Verdun Alles

What could ever come between those in the middle. Likewise what slakes could be drawn to bounds comprized. How does the sockhop and the hoedown remit to these Koans. To merit an exceptional mean. To whisper of no illmet conquest or malaprop in regret or shallow qualm with societal norms.

The Moon it urges occasional Hel to belch from her grave. The washing of hands after succinct effort signs throes for a set of templates. Aegyptic pans knickerbocking trampoline camps in the midland of auguries with a long slow arcing panalopy. Lost in the culling truck of the disporters it spins adroit oft and again.

Meadowlands amidst. Several hobbing galavants exchanging Dada sticks to draw the rose line across the wind blown grasses. A graceful bluebird blushes. A fancy litter of stymied rag handlers acquiesce between raucous hoorahs and colloquial geste of hedges and cold bawd hours kept semphry fulla gnossis..

A geste for the roadside hoggies. That live forested in little quagmire boggies. How they draft and horse all the beef of folken manners of matters about the qual dodge. The gumption for practices in need of tempering. Like steel unborn. Somehow lost to the mucky slosh of hinterland gill and vine.

A drawn cord foundling in Hartwick. The penchant beyond the green. Bawdy equipped in the rambles and bugouts of bearded folks surmise. The onerous sanctimony of parallax unaccustomed. The rye, he insipidly tanks the ginny for her easy lambastes, her puddle Monti of fellian richmans’ pride.

A parsley standard insconsed in the tremendous statliness of a hundred thoroughly antiquated things. Like people of a fretting inconsequence. All perturbation in their victimless scheming toward hanging red flags. How says the mensch for his term. By malaprop or euphemism? To beat the band or to gain something titular in response?

Do not bother to bring answer to this mystery. It is both mott and for nought. The mete tempts like blood. To carry on in argument or worse. There are the holy days and there are the holy fairs. The ability to adapt and to change has the ability to be steadfast and sound. The act proffers its time for a charge. And the yoke is fierce and broad. Sympathy for the reckless tonight. The spirit travels far.

The Omnibus Augury

At a remove from a West facing wall. The notary opening up her longstockings and pilfering the gratzi welcome to bear it toward another in geste.

Stingy mitres. Cocksure kissing bangers looking out for the hoodoo. With a Chiristian Church of the America’s being consoled. A whole way of looking the other way inconsiderate at spotty cupid slights of hand.

Dimly lit and menial wit. Hard trade for the unrepentant dirge. His slack and lackluster taste for the gruel filled hunter’s bowl. A goof of the bottom feeder school. Apprehensive tailings of a bifrocated sort and pile

Hankering still for his suttee and assorted pets and potted plants. Our final contestant for the dog house boob. A besotten attorney, shoestring of much bung water. The rimey sludge pit sucker of shark tooth grind and pitted olive puice.

These grave to laud figures inhabit the close quarter of a single traveling zone. Rain and fog bequeath them the gnarled mien of a heretical judgment on their questionable fate. If these streets, these alignments of foot tracks and cart wheels, now set to spin down to the idle of jailtime and worse.

Like three bums and their mitt. Catching air and catching hel too. Thoughts of the goddess. A dark muse this time, rye, macabre, gallows humoring. At its proof almost.

The dirger, misunderstood gets no quivel. The tears that issues forth salient and salty from the eyes of the maiden fall without consolation. The profligacy in the paunchy one would remit crows slovenly. And our little bookworm considers burning down the back forty like a vested ruse puckered at tacits and the impudence of gorillas slapping down their bananas for sufficiency.

Talk, there is some. Bad sauce, unrequited love, sour punch, hard knocks, and even close calls with the grave. Like a minute or two of the long, flat,, line,,,

Hum? What! What happened there? It was the notary who made the claim. I heard it takes something like an exorcist to get a body back from the grave. Yeah the devil doesn’t want to give you back! Well she said. I had been up the coast with my uncle Charlie. He showed me to his very own cask of rum. Something you have that much of can’t be poison!? Why? Oh you didn’t know. Not much no. Seems very traumatic to me. Going into the grave like that. People would think you went there to rob it. No! I want a buzz, a dream, an adventure in a night cap.

