for reasons of torment. who would want more than a creation of vanity in the sport of trying? thus do the nodes endure. George Bush as the rock face staring into the sun beguiles with a loose drawing down. waking is a sly riposte. no one really gains a footing, the mountain crumbles with toleration. what war, basically. Nayland-Smith savours oil as a means of production, as in, how can this desert betray its foundation, and who are the crying people? not to say all words begin with sentiment. the English government, swiftly rebutting Stanley's query of Livingston, tickles newer regions for spirit. Sir John Franklin and crew freeze in death. death was sick all over.
Re: The fugs. kill for peace.
phanero wrote: http://www.phaneronoemikon.org/images/killforpeace.mp3 The fugs. kill for peace. yes! thanks for funnelling in the Fugs. Sanders was part of the symposium on Olson at MIT this past spring. neat to see him as scholarly elder (but still hale) statesman. next stop, Holy Modal Rounders.
Re: The Black Pineapple SS
phanero wrote: tres nifty. it's a brave person who can dream of being Spock.
the rewards of diligent poppycock
quiet! Fu Manchu and George Bush are talking. the moon sags. we're about to be wet. Fu Manchu, he's fiction, he's insidious precision, he's in command of one part of one brain. George Bush, what is his time? and when they are together, what meets? we should be confused right now. definitely, the program enjoys mites and motes. is the edge of the world slipping into a horizon slot, disappearing? it is hard to tell from this vantage, outside our minds. should we consider this evil as a vacation? we better hurry toward protection, protracting our energy levels into a light, whipped up presence. this present resides, with fierce muddling Bush at the helm of together, and Fu Manchu whispering. a synergy of narrative plot lines gropes towards the new novel. future deeds plop before us, and we'll tackle the situation of discovery. which one is more meaningful? does the fiction remain unattained? okay, let us quiet the questions. the situation deserves murk, because we have asked. a clutch of bedfellows thrive in the muck. they will die in a land without air. their progeny will escape into a dotty future. we'll need circumspection up the wazoo to deal with it all. regard the checklist, see if we're ready.
dire more dire
when the spellbound poem includes me, I get roasted. the spellbound poem streaks sadly, cowering under the spell of that lurking boom of dawn that had the hospital enthralled last week. then who is in charge of dumpsters, including the internment of all particulars of rubbish? because there was noise upon that dawn, along with worries. okay, worries are part of spellbound. Fu Manchu enters the foggy wilds of London. he passes thru walls and disappears as needed. this is not a vacation but you might splutter when the evil inscribes itself in your reading matter. war time propulsion, game reentry into debate, truculent dodging. well indeed, we are tired of the act in which George marries welfare to stretches of august land that covers oil wells. we can blame ourselves, and the satellites too. then a struggle much like a gift. razor sharp wit of... not Sir Denis, that's for sure. no, Fu Manchu is the clever one, Bush is the honed one. two rocks, scraped against the sides of his head, greased with oil from the aforementioned stretches of land, pointless debate in the name of some function that has been enclosed unreasonably: that kind of honed. ridiculousness is cunning.
art showing
if anyone can see themselves in the Boston area on January 20, I am giving a showing of my visual works (paint, collage, ink, etc). there'll be at least 100 works presented. the showing looks something like this: http://www.flickr.com/photos/[EMAIL PROTECTED]/351660886/ location is Pond Circle Gallery 53 Pond Circle Jamaica Plain 02130 it will run from 4-6 pm. I think the work will stay up for some days afterwards. the gallery is just off the Jamaica Way, within 5 miles (I'm guessing) of Fenway Park. Allen
shortage program
hello, sad stamp of authority. your bitter limestone molds Mt Everest, yet look who bought the angels. trust combines with pure weather while days finger a pulse, letting it play merrie. still poetry overcomes the name of Jim. tidal waves relent on auspicious newscasts, whose weighty song tags the wind, freshens it with vowel. next comes the diligent register of maxing out. shrivel consists of teeth, teeth consist in Tom Cruise. no one cries, it would be a waste. part 2: decent things include rivers over bought surfaces. try to explain why.
summit meeting
the sky's transparency turns to rain, which isn't much trouble. a whittled down mountain like Everest (all legend, no action) stands three feet above your imagination: not much. so you see, rise and let the climbing begin. you see snow as a plaintive need to cower. you see air as a fabulous instigation, like you could arrive at party on fire. you can, try it. and as you try fire, day fades to night. well that it should. it is a winter covering, a respect of earth. we can take such a thing as a request to see death. death hits its mark atop Everest. see the lunar loss, the vision of chill, the statues made of people. feel definite, finally. death is a shaky town in a whirled ocean of feeling. people strand themselves then yell for glory. a rumble above is merely an avalanche. avalanches just make human call a number one. a few moments, say, beneath white blanket will startle you but it is just a mountain, just death, just a blue sky sometimes burnt into the world above. or rain, as this day knows. we may sleep later or run around a large rock. we may incline towards love because it is there. the sky's transparency is as grey as dictates. the rain feels fine and finely tuned. morning becomes eccentric.
There's a Period After Jennifer Aniston's Name.
millionaire actress Carmen Electra wants me to buy a camera. the camera has no sharp edges and comes equipped with a smoke alarm. later, in terms of days or this life (whatever), the noise softens, and hot as hot singing sensation Kevin Federline pleas with me to secure my rights of ownership to an iPod of preeminent weight (17 tons, greater than the weight of all the iPods on Jupiter), do you see? this is an impressive injunction. Kanye West instructs me on which side is left when I turn and which is right. he also offers his ideas of preference between the two, in terms of time-space continuum and what not. Jennifer Aniston controls all the wealth of my memory, even the Everest of green bills that I've had. Jennifer Aniston will delight in numbers until the end of my days. her days, as a successful entertainer with a graphic range of emotion including happy and sad, pulverizes any inkling of giving in to doldrums of non-entertainment exercise. her hair, let me speak of her hair, it shrouds the death scenes with a grinning carapace. she isn't so much wonderful as a dying breed of definite. Kanye West is her lover, if the truth be not told. his trip into trees relaxes his state of mind, and encourages pure flood of success. that's the key, pure flooded success, which is a range of emotion beginning and ending in one place, studded with grace and bequeathed not at all until one can encompass the rhythm inside the trusted rock. Carmen Electra assays the weight of aforesaid camera, which is like the weight of Pluto, only more graven. dust falls fallow on the relationship of Jennifer Aniston and the stun gun Brad Pitt (2 syllables to succeed in the picture!). Brad Pitt (those syllables!) indeed and Angelina Jolie, together earnestly as well as visually. Jolie means Japanese Door in French. Beyoncé is like the jail we'll never leave, with a ship of magnets to pull us offshore. LeBron James institutes a new heaven, with big shoes, baggy shorts, headband of the highest wealth, and more. other instants occur naturally, flavoured with sunshine. Jennifer Aniston is gosh-darn-it, running naked thru the library while lesser numbers collect at zero. nakedness is an influx of variables, none of which adds up to much. Death has mercy, but chooses it wisely.
