Brockton, Massachusetts finds space on your map simply. one can easily see the type of exotic tropical palm trees that have chosen the Massachusetts climate to enjoy, flocked on the island anyone can know as Brockton. directly above those municipal gemstone, stars grow anxious. now that Brockton-still associated with southeastern Massachusetts-is an island, the beautiful sea resides close as love, hugging the golden town's borders. the stars kindly watch, and spill colours with glinting surety, specifically red, blue, green, yellow, orange, violet and other colours too numerous and wonderful to name. the people of Brockton speak words of rich rarity, as tribal as trees. these poems are wild things, leftover from far earlier days. the shoe factories lose no splendour in the memory of every resident. even tourists, and those lucky enough to pass thru, shine in contemplation. any word spoken could be a pistol to drive off marauders, or signals to passing ships to save the marooned, or directions to lasting inner engagements. obviously, no one but anyone could live in this spectral place. hope is just another factory but delight can't be lost. Brockton holds the human race, and all our partners. the musical notes here are pure, far exceeding guesswork. every intensity arises with worded grave. the population has been confused long enough, or at least that is the current claim. in space, all sound is enclosed and challenged, but in Brockton, the full shape can be explored. when poetries flicker in the noonday sun, the people of Brockton will have spoken and heard. Brockton's numbers are special indeed, cracked open and displayed. the words there are magnets.
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Brockton's Poem 4/22/00
there is a process, I don't know it well, by which Claude Debussy creates the possibility of Brockton, Massachusetts. details remain vague. music isn't necessarily insidious. Debussy lands on some stretch of land and becomes enamoured. Brockton, a place in southeastern Massachusetts, grows gradually more endearing. that this is so raises the temperature at the earth's core. no figures exist concerning that temperature but rest assured that something happens. somehow, Debussy stresses facts, and Brockton, not a real municipality anymore, becomes factual. in this realm of facts, anything can drown in tears, or bile, or a huge pile of bullshit. this makes the whole of Brockton sleepy, even the dogs, the pigeons, the people who remember Rocky Marciano. years ago, Debussy strove for something. in Debussy's guidance, Brockton grew more wary. in wariness, words found a home. this sensation of address forms a radical ring around the topic of conversation, the frightened neighbourhood. eventually, an ideal poem becomes manifest. it seems that this is what one poem can be about. in being about, a poem finds a home. in southeastern Massachusetts, in the usual rain.
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In Brockton 4/27/00
this song is green but I've said that before. I repeat myself without disaster. love is a piquancy that I think everyone in Brockton enjoys. I know the outskirts of the burg, a friendly if distant face. that creamy glow in the perfect sunshine leaves me breathless. I try to sing along to this tune now, greener than most. I am green, that is, and so is the tune. I wonder how the citizens of Brockton, so familiar with the very song, can stand the enormous presence of their living love? they possess a vocabulary that invents fireworks for personal reasons, ideally irrational inscapes. I want to be there! I may shout over the fence for a chance to catch the prevalent tune. are the oceans that lick your boundaries so blue and salty beyond your cozy mornings? I claim no prominence, I only write a word or two. the clutter outside my door is wastage from the usual explosions. poets mutter idealized patterns; words collapse desperately, tricked by usage. the season fills the porch and casual oaks ready to bloom for a dangerous half year. here, that is, somewhat north of Brockton. in that gleaming town, people are guided by the words they flow with. all rivers are excited, all roads caustically insistent. the lyrics settle into a spot and, why love, we could picnic here! where this spot on the map welcomes us. goodness, such comfort.
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Natural History Museum of Brockton 4/30/00
the elaboration constitutes a township. let all exult now in the music, and the greening trees. today is a goose heading to that wet patch. slack sunlight washes any city like Brockton, Massachusetts, gladdened enhancement. the communal urge fires up a truculent vacuity familiar to all jaded eyes. hearken to that or the tea kettle a-boil. the favoured enclose their destitutions in glossy rites. they magnify their delirium with queenly justice and a dollop of sweet cream in their tea. this hums with Brockton's tone. a flicker of honey sweetens the tea and the day pauses in its grandiose stretch across the imaginable heavens to let the tea's airy fragrance trim some clutter from the doorway. take hold of the idea that a gust will be yours. take that picture now. you can walk the streets of Brockton, collapse in sidewalk reverie. the beamish sun resists interpretation but look how the ransacked factories take on new life. the country has a heavenly possibility. that's not so bad as it sounds. the framework renders activity into boundless energy, you see. that Blakean truth works its magic on Brockton's own. the language dips its beak into the mild rostrum of invigourated politics. the people speak, or move above the town. and the town, too, moves about. and the country moves, and the continent does, and the planet finds extremity as just one more dance. and all this adds up to a talked-about grace. discussion fills the boat with longing and excitement. island astonishment lives on. Brockton is home.
