ALLEN BRAMHALL

Allen Bramhall has lived in Massachusetts all his life, as if that were an excuse. He has a blog, of course, a web site of his writings, and a book, Simple Theory, published by Potes & Poets Press in 2002.

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CONTENTS OF LENIN TRIAL

Lenin was for toppling. he came from the sunset, rather spare and included in something made like something. this is very indignity, said Lenin to comrade, but the address rose over frozen waters, seas forever denied access to party favours. this is choice as a colour told to be unknown, remarked Lenin, understood as a powder killed with kegs. our jury rigs steps of dance on trim lifting sustainment, said Lenin as natural as a candidate for porridge. how many clusters deny the very fact of address? the people are twined by certain gummy shadows. a war grows over Iraq, called the war on Iran. Iran is a bed of nailed. its terror of function becomes the country's side order of frying. Iraq as any one knows, remains a poor Iran station. Lenin must adjust. the imperial buttress knows neighbours, relations, stumps of school chums. someone is able in burial, runt class. someone collides with the theory of colliding. Lenin matters as a judge for social chewing. what is wheat? what real rye will fill the federal bread? for instant cheer inside of numbered Presidential Library, and the extreme choice of furnishing scores of glum cadence, the voter popularity string swiftly digests the trash. this trash is a marvel, cries Lenin, the exhausted destiny of periods in sentences. jeers recorded for later were really clear in stopping reaction to endive. endive, said Lenin in one moment, will save us. yet the question of all that time, who are us? we were reading carefully for a flight while nothing seemed so rosy as the morning dew. how curious to read along these lines, said Lenin, at the back of the first book.

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LENIN = SCROD

listen, vernacular pulls the people. it makes a choice. good food when you can wear it down, that helps many moments along the turbine. we need fish, destiny in a brunch, some scorecards from all over. we drive to the car to drive, then resist as is practical. scrod tastes handy. it furnishes a field by which workers are instructed. the life of time needs us, for where would time be without our input? we listen to the menu bring scrod. the fridays of fish are over, over, but we still need the sea. we need lists and other lists, until Lenin and exhaust become one. we need still pictures and moving ones, each framing the other while minutes become computerized. diligence reminds us of sundays, when we rest from our lack of football. we're intense and drive time, as scrod fills the beachhead. instant remains cushion our fall. imperialist brunch has been over the still picture again, detail by detail painted into a dream of conviction. if that could be moved, so could we. scholarly disputes will incise reference from the non-referential. amid scrod, that means for everything, as an outcome, the people will vote. each vote is a shame of sundays, fond of our scrod.

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LENIN'S GOING

Lenin's critical umbrella, derived from critical rain. Lenin ran into posture of reading out the time. that time was left over, cruel, disporting, rushed to conclusion. friends sniffed the closed after. Russia stood as total pond. each droplet of the total pond includes an idea or warehouse of goods. the goods or ideas are freely distributed to the people named as people. they are Lenin words. Lenin erupted a crumbcake baked from factions until all was done, even the nutty sweet topping of crisis. Lenin indicted the then and there, but all was so well said. comrades and colours, fortifying the national inch until daily breaks in the weather. each inch moves closer, and this is classic. regard the name of the moving. it steeps in the countryside, where the people had it. they had the traveling plans and the big carts of go. Lenin recognized the road and sequence unveiled after all then brought forth an umbrella. shaking this umbrella tells a lot of inherited time over the land. Lenin kept a score but not the score. no one was richer than everyone. this is an idyllic chart. Lenin has a trait.

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AS JUST ABOUT SAID

Aristotle mentioned that Lenin would wash the floors with strict letters of diction. Aristotle said that Lenin needed Christmas in the land forward for mild needing. Aristotle so far as the memory needs, left to a hovering, told for advantage. thus in a licking language could Lenin perfectly clear. stoppage on top of road signs, style selected to chance drill. would you come to an over all clock or cheerful? you are such a country life. and you vote of it all, sublime like a stratosphere of choice moment stuffed to gear change. ladder exactly as advertised, tho regimented toward a coolly settee-free shadow stop. who walks past their own shadow has more than enough. period, end of story.

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LENIN'S HOME GROWN

he was no more than a minute with the sea in saving. each shorebird was collective, on a purpose, thru the redolent posse years. Lenin's home ground, then cashing speed, then series reticulated by flower. what ocean after all but the seasonal conditioned response? we have fought this many numbers, said Lenin, with a pure total in mind. that's one lump beginning.

city structure consists, and in consisting, tells the story. here's the edge of bridge, say, and torrential river roughs the platelets. this comes to Lenin in a memo, from which he writes a paper. become a party animal? binomial. Lenin as distrust becomes cautionary mound on top of it all. someone wants several places to maintain in the working party lien. sleep after a day in sun, or sensible to dissolution. this is a beautiful book that we could tell.