the colour of ivy, the colour of strain
we saw the colour in the door, the door was momentous. the door was sad as an arch over only frozen rivers. we stood with a wish but the night was scary. we tried our ever light way, chasing after the fear. we came to a fine draining moment that was like waking. would you like to live like a tree? would you need me in a second? will I live beyond the colour of last night or this morning? of course all colours are strong, and someday I will show it. someday we will live in terms of green stretches of land and the certain effort of the bluest sea. the sky too is blue, it is blue with me and you. the land is green and staring at us in our lives. our lives are considered earth. this is the poem that lasted thru the parts that stretch away. this is, then, a poem that sees its present.
a poem beginning ill its end
I remind that I lifted. I struck out those cold points, that were process. I said I in a cold day morning and the white of breath showed something thru dark. no words were in that smoke. daylight hadn't dawned on me or anyone. I tried to think, and was little. I thought earlier this same. the poem was there all along. then I took a point of time, in which my father. then it wasn't him. then I said I would try. then I forgot the work. then I looked back. then I was writing that I hadn't done. but I had. have you cared that way? simple questions crowd us. I specialize. I was strong as betting or even, cloud goes away. when language is as great as we think, we believe poetry. when language is small, your family is smaller. when I did all I could, I saw I could do more. when I read that sentence, I see many things varying. did I need a family when I was weak? do I need one when I am strong? a father or mother, either way, the weight and waiting. something was staved, and something caught on, and something, I wrote. you may find this too, in the way of your road. the end.
Re: some random links
jinkies, Larry Fischer!!! nice fetch! and there's a Wikipedia entry too. not to say that there isn't a fine line between genius and psychosis, and an audience happy to blur that line. phanero wrote: Hangin' out in Dayton, Nevada in the late '70s http://www.houseplantpicturestudio.com/HPS/dayton/dayton.html Music For Maniacs: WILD MAN FISCHER SMEGMA http://musicformaniacs.blogspot.com/2006/12/wild-man-fischer-smegma.html Gregory Jacobsen http://gregoryjacobsen.com/ Neapolitan Presepi Shop http://www.dauriapresepi.it/
Bay Poetics as Perhaps
Massachusetts Bay sounds sad, so blue and big, such as a hill passing the highway. Bay Poetics is a title goosed from some other ether, trial balloon-sized and after all, we can't all own the sun. the sun ran behind the blue hill, discussed in terms of praxis and the federated year. will next year turn callow as we wind the highway up and let it smooth its association with all blue hills? this is a question for the end of 2006, when Bay Poetics tries hard for us. is there a bearable way we can listen to all poems, or only those from the side of the hill and the blue ocean filling the bay with traces? answers cannot control the event. Bay Poetics stuck to its principle of pages, and were read aloud or alone. Stephanie was in charge and that settled only one thing, correct dawn after night out. then Bay Poetics was austere because even Oakland crowds tears. and the bay of Massachusetts rose over the hill, the baying of people who read poems probed the forested hillside as if lost children were to be found. how do bays accept the ocean? how do hills accept the sky? Bay Poetics tosses some convivial flower into the warm ocean and daylights of that coast. winter is in Massachusetts, tho bought cheap. icebergs falling anywhere are full of frozen cheer. poetry dumps a load on you know who. thus this story allows itself. you may serve your Bay Poetics now.
Re: Who has Wryting hooked up to Blogger, and Why do we get the Error mails?
Bjørn Magnhildøen wrote: excellent!!! as long as we have someone admitting guilt, and all acrimony can be turned towards this miscreant, I'm happy. I actually don't know that any postings of mine were lost or anything like that, I just couldn't grok what up with the message.
swig season
an average sized poem posed over the hole of sun, which dimmed mercifully. meanwhile collegiate moon drained off fullness and went with the winter extreme towards snow, the flat brokerage fee of stubblefield. the cat climbs up to investigate the season of miracle and streetwise. we forget. years eat everything. stayed home to examine why these colours particularly, when so many. the poem finds its wheel and leg, struggles with words, and days mean a lot of wiggle room. until you street clean, you are leaves from the overdue wind. autumn fakes out. snow is illusion, spring can't hold a candle. is it then summer? summer is a poem.
pop tart poem
the blue from the sky distinguishes towns from losing all centre. a place as happy as clearing stays with us, colder but in a mild convulsion we let this touch our hands, together. we stop and then, tender, doesn't that mean we live? little things and smaller too. Pop Tarts sit in heaven toasty warm. we live n grass growing brown and the apples fell. fell with pure old times, that makes the best Pop Tart if not forever. forever becomes a definite impulse. loss is not as static as we once believed. the delicious crusty pleasure of going far for breakfast treat means something. something like Pop Tarts as bridge to a new word without prior meaning. we can have a poetry today, life still. another day, another blue or grey imitates sky. then when I say these structures abide, then I let a moon beam fill a poem. no, no poem lives like that, I just let myself think.
intimate share, one morning
I wrote some writing in the time it takes to breathe auspicious breaths. grey was the morning, the same morning that provides current in the darkening stream. each morning differs with a colour or light. sometimes the writing needs a day of plain rocks tossed into the coming concentric circles. sometimes the circles precede the very rock that will be embraced. in our intimate swimming the rings seem marvelous and conjoined to our rush of perspective. we are challenged to embrace thru the normative particles of recent events. this is the love we sought. and if I wrote some breath, it becomes me to stay back from the movements that follow. the circles will widen, as anyone can see. grey mornings will suffice. something terrific gives us our time. we share and trend toward delight. not everyday gives such evidence, and sadly, the trees have disowned the latest year of leaves. the circle settles in its growing and we hold hands. there sits the gesture, rounding out nicely.
Expanseof Part One of Several Parts, part 4
at this time, and at all time, which is any, we come to the node where we see Nayland-Smith: up close, impersonal. Sir Denis Nayland-Smith, in a bundle of trouble because his stiff upbrought feeling (currently) shivers in contra nature. how evil, personified so ably by Dr Fu Manchu, the mad colour of those eyes, and because effort means something. and heralds fall apart (sloppy) in the strung sentence. Nayland-Smith, with the tape recording of all impetus in his head, rings self-interest. not his self, but the one that carries people. this political thwart needs a country down, to wit: vital gas resources, oil on the skidway, practice of understanding the integrity of the net: all stutters in the misfire. practicing stupid headers, tailored footers, lack of text, ouch. sum of something that Nayland-Smith will fight for. against his nature, his Ezra Pound sentence structure poop. common and ground up. now cackling, Dr Fu Manchu, knowing of the minion status of Sir Denis. he will implement my desires, the doctor asseverated to no one with steely something that really bit. he sips tea and thinks, desire is a nice thing. implemented desire, that is, he added, emphasized. the crown jewel of the world is the world, he busily further thought. a sip, a satisfaction. mmm Earl Greystoke, he muttered, sniffing his cup. presently Lady Greystoke, nee Jane, quickly turns to civilization. civilization got us into this mess, it'll get us out, she said to a friendly giraffe she knew. the giraffe nodded impressively then went off seeking tall things. Jane switched from her usual and politically daring loin cloth to her finest tweed suit. she buckled up her sensible shoes and strode massively, like England, to the first exiting plane to London. ach, with action like this, dear Reader, you must be crucially inspired! momently Captain Element sits on moon rocks pondering the big blue marble. a key element exists in all matters, that central point, that core of pity and distinction that allows the perplexity to abate. a few more soothesome moments pass then he fires up his jetpack and heads back to the crowd called fighting. the odds of everything at odds was high. he and the Aggregate of Justice would be sorely tested. now Dr Petrie flashes his electric torch into darkness. as he does so, an inveterate universe goes solar heat beyond imagining. this causes the filament to glow. this glow illuminates the closet into which the electric torch aims. Dr Petrie sees his prey. fearlessly he reaches in and fetches out his good sturdy boots, for 'tis to the moors, the moors, there is where the next step must occur!!! Tarzan tired in a tree sleeps careless while Cheetah sits hunched guarding and a well-connected boa keeps eye out too. Tarzan pooped from exertions, Tarzan sleep.
