people droop, try hard. people go over there, look around, come back and tell about it, using any word they can get close to. it's rainy, but see the clear area over that way. people talk and listen, have grapefruits flown in from tropical places, think of friends. friends are people, distant, average. there's a good time to be had, people looking at their watches. the thoughts brought to mind are shared, people at work. work is an advantage for some, a breaking for others. people make up stories. stories fill our homes, standing nicely on our shelves. people read up, get things down. "hi, I am Maria Shriver, my explanation is simple." some people are everyone, celebrated, and the time is right. what Maria Shriver writes is just one example. won't you please come into this room? Maria Shriver in the bathroom. people drop from the sky, curious and curiously. landing on earth is just another day. people see Maria Shriver and know everything. the time will be right, and the writing will point this out. Maria Shriver is someone, anywhere. it makes no difference if there is no name here, just a flat plane known as someone. anyone who is someone can go home.
Plaint
I am a part time Greek shipping magnate but even so, Maria Shriver sets me back on my heels. I ponder the world and all its inclusions, or try to: the freely drafted letters to personages who can get things done and still float away, the ennobled pragmatism that sees a thing and turns it into process. when process turns into people, I become marginally wary. for me, being a Greek shipping magnate is just a hobby, something I do when I want to kick back and relax from the pressure of trees. I cannot relax, tho, knowing Maria Shriver will bound into view, owning as much of the explanation as she possibly can. the world can be dismal, and I only want to see the sun shine on a few large and profitable ships, not carry the day. I live an abject loneliness and can't claim my teeth are hard as stone. I know those who speak Spanish and give exact change. this doesn't help me. Maria Shriver is what anything is about, a fact that won't go away. my few Greek ships disconsolately toss on a totally wracked sea, yet the awning of Maria Shriver's hair invents destitution without even moving. I wonder at the physical properties that make a Maria Shriver or any of her vast cousins exist in timezones at all. I am too small in my troubles, having no notion of when to fall off my horse. my magnetized Greek ships won't deny the attraction of the eternal earth's orphic necessity. Maria Shriver enslaves me like a customer. I douse, perfectly wet, in my lyrical squalour, on a day like this.
Landmarks Love Us
Maria Shriver, she helped me with my planet.
John McCain, he boiled onions for noise.
Bill Bradley, he stole the battle plans and ritualistically released the fun.
today I name names, the enclosed being a warrant worthy of last year. there is much to tell, strict lessons or pictures of planets wandering into view. my childlike documentary wants to outlast the vista by lifting this rock and throwing it very far. who will be unmasked? just grampies from hell, no doubt about it.
the story of the engagement becomes a proverb, and a doormat ready for the future. in the future it will be easy to recognize how the names work. they will imprint as readily as a dream, mild as fruit punch on a thirsty day.
the idea of candidacy thrills anyone who wants to claim the improvement they read about in choice books during boring math classes. this is a day of explaining where the trial lawyers will be in a month or two, just lot of desperate talk. something will change and the system will simply oppress different parts of the whole. there is nothing more simple than typing out virtuous answers and waiting for replies.
Al Gore, he went into a hole and let his head rattle, releasing all noise.
George Bush, he can be after any nice apple falling to the ground on a windy day in Wyoming, a place invented for the purpose of erasure, and voter turn out.
Maria Shriver has her knife out and will show you that the importance of being careful in your discussion can mean years in your life. she scales the wall today, will go into the arched understanding that seems awfully funny right now. the candidates are described, pored over, fit into appropriate boxes. you see how poetry can be given voice now. words are wrapped around any damn thing, as if love were so easy and clear. now no one wants to speak up, unless it is their own poem under discussion. how shameful, a story put to the test.
"I don't believe you understand me," I tell Maria Shriver, as if I were president.
