R/ckets and S/ntries

an afterlife fill of meaning, scripted aliens, tried and true polemical flags, the trust of running into John Kerry at a surly bar where he bears witness to a day in the past, which ran from Concord thru Lexington into Boston, film at 11, collecting colours of disgruntled vets, real folks not like 'me', more than 30 years agone, registered as a talent for leadership or moral qualm turned into a factory, meanwhile George W Bush freaks as a son of a presidential moment, imbibing clocks on mountains and screw of oil in a dazzle with baseball's probable elite, trips into our vision of neurosurgery and haggling, trickle down theory in death, spots on beauty on old raiment, churned in a rosy way, feel night coming, repeated infractions of Bruce Springsteen songs, fortified throng, waiting, after more waiting, waiting...

Bruce Springsteen to the ends of the earth. mellow tone aliens been hearing them sounds for ages, all the ages Bruce Springsteen could comprise. radio waves to the ends of any universes are always archly pointing carrying 'you'. today on the some other place and time sits Bruce Springsteen, definite jet. down on that New Jersey coast, and alien landings, and the thick old-fashioned music that we expect. it's a charm to have a Bruce Springsteen thru all the air, wiring the universe, and he's only the one. to the ends of universes, it's called music when you like it, and hero when you buy. the aliens are piece-loving, particular to parts and what can be collected while the universes grow or shrink or do nothing at all. have you heard of the 18th century while you were reading all those?

a little sand
in the creek
temperature of
wattage
or proof that
deer exist
or same day
service: a friend!
or a true
value in under
the weather, or
seeming to lean
while the frame
exits,
or shoot of cone,
length of teem, sweetness
in print... other words
agree with nothing
more while
situations
direct unclosed
troves, and the pedal
upon which we press(the gas!)
pushes a cutting
beam of
energy (called
me) into a traffic
thickness, a total
word, an envy
of lesser poets,
and in this time
here, while you
(Reader) read...

the rayguns were perfect organized around certain yet fond clearance prevailed had to just saying so isn't this a future inhabited when purposeful tool in the forward motion progress caption talks often of very good for you and me and sometimes concerning evil or heft of bad news of course and data banks in musical rhythm makes a poem sigh to hear us say

or chance engendered politics or equate a myth via sleek presumption or an attitude vying track star bluntness or sudden fatness in the brain completing or stun gun agonizer or sure thru the huffing breeze sequencing or regular interweave of spice diary or slice of piety chapbook or choosing distribution over coverage weakly or recent averages in the tremendous brunt...

as described
panting

1>a song or saturation point, as the people step from the fog’s distance into a nearness, almost a touch. we can talk later, without all the drama. something is lost, or loss itself has a heavy toll that bounces against the far hillside. rhythm will tell. the grey air lets us wonder in turpitude, grieving and purchased. there isn’t much that lets us go.

the cold transit lifts off dawn, goes memorable thru years and what we can do. the piecemeal music lingers in hallways and distant homes and gardens. children race ahead. there isn’t a chance in hell, someone laughs. it is a common story. who can remember the exact details anyway? the fire starts, there’s too much crying.

and since this is wafted over leaves and drip cavern, while oceans only know rout or fable, then classes, densities, ideal pace until function, the real reason between us. those new terms, frosted and beguiled and we were young once. we were tales or portions, until at last we understood.

we gravely.

2>maybe I’ll get caught telling you everything. even the priceless fear, the effects daily sending gorse and greying trees, priests and priestesses dancing in wind. maybe the effort contorts reason, spilling vocabulary into the atrium as we squander our diversity. what is the rage that we keep, here in our bunker? the evil president sends word, and we must remember to send it back.