The omnibus stopped and the drive spoke with somebody. Unknown to the passengers in the pokey a gate had been opened and the bus was driven inside.

Living Proof 1990/04

Living proofs that the woods give you just what you hear. Animals now tread on elephant ear straw matts. And walk out on fresh spongebath towels. A cowboy lassos a moving train one time more. And never again till destiny calls from afar in a prize of light. Electric candy lemon drop suckers out on the town. Closed doors that commercialize success. Elevator rides for a stuffed dress. Torn slights of hands on one way run-ins with lifetime hipsters. That have come and gone like modern speakers.

I knew a hack in school. A teacher who would get your license real cool. A man loses his job and beef-eaters pull some resource. To feed the chalker and get him out of there for being a mule. So don’t go and beseech her, you have the load of her course.

I have shown this light and you said a star in the sky has to be pelted with fright, fire, and daemoniacal man. Suspended some say. Well I save no Connecticut Yankee trying to bar reform of this stream of trout. It is the auld genius seek making out his walk of life. With his friend the stranger. His friend and wife. So give me a home where the buffalo room.

Pithy bread and board and a little choice in how I spend a day. My chosen day, my love still living, one who is stuck on saying things she has not come to terms with. A sense of self-denial she keeps before herself. Like a carrot on a stick, but enough of this or I am just a another prick.

Come to terms with your man of arms. A time the park rangers have to devote to the royal ass bees and there swarum. With a nice burden for a hive. Only just in want of floral nectar not to do anyone any real harm. It is a part of the old ladies graffiti walk and they scrawl standing by the back of a bus during a fire drill.

A burning mattress invokes some common bond to ripple across the breezeway of an urban neighborhood. I have never been here before says a trickster to some unassuming girl who just happened to wake up at the same hour that he did this morning. You are not alone she replies she replies and drops a smile. Trying to remember something she seemed to feel had been very important at one time recently or a moment ago. It rather matters that memories have grown confused without their proper practice. He said. Let’s go get some of these crazy zealots and their glut off of the want of our road. What do you say? Do you need me treating you like some botch ass while I go off on another foolhardy crusade. I don’t really think so my dear, not hardly, she just replies.

Tints of color reacting to the tune of a pat down like a number of hatches. Some young blood looks out his door seemingly. To hold something dear, in his cry, for gains trying of another yet further foreign shore. He decides instead to swim down a lake withholding his tomorrow’s to the running by of his closer lines. Lays on the sandy beach, a hippy, not to hear the cries of his own despotic rulings upon their insanity. At his ear he thinks he needs only his own blind lust. For running on the faux and all.

Creeper (The Sympathetic Vine)

Second par second. Minitum upon minitum. Approbation and cluttered frequencies. There are secret shady spaces and there are bright sunshine wakes. The tide is rising up and the moon is milling song. Mano y matate in a corn grind pone. Poetry of the muses on a midnight ride. Our cool chill subterfuge making out to surprises of a whole lot that is great.

It’s the creeping, crawling ivy and the spook is a haul. Far wight shores hanging lives on judgment with stories of veritable service of the apropos. An ode to Western returns in kinds of creole batches of something succored and sweet. The Morgan and chase. The wild hounds maurade of formative legions. Hounds of the mowing greens.

It amounts to as much when a woman is a wife. It sits by the accustomed elder cross-legged on the floor getting cut to dready counts. Up on the cork there is a pin-up gal strumming ukuleles to the tune of a resort into the backwater town. Country rambles ending up in grace at the popstand for corn cake and maternal pouch.

Euphoria and a triptych. Time slips away to b movies on the inside. The down low continuum of placid tambour. With the daily trials under the test winds keeping down the heat. Of cats, of races, of days.

The well turning in the ground looking up from a wild oats grasp on divinity and saying glad univer. This is a theory. This drive, it is augured by dreams. It assays the pan a cross with the dirges of the sympathetic vine.

There are those in prayer whom laud the fatal seraph. With its pronounced feats of atrophy. Willing the fly on the wall to do just that. Fly! A relegate of nations making out the next balm on burden beats.