Part One of the Story Begins, part 1
Captain Element became suddenly perplexed. a night of steel, fortified with longing, stretched across a natural space between loud weary commercial, yikes. this television shit buggers all, thought Captain Element. launching into a mode of inquiry that serves to add a justifiable nurturing to other plans for the world, Captain Element bounces off, mindful of needful, as shouldn't we all. meanwhile, Dr Fu Manchu, rascally capture, chortles in high gear. the suture of his famous drug has compelled Sir Denis-Nayland Smith into an irregardlessness. this could be trouble, Great Britain would say, if Great Britain could say, or even know. in the secret den of iniquity where Dr Fu Manchu (a degree in dentistry from some bellicose Asian school hangs on the wall of his lair) keeps his captives, much amusement. minions all astir, as if they just watched the Republic National Convention and still knew what sanity was when it left. meanwhile, Dr Petrie, in his own charming, bumbling, English way, has decided something is wrong. meanwhile, Jane wakes Tarzan with an eerie feeling. I sense troubled, she murmured over the jungle racket. trouble Tarzan middle name. also Howard, said the jungle man, haha. no time for levity, Tarzan, the world at large and the forces of good who serve it, need your assistance. Tarzan all serious, says: Tarzan down with assistance. the ape man rises from his hammock with destiny in his eyes. no, that's the full moon glowing like it does once a month or so, to what purpose no one knows. Tarzan get to work, said he, intuitively knowing that he spoke no infinitive. I'll bake cookies, said Jane. meanwhile, Captain Element flies thru the air. his jet pack carries him towards trouble and the possible rectification thereof. he's in his element with such ventures. meanwhile, Dr Petrie grabs an electric torch, always handy in a pinch, and a revolver. little universes are placed in chambers in the revolver. at times of puncture or inquest, a trigger is pulled, a hammer lurches violently, striking a little universe, and a big bang occurs. that too could be handy. meanwhile, Fu Manchu sends Nayland-Smith out into the world. Fu Manchu has applied arcane drugs and wicked knowledge to inveigle decency from Sir Denis. to wit: Sir Denis is now a bad acorn. go forth and do my bidding, said the doctor cheerfully. but will this action not be too late?
Excitingly Present Part One, par 2
does the reader know what meanwhile means? well, elegiac symptoms in the night, that's what got Jane. now, with fresh cookies a-baked, she can pondering. the diadem of morning—okay, it's just the sun—fletches the trees with a song of spring. day is for action, and Jane's movie has taken a turn. I shall!, and that's plenty enough to say. come, Cheetah, we must assert ourselves in the name of if not justice then something even better. Cheetah backflips agreement, and they off go. presently, or if meanwhile, Sir Denis Nayland-Smith with eyes a-bead scouts the world view that has entangled him. the empire is any sort of group of catchphrases, he realizes, under Fu Manchu spell. and he can mess with, something, being as his eminence is read about. you know, meets with royals on a daily basis, smokes a pipe, stands tall. he can enter the ring of intrigue with deft step, the dark side, totally darthed out. a cunning plan by the insidious one, heartbreaking like a republican neuron. our Sir Denis, trailing into bad... in a rough concurrent, Captain Element engages in the first trope. he sees the hordes as bad. they were there with Marx, sure, told stories of apocalyptic grounding, and oh glory if we could just ascend. ascension, which is like a birthday, is a way to crow. Captain Element sees this impact sun, and starts a gamble. his goodness, philosophically self-evident, registers in acts and action. those are twain yet go together well, like Michelle and ma belle (très bien ensemble). ah, humming a moody tune whilst the very rich hours pass, scudding with jet pack alacrity to a junction of good and evil, somewheres about. very intent, Captain Element, a good part of the equation. in coeval time, Tarzan has astonishingly navigated thru the vines of his special jungle. chattering monkeys and wild looking birds and the occasional elephant with decibels a-booming have informed Tarzan of bad tidings like full moon nut. the case is this: the can of political anchovies of a bad sort has been opened. no shit, the murk is situational. can the preyed upon pray? there's the best of Tarzan, racing to help, yet with a philosophic wit. some bad types sink into quicksand, the engulfing volume of narcoleptic enjoinment. collected like a drag, that is, in the same sort of stew that crazed out Lovecraft. that is, no criminal except in normal racist speech and general rant, Lovecraft cankered in the death and dull images, respendent depth to deeper depth probe. gosh! well, we depend on Tarzan, put it like that, and we're good. good's inherently good. and at about the same time, Dr Fu Manchu, the nervy dentist, knows how to get to you. or me, even as I type. or anywhere and one, with the smell of fear. that's his prognosis, participation and general way to go. we accept that nasty side, so we can drolly speak our better. okay, so Hitler was one canker and Stalin went rather poorly. and that pal Pol Pot. we can name more names but the point is, here's Fu Manchu, very from the dark important hellishness, and he gives us little chance to breathe. what if England fails as England? and that tyke of England, USA, the commander of different sorts of future completions. all this is politics as a smooth smothering and incomparable messiness. just like we planned. everyone take bow. simultaneously or at least subjectively so, Dr Petrie, um, drinking tea, um, maybe a sup of port later, um, fireplace, comfy chair, um, oh yes a little stilton would be very nice, newspaper, um, wife, um, later, yes, later...
The Further Adventures of Nothing at All
abject thunder mixed with cruel warnings spell Fu Manchu in green underpants. this is dismal, saith Fu Manchu. the green is less than green of eyes, or the speed with which lightning dots out eyes. green underpants for the sinister scowling pumping machine in evil's quest. yet minions abroad allow for no restitution or calm change. well this must be dealt with, said Fu Manchu implacably, dilating on the terms of expecting a world at his feet. what artist could he be in the end, trying to outlast green underpants? suddenly the door flies open. Nayland-Smith and Petrie, guns in one hand (for both of them) and electric torches in the other (likewise both). we have found you in your lair, said Nayland-Smith, with steelly grey eyes determined to see the thing thru. you see my green underpants! shrieked Fu Manchu, as would you. keep a bead on him, Petrie, said Nayland-Smith grandly. and so the thunder and lightning crackled and thumped in the newsy air. fraught moment lingered... lingered... lingered... (wait for it)... lingered... trial balloons associated with progress, Bill Gates (self-taught evil) gtalks to mountains, Nordic skies on a snowy lump of earth inexorable days pass, exorable ones pass, winter turns to spring, spring exacts blossoms, blossoms make apples... now wait a second, said Fu Manchu (the enchanter of evil), apples as green as underpants (it makes him think)... tempus fugit, all by itself... this is England and civilization to save, barked Nayland-Smith, “Mrs Brown you've got a lovely daughter”, hummed Petrie with skittish delight. tall like a piece of ice, the diabolical doctor shivers. his green underpants are a warren of self-doubt. can the world be, um, conquered? he wonders in his weakness. rains lasts until it stops. dank London implementation of climatic conditions clutter the spellbound. I still have a bead on him, sputters Petrie. Nayland-Smith fumbles for his pipe. there's dottle in the bowl, which he expertly removes. dottle, pah! says Nayland-Smith. Dr Fu Manchu considers the chemical possibilities of dottle mixed with alchemical wonders, with evil as an antidote to the current situation. dire wind sounds the same old day. and when the day is done, more news, more wet news...