LENIN!!!

the lettering is secret from a pond of memories. each resolves as a role of pertaining. some people despise the notion, growing colder in details that were first and foremost appointed by the city itself. this is just another matter to dislodge. Lenin's guidance tells a long story, which will never be discounted, or recount, the visible adherence to policy.
Lenin goes it alone.

there's a cup of coffee outside the highway. its historical import hasn't been flavoured or detested. people want their revelation of dinner or sport, until they can choose again. Lenin was big on the word between. he published necessary city sites. Stalin gruff and steel was door twisted open with brunch for fever. Stalin made a damage of his distant taming, shortleeeves at the fire.

Stalin, not a woman or boy or girl, but the same thing we deny in storms. not a man, either, not a fever, not a porch door, not a scram, not a raft on the river until the sea is in sight, not plenty but more than any other kind of treatise, and almost anything. so it goes, peeled out, the life of James Bond movie. to see the eye at its lumpen then return the festival.

Stalin's got the money for his name.

Lenin is a rocking chair with feral instincts.

wasn't that Roosevelt who was a tray on which a silver teapot froze time?

Didn't Churchill control the mood of lip service on the fine ranch near watching the river?

that river means a lot. all these indications agree.

the river surrounded a single place, circled and circled, until we couldn't tell time but time surely sought to tell us. we had coffee on the road, and the bridge went over everything. the George Washington Bridge, free for southbounders, laps the sky. in this indiscreet message a calumny needn't appear. some truck will bump ever so slightly, which pushes the car, which pushes the other car. which is the evening there. not all the time but plush carpeted staying power. back to Stalin:

a jury of yearlings (little years), a speed of future, a ram while you waited, a shift of perhaps, a plot of ploy on own foam reaching, a jurisdiction fed from on the tether, a steam drill naming in pond, a work of ruts, and nuts compare to other agencies.

Stalin was the history of after effect.

the learned want explanation of before effect. spiral daytimes resolve into thirst of plan truth, gussied truth, implied truth, nouns truth, chopped truth, sequel truth and other planets ranging thru. Lenin returns letters to nature, a crowd, Marx dreaming something lucky, and then we reach this contentious city, all about us, or what would remain if we were here.

too many pages the word.

a lot of the natural time revolves around distinct latitudes pulsating with crystal, the voice of talk on waves. someone heads toward the middle, at which point Lenin stumbles ahead. Stalin evinces little. Roosevelt changes again, tho mere death. conclusions range the gamut from here to nearly there. every other has a segmented name, to alleviate argument by carrying mean.

the page upon which turn became
the needing rhythm filled to mast.

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STRESS TASTE

effortless crust of every day. Lenin takes paper and pen, sits in the wind and reflects. of all potions realized in the crazy millennium, our time to tell, there arose but one. in the hunkering light before dawn could make it, stretches of exhausted relief reply fulsomely. the smell becomes terrific, an entire vocabulary filled with registering markers. cars pass on the road back that way. eager machinations have many plans. Lenin's pen dips into marks of deeds. a letter needs words to complete. a word needs a sentence or other syntactical collation. Lenin is just one person, without the brother and sister somethings, without every dawn. coffee may be made of weeds these days, we're crazy when we launch. the hugger mugger of oblivion violates the peachiness of this and that, laid out carefully because we love so much. what, ponders Lenin, contains the cost of production, yet cannot swim past the night? this hearty peasant bread, with crust of difference. just to bite into its forbidding performs policy reflections and coastal. one edge of the sea bites deep.

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IMPERIAL SORT

a Tennis Court oath, as serious means a street absolutely struck. then after image of a street, absolutely struck. then the sentence after the striking, called absolute in monarchial time. that's a vote, one vote: the planet in plain sight. the people as are determined, fierce means business sense in emporium. emptor meets emptor, across borders, with right hand forward. language is the same. terrified in the history, that means of people and struck by oath of brother and sister in the street as struck. ingesting transportation, the survey alert for the work. here's the strike force noun. (partial feed of theory…

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SLIGHT

the crust remained vacant while tests screw the jar tight. sudden for any reason became a verb for new morass. sweet muddiness while waking against monsters referred to as structure. ah structure, muttered incoming Lenin, I have use in years as trusts. (this was where America dented the particle and felt front merge with back).

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NEWLY RESTORED
(soliloquy version)

I know your yardlessness, your strum of empty guitar possible. I too, as Lenin, inquire of rage in the steepness. valid folk songs? I'm a matter for ladies and gents, at the criminally insane level of yearning. barriers force sports utility vehicles into words of praise. aren't you embarrassed by the voter turn out? notes secure the valve. I've been slightly bad, tho comrades know me as plastic assay. I'm a yucky mine reader, a scullion yarn while matter interests a posse of lump minded process. sequential cat lays upon the onerous bed diagram. this is our useful setting, as people say. and I, as Lenin, the campground, unfurl a little handkerchief of chiefly effluvial merchandise. you see empire as a bad thing, I see it as yet another need to stream over the gully. oh,if Russia's gully could equal these new world jurisdictions! such a candle could consider title…

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INSTANT TOWN APPLICATION

we elongated the natural ooze, said Lenin, barking up a tree. this wasn't a particular habit but the portion of the walkway on which Stalin rested. others were smooth and worn off the migration. the national spends much of its diction in furtive under the tree. fruit might be seen, thru the gauze of light, after the rich layaway of tomorrow might be all right. tickle after that the easy plan, certainly a leg to stand on, and much affirmed merely by staying on topic. how far will it go? someone offstage asks. Lenin has the numbers but then, suddenly, a bear of a thing.