Have they any other means to judge than the splittying of hide? This truly I do not know. For the bane of atrocities is that you don’t ride out with the consumers on an old blue laws Sunday blues song. You show some reserve. Well don’t you? I mean no matter how lazy one gets it still comes down to what is a stinking mess.

Conceivably all one would have to do would be to clean it up and be done with the charade of ill met and inconsistent fuss budgers whom are out there riding on a day like this. A day otherwise given to rest, and really if you could only remember, a day for returning to the earth with your labors, your inclinations, and your caring for the scene, and for the given environment.

What comes and goes need not go so quick. The vine has sympathy for you. Please show some of that hard earned resiprosperous action back to that same vine. It represents Mother Nature and if we need to be reminded of it then yes that girl and her creeper have a spooky good old way about them.

To shake up the heady locks. To tickle a bee. To go so far as to make the planets whirr. To razz the bronx betties with some of this American country’s best homegrown cheer. And don’t be afraid! At least not for long.

Sure go ahead and play out the trick but remember to have a few good laughs when you do. Show each other some of that same endowed kindness that hopefully once she showed to you. And God bless ya for at least trying don’t you know.

Encouraging The Entity

A brogue and a jig. A rogue and his havoc. A public outcry at Sheriff John Brown having had put good olde Satan in the stocks and not given us any rotting fruits and vegetables to throe by. Oak at the neighbors tripping bright up the hill.

Meanwhile there is a rising on the othern sidhe. Anamaskers on armchairs. Ringtail clows making off for sad eyed coffee hostesses to make flurid flakes of snow in going the bye and bye.

What? What’s that you say? It is all to casual for cosmic flagrancy. One foot falls in front of the other while two mules walk side by side. The muddy lane and it’s gauges. The busy bee ditch side walkers collecting orange spice teabags thoroughly through and through.

Becalmed concommitants acing test zone flight patterns. Butter chops exhumed from frightening resonance of coffer keeping saints. All bejeweled in horseflies and hash. A friendly condition of relative neighbors sans the locked doors and fences.

Don’t give it another chance. Move it or lose it. Proverbial gusto of marching infantry taking on the big swell. A respite of peaches making good on the potluck and the copse. Stipulations of daily ark into the freedoms of the genuine libertad.

Until broken bags of tea swizzle in the conventional atmospheres of protean swimmers. Glad armed in the pathos of footfallen and clandestined swings.

Letters to the editor radically explaining her variagated points of view. The garnered resorts of floral gaity. Long drawn shadowing fates in need of the freewill of exercise. Without license or excide. A chowder power of bean men.

Counting up the umpteenth gaggle of freshwater fish to swim the stream and bid to relax in the idylls of pulling current and lapping pool succor of roe.

It is a long road to the union hall. The coop is chicken full of brainstorming and seclusion. The Sun is setting on the back fence. And the light is on at the front door like a pitched skirt has drawn us to cover and hedge our bets on the given.

Warm and arid days in a tide of hedonist weathers. Now surfeit. A larder of consistently speculative measures. Lazy and Susan coming ’round to wrest the cannonball.

Roping in the delerium with a step of lifting the gaity gate. We high aloft the blooming avid and stratii. With dual enthusiasm and finesse for packing in with the rat.

A year by year route. To given states of perfidity. That an assembly has its liability for the cost of trying to engender the joy of its propitiating powers. Within cognizance to trepidations make allay the hitherto and unknown here abouts.

A running darkness taken to the ground and emboldened by the grave. A church ⛪️ Street set of pewters and tin for pie. This accumin of the savory. This native instinct to go about the passways of darkness.

Given to the endgame like night. The dawning and the daybreak at a copesetic remove. A gooden for having taken the ride. Now tucked into bed and goodbye.

Emotive Thought

Love agonizes over a throw. The into the dark pitch of sounding from off of a far wall. Reverb and chorus. Later days in the sanctimony of the even and its prop. How intellectual could be a keeper of shadows when the sun shines from on high right down into the middle of the street.

God Bless it I say the driving feat of proud footin’s mucho gusto. The reverence for the tide rolls up on the avenue. While the boulevard is a closer draw to make for headwaters of an amble and a saunter and those at mission for the night’s perpetuation of a memory and involvement in a sojourns’ rest.