Re: The Further Adventures of Nothing at All
Halvard Johnson wrote: Bride of the Further Adventures of Nothing at All yes yes, continued son of the further bride of the incredible adventures, etc. it's actually a good idea, thanks, I'll use it.
century mark
yesterday was a green, temporal union, as I told Beth yesterday. the green is great, with the wings of anything in mind, but the days have closed to a certainty, a long winter of saying it's a long winter all right. but those are daze to slip under the breath of staying in tune. this nation of green beginning always always with the firm vocabulary of giving away. winter folds all present names into a stilling goodbye. we wish otherwise and let things stray. yet waiting in the love, the light, the very word, and how green can we organize? stinging basements of trying to lodge a homestead, curling wings of perplexed clouds, undulant waking day, and all, all, then I write a note to myself. I say, me and Beth live in this day, yesterday, and we have a piece of tomorrow too. green is a king and queen diamond setting. we have a child around and about, who we tell the clock to, because we cannot but. but that's not present or named, that's the ocean feeling poor. why poor? because its clock stays regularly owned, because we can only know time, not the lack of it. so what installs our best hope but to try a light year thru the ether. ether's great, we love its wholesome expanse. we'll stand in our nation, present stupid democrats to stupid republicans, then, wholly inspired, write our names in glue. glue really holds the words and pictures like a standing order for more beer, coffee and cold water. will we reach a poem of cool horizon? of course we will, and we are light. dodgy green is the inkling of diminishing season. our wills, uniting, stand out in our motion toward winter and that gaping. we married on the solstice, which is the best augmenting factor. we follow the lines.
an earful of written words
a poem pursued three separate interference factors which decisioned in public gusts surnamed Wow Wallpaper or Shifty Trees with the thrill of disease bundled into popular upthrust market pamper why do we accept the banging sound of the bolt upright dog-eyed old time explanatory word units plucked from other places where words and the season spit sentence factor on reading factor until perfect interference makes same day as net worth? you pose the poem and the people fill the throng this poem is part of that poem eddies stop for nothing
Re: language thorax
Halvard Johnson wrote: 22 mule team thorax language Borax No virus found in this incoming message. Checked by AVG Free Edition. Version: 7.1.409 / Virus Database: 268.13.23/513 - Release Date: 11/2/2006
inability pager
it's a beautiful world, your friend is dying. absolute leaves from the ghost of trees blast off to the wind choice. now and then, running around in rain, you stop for cinders. it's a beauty to the world, dead as your friend. then you reach all those poles that measure here and there. you climb steep something, to the very top or not. the wind is just an extra thing, a dilation practiced for close occasion. separation to the mountaintop, and the running sentence says the same as when, warmer, all was right. the beautiful world encodes, with vigour chiming on the delicate avalanche. it's winter here forever, but down we go to autumn. your friend, the ride of a lifetime. stop to drink the water that you brought. stop to breathe an opening. stop with one road but open up two. the day creeps into outward memory, of your friend, or your friend's friend, or mountains, wind, grey, lowering, cloud or rain.
umpteenth degrade
nobody dreams outward, they rely on this picture: a rigid tree forced to stall. this is sensibly structured for stopping, in a breath, while the rain extends. a sentence bubbles within this dire crucible called latent television, and we sing of joyous dishsoap. bending the rules complies with recent discoveries in Paul Newman's skull. quietly we obey the list of vocabulary words that have been most useful in circumstance, the corollary being to eschew those words that start nowhere. here is where we can engage: pizza-coloured dormers of varied houses set upon by dreamy-eyed feeders of Paris Hilton, yet a close reading incurs the slight differential of brainchild: we wet our bed. a wet bed—was it Royal Crown cola or coffee-infused brandy?—contributes dormancy. sleep on it, then write your way out of a wet silo. to benefit from noise you have to stop hearing. examine your references then try again.
don't you see yon bonnie bonnie road?
mom dead reckoning. now react, closing in, on the strength of just staying on the last word until its next companion reveals the next again. how far does poetry mean when the beginning switches courses every second, echoing ring of chiming bells across the believable countryside, and the audience claps. that scrum fits more revolution than just last fading note. sung what when this was all that remains. begin to assert the practical day of which night looms starting. and after that night of nights the day institutes the ghost. mom said something in the year of something something. and then the rattle here became so apparent. actual invasion includes the definite ways of often creeping army made trump. divide the mandolin into clearing every note, that's the mom the ghost, which is a chord. pace of something fitting what remains on course loss of all: figure the sentence.
Re: stump gap
Halvard Johnson wrote: stump gas ah yes, the elections Hal How strange we are, to call what happens anything at all. --Robert Kelly Halvard Johnson [EMAIL PROTECTED] [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://home.earthlink.net/~halvard http://entropyandme.blogspot.com http://imageswithoutwords.blogspot.com http://www.hamiltonstone.org
every situation today is later than ever
tomorrow began on terms of inquiry. the date included when and where the villains lived. they ranged about a perplexing plain, and knew our bolts of poetry. they rumbled on the horizon, telling us of give and take. take was most masterful, in their eyes. so much in their eyes, indeed, that give gave way. trading passion for forest was one way to ignore the tatters. rain fell. we stood up. the villains in name grew heavy with their congregation. exactitude was a blurry map. they tried to entail even the least. it works when you fire up the candidate, and forget about Nepal. Nepal of the serrated flag, atop the highest nowhere. we rush to the scene, in the instant of unrest. we seize. we send envoys, and the envoys send envoys. polo without horses! the nuclear government wants pity. troops at the border. harrumph, dicated to the masses. the masses now attend church, quiet and contained. their unrest becomes a pew. desert sands sparkle with smell. intent goes awry, winging thru the testimony. a few people admired their facts. suddenly, in game shape, with a Superdome of our own, all lean towards some convenience. again. yet Nepal is Tibet, right? Cuba's Philippines and Iraq's Iran, albeit the flavour say Vietnam. that's all packaged money, of course, waiting for clearance. actual poetry stops at the top of the mountain, then lets one more step. function falls into that much morass, moraine, fleeting loess in the wind... all that was tomorrow, which will be here today.
