This is the nation, extending to the beach from the sewer, with pictures of flowers along roadsides as dogs wait to go out. This is American to the extent, but only for those who have written thru their troubles, to the top of their lungs from the bottom of their heart. This is an arrangement that even surprised, because a sentence was involved. It was made from the way poems come to earth. We seem better now for having tried.
Yet dearest, the wind won't always blow our sweat away. Curled up in a doorway is one way, or the forest duff is a nice reminder. Or could we just extend the moment to some musical phrase of having all the time in it? What are factions when they dry in the sun? What is change when we have hand holds? The time seems 'right', yet margins grow thinner. What smoke is, we are.
Plain America, the regent descriptor, fans the breeze into corners. Workers unite, make right, stop on the street to talk. The story stiffens because a poem doesn't owe. We cherish because we can, but that doesn't make it right. It, as in everything, wins languour and parlance. Flowers everywhere, and season, and a makeshift home on the sidewalk: these are part of the picture. Dog sleeps, cat sleeps, cigarette burns. Something about memory makes us change the news. We then grab pizza, then pizza grabs us, then something more mundane, like attitude, takes a try. Across the street, someone else, always.
Distinct City Words
That city, then, troubles us. Suggestions were crossed off the list when the numbers came up. A billboard flew too far, it took a hobo down. This isn't as surreal as may seem, for the forest muttered into the park, and we couldn't tell the difference.
The angles remain, enclosed in places like Harvard Yard. Look, another pig has torn into the roots of the aged tree! The underlying poem reveals a pure sort of doldrum, as if language could matter to blood. Maybe we're insanely jealous of average. Or just imagine some soft particle enclosed in theory, drifting into the new sun that rose yesterday. It's not the same sun today, is it?
We take benefit from foggy notions, then genuflect with the parade. Not to make that a crime, we're all angels stuck on the same pin. We like our brewed ways, stumping for the justice of one cause after another. Maybe we could invent a noun, give it a verb, and select the perfect adjective to accompany them. In the process, social justice goes up for grabs. We've settled for a language, sort of. Bundles make us happy.
The city has no crime, merely response. This takes us directly to global leaders, who merely respond. Quiet reasons suffocate with a perfectly solid rhyme scheme. The metrics surround us, and we have seasons in perfect order. When we work, the sun blows soft light into gentle corners keeping dust company. What else more to pray for? Perhaps a massive cat on the table, readying to leap for a couch that flies into view with a cultivated reason. Nothing fails so well as tracking the resonance of private suns. We rush toward collapse and squander, surgically secure in our program. Okay, brush that aside, we're surrounded by words, and none of them work hard. What's left but to employ this nation in more mysterious work? Is that scary or what?
And Why, etc
allied with the Duringian Constitutional Cult, I, Voltovor, have writ a plaintive missive to the head of the Cultroonic Gravity Train, which is led by Scarlib IV, who has been part of the Snortellian Intrigue, which led, of course, to the declension of the Cobbel League, of which more later (maybe), and in this missive, it seems certain numbers, seemingly trustworthy (how many Britney Spears, dressed in haut passive skank couture, can dance on the head of a pin?), have become flat as has the world upon which we stand, my god, if this reticule of morose feelings could be hammered into a clearing sense of the world at large (how many Tom Cruise babies can be lifted from the face of African savanna?), sedulous moiety, no one remembers the victories..."They're all going to be cruising for chicks and I'm going to be home reading The Iliad," what is moiety after all but (quiet, a rustle near the eaves, paid assassins, no doubt, of the Archon, whose regency became a tale of traitorous backstabbing and subscriptions to People magazine), the world is too much with us, mayhap, proceedings seem valid yet what is this crumpled paper tucked deftly beneath the wide lip of this bowl of jumjum fruit? a message?!!! but from who???!
It’s Easy to Find a Local Armed Services
I drank coastal waters and they were good. I drank calibrations funded well and beyond, and they were good. I drank Republican aptitude test, and they were good. I ran into an insane farmer high on inspired hay, and that was good. I paused while words were used overtime, and they were good. I incited a ballot of clear, determined verbs, and they were good. I positioned, that was good. I called Romney in the wee hours, when he was stripped clean of words, and the lump body staying there for all time was good. I started into Obama because after all and that was good. I posed as good and that was good. I thought a rat was a boulevard, and that was very good. I learned to type, and that was good. I thought the squarest head of Romney was traced in lightning for the future of erasure, and that was good. Good is not a prince or princess, by the way. I popped the question, which was good and good until the question popped back. It popped back. It was good. I thought that there was a land where we lived, and it was good. I think the frame is trembling.