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FOREMOST DAY OF POETRY

the American poet John Ashbery lauded on a smooth chart century, friend of Lenin in the rain. the rain voices by seas over all, everywhere, to man and woman, such as can save maybe a continent, maybe some friends, maybe not a fisher in the cold after waters. all is possibly nothing for a bite of something good. say Ashbery as professor of delivery, and Lenin in the role of up on a rock, together given a hedgerow. this hedgerow, like a determined Normandy landscape while worlds of nations define their lines, shunted into the forefront of doctoring debit. yet artist as symbol of loss of minute becomes a raid on rental units near the shore. the shore enters a housing growth, and dump, until all reaches a descriptive terminal that could be called for. but back to Ashbery, applying voice to loss, and loss to the veteran suddenness of easily personable claims. Lenin hasn't short circuited yet and aimless, more than the price of beer for sorrow. simulations raise credit, checking wheat production, and the range of poetry published by The New Yorker. reefs catch the pants of careless sailors. drudgery is just another poem, another political situation to resolve. goes like this, a maelstrom of publishing history and a referee shade. so an American poet, lumped with junctions of poetry inquests, termed instead of run to the breach. willingness to create the ardent voice wolfs down incriminating poetry prizes. it's all just like Lenin, his great friend.

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LYRICAL LENIN THE HOMILY

Heidegger rift will stop you.

instant anyway means long stoppage for the requirement of definite.

such learn the mucous slum, cough up in time, but degree lost to formality.

admit to the take as a shudder thru out the beak and push of this insurgent staying power.

want and deserve a use for idle long odds.

trust in the cage such as recovers fondly removed style clutter.

we that shed Aristotle form news agencies and beg the question can shed you and beg answers. the question will not put me out, as in the ripe grange and union of fist colours.

only the regent process needs a name so close to Lenin. Lenin bit a charm. Lenin showered carpet stage. Lenin over broad conclusion, shoved to precinct bets and stays after. now reading then the known becomes the entry pasture, operative Stalin feature, a national cleansed of cleaning rights. something awful in even study, moldy American can change that? no new topical crème to slave for. no news worth aping, no change among the grave features. just chopped off, as savour for. this fairness has an application history that we will fill in telling. shakes a fair mystery all along, for which we write a bit. Heidegger names an afterthought for those who dug the hole.

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TRAINED BY DOCTRINE'S

even something new proved consistent with earlier dams broken for wholesome benefit. evidence circled Lenin's shiny head, a fact that couldn't allow extraneous within close textural margin. he was the head, you know, stood tall on glass after. he was the use of words, momently, encouraging vast and less than vast. together, Lenin started to begin. his pals were stem, root or whatever left of the tree. Stalin like a brother or murderer, together but taunting. the newsreel spoke all truth. a vigourous nation of reading about, lets loose a name for something. thus in the squall, not Russia but the other side. Baltic Sea never made the books in a big way, which nearly seems like merriment to report. the dam gives way, people talk, a few meaningless bombs, then smoke clears just like fog does. who remains? are they national? could we live in the future? ideally, the picture closes over a nice thatch roof, under which cooing and the verbs of love. ideally, we aren't in need of saints. still, prominence always makes its own virtue. those who like to chug do so. eventually everyone wins, or loses, whichever seems to be right.

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GRADIENT EMPATHY REPORT

Lenin's
whole gross matter scraped clean production from the human possible tribune series then in means. the whole possible segmenting needed parts of each required dull. more than that, the entire fill of capital meant a stun lop, meaning gust over rapt of water. all water needs to be determined, muttered Lenin. for interest begins screed, which then transposes newspapers (cartels!), and German wreck begets announcements. later then, a shame for instant, and Lenin had more. more into American soil defined and plucked. more into the recent surge across the literary lanes of inquest. more periods of more. so Lenin heralded an architectonic romp with orchestration and the rumble thud of Star Trek all varieties stadia.

Lenin
goes into the city itself. into rays of bending perfectly awful drainage, and rays from towers into eyes, and rays of stench deeded to stench, and rays equal to the real blinking lights in numerous windows, and rays extending drama to top floors sometimes, and rays of subway refinement, and rays out of all process and the invention of poised proportion. more, too. Lenin resolves to betray his name while saying onerous unbecoming. yet were we really listed in the ingredients like he said? was he really an ingredient too? we read again the notion that practice is a logic itself. and if logic, therefore gunked up with soot and sludge (namesakes for thinking sometimes) we must, huddled and marked, resort to reaching out if not over. are we over? here's the gist of Lenin's speech:

Lenin
marks a peer into the future with a language only fresher as a staying thing. then the sentence, which never left, goes into closeting frames. nothing ostentatious rewards only these trottings. underneath this book is one by John Ashbery. anything becomes comment. a force fed tendency ripens on the marge. motions loop. streets lead to streets, which lead on. we the crisis must have emphasis, and a name for tomorrow's role. no more circling of airports. the sea resists our sport, merely dies.

there's more, but we need good
tending to hear. the ocean has slapped
forever. it's been hard with the
shorebirds. even rises a federation, faces the wind, swoops
muscular then glides. you've
eaten it, the time in question. the beachhead meets
slurs of reasons.