I’m game for talent. the windy riled spoil and spill, in the event of browning meadows, the wet earth covering itself in snow or reflex, so that towns forget. which is to say, drying out for a moment, that the saddened particle theory returns with new mentions in the daily rag. so which paper is truer, when we read thru to the least number? squandering of arrangement into a diction compelled by cents, us the consequents. that governmental trust, buffed to pavilion. in a while there will be a time for rest.

the political action committee, aka fog, distributes our lesser arrivals, and we bend into the wind. the wind closes doors suddenly, and so much for sentences. the work includes details, and a great big map. when the map is full, we move on. this is the political part of falling in love. the country, then, is a playground for when we’ve reached that point. meanwhiles are distractions, tempers of inclusion but we will never. we need speed and corn popping out of the oven.; we need strong concerns for the pasture, lacy diatoms filling our seas with a glittering detail. we need to strike a chord while able, for the sentences will start to buck and break. a shame transcends some matter we spoke of, and it was itty bitty temple shroud gone moose effort, mild condone. in ease swirling, which waddles music cold for tree diction sham, on profile fed Nixonite slope the tame dear mark. as could the sheet of rain, as could the fluff of winter. and then the degree takes hold, all pious and at a peak. that sweat is the going, political and awl.


3>as our dear map wasted away, flat, we said a few parting words. the father who was air was strong and diverse, and the mother who was earth was strong and diverse, and we as children were strong and diverse. set to that marking, we walked. we walked into snow, the children that we are. the snow was risen to the height of cloud and a little beyond. we walked for a day. that day did not remember us but welcomed us nonetheless. that is my father, my mother, I sigh, together with the rest. and the gloaming is no endurance of itself, but the distance between quizzical dots placed quietly on the map. it has taken us this much time, or so much time has taken us. this may resort to rhyme or just the strutting colloquial impulse of the sentence. poetry is too much for me, and I know it. my relevance, a little book, is stored without mass. it is a map of itself, a storied sort of conditioning. we’ve talked about this marvel of intention that catches one and all. now we place firm lines on paper and never think of eradication. a solid joy presses unction to the soft parts of our limits. we can be desperate if we want to. we name love as the condition of light, knowing something simple like that would bowl Einstein over, no disrespect meant towards him. eager suns give clues, and there is even a direction there, there, in the lines.

correspondents hear the decay
and wrap around
with viscous import
which is a darling
dream and
much that rattles on

scores lift coaxingly
into the period
that stopped the phrase

main mumble in a line of poetic rambles, that being the serial transformation until Election Day (elaborate asymptote). when finished with effect, all the pieces unconverge. their going masks a ritual by placing form into condition, like the distance between dance partners as determined by cultural throes. thirsting for news of a relief column, yet ready to evacuate the city, but it really doesn't clear up the vestiges. language's steely might might include us, it might include us out. our various resources seem less than 'enough'. our angels weren't the ones to talk.

Hegel's alien hovercraft doesn't prove a thing.
Hegel's notion of a hovercraft holds water, alas.
Hegel was très sportif when doubt fenced in the others.
Hegel's cigare volant surprised so many.
Hegel chose to dictate.
the aliens were a crowd, and their cigare volant flew direly above the vineyards of Châteauneuf-de-Pape.
Hegel proved a hovercraft in just moments.
were those moments indeed just, Hegel wondered.

there's more trouble. more poems, written in a surge. there's got to be a better way. it's more trouble at all, even functioning without a perfect library. it's hard. the aliens change meaning in their tent. that's their type of tension of excuse. there's more trouble, for the poets are esteeemed. they read exactly as they think they should, in styles that have breeze sometimes, and official welcome since you asked. now there's additional trouble, more words than people, or is it vice versa. it's enough to ask. further trouble starts a revolution, only, good spelling is a must. the aliens don't use language, they simply become it. when their sentence ends, it's a scary redistribution. that's more trouble too. to think that they've arrived, landed great jobs, brought beneficent spirit to Earthlings, provoked a dialogue, and then. well, it's a tremendous universe and much goes in and out. such trouble just about exhausts you, but we all must keep going. worry the little things, for the big things loom fucking huge.