Ya think? The emotional value given to abiding in the redemption school. To see the vehicle moving forth at a hounds foot pace. Having been given a taste for the bag and sent out baying. Trying to keep a good attitude in the dilly dally tide of darkness. Where outcry is going South through the country. Looking at its cross streets both up and down for vague salvage of a more personable commitment in the saving of face.

Let us not implement our own destruction. Let us look at that 60mph and 80 yards and twenty foot tall brick wall without having to seek a thrill. Let us stop on that dime and drop it. Real good and hardy. With wine bottles answering knowing corkscrews.

If the overwhelming feature of the bullies on the base say it is all too ephemeral to have a wonder about it to go by. Then let it dawn sweetly and looking back consider the rhythm of pacing. This and leigh out modicems of modesty in taking it up a clip. To let out the great force of breath we have only to exhale and let it go with a ‘shweho’. That is the one in her dance. Skrying madly to the beat of 10 dead bass drums.

Without regret never have want of answering the question again. Move on with your bad self and your selfsame looking gate and your mindful choo choo. I think I can, I think I can wwwoooOOOoooeee. D

Does it help anybody to truly be alone. Is this the long dread fate of our humanity. Even here in our Summer home. Wheat for sages. A single grain’s speculation. Left to entrain the repetitions of manevours given over to sexual prowess. Given a crush that rhymes with sport. Laid out for rest like bedcloths. Carrying the pocket stuff tryptyches of our son the train conductor.

Simply to mention the great tunnel of love coming up for today’s amusement park ride. All for the condition of make believe. A national obliging of the blind consuming marriage of nihilism with reality. I think it somehow vouchsafes the sweat for the racing fears of the tourilous American.

A lambaste of upstarts. The frequent of turning pages making due with storied wedlock. Into the garden of a realized set of fears grown over with weed and wildflower.

The womaning of grange and rucksack buck. The payback for great temperament. Tides of escapade having simply learned that the old gray goose is a good bet. One of the quickier, quackier ways for children to run a circle and make it their own.

For release, for concord, for fantastic requital of past kingdoms and loose tabs on the dreaming of catchers tales. Them still resolved to remain smitten with the bull, the bear, and the blue jean.

Hardy, har, har, the end went unforseen but the Sun continued to rise and the rain fell from the plaint. Flippy wiggy foments of geste flew the coop and Troubadors said good ride. Blessed rest of Wintertimes in happenstance. Glad in a sack and dreaming to the last of better times ahead. Faith thus making it through night after night until Spring.

An Evening Psalter

The extension of an area into the quandary of outer space. Lifting ones feet up when treading down a river so as not to catch in a rock and get it stuck and dragging one under. Or like the railroad crossing in the tide of Winter. A beater with a heater moving on with its gait to the extrapolation of lighter fare.

Not that the devil will always care but don’t be insulting by always having to make it out to him in your contempt. This upon the sanctity of our earth. Tourulous by always sticking out our claims to existence upon the cornerstone marks of a once thought extinct sense of tribalism.

Roaming singular into the referees of the homespun. The tinkering with antlerbone and the leveeworker quick with the jack and Piper trade. The shellacked outrig rider. Putting his canoe into the pond and saying to the tide “Okay. Now draw me Mother Nature!” Not because of my defiance but for the seqencing of my even keel. Lead me to night dances of stirring meads and expertly told stories of fishermen.

The long Bally table. Tilt a whirl pine and the recondite tributaries of an often suspended moon. Glamduring the pale rider heaves his saddle up the back of his beast. Hands high and turning. A gentle understanding between charisma and charm.

The filly will recollect her canting under the steep of John Barlecorn and his daylight stars. The long drawn memories of an eventual manner of elegant habit. A paradisical assembly of lyrical exchange. The parading salutary crewe. Given to bees knees and diademic pluralities.

So murky above the water the fog is all in jest. A gaping crawl through the aerodyte space of plentitude and recourse unto shelter and yesterdays works. There goes this a way a sense of cadence. It trips a market and it jumps a bean.