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TOUCHING A PLOT

Ashbery, John, whose work goes around, is not the only little voice. he said scram! one day when the tide was in the rocks and coves. he said scram! at the pleasant settlement and dinner. he said scram! basically, and it seemed to jibe with something under a dusky tree with wind thru and thru. yet he strew the course with Lenin papers, softly reigned and then it was what exactly but to be sure. he came to a convenience store and this was Lenin's turf. for who should pay the rent of this august ritual finding? can you park out front with motor running? not in New Jersey, pull of assertion. the larger question rises: who produces the cheese that merrily makes the sandwiches more? who wraps bananas singly for the single purchaser? who invents coffee by the ton, the flavour of a wet past? Lenin tucks his mental grievance into sentences and such. there was history once, but it was no good. Ashbery teaches then writes then receives an award. his poem puts a lot of tender thought out, between him and who is reading, if reading, if the person there. so much constitutes loss that could be a hovering bird into the wind, over the ocean. the bird, regulated in the ways of life structured and divided, has the whole of anything to perceive. unlike us as human predations, who have the rules laid across boards and fences. which brings us right to poems, initiations by Ashbery, his real perplexity. Lenin could disappear, tho the sight of the used up corpse doesn't seem like enough of a jolt. really. it feels good to close the patent.

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SAMPLE STROKES

the nearness of you and all of your graduations. you read thru the pages and made sure. all was requested in an earlier day. all, including trumped up charges. those were delivered via wayward, which has been a prince of late. the prince, or princess, of wayward, choosing sides. contradiction lies in simply seeing the sea die in your lifetime. it dies as your lifetime. tough break. there's a poem, once, but never mind. George W Bush and the barn burning. we gather today to dedicate this barn burning. the sea smells like hesitation. Lenin's papers flock the wind's way of seizing, like birds if you want, and you do, that picture. then the wind scurries the words off, every word a new destiny to pin on hope. but the end zone, your fraction, blurs: the wind just blows. Lenin's poems strand on tales of reaching over things. John Ashbery prepares the next manuscript. it is fifty paces long. you could walk that in a day, if you were inside the terrific and terrific inside. our news fills today.

the sea reaches high tide, a promise of nothing particularly but still a reliable gauge. then you push into the wind, which the shorebirds aren't even bothering with. then you return to your papers. these are exquisite with your chance. your voice as little as Ashbery's, your method applied as a trusting force. well, that's a creamy distinction to touch upon, need a mentor. Lenin's super. he stood around and wrote and then became a big handful. then Stalin was something else again. application of means stresses the diligence of work for words. good for what ails thee, incorporated into the hardest sort of book. President Bush applies for a map, with every bean in place.

the argument so far implies that President George W Bush has a firm hand, firm reign, firm rein in decision, firm head for facts, firm fact finds, firm hands on reins and reign, firm head in hands, firm reign in night, firm diligence, firm book of poems, firm eclogue, firm take off and firm rocket. the rocket flies passing strange and diction, diction till the nether port. at that point add Lenin and Ashbery, markers. Gertrude Stein again and again. every word counts, more or less. Hillary Clinton will rise as presidential candidate in the possible year of 2008. or her possible engine will react to vicissitudes, or her highly wrought flavour of possible text will reach ruination, or the guidance of the wind will steep possible people in further text, almost a reflection. who knows along lines and rounding surfaces? the structure of time performs a dedicated raga. thus:

we return to the nearness of you. you are distinct tho what is not in this plain song? you go but that's not the hole story. you were once the piece and may remain so. the wind runs us all.

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TEAM WORK

gullies of federation were enough for Lenin sometimes, and sometimes the rest of the world mattered. sometimes the flicker of weeds in june, sometimes the flight of best birds. all in all, rage over climate changes, the figuring of fuel sources, the moonshine of money means: these were the umpires that Lenin needed and heeded. he was someone on the side then in. in was reverend, but learn to know the smoke. James Bond movies liven the chug of trains into sexual tunnels, man that's satisfying. a pint of wonder resides in deeds made for laugh stock. criminal intent enters musty rock theatre. some flakes melt over barbed wires and some resist termination by skullduggery. hookahs fill with reminders, and the seashore regales with rumpus. why does Lenin remain scholarly over misted fire storm now? cheesy food lumps, commercial unguent sources, muck hampered by regional qualities. James Bond urges use of perfect syndromes, with imperialist haha behind the markings. notable flunk teams desire reek of smirk. Lenin give us a break!

there's more to life than living it:
get together with your neighbourhood clock.
count the numbers of even your neighbours.
join a segment or be one.
sample the last wind…

Lenin's march was serious boon.

business had a hell to say.

