We phenomenologist’s are an odd bunch, never quite knowing what it is we’re feeling or thinking, always one step out of step. True, we do spend far too much time floating like capsized jellyfish in the mid-stream of thought, all this reflecting upon reflecting; far too much time. E. Husserl, ego-transient, the big Kaduna, the master of Daseinanalysis, or was that M. Boss, MD. Moot, it’s all moot when you get to this point, this conjectural point, the leaping-off point, point. Or is that, pray tell do, the pointy-stick-point, the old in-and-out as dear Alex would have put it? Seems moot, surely, all this moodiness and mum-mummery, surely. Now that Sartre fellow was a real bodkin, a genuine existential mess, a pipe smoker to boot. Never did much like him; all that nonsense about non-existence and bodkins, seems oh so moody and eye-squinting. Being and No-Nothingness, I fine mess you made of that my dear bodkin Mr. Sartre. Fuck it, I’m going swimming without a lifejacket.
The Robert E Heinlein Memorial Pantsuit
The best limit resides in paltry means near the directed tone of our next infusion, nuclear mod squad style. We're weird in our urgent dictated mess, with fresh elastic uniform and congenital fiction. Indeed, politics invented a city in which all tone smooths into relief. We are paying customers with whelks in our dreams. Look to the sky, the new version, and see planetary hope. We lift off from our stage of exhaust, dreaming an exaggerated series of phony claims. Such a rush and giving up! Star children, please, rush to your beds! This time of arrival places news in our reader. The hope of George Bush—flatfooted, redhanded—becomes so much flattening. Our Iraq, dear, and choices for the future, supply a mark for each last remnant called citizen. Look how the process resists infraction. Mutterings deserve reaction, and what do you say? We have the vice president to do that work. We have the state of the union to do that work. We have the crowing to do that work. Look at the walls circling Harvard, seemingly pervious but seemingly not. The secret committee of bald action encompasses many parsecs of just plain universe. The flat action of incoming aliens—they beep while we dream—tricks us into certitude. Now we have answers, and a good place next to the sun. When the sun leaves, we'll tag along. For now, just crush all youthful hope with machination and resolve. State clearly your function, provide need for proctor, topple at will. These limits that we choose can be forever, and our rayguns will return each spring.
A Risk of Complications
The poem in town rewrote the nation. Its hammock, that we stretch into fully possible to the quake of our powerful national glare, provides us with the integrity to wreck the week. Factions steep in dignity until favouring the more developed of ploughs. This plough, bless it, stays in front, showing so much verve in the roadways that animals were to use. Now various and timely, we've matched excess with excess. The coast of our popularity will not broach reproach. We remain with sticky questions, such as: Will the skies ever fall completely or can we trust their distance? Yawn if you will, years are stern nowadays, no matter what experts might say.
More than ever, tho, words need proof. Don't they carry the wind toward the ocean, the smell of groceries in settled neighbourhoods, strange foreign music here and there? Sure, gorgeously. We are complete if not diffident within the perimetre of these effects. We make magnets of our positions. Repulse or compel, it doesn't matter, so long as we keep the electric pulse driven.
Meanwhile, the poem in this town rewrote a nation. People were graduated for some gift, leafy walls of ivy that strangle stressed pigeons. Ah pigeons, handy as glass.
More poems, fashioned in the town, state national pride, dogma for Iraq, curious canker sores for the month of words. Some weirdo mocking Starbucks with a guitar and promo will melt oily residue into his career and our sidewalk. Beautiful, a froth of wonder. Whatever we talk about now must go to heaven pronto. It's a fine spring day.
More than ever, tho, words need proof. Don't they carry the wind toward the ocean, the smell of groceries in settled neighbourhoods, strange foreign music here and there? Sure, gorgeously. We are complete if not diffident within the perimetre of these effects. We make magnets of our positions. Repulse or compel, it doesn't matter, so long as we keep the electric pulse driven.
Meanwhile, the poem in this town rewrote a nation. People were graduated for some gift, leafy walls of ivy that strangle stressed pigeons. Ah pigeons, handy as glass.