PATENT PENDING
An electronic poetics has a sexual innuendo and has a poetry-sensitive rhyme scheme surrounding the sexual innuendo. Areas on the rhyme scheme are designated for controls used to operate the electronic poetics. Visual guides corresponding to the controls are sexual innuendoed on the sexual innuendo adjacent the areas of the rhyme scheme designated for the controls. poetry data is generated by the rhyme scheme when a user poetries an area of the rhyme scheme. The poetics determines which of the controls has been selected based on which designated area is associated with the poetry data from the rhyme scheme. The poetics then initiates the determined control. The poetics can have a sensor for determining the orientation of the poetics. Based on the orientation, the poetics can alter the areas designated on the rhyme scheme for the controls and can alter the location of the visual guides for the sexual innuendo so that they match the altered areas on the rhyme scheme.
obviously tree finicky
clerical tree in the garden, spoke of love. love stepped onto topic table, where bear, the informer, paused. pause is the entire world as if. clerical tree as a garden item while we together manage sentiment of numerals. exacting bear on the edge, informant, closes a door and alerts “authorities”. the rhyme scheme was robbing. then bear, now bear, with certain restrictions. death doesn't love, exactly, but it has a big hand. bigger hand of love, and give love a hand, then love sees a bear. it climbs clerical tree. it is name of something today, and will be tomorrow. thus love, as much as we can stare at it. furthermore pangs, as if saying something over the noise comes to fruition. well, maybe, because clerical tree drops gorgeous leaves of gold, to moulder impiously in the situation of earth. and as so much, then forward into the love new year. year is only simple taxation, when words border. still and freely, you hear the testament. clerical tree accepts actual bear, full component. then forward, while language still assists. this assistance consists of way back then far ahead. a lot of the time they wait and nothing more, but sometimes they jump up and include their down. down, think of how heavy it needs to be. then light, it could be two things. then bear, this is something of which we need strong argument. the bear seems so wild. are we wild too? an answer could settle that. love hangs in balance, then. oh doorway full of authorities.
His Mom Spit... As A Child
in Communist Russia you find the grandiose piano playing that pervades the formerly mentioned anti-gravity fantasy, I just wants to have the courage to face the camera with dad oppressor-father will stop his oppressive behavior only after he is dead dad space in my heart as a kid I don t know what the hell you are, so just stop it, cried the man who dresses like these dumbass teeny-bopper fans, what happens if dad's at work on a lyrical book called The Judgements ? “I’m too tired, Dad. Leave me alone,” he said, getting up off the couch Hey, dad, can I go into my picture and play? little does the dad realize that two little eyes follow him down the dark where he spent the rest of his life producing surreal main characters of Magical Girl, Hey Dad, I dug another hole! my Dad would lean back at Ghost Dad Space and sing his solo part peppering the dope music, my dad does the scariest pop-bottoms! my dad never got to explore space in his lifetime, my dad played guitar forever
Chinese Rest Across Street
the phone book is a terriffic feature, double hand basins and long bath, the telephone is a patient's first impression, forward all calls and then walk out the door, we have an opening for a new patient tomorrow -- how tongue-twistingly terriffic! the view is terriffic and a house is comfortable, the telephone is excellent, Rosanne came back several times to see interactive tv - tea kettle - modem - car park, here's a great tip - get a copy of David Powers' terriffic book, extensive lunch, bathrobe, bathtub with spray jets, separate tub and shower, the Chinese restaurant is a hair dryer, hotel management is Russian, rooms come with air condition, mini bar, in room safety box facsimile, car rental, hair dryer on request, baby cots on request, parking facilities, valet parking, iron/ironing board in rooms, microwave oven in rooms, fitness center, free local telephone calls, international phone service (with charge), satellite television and tea, complimentary airport shuttle, indoor pool, spa sauna, and 1 KING -SMOKING HAIRDRYER-enhanced american buffet
Our Trip to Clinton, Massachusetts
please, we went in duo, shaded aptly, with guards of uttering green ceding to yellow, red, orange and aplomb. distance sapped a mention of memory from disparate landmarks, and we could only stay with the breast of sun in its slanting difference. what else would we do with the fullness of our directive? does love need a case to be made? like a leaf falling into plain water, we have the map to ourselves. our drift is perfect, less a crowd than a way to go to the shape of intent. we found a thing or two, and stay in the finding. we could not know more with each association of mile, dusting throughly thru the tendency to stay as we do. we have this intent position, curled into a warming cycle, while the earth itself reacts with mazes. the stars tell whistling stories when we wake for them, and gibbous moon is a boon of the passways. dream remains a lark that crowds morning with a form of delight. was it ever 1968 or other fabled dots? who can tell? music doesn't end, it curves. this curve initializes the place of standing, wet for a tear or two, and for examined thirst as well. we know that water mounts to nothing, water never mounts. we wait in fast colours, and go as fast as they do. trees delight us because they live each clock and then go around the bending as easily as snow in the offing. we saw the interstate as managed and combustible, thus we took its horse for a chancy stay. we noted little roads that striped the map with day after day. when we are two, the years are interested in declaring fault. when we are distances, the work endures. these forces combine into roads with the gorgeous emblem of trees to match our mood. when we are colours, light sends a bonus to the hills just for us. we can't nationalize Thailand anymore, try as we might, on this road or any other. we can't stray for the flowers that fall from the hills. we can't wait for the merger of industry with heart. we have a day in an autumn sun, distinct with purchase yet not bent by the claiming. do we see speed as affordable or just the vaguest point in the landscape? never to be controlled by that bossed function of separation, we stay with the fact that colour is a laden dainty, a crumb of loving wisdom for the spreading instant that we share.
Re: antic few
aw crap, done it again, sent to wrong address. say, why not read the whole megilla? www.anticview.blogspot.com iMac wrote: yeah, my poems are done. done LIKE dog ~ Jooh edit crab On 29-Sep-06, at 5:53 PM, Allen Bramhall wrote: AHB: Maybe the poem is dead, and Poetry is thinking up another guise for its exhaustive antics. Your questions all seem bundled around whether or not the poem is participating with us readers, or if it has finished and moved on. Looking at some middle of the road poetic claptrap today, I won't bother to name the perps, and the form of so many of these poems, even the ones I enjoyed or respected, seemed plain idone/i. poetry, however, goes on. the problem with those MOR poetry volumes is an attenuation of force (not a bang, a whimper). we've heard poems such as these, seemingly can't avoid them. it would be nice to call them bad poems, but that's not enough, nor is it accurate. many are crummy exercises, but not all are. the poems bother me with their complacency. these poems survive because they are familiar, obeying the strictures. the grammar, as you say, is completed. I don't mean my stance to sound so snotty, but I think there's a genre of comfortable poems. those are poems that are content in their restrictions. Poetry, on the other hand, is the vast question mark addressed to language. Poetry trumps poem every time. a poem is a microcosmic possibility, a point on the map. I don't know if I am answering any of your questions. I see in them a sense of poetry as a process of agitation. a general ennui signals that the grammar has been completed. the US Poet Laureates have, in recent years (not that I've paid much attention to these lofty figures of Parnassus), been big on developing ways to trick people into liking poetry. they may convince some few to like certain poems, but poetry requires an inspired dedication. homages are the last hint of the freshening wave.
morning announcement and sky poem
it was that silvery streak at first. familiar to the earthly gods as exhaust from a jet engine. that's the dynamo that obtains force by means of exaggerated words, and with this force shrinks earth to habitable size. it's a wonder and great. that streak, then, vested with the light from the direct sun, glows silver, tho its nature really speaks of water, steam and ice: /that/ alchemy. the glow is particular, tho not rare. where this aeronautical express and the sun relate influences the nature of that glow. a brief time, then the silver goes white and seems less featured. still, that flight and conveyance occurs high, more than 17 feet high, more than 191 feet above me, even more than 1304.78 meters away from earth itself and all the vertical pronouns ever imagined. gosh, when we fall, we take forever. the clouds grab at us, the birds flap for us, the jet engine screams a bloody lament (with textures of great big noise, like you could change information). and then we too become brilliantly, fit for sky and earth. it is crazy just holding that stillness, as clouds inflate to vested interest and perhaps a war means news again. surely, nothing can be more risky than ending all planes. we'd have to bear the light ourselves, with clouds our only friends. we can't do that, can we?