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HIGH MARKS FOR LENIN

computer failure is weak coffee.

the cause of production exists in the interchange between two rascally revolutionaries who, banged and borne, show great cushion in coffee brewed as black as the revolution night. in that night, campfires on the beaches and moonbeams scuttle amongst the thin cloud merchandise. poetry scoffs at possible audience. Ashbery feels like response...

later,
comes dawn. cheers for fishing mark this. wade into the froth, flap rod and fling the catching mechanic, which simulates life going on, which fills the fish, which then demands retirement into death, which is a knife and fork exercise, which then makes sense of many things…

meanwhile,
James Bond has made sex out of talking, and his weaponry becomes thrilled too. thrilled that the revolution includes good old fashioned. thrilled by all the bending trees just as hurricane force arises. use idea as bait. present each Bond girl with time. Bond's randy angle grows a lark in spring, a laugh, a silk sheet placing. constancy almost finishes the sentence.

Hegel, tho, has no ideas, nor things. he procures that which engages between thought and thing. all reeks misty and compelled, even to speak in a language that has or has not undergone. a heaven of dirty water results. he dreams ocean of tractable latitude. he slaps upon the coast of dreamt, applied in monetary gashes into the body, then flopping on the beach. a cool morning grows kinder. "a proof of a person's having knowledge is even the ability to reach", chuckles Aristotle. which blinds Hegel momentarily. Lenin rushes to the great hall whereat he will trill the latest nerve of revolution. something about the volition of idea states, functional non-starving procedures, and the milking of mass from the cloyed damage in intention.

what about workers?

they've got sails. they breach. they retain clock, numeral, payload, and such as candidly springs into the city. frank city stuff 'goes on'. more follows, including return of payload.

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THE ROCKETSHIP IS LOOSE!

James Bond, quod est demonstratum, leaves after Lenin, tho memory, father of television show, stops at a gap. even now (then) Lenin stays. both obey Hegel, whose dumb luck pervades desultory read. thus, in the capitalist crankcase, a foreboding initiated by campfires on beaches, dogs running to and fro, moist sand, ephemeral boating incidents, the moon splashing light, certain plans reified in the dictionary while everyone tries to decipher. study these plans, contained as they are by supernova-styled bombs and planetary whoop. one day, goes the theory, all this will be 'yours'. which is the definition of yawning: nothing left: voiced vowels.

Lenin stalked the cases.

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ENDEMIC CLUTTER

the shit just is, said Lenin. judge by these Bond movies. judge by language gone tucked. judge or not by the Notion that spends its thrift inside, "hung on the thread of light by which it was linked to heaven". huffing about the words, theory vehicles, a trust in droning. Lenin writes a poem to Ashbery, a thin nascent throng by which so many tricking things gather as a river. the river, then and now, reabsorbs a multitude of cool bodies. namelessness squeezes further thru, practical essence that can cross leagues. vital knocking sounds consider Venetian canal plots. James Bond rules the world one gondola at a time. Lenin struggles with the cusp. Ashbery raises aping. Bond gets the sex part, final figure of mayhem learned by nation. then and now, the whole gathering sticks in truck toward final victory. although, plainly, world domination sucks…

the big one remains. the big one is almost a closing signal, almost an opening plan, almost a crust of diligence between teeming armies, almost all the economic membrane, almost the trash speak, almost exploding gauze, almost serial rhythm, almost people applied, almost when there wasn't any, and almost any more kindly spoken rites thrown from the train in battle of heat. the big one comes and goes. the fire fight lasted then stopped. that atomic nuisance rose and fell. all simply trickles past.

this is all in
our words.

this is all
our plain steel
terming.

our words,
teaming.

whirled dominion sucks…

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ATTIC ARISTOTLE

at Aristotle's own wet beginning, nagging Lenin, who reads Hegel blinking, which raises Marx to a bar, the fist of brandy then awaiting summer. summer arrives in London, full of dying tonic and revolt rushes easily. Lenin in England's plain speech, in Austrian hamlet training, in hampered hausfrau Germany, in Russia's firm atoll, in bee-like sipping time all over. thus the carriage that John Ashbery, poet, sets forth seems generous and troubadour. we need doors and windows. we need the brusque counterfeit dawn in our imaginary list. we need some pensive words over the arch ocean night. Bond gains a gram, a mildew, a ridiculous love nest. a Bond girl pours in, over, out. it's just work, tho pleasure consists similar bonds with demands: ocean front flock tending, with a bag of sex. now Aristotle becomes a greased pig of festoons, rituals and that kind of martini that means something. remember the most tremendous toothpaste? and too: the foremost maker of labels, dowels, pot scrubbers and antennae for cellular phones? loveliness as rampage. pleasure wants more than meets the eye. we see a Bond girl with a heart full of transit authority. a rampaging spy network includes doorways and proscenium. howitzers of pleasure, mountebanks full of fluttery bunk beds, chirruping rustic pencil cases, camera-ready dictionaries for racists, pumps whipped to pure romp, and James Bond agrees to perform turpitude while John Ashbery writes down all the ingredients. this, my friends, is the critical work now to face. we need footnotes on our whipped up frenzy.

