it was one of those nights when geese fly into clouds and stay there. it was one of those times when the earth seems soggy—O much-needed drizzle!—in its constant wobble. it was a moment of reaching for the phone, just to call someone and explain that the willow looks wonderful on saturdays. Brockton, Massachusetts, is a place where things are noted and, casually, by god, voices speak words.
the singing frogs proved their excitement that the textbooks once again were right. bats caught the joke and entered flight patterns reaching limits of squirrel. in Brockton, your dance partner has been there, and is pleased, additionally, to explain where ‘there’ might be. you go along because ‘here’ is over, or at least needs an overhaul.
Brockton invites all those who have the idea and the words to say what they think or think what they say. hunger is a continent and parsimony a clever joke aimed at a certain few. the efforts of the magnanimous provoke traffic lights to open avenues to all inspired travel. there is nowhere further from nowhere than Brockton, city in mind. c u there!
night of going bonkers and night of dancing sweat and night of troops frightened into action and night of cluttering moonlight: all in all, and something to say. be normative, then, my friends, in the electricity provoked by whatever discussion sits on the table with the red and white checkered tablecloth and the candle dripping yesterday. your community awaits the delicacy of your touch. the folk of Brockton are up in arms, or floating in the living room. each day is rather lovely, after all.