free jessica simpson poem
Jessica Simpson don't know that you could say that the word full was appropriateness. Simpson ate. Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson end of Jessica Simpson steined to all the Jessica Simpson informativeness. Simpson on that was Jessica Simpson label. When Jessica Simpson was Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson here yesterday, Jessica Simpson know a couple people. Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson mated that. Jessica Simpson knew a lot more than Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson. That wasn't really true. Jessica Simpson had been on the Jessica Simpson led for three hours per Jessica Simpson or to Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson here... Jessica Simpson wasn't really Jessica. Simpson not know Jessica Simpson too much except for the hearsay that was go. Jessica Simpson on. Jessica Simpson hadn't seen the player and Jessica Simpson don't even know she was here. Jessica Simpson all of the Jessica Simpsons was go. Jessica Simpson on. Jessica Simpson don't know. Maybe the Jessica Simpson don't want to wake me up... Jessica Simpson was sleep. Jessica Simpson when all the Jessica Simpsons happened. You know Jessica Simpson go to bed as early as Jessica Simpson can. So Jessica Simpson wasn't Jessica Simpson informed. Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson don't know Jessica Simpson. Jessica Simpson got Jessica Simpson on the bus. Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson in the morn. Jessica Simpson had probably been here 45. Jessica Simpson nuts or an hour before anybody. Jessica Simpson toned Jessica Simpson. The Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson on now. Jessica Simpson is that Jessica Simpson. have to rely on other people to keep me Jessica Simpson. informed as to really what's going on Jessica Simpson. Jessica Simpson can't form my own Jessica Simpson independent. Jessica Simpson Jessica Simpson, other than those Jessica Simpsons. neoclassical Simpsons hand Jessica Simpson tonal and does he look? Jessica Simpson eke, she can play on Sunday. Jessica Simpson of my med. Jessica Simpson calls people to tell me those Jessica Simpson negatives are Jessica Simpson in place and then he looks Jessica Simpson. he's prepared, then we'll make that con Jessica Simpson. dessicate Simpson on that Jessica Simpson or me. All Jessica Simpson had was a Jessica Simpson conversationalist. Simpson on Jessica Simpsons morn. A good morn Jessica Simpson type of Jessica Simpson, and that's all. Jessica Simpson haven't had the opportunistically Simpson sty to do Jessica Simpson yet. Jessica Simpson know that subject were to come up. someone would approach me. Jessica Simpson wouldn't know where to go. .. Jessica Simpson have to rely on the doctors that apparently evaluated Jessica Simpson. she was Jessica Simpson.
hey
the sun wants you to give up. the sun has this thing, go on roof for a moment to gleam some morning. also the sun tops trees for this spectacle, again for a moment. what do you do, then? lay down on a pronoun, perhaps. the sun needs more room than do you. that's a simple point to understand. look at the sun: it's all fiery and real. you stand on things and wait. the sun does all the work. you provide no trees or rivers, don't even mention oceans. you only eat fish, and cows, and carrots, and things. your kind of poem lets things stay there, slightly. the sun gets puffy and hot and takes eons, eons you can't even believe in. substitute yellow for your ideas, the sun still wins. you struggle because you can't be green, and winter's greyness forces you to populate the world. have you ever heard of sarcasm? because the sun really does love you. next time you meet a stray mountaintop, and go all yellow pinkish purplish blue, let the sun know. or hop to treetops with this morning energy. or press across western expanse with this dizzying array of natural spectrum. do these things, and even meanwhile heat up planets and all local wonderment. try it just once, do it, then you win the job.
the Windmills of Flava Flav
he the torment, when in even vast beech tree remembered state of dying. state of loss in state of loss. a leftover practice endures with such tantalizing contest of means. profound state of wind in old beech, the arctic continuing as leaves shed and nuts fall precisely because Flava Flav he such a joker. they didn't fully catch it all at once, tho they knew serious is no joke, but neither is joke. only so many hosta leaves, and a language continuing from one television to another. each television provides space. space is an infinite frontier in which William Shatner grows fat. not always benign, not always there. space is exceptional and tells you lots. Flava Flav's time is as large as a truck with green lights. green lights begin with green. a truck, itself, is only so large when hauling dirt to a new location. the beech doesn't want to be green right now. the wind that Flava Flav sets running interrogates William Shatner at the appropriate time. we'll gaze longingly. the cool of autumn has been instituted, in which our guesswork tries to clear up the assonance of facts. he that died, well, it looks close to impossible. sometimes the impossible works out well. sometimes never there, ever. only in passing, only something that keenly petitions, and lets hosta grow old. children grow old, but they strike a pose to remember. Flava Flav he heralds a posse from the instinct of tang. tang being what the air reminds the living, except sometimes the house grows smallest. remember all the differences, said Flava Flav to William Shatner. crazy Howard Lovecraft divides the planet into theirs and ours. that is, his and theirs. hours aren't allowed. there's more to Flava Flav than a trick that stayed old. there's more to William Shatner than beckoning that plain spoken Paris Hilton time. there's more to Paris Hilton than just stuff over there, tho how can anything be exhausted so specifically? why does death seem like a part time job? does the last piano on earth know what it has? the story ends from one beginning when graduated flappy wing creatures from out Pluto way blessedly greet Lovecraft, amidst a floating pattern of autumnal leaves, and say, dream honestly you dumb racist fuck.
That Blonde on Friends Remains
beginning with the first tree and every succeeding one, until possibly any tree will associate with the life of one person, to be named or not. the upside starts to reverse. the blonde actress on Friends decides on a different way of doing things. Flava Flav does other things too. the standard tree with wide beech embrace seems perfect today, yet tomorrow it might lose something. we knew a man, said William Shatner and the blonde from Friends together. why is the blonde from Friends blonde? where might her name go if we aren't ready for it? Flava Flav, haha, he stays around. disputes exaggerate the present, seem fine in the past, look deadly in the future. the future isn't exactly the tree involved in today's picture, tho we would love to own all that the tree considers. ownership is how we get along. we say we love inside, and own that too. when he left, however, it seemed more than the expectation of dying to go. it seems that leaves are a tradition in trees, mostly. and the cold snap hunts us down, but only partially. and the door, it has misgivings. still, a loud laugh, which rocks every family member, as if children can even begin, or adults of certain age can have an end. the crew of the starship Enterprise invite the blonde from Friends into the tube of space, serving her a new name, which can go unmapped if so. Flava Flav comically denies his own name, the better to ring out. Shatner, of course, goes into the corners of where we didn't know existed until suddenly. and when the man left, it was for good, but good it was not. tho not good can be great, or great can be so large as to extend green into space. yet that space remains darkly insecure, because the man was thought to return. does this matter after all or only before? Lovecraft does his own share of controlling interest. he doesn't like Whitman—this is documented—you see, and Pound/Eliot allegiance is for the birds, those bitter birds with rending. read the paper full of news, regarding newsworthy in alphabetical order, allowing that alphabets lack framework beyond the smoke of the tree's used branches. leaves fall and can burn. beech nuts fail to impress, a broom can sweep them from the driveway. and it doesn't seem like the right language, right? to reduce Flava Flav to death, and William Shatner to another brisk walk before really going, and Paris Hilton as too much tomorrow for one day. and finally fatal Lovecraft, daffy sometimes, if houses are not ready to tumble, and the eking of earth life in bowels of unmentionable depth must go on. his stopgaps improve Respighi no way, yet allow for a chance to operate in a Weird Tales diorama, associating horror, grue and ¼ cent per word. and mating with probably. circulate along these lines of sighing for the honest dross of losing. like that impenetrable room with keening to witness, and only a tree outside as big as telling more. more becomes anything exceptional after language goes. whatever, then, remains signs on as terrific and you can. you really can, tho hardly seems so now. the various welcomes emit their universes in positive charge. light submits its bill. the room feels small again.