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RITUAL REEK

history unitary thrum goes like this:
Lenin acquired the coast.
he was 'at it'.
his work bent noses thru a process of embarkation, new world stuff.

forget Columbus, stuck on the ragging end of pawn.

Lenin had the beat back.
regiments got the word, Tsars shat their pants.
legions placed the little tsarina athwart a collection of cool angry words and
motions towards the end.

Lenin, meanwhile, trumpeted past the elder palace crapola. he knew the new future of dishwashing machines and animated love interests, with motion replacing constancy.

Lenin said,
I am the voting proxy with a watchdog tale.
pubs filled with resultant backwash, ocean slap.
from behind the eight ball, a whole theory of world in pieces became read right.
each piece of the entire dog trot constitutes a program of reliance and doorways.

the door swings open, with green and bluesy.

do not go whatever into that whatever night, according to the poet of log jam drinking, yet stars alive, monsters from the sea, and Lenin stops a crowd with something about production that really rang the bell.

a wet nurse woke the babe.
an opiate for the masses seemed less viable.
other reports gave more and something.

yes forever, then: those Bond girls are worth the price of free enterprise.

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MORNING GOBS OF GUST

our better files resume. Lenin instructs by carriages into dirt, which reflects a natural distinction yet also the currency of engine goes afire. language populates us, said Lenin. verbs terrify us, nouns make us silly. we never learn to use prepositions, which mark some function beyond our ken. we restore other fell files inside our trucking route then play stiff and reliable. this is no future yet, only a simulacrum of possible episodes.

the gunk of rain, probable on sundays, situates a necessary yardarm on the tree escaping seasonal boat. warmer regions need ardent reports, to instill a star contribution. we would find a field someday, personally closed but storage. then boats from the protected bay will try winter seas. fishing sport for reference, spaces into pressing gauge.

the poem has a neat perspective, with the voice of Ashbery, for one instant, trickling across the room. in its wake, a warm glow of southern seas and rattled without rain. but then poetry is no contribution, is no political combine, is only something in something on something, forensically discussed and disputed. that gesture map indoctrinates the pace of ball across the room. so called poem.

more varieties look like everyone else. tense procession shifts some theories out from the cellar, into the garage, next to the junky Styrofoam cooler, that will float across the bay when given the chance. the bay holds the beating waves back, but revolution wants more people without pudding. the pudding is the axis of poison, as page 72 makes clear. and if page 72 did not exist, there would be other pages to explain the documentary exhaust. our trial fights us but we accept the vantage of rain. rain heals our ocean by filling it.

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EFFLORESCENT TRADE ROUT

trade routed demand produced least slave performance. THE WORKER cries atop loads of barrels. Lenin seizes the issue as moment, finds poetry as the religion of opiates. not itself an opiate, but serving in that garrison. then garden blown into the sea, where hordes have lived to find destiny trained on the espalier of democratic enterprise. yes, enterprise = war zone, but nothing else intrudes. as John Locke once declared, the smell of Rome concludes our discussion. Lenin barrels in, tried by drunk tiers and retrofit for war time. that is, he wanted Stalin's ready gat, splinter groups of hoodlum theory, pikes and discharge until the Tsarist pantywaists settle their choices. the news world arises, fractured, but plumes of smoke hover over the remains of city. the oceans rise, include, and fill the space with watery waste. then, as darkness falls, television lights the way and the sea uncovers its perverse treasure. no words can explain the excitement, tho many will try.

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ACTIVATED CHARCOAL

Aristotle and Hegel, together, asserted stopping. they wept at James Bond, all that love in one man working. they lifted glasses towards Lenin, all of him. here is Ashbery's pluck on display, to survive redhanded while others have no hands. words are not choices. stabbing pains create workers. politics fizzes onto sport model, the utility vehicle that can ride the beach near ending. death in shellfish and crabs, on top of farming for religious peaks. crazy spirals and blurring temperate digest fills the beach. we've woven a penned up candidate out of our glossary. diction is retro. modality slings faster registrars. leftovers assert the trouble with Star Trek, which can be listed in orderly fashion. will the future we have in our hands equal the past we will create? this is a cigarette contest, smokers awake. notions spin forward swampingly, without forgetting the dish that Bond served. sex in space inhabits a brainchild, for a minute at least, then back to business. business is about sex in space. inhabitation proves extra. extra itself needs a home. home is where Lenin last broke. the mob faced the selfsame squall. the literal sea rose. workers dilated, gravitated, tried. no one resists a president tho we all looked over the shame of it. we looked over dictionary entries. we slept on a bench, for all was good in the failing season. poems were the possible trees of language, engaged in self entry. our reign child doesn't break. Aristotle flies home, touched by Alexander. he entered the country as one tirade, would requite as another. all this work fell together. Bond called the shots. Hegel inbounded. Ashbery wrote a ripe. thus the process pulled together, like us, riptide.

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SLIGHTED TOUCH

operative Stalin feature reenters by way of community spirit.
spit loss out, filled by crime lab.

lunkhead vote wants in.
drubbed vote wants in.
tiny seizure resisting flop sweat wants in.