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The Brockton Colour Code 5/4/00
the shade trees barnstormed for years, then settled in Brockton, flower of Massachusetts. which words work, when daylight creeps away and trees prove parsimonious? everyone argues of light and dark.
the people of Brockton trap their essence in the vital ground, portents arranged as city blocks. lately, all crowded vernacular imitates the statutes of the burg. the children are playful, sweaty, timed. the glow of the population produces a welter, with summery crises approaching.
the shade trees can never go dormant but must prove alluring greenness in any moment. the sidewalks of Brockton roam in video. common courtesy reaches a probity fitted to the factory owners. naturally. one day, those shoes of old will return, a branching out of production. those workers, in bygone days, willed the intensity withy every shoe made in piece work.
history flows over the boundaries of Brockton and the idea looks good.
the grand American, that person, stands by the roadside, watching zoom. a sad request settles in those eyes. the heart of movement fills the air. the shade trees may go away again, and Brockton, weighted balloon, will sink in style. our lyric enterprise demands a symphonic alliance. every word knows that Debussy was right. the hum that you hear, that's the Brockton voice, in tune or time. just sliding in fortune with the shade trees, that live as legends again.
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Those of Brockton Wonder 4/24/00
green comfort seems to connect to the very townships in which we live. the realm of Brockton makes all history a smaller boat. those lucky enough can climb aboard. anyone can say everything eventually, just thinking about facts. facts made Brockton, as did so many words. citizens need to sparkle as they dispute the lonesome preconceptions that form the boundaries of their fair burg. when all else sails away, a home remains. in the wording of each passage, armies of tired Greeks look for a nice library in Brockton where their essence can be reclaimed. there won't be troubled glances at the books, just a broadening discourse. any merry interplay will fill the township with rumours of praise. the fair folk of Brockton have time to dance. that they may make shoes again will be their holy hope. the juice of their reclamation runs into broad streams, electric in energy. the preening trees can fend for themselves.
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To Get At Brockton 4/25/00
an elaborate highway constitutes one route to get at Brockton. this is method. one streaks across the leftover countryside to the single place that is only there. greetings to all of Brocton, Massachusetts, from one afar. I have heard the words spoken and sung: you are there. the branches of your trees wave with ludicrous abandon. this place must attach its destiny to all particulars, or else I am as confused as the throng. when the beautiful women and men march about he currents of your streets, the envelope seems full of notes from sweethearts of old. let me scan the actual sayings, with tears bedecking my cheeks and a blur that I know holding back the sky's blasting blue ocean. I am fond of the possible structures alit in the drapery of the best homes. when the shoe factories became hopeless, homes remained as terrible mountains. the island minds grow heartened nonetheless. the morning sun freely pierces the empyrean for us, and makes the daffodils silly. the city of Brockton, with its history of people, seems so possible now, even amidst the clatter and radio noise. can we who pass by in the highway's rush beg for a better vision? yes, and a Victorian counterpane on every bed.
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Brockton Love Poem 4/30/00
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 limit of squirrel. in Brockton, your dance partner has been there, and so 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 up avenues to all inspired to 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.
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Brockton Report: "I Ate Flan 'Haut Brion' For Breakfast'" 4/28/00
gazabo comes to town yakking multiplex squat but he folks of Brockton are up to that. they find elbow room and what do you know: the diction of torture goes out the window. still the gazabo talks strong, like his theoretical belle lettrisme really needs a bath, somewhere nice, as Brockton is a home for many. those poised with perky diatribes, or at least some adjectives on alert, can startle to their heart's content. the dialogue has opened a route to Brockton, where integrity instills in the diction of the common folk. gazabo wants to go to town, but when will the pure realization collect the troubled love lore into neat packages? Rocky Marciano had a home, my friends. today gangs fleer and feed the astonishment of all who visit the shoe museum. bouncing onto the subject matter once again, that same cheeky duffer goes to certain lengths, even to the point of doorways and haze. how can the noble streets stay clean in the dirty rains of the modern word? simply thus, and take heart: no sucker punch shall ever knock the native sideways. those politics associate with parachutes and the breaded veal of factory owners. class structure radiates into people, damnably intensifying the adjustments they daily make. the gazabo finally launches a supreme asking price (expected by all), just a car salesman with a future, but the sensation of rhythm keeps the city very strong. eventually the challenge goes poof! note the experimental airships in the wonderful sky!
I blurted out a sense of extremity! why? people in soggy countries talk about the fabric of their dreams, willfully resisting the awesome perspective available to them. I have opinionated before. the way I saw the trees and the diversionary snow made me feel at home today. I shall release tempo, or that's how I will invent my latest claim. I could use some porridge and a new cow. the straw I feed the horse will exonerate these days when I felt too peckish to care about others. my community needs me. I am beyond ordinary walking distance to Brockton, I'm just a careless lamb. I hear of a place with blue skies, and a private ocean. when my boat is old enough, it will sail to the newly made island of Brockton. until then, Brockton shall be an imaginary poem unconstricted by today's norms regarding culture and vocabulary. I should be frightened, having this stance, but I'm too tired to care. I wan the caress of the summer's hidden snow. the people of Brockton, Massachusetts, call to me, I just know. their voices fill my favourite song. and I am no longer a footnote for the more vocal of the population. friends, I extend my hand in welcome. my astonishment is yours!