Icon-Turned-Reality
I will try once more without a tree in sight. moments of ghastly shapes, timed to produce the most noisome of places to stand, reek of utter Lovecraftian, until dinner time or ready for bed. that's Lovecraft all right, blue go black. The Yardbirds begin to step up their amps, pound a little harder. the blue changes and falls without more than a tempest for the kids. the kids must go on. Shatner had a history thru out the future he softened. it comes to this: we are stoned from the beginning. Flava Flav gets onto the smoke, and Abbie Hoffman tries some too. and Whitney Houston, she lost into in exile. she dusted off the pronouncement that the entertainment biz is evil incarnate, like those flying crabs in Lovecraft's yore. thus Brian Jones dies, history of turbidity. and no mention of trees. part 2, still no mention of trees. the drummer for Traffic died, the drummer for Coltrane died, the drummer for Led Zep died, the drummer for Benny Goodman died, the drummer for the Who died. imbibe the history so far as it matters. without trees, of course. part 3, and the tree cannot be produced. its smoke, determined by a basic elemental practice, sheds nothing new. and the one who left? studious haze of Paris Hilton's matchless eyes. and an angel or two to hover the family frame, yet when the magazine falls away, even Paris Hilton brightly, someone with a name must remain, if only for the kids such is the sake of elegies.
the Tears of Hannity and Colmes
and we just couldn't figure out, said Flava Flav, the god. we fought for the colouring of leaves into this feeling, the definite and chemical process as a signifier, to find some way in or out. thus the god declared. and Paris Hilton, the ancient goddess and now singing sensation, roots and branches still making the tree, said of the beautiful light thru still green and red and yellowing, it twinges me to go on, when the man that left stayed gone. furthermore could be collected but patient Reader must understand all this as clear and rain, even if language limits reason. the gods and goddesses are naked as handkerchiefs, and they often live next to bug-zappers, in the quiet part of everything, drinking juice drinks of almost 10% real juice, and soap is their dessert. moths gather at participles, meanwhile, maybe to prove something. death can be taxing in its way. certified brain-damaged beechnuts might install tall gallant trees into a nested future day for which that family might have lingered. or the dog, peeing on a peculiarly assertive hydrant, demands a place wherewithal thereto. all of which is indicated by phrases and such. so the god Flava Flav, he lift he sunglasses and yay bo, that clock round his neck is definite in all. and the cocaine buzz of Paris Hilton, buying time, the Well of Something Something that we might all worship thru the ages, or at least until. and it isn't really all of Lovecraft that dies, just the stodgy plectrum that wouldn't. it would be weird to pass judgment on every rattled error on his docket or each our own. time clenches like a hart attack, tho it won't always tell stories. strangely now, the god William Shatner is fully at peace.
Re: cicadia song Re: Bastion Flex, Starring Flava Flav, Sly Stallone, and Most Particularly H. P. Lovecraft
[EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote: In a message dated 9/16/06 12:43:38 PM, [EMAIL PROTECTED] writes: he striking word maintained its shape: cicada. this collectible word wrapped around the vision of an insect selected by Lovecraft to overcome the parental, pre-boiled world, stop closing out voice, and cicadia song, unless i am wrong... cicadia never stings, he sings. tho my hair is red, my delusions spread... no bread, no butter, u sputter... cum and sea, together we mix glee, all for free? of course, with u in my chorus ur call urself lester... what allusions do ur fester? apparently it is both: http://cicadamania.com/cicadas/ http://www.pbase.com/applebloom/image/29749512
Re: Bastion Flex, Starring Flava Flav, Sly Stallone, and Most Particularly H. P. Lovecraft
phanero wrote: This is a curious piece Allen, and reminds me of the odd aesthetic inversions of Roussel's plays. For example the 'why' of selecting Alfred Magdalou's 'ouvre sans pretensions' for its having been written on a picnic menu with an experimental pigment. and then to snuggle that kind of thing up to Lovecraft's finicky-ness which is arguably illustrated by his love of Irvin S. Cobb's Fishhead. So I guess I'm reading the piece as a kind of hologram of its own 'programme' or some such thoough i didnt intend to, and am certainly off its soundtrack. finicky was the velvet monkeywrench in this case. i'll refrain from my flava flav story. if you have a Flava Flav story, I'd love to hear it. I pretty much only know that he has an alarm clock hanging from his neck. and I wasn't exactly emulating you, but I sensed that I was following strategies similar to your own (pardon whatever misreading that indicates, I mean it respectfully). I've been reading Lovecraft, including a ratty bio by L Sprague deCamp, amazed that HPL passed thru the town I grew up in, that there's mention of his taking the same train that I take to Cambridge, and so forth. I wrote it with wtf in mind, and expect readers to read it so.
he didn't want to leave
it must be admitted that the living room is smaller than the mountaintop. the view is of a tree or something so close. snow loses eagerness at this warm level and season, so nothing shrouds that taste of beginning, even when it ends. the room feels lost in murmurs, people sound their grief. grief seems so farfetched. it vacates unexpectedly, then isolates, then joins, then provides other images in the gloaming. a tide of green sea glides into the memory of standing somewhere. a warm protection under a vast beech tree secures a finality, when finality arrives. too much information, except then a love occurs that can't find a single word, out of all the collected sizes in array. but slip back to the mountaintop, as decorative as poetry, that peculiarly near mountaintop with sopping clouds assuming instinct in stunningly low altitude beneath the feet that climbed high. the big nowhere confronts the turgid gulf. not a simple task can remain. the expedition now feels a deference towards getting down to the valley. the valley could prop one up, so far away yet once a home of sorts. now back to the living room, where voices clutch but isn't that a sentence? sentences realize moments in lists needed to be read. trouble crosses the room, but it drops tears worth love. and love stands worth astounding. love? can that be a word in all its vitality, or just a fantastic slogan, or even a seagull in some mysterious flight? read the lines that stretch between us, if this passing acquaintance remains undaunted. more than ever love strays into the abode that language allows. struggle on, struggle on... he didn't want to leave.