Stalin has been gracious, having 'read up on Lenin'.
the move of ocean over planet = stiff injunction / can't do.
nodes around which logical instant refrain, and that means so much less than forever.

the talk of politics inside a cooling rock foundation resolves politely. the Romans were Greek, the Greeks were desperate, the desperate are always at work. Stalin, as Lenin, secured Bush (president, after a fashion) then gave Hegel a tune (rolled over), and more to come. Hegel as patience, while Dickinson sang solely, while Stein ate a fence, fully, and Aristotle was perforce engaged to trying. nothing else forested these planetary schemes, and better than rushing past the scram frame. hordes and hoi poloi together.

looks rustled.
looks jury rigged.
looks awful on the seashore retention.

all thus slopped together wired. Lenin puts electricity to the work.

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WHIPPING UP THE RENTERS

Lenin's own report relented exact train station in the Ural region. toward some lake exit, he opened a barter to degree. same people everywhere read better after books, said Lenin, and adjudged with a wallop thru turmoil like all the candidates combined. those closest turned toward the new market. I say yes into severance, Lenin declared. fire thru the market bear, the throng needs mood. and mood rings were correct circa sometime, as everyone can remember rightly. mood rings of launch committee, just like Ashbery says while Stein, Gertrude, reminds us of other completed fare. Lenin reads on. each delicate word could be trusted as a vice for comrade. enough vice would require a fulcrum sort of banking theory. price guidelines will kill. in meantime, Russia moved ad hoc to the Jersey Shore, which Lenin loved in buttery cloud comment and while we were waiting. I am in a minute of dust, Lenin wanted to say, but the revolution wasn't just a tearing sound. the terrible theme songs of James Bond movies get to the munching matter between us. I am just a particle before and after, Lenin said in the last day. but Star Trek, he added, will save our butts or so.

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DUMB SOUNDS

Ashbery's mark, selected from years arrived at beginning, 1928, sweat of fogs. the other cousin thing of air and waiting, cloud and trial, winged ones and still. the rush of wind perhaps a dedication to voice. tone comes from somewhere as we talk into the night. campfires, as reference, beget something like a craze for new flavours. none of this beyond Lenin's ken. Lenin of honest trek toward wilderness and need. recent populace fizzles and combusts, such instant of condition. years drained of meaning, only sound words remain. the hefty hordes that finally, in the sacerdotal year, and so on, into voting pubic, rough work, the end of sagacity while waiting. the New Deliverance sorts work of hearty range, taxing dishwashers like machine-made windows. and then you think you've got it, but it is only transparency made useful. it's a poetry worked toward the end of beaches in heaven. the houses are big, apparently that's a good thing…

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TRAINNG SESSIONS FOR ALL

artillery rumba, as of: whichever delta force mundane brings Commander James Bond to the next conclusion? each conclusion settles sexually but doesn't have legs. no legs whatever, just fenced off, telltale sounds of natural disasters laid out perpendicularly. the theory being that one becomes sad in these regent disasters, and less further on by the regal nexus. it all contains a logic, to wit: James angrily takes on the evil force, somehow differentiated. this invents Newt Gingrich, for instance, Dick Cheney, and even the current of presidency, say George W Bush in our loaner time. then a direction of falling, which includes the sad tale of towers going down, people all over, support of our troops, need to know basis. and so on. it's easy to encapsulate the ins and their outs. Bond rifles thru something or other, and there's a lady present. she's like Guatemala or something Southeast Asia, tho tall. pick up the ball of wax, which proves to be a gun (thanks to technological strides!). the gun is an instant of uttering, which we all envy. sex provides tubes. that is, rockets in tunnels, with between 120 and 180 minutes involved. Lenin reaches the baccarat table just in time to see Bond float a chip the size of many numbers, pure wealth if wealth existed. only martinis exist, and cigarettes, and the occasional fallopian tube. Dick Cheney wears an eyepatch, enough to throw us off. that is his stead. a desperate ocean full of whatever seems to be integral to the plot. fish qua fish swim distinctly, central Caribbean theme. gathering gloom means sex. explosion means sex. Lenin's shiny forehead means sex. but sex doesn't mean sex. one sultry lady is Bond's latest chance, while another wants to eat his biblical number. it would take Lenin and Trotsky, together, to mull these radiations and constitute an order. Bond sends his tuxedo to be made crisp. he shoots down a helicopter with his pants off.

but where
does this leave
John Ashbery,
now that he is
made?

Ashbery puts a voice on like you put on a shoe. you gesture for tables, he reaches to a tone. you segment last week from this, he provides the soundtrack. do you ready yourself? Ashbery does, and more. he applies all theories of trucks, wending, cheer, baked, sea wind, flow-a promenade of method, with no family involved-and applies sane fresh over coastal water sound.