More poems, fashioned in the town, state national pride, dogma for Iraq, curious canker sores for the month of words. Some weirdo mocking Starbucks with a guitar and promo will melt oily residue into his career and our sidewalk. Beautiful, a froth of wonder. Whatever we talk about now must go to heaven pronto. It's a fine spring day.
Local Poem Makes Good
This is last call. It strikes a trifling note over the veritable oaks in Cambridge's thought pattern. Yes, it rises into the clouds of John Harvard, who was class clown long before we knew of education's edge. The last call buys books for Widenor Library, then turns around, then turns around. The oaks blast new students and places their remains in the gulley behind Harvard Stadium. Rattlesnakes eat those remains, frantic for edifice. No one wants to stay in the pantry of this dormitory without the right conclusions rubbed in. Gateways open and more people pour forth. A bus explodes with genteel correction, it was only a part of the family. The rest of us walk around, circling even, because we want to be definite. Suddenly a cup of steaming perfect coffee exists. This will bring down the world of accents in several seconds or less. Furthermore, the cause wants to fall. And furthermore furthermore, a crush of humanity hopes to go home. Reasonable, like growing beans in the sidewalk, or recycling your doorknob. Last call cries out a surety window, where a lawyer becomes a crusty sparkle in time for the evening rush. The sun doesn't plan to set today, does it? Harvard's oaks are going to tumble soon, they can't keep up the joke. What is the joke, you might ask, suspicious of any assertion? Gunnels, gunsels, gunnysacks, whatever. The sentries on Harvard's walls pick out random problems to solve. When they shoot, all is forgiven. Discussion falls, crumbs react to pigeons, sandals cover soles of secure feet, and we're still in Harvard Square. Become more local, you doctor you. Arrive at physics, perhaps, or the mathematical equivalent of saying something. Trust the dog that curls up in time, because days are never off here. You were blown in from the west, perhaps, like I was. Standard cafe parlance lifts a glass, or busted toke survives for few. Every cram of crowd seizes initiative in the instant that day begins. Day isn't over ever, so we freshen any way we can. Sample Mass Ave as a route forever. Elevate the subway to new terms, Boston is near. Struggle with riches or poorness, in the excellent reproof from above. John Harvard sits on a throne, up on things, a porch for pigeons. We're students in cause, suffering effect. Come, greet the new pig while you can, it has seven ways to say nothing. Bright for one moment, it heard the last call.
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?
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?
"Art is Us"
—my photograph of an art/poem graffiti on an Énergie NB pole on Needham Street, Fredericton. Broken Joe
Regiment Dance
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.
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.
Several Pocked Ways
Aptitude city grew into immense sweat forest, without so much green. A pressing vantage of giving up struck a chord. That excess in word made detail spread beyond the regular dormant. Proving what, then, children? That each word, when it is a poem, congeals to a place and knows no more? Force equals collateral. We beat silences from the earth itself, paying good money to how our machine runs. Nota bene: it runs and runs, and when it doesn't, those several mean districts fall into one final document. Read it and weep.
Boasting city, with a sweet plane of mundane. Those who read on stay strict in their damage. It takes youth to be enthused, then a drudgery of fighting on. Yet that itself creates a quaking federation. Do we know the results beforehand? LAZY INCREMENTS JAM THE AIRWAVES. A poem isn't safe with these trades. Let us read a map together.
Fitted testaments stick close to facts, which tempt some flicker on the registry board but do not wholly combine. Results work their way in, then out. Fat steam rises from the sidewalk like children, yet the problem remains large. As the problem grows and engages, its building size stalks the imagination. We love pizza and know that we've proven everything, yet the building sticks the sky, amazing us. Power is a conclusion, not a wet bank of flowers.
If flowers, that is, could flourish in the underbreath of this dialogue, something as rich as intention could possibly flourish too. Yet the bounds stand undetected tho perversely complete. And now people are running off to cottages!