Autbahn zu Holle is Greek for Participation
chaste mountaintop is all the rage. inklings remain free in sudden direction towards the gulf between air and life. the Selective Service (your friend) proceeds into snow as deep as trendy restaurants. no one asks for rhymes in this cold, and the respect of dying out loud seems paler even than the dream of snow. are we resistant to change? I could ask that, thinking other veterans want a place to sit, before tragic chasms seem too perfect. Selective Service is a trust of people with dun-coloured papers to be signed, thru ages on slopes when time doesn't include all numbers. we remember exactly the numbers we could have, were the warmth of the valley publicly traded. no question fails the patience of Iran poised as Iraq. aren't Tibet and Nepal just pale imitations of each 0ther? dictation of starchy emblems to be worn on uniform Selective Service documentation isolates endeavours into corrals called mountaintops. it all cries for deference in the sound. looking a little chubby, each of us realizes in the breadth of our entry to proximate need. the wind sound, then, hovers on a charge trusted for years. if we could just... but then, what mapping wakes me now, as I stand alone on this top moment? a whine as red as trusting the soul for food. I think I had a day there, before the cold became more than ignorance of utter cranes in marshy night skies. a victim of vacation timeshares ran up to me, lodging complaint into my direct tv. as I rolled down the surface of what I understood as grace for a period,t remendous cold seemed liked the novel approach that I needed. I awaited a director to include freshets spelled like tea. I would drink the warm potion, fit caffeine into my system, and refine what I could refine. this strict district needs a run of luck. then: I reeled with messages from family members lost in their traits. I suppose this is just practice. then: I understood the passing of time into friends. I am glad that I am the love of the living. then: I examined an irregular heartbeat, not mine but familiar in the proceeds. after the trust of discussion, I came to the village for sure. my charge came with me. I thought of Yeti in a crimson loaner, while the dismay of mechanics involved a garage tempered in task management, and the old buggy gets aspirated. I will see Yeti yet, I vowed, pleased to see words in light. the invention of 4000 foot chasms seems excessive.
extreme Finnish button
joist-Carolinian salvations run overjoyed depositary in Wilhelmina making flarfing subteen -- Shannen in Arkansas googles college tech on ruined techno zeppelin with erysipelas, jokingly telescoping zeppelin sanity with system algorithm, muttering awakened devastations that gel Connie Selleca adjacent to Casanova's jar, entitled never to accost the burgher master controlling pasta, tied-dyed honker honkie pits posse to kin voiding thermoplastic jar banana pastiche timed matter relevance inheriting stark frailties and Peruvian oh wow, cute Dan (eidetic poetics eluding), onward! Joan Jett Googles Valentines, sends a sentiment sighing omigawd!!! gem of twittering technolgies atones!!! on sister's rocking tidy corporate logic. Hastiness smites satellite -- Bollixing Baseball chivvies chromium, enjoys dinette purity pasta (see Binary retsina sorrow mojo jar pyre with neat favoritism), sheik pyre meme thinks valance cummerbund is tortoise's title tourney; see how they evaluate Massasoit volunteers, jackpot ovate Ptolemaic task assaying task vigilante: We need beauty that does not first extricate itself from life as “art”, where beauty is easy (and therefore no such thing), but engages in the struggle of turning natural language into artifice, strophe by difficult strophe. Cast on congealed and quietening American sense, and writing jokes, belittle taste, smitten by skeins of Rosannea Arquette's love fund, Odetta needs defeatism, that coital perkiness complainer gotta nail surveillant jar taste aesthetically receiving sole brightening malaise rumination concerning Mesopotamian neckties in Arkansas – sic transit gloria kiosks complaining of lackluster geopolitics and jarring theoretics. Whatsamatta you Marseillaise vacillator? jackpot ovate polyvinyl, the polyvinyl that ate all the topmasts stammering in jarring estimation of lobbyist (sirloin nun the Ovate Vaudevillian) while spelunking zeitgeist erotica in the internet works nonresistance... Cuteness, lollapaloosa whitetails jots vestibule testing embryologist of Rabelaisian jerk enema with supernaturalistic listening vacant myth: take any kind of neat caveat, but tame not baseball
wheat the pebble (mach 3)
We are sconce rend citizen hale aging the office ail democrat racy in the US We are conic kerned that this work apple arch to foal bell ow tic themes and situ sons We are co-concerned about the die recs on era don we are conic kerned about how we tie the peso pile by the Elmo throw away we are sconce rend there's on sly go do music end music wee a sconce We are sconce rend about mica's kids that the system mastic rev we here wee on sly tow tea peters We are co-concerned wee era radioactive activity they there is a lack of visit agility We are co-concerned wee second it ion sing prole about Tibet We ear con Verne wit drat wing critic observe nation We are co-concerned wee proxy magi nag so solution is about your safety we are co-concerned wee who at there is most era son to wan once of Brando mess due to Ku rt We are conic kerned that slang usage in action 402, spec pontifical ally 402(a) (4) could be interpol rested we are co-concerned that the goo deli few sub mitt nag confide gentian format ion under Arctic ale 8 of the Yo to protocol rem rain pith question is of exits – ten ice We are sconce rend that these devil nation swill Jini ate on erred sing about the condo of our coals we are co-concerned they the tie re quire rents may disco rage Anica exact sly We are sconce rend about the effects by a pro postal We are co-concerned wee the d-. meant of sect ion 70 2 (a) to the end they the term “crib piled chill den” shoal be cost rued that a stew dent is clearly and dimming gently sic dial We ear con Verne they eve none perch on ghat a bandeau the recto construe action of the coned seductive city effigy sent we are co-concerned that the wore be nag do one is not enough the local- son of topics in text prices sing We ear con Verne with fun action ratio is that there has been a ode orator rum we ear con Verne nut the pi ghat that no one is elf tout We are co-concerned that the pub lice at Alar age is steel here We are concerned with the few allowing qua question
Re: Poem
[EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote: the open field works really well here. the airiness belies the density. seems like you've made some great breakthrus lately.
wee the people, mach 2
We are concerned citizens challenging the official democracy in the US We are concerned that this work appears to fall below schemes and situations We are concerned about the direction radon we are concerned about how we use the people by the almost throwaway we are concerned there's only good music and bad music with a concept We are concerned about America's kids that the systematic review here with only two chapters We are concerned with radioactivity that there is a lack of visibility We are concerned with preconditioning problems about Tibet We are concerned with drawing critical observation We are concerned with approximating solutions about your safety we are concerned with what there is most reason to want a concept of randomness due to Kurtz We are concerned that language in Section 402, specifically 402(a)(4) could be interpreted we are concerned that the guidelines for submitting confidential information under Article 8 of the Kyoto Protocol remain with questions of exis- tence We are concerned that these deviations will invite overreaching about the conduct of our locals we are concerned that these requirements may discourage communicating exactly We are concerned about the effects by a proposal We are concerned with the amend-. ment of section 702 (a) to the end that the term “crippled children” shall be construed that a student is clearly and imminently suicidal We are concerned that even one person might abandon the reconstruction of the conductivity coefficient we are concerned that the work being done is not enough the loca- tion of topics in text processing We are concerned with functional equations that there has been a de facto moratorium we are concerned about the plight that no one is left out We are concerned that the public at large is still here We are concerned with the following question
Re: Poem
[EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote: why do you call this open field you mean ala olsen or the spacings? Olson used the term, but you can see the page as a field. Bob often writes in dense blocks so this is a different use of the white space.