THEN
he returns to noon, which left after dark. he sends sport toward a pressure system. this allows even James Bond a breath. so we see, now, that James Bond was instantaneously along lines of thirst. his thirst included peach melba with distant sailboats, Roederer R.D. ("Recément Dégorgé") with sparked tributary, beluga caviar and the settee of princes, sex culled from selection, a banyan tree yet still eager, and an inner vacation from all vacations. Lenin wants to be his friend. Lenin wants to live long enough. Lenin wants that named cigarette. Lenin switches on and off.

only friends survive, or seemingly so. only frozen effect on beach, for a while, the trumpeting thereof. only slide down the shoreline while those who fish step into the water. ownership is only that, a minute or two to complete.

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EQUIPMENT SILENCE

in this light, as of Emily Dickinson sighing outside all revolution-which means placement inside it, totally arrived-stout winds constitute motivation for the brave chaise longue cushion that readies to take wing from a beachfront property deck. lines drawn in air, which Hegel defined rightly some 200 years ago, agree with the positioning. torqued by rush forces, that clarify endlessness in abbreviated terms, an avant goes before with rice wine-tinged gratitude. ocean flux throws ashore a fish head while surf bundles land value into precise statement of real estate. emphasis comes with crowds in these latitudes. after collegiate coffee, important in storm mornings especially, spike wind amounts to rain, which isn't kindness itself: it could sink your boat or send the craft flopping into the wings of ailing force. fun sounds like a drink of dish washing soap, the kind with extra something to make your plates as clean as all that went before. nothing in fact went before, it all stayed put, in line, lighter than air. our thoughts champed, however, at the potential reamed from the static book, as Lenin told us how. we read thru each poem Ashbery shoveled from the pile, and Gertrude chatted alongside. Hegel holds a branch out to a frail swimming in distraught. those waves are being tried on bigger terms. rain makes gulping. air supply performs agitation of the globe. the tools that we use reach the class of condition. no end to the reign appears likely, the royal set comes completely installed. we've read these bits before, of course, the shame of seeing untethered cushions fly from beachfront decks. but then a gaze of possibility, to think that here is potent means. the revolution via chaise longue cushions, that repeat their efforts in the cunning air, that outstrip tendering procedures, that escape the semantic clauses in the rush of storm forth. lads and lasses, we can travel this distance with our winking nodes. tools fit opposing thumbs. Lenin starts to chant:

these selfsame days are nearly numbers on a class that stands quite whitely in the brink straying cooling stoppage run of the mill simplicity machine, whereas the bright downcast changing rock, stoop figure, motive frond, seems naval. in other words, our catchphrase…

and James Bond remains. the splendid firefight between opposing killer kite flying nemeses. sharks and bandicoots together drive threat into the heart. Caribbean playground for a good flush of enemy, with feminine distraction to shake up audience numbers. and the joke worthy of the decapitation hearkens to an age when things hearkened to an age.

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COLLECTION NOTE

having not yet stalled, Lenin's garbage scow picks up the planet. pieces flew everywhere, in that earlier, delicious indeed coffee. the proles took hold of coffee by the meaning of ton. their voices (ours) raise something stilted, the language of love. but love remains a country, no matter how apolitical we can become. we're sure about convenience stores, the rate of coffee extension, and the crunchy things we eat instead of food. we take time to note a life of practice (not ours). it is the velvet voice of Lenin, star attraction. Lenin completes a language with something so revealing that, quietly, no manner remains. dawn takes the planet by storm. we say we're writing poetry now but it looks like prose all night. in the morning Lenin struts before the now rested sea. the beach has been cleared of old life, a new battle takes hold. this battle to end all battles will begin and end promptly, for the workers are settled in their routine. horseshoe crabs start something elsewhere. trash becomes visible, like trace elements. the convenience store lands in the appropriate parking lot, and folks get out. newspapers proclaim something dilatory and daily, specifics are not needed. Lenin and his garbage scowl wake the day. day becomes again the people involved. the utter landscape and real estate values, expressed as possible parking lot in a whole other country. foreign parking lots fight for space. the system mystifies as it consoles.

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CRAB WATCH

marketing helplessness made the difference. orcs ranged out, etc, with technique colour applied later. critical emblem news trucked over to the other side. the other side made amends. peace supplied a junction at which roadways could aim. and departure was just as neat. beckoning FORCES OF EVIL took to the road, as did the constant FORCES OF GOOD. in charge on one side was Lenin, and on the other side, Lenin was in charge. in the middle, Lenin took chances in the traffic. so the orcs and the splendid army of the other side brought together their aims for the future. they made tears when needed and produced hearty texts full of spirit and fight. easily aloof from the process, the multitude got ready to get ready. here was the time in which further languages were required. by required, one should understand that means = symptom. the price of scrod as a market trend captures the diligence with which one draws the portrait. a flopping ocean on one side, a sterile bay on the other. rudiments of fearsome agreement fester here and there, so fine as to alert the proper authorities. the market drums the unneeded, welcoming need as a productive instigator for good motion. motion itself proves primeval, like the scrabbling of crabs around some toothsome morsel. granted, we understand that morsel as the body politic, but what's dead is dead, period. reflection only wastes time. the helpless need more than help, they need reaction. the orcs look to the latest plot devices, technical matters of loud weaponry with splash. fierce bejesus on both sides explains narrative while something underneath contains the actual factions. a final slopping up, then the next round begins. the crabs clean up.