The poultry cluckers all vouch for the sincerity of foible declensions in fastidious harkenings to the unitivity of sultry maids in sundry dress. A toothsome and knotty Setti swings through the gaits of Summers to bear out in brave repaste.

There abides the sporty tom. A garnish of peppercorn in the acquaintance with its satrapies. Giving out garlands to usurpation. A great conflagration in the inimitable equivocations of breadwinner dichotomies. The daft mote and the chuckwind draft horse. Making good in both respects like a galavant and a trooper.

One kind of plausability for that need for an idea’s dissemination and review. A sounding board for the extension of modal church service. The list in its exegesis. A frequent parry of peptides. The end for Daisy chains in revery. An orchestrated quickpot run on et fini.

In Competition With Convenience 2000/09/09 Thursday

How does one enter the public domain? Do those who have their rights reserved? What if I were to cross over into the public domain? How would there be someone to escort me, as in a service?

Write, write well, and you will come to this posture, this passage, to lay down extant your remains. And don’t over worry how it will go for the next artisan, the next participant. The next person to feel those thoughts, to hear that saying.

For some it will be a higher power that draws a link between you two. Between you and the next or even between you and a someone who came before.

But if your writing doesn’t work out and you find you have no such rights before those thoughts. And feelings and sayings slip from your fine fingers back into the ground. The common acre, the open domain. Well then maybe you should try Algebra.

Intrepid Voyage 1996

Beth

Thrice magestus

Hermes of Octune

Tragedy of Neptune

Dithering crystalline fractures

Universal ascendancy

Plane thwart nuclear fission

Fusion semblance

Tz mantic

Ars magnifica emantic

Neotic

Light in extension

Origami rapacity

Bachelor press

Dinosaur brains

And nervous systems

Four church modal

Conjuncts in the stellar apparatii

Vigor of cuneiform figures

At transcept oritan en fret

Cant etiology of crook and flail

Intercalary periods

Fugue of accidental

Interest

Sidhe

Grange

Kirk

Irony in benefit

Placards

Tocsins

Shingles

Golden store

Atu the acorn

Ancestry-bone

Genealogy-skin

Church of modality

Projection

Extension

Extrapolation

Exhibition

Lengths

33 By the dinosaur

130 Bone

365 Tale full of

1077 Aberations

Binary code

Movement in the Mercabic

Oxymoronic quark

Movements by precept

In 10’s 100, 10, 1, etc.

Or else no movement

Represented by zero

Inducing contraband

In verisimilitude of a range

With just such surity

Of bow and sultry in the realm

Of a mass transcends purity

The host becoming the flesh and the blood

Mother’s mass

Report

Enterprise

Oluricular imprendarius

Declination en esque

Agwire Mira lay a lay

Ta wins na sa boot fit

It goes by coot and root

Daily to meet its ends

Me & My Like

Heart rending sorrow and exercise. The compassion it takes in getting along with those in the manner of life. They whom are relieved to hear of your progress yet to whom one does not ask of the refrain. Courses amongst horses. Making out good and wise sense in the extant of their mind. In there goose fletching and the churches they place on the rock and on the hill.

Secreting a way the vernal axis. Making out a good place to set aside differences and get down to meditation. To come promising. To give to reason and its powers enkind. A veritable tautology of feating glades. A glam exegisis upon the cultured bough. The road is not for the weary my fine camper. No it is rather a conditional peace indeed.

When the leaves on the tree are flourishing. In the spring tide as they call it in the Northern climes. There is an excitement to find out who is the herald of the event. The gopher? The Robin? What about the fox? Up and at ’em babies! The glide of pacified wings checks its Jay at the door. Crossing these streets need have be the bane of the iconoclast. To no longer care for the filcher and the varmint. As quick as a dash and bent to feature it no more. Reduced to b-grade popcorn of the jiffiest kernel and poker’s fork.

If any more tribal lore has need splay my possessions then know I will be at the fly of a feather to make sure the reward is my proper wage. How about $10,000 dollars a show. Just the songs and chords will do ya what is necessary. And when all cheap excuses for vagaries have been exhausted well then end your day and lay ye down and take a proper rest why don’t you.

You have needs do that. See.