Waiting on the political side of doing something hasn't closed all doors but the smell from the alley may seem otherwise. We wait in the wings for a minute, a very well proportioned minute in which and with which so much. And you're telling me you love your resource. And I'm saying something, in reply. And you're deeply indented in the troubled paragraph. And I have yet to make the right meme. And you're staying close to the edge with a love of your plainness. And I'm all for establishing, sorting, ripping occasionally and riot. And you're right, that's no riot. And I'm right, I didn't mean riot. Thus the play begins.
Boasting city, with a sweet plane of mundane. Those who read on stay strict in their damage. It takes youth to be enthused, then a drudgery of fighting on. Yet that itself creates a quaking federation. Do we know the results beforehand? LAZY INCREMENTS JAM THE AIRWAVES. A poem isn't safe with these trades. Let us read a map together.
Fitted testaments stick close to facts, which tempt some flicker on the registry board but do not wholly combine. Results work their way in, then out. Fat steam rises from the sidewalk like children, yet the problem remains large. As the problem grows and engages, its building size stalks the imagination. We love pizza and know that we've proven everything, yet the building sticks the sky, amazing us. Power is a conclusion, not a wet bank of flowers.
If flowers, that is, could flourish in the underbreath of this dialogue, something as rich as intention could possibly flourish too. Yet the bounds stand undetected tho perversely complete. And now people are running off to cottages!
Waiting on the political side of doing something hasn't closed all doors but the smell from the alley may seem otherwise. We wait in the wings for a minute, a very well proportioned minute in which and with which so much. And you're telling me you love your resource. And I'm saying something, in reply. And you're deeply indented in the troubled paragraph. And I have yet to make the right meme. And you're staying close to the edge with a love of your plainness. And I'm all for establishing, sorting, ripping occasionally and riot. And you're right, that's no riot. And I'm right, I didn't mean riot. Thus the play begins.
A Good Present
It was land situated in common thrones. Those poems stayed in peaceful reunion. People sang of sidewalks, and the drifting seas of sidewalks, and the downcast wagging smells of sidewalks. People, all of them in one sere time.
People traded the big finish and started to call to children. People and children live together. The words each shared were definite literal poems. These poems then rode home on buses, in real bases of reflection.
The invention of could struck the common note, and disturbing horror movies fed a distinct sludge. Everyone wants rhyme to succeed.
If rhyme succeeded, woe to the environment. Did you know that all money runs thru filters invented by Exxon Mobil? And the power drill was the same friend that George Bush needed, in that ballooning day of checking in.
did you know that a poem is light and frothy, like the end of begging for chance?
Literal things seem ready for us.
A poem doesn't even last for one night, yet you could see the same thing in a shadow or a mix of water and imagination.
Troubles dot the sun, the sun that was invented for fading.
Other poems stem from tides and wrenching, and the few still children and their people sigh with ages of relief, just so beguiled by the novelty.
People traded the big finish and started to call to children. People and children live together. The words each shared were definite literal poems. These poems then rode home on buses, in real bases of reflection.
The invention of could struck the common note, and disturbing horror movies fed a distinct sludge. Everyone wants rhyme to succeed.
If rhyme succeeded, woe to the environment. Did you know that all money runs thru filters invented by Exxon Mobil? And the power drill was the same friend that George Bush needed, in that ballooning day of checking in.
did you know that a poem is light and frothy, like the end of begging for chance?
Literal things seem ready for us.
A poem doesn't even last for one night, yet you could see the same thing in a shadow or a mix of water and imagination.
Troubles dot the sun, the sun that was invented for fading.
Other poems stem from tides and wrenching, and the few still children and their people sigh with ages of relief, just so beguiled by the novelty.
lèchâge de tableau pAintriste. film pour Brimatographe.
with your mouse or touchpad, move the right-hand sliding bar up and down. you will then enable a pAintrist pAinting licking.
avec votre souris ou touchpad, faîtes monter et descendre la barre de navigation de droite. vous contribuerez ainsi à un lèchâge de tableau pAintriste.
avec votre souris ou touchpad, faîtes monter et descendre la barre de navigation de droite. vous contribuerez ainsi à un lèchâge de tableau pAintriste.
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