Maria Shriver Maria Shriver
my heart is like a kumquat, I think. I shiver to hear your tenacity. do you write poems that are like bridges into banking systems, or subtle prose works that tend toward a registration of oddity, willful in extent? I wish I were kinder, but I never read the latest hate mail. poetry is the only catastrophe I know, and it works on the part of my brain that doesn't usually do much. when your book flies toward me, I will leap at it honestly, knowing every step into the possibility means one more word to assume. the whole idea of specification leaves me fraught with a dilatory intensity that I wish were more like the poems I was told about in high school, tho I never read. did you ever go to school, Maria Shriver, or is ecstasy just a place south of Boston, east of Tel Aviv, north of those towns down there and so forth? almost anything can be nearly enough, or at least my lovely parents buried me that deep. do let me squander the rest of my abbreviations to say that the possibilities augmented by your relaxed stays at Hyannis by the sea fill me with a deep and fulfilled flight into a book that I will read someday. I look south and east, hoping your plane lands quietly and safe. desperate that all temerity lives on your side, I adapt my prose style to your good graces.
modestly, A, shrinking
The Look In Your Eyes
look here President of Mars, the information you request has me feeling anxious. I am not splendid as, say, Maria Shriver. I am not purple inside and out, I am not a tree. I live in a dell, next to a rock. your splendour means nothing to me. I drink water and eat grass. my favourite region on earth is next to a campfire. anyone who knows me says, this Maria Shriver should hold a candle to our friend Allen. I thank them ritually for their faith in me. Maria Shriver multiplies in crazy ways, not just because of the time of day and who she really is. compute your equations in appropriate manner, great President of Mars. the only information I will deny you is my guess as to the colour of Maria Shriver's blood. we know she has landed, we know she is torment, we know she exists in a class. she and that husband there, Arnold of the impressive, they date themselves in terms of rockslides and aggressive volcanoes. anyone can just give up, look over their shoulders and see a celebrated Maria Shriver storming into view. this is a texture, O noble yet alien Presidential Authority, of an earth dreamed up many years ago. look at the lasting light of a Maria Shriver at her best, and extend this in manifold ways. you may conquer us but we still have time to shiver in our shoes at the willful lightness of the Maria Shriver footstep. consult with your counselors, noble being, then hit us with your best shot. it is about time, after all.
Fresh Chance
dear Maria Shriver,
I rise early with the usual balloons, cleansed and ready to assume the view that rises from the clouds. when you float into that eerie place of knowledge, I am restrained. I have time fed into me daily, direct line to my bloodstream, yet I never understand your pierced necessity, why you honour us so with the crisp reveries of your smile. I am a chance, lit dully by the hopeful thought I wanted to assume one sunny morning in april. I know you are terrific, filling the shoes of importance with ease, like you were a word before any vocabulary could look. the discussions that surround every action want your teeth and grim smile flopping nearby. the excitement will be a chosen thing, pulled from the muck I run after you, wanting to ask about that damn diamond solitaire that has so much meaning, and verisimilitude as well. you are famous, a chunk of something chopped from the mine wall. you are where the language went, when it had to leave. something wants our language scoured and you are there, there, then and there. so what can I donate to your favourite charity? my legs shrink in obeisance, like I never knew how to walk. I want to urge any word to be every word, and with your help, I will cry. when the days grow darker, the adding up will be done efficiently. with vernal sap in our veins, risen to new heights, of course love poems are the order of the day. if you could willfully, given your connections, turn my pride into a vocabulary full of lions, I will offer the last shred of my soul to your dainty lips, as exercise for your molars, which I have yet to see. when your needed glimmer comes to town, I am Grace Kelly's best friend, and my gambling casino is your pert little country. please outshine all others until I've had a chance to get my words straight, then just steal back into my garage and wait for the meanness to subside. I love it when you aim low. you are the fame I need when I am dead. please accept my cheerful sonorities as proof of the life that could be lived. I am yours, ready to feel your touching bite. your grand articulations make a day let out its seams and be all it is. today's dedication goes to your soft fake words that you could have given to a drunken bee. strive on, Maria Shriver, in all haste and happiness. the studied downtime moves in near me. given that I'm yours, you can have me whole. I won't say that special word but please know that I regard you as the last word in the floating conversation. here is what's left of my hand.
yours truly,
Allen in full sail
Reply To Maria Shriver
my god Maria Shriver, the awesome stars sing, as brilliant as your teeth! anything you say is everything. if I could but write the word that you are, finding each perfect letter by the side of the road. I need the dazed perfection of your eyes, that sees vocabulary in everything you do. if I could just understand words as things, as do you, and nail them to my friends, I would be whole and complete, a vocabulary beyond reach. believe me, Maria Shriver, I am curious about you, and your busted butt; I truly want to be an instance in this world. you have history, invented primly for your purposes. please indulge me the time it takes to write to you, my words learn to speak. sincerely, Allen, endlessly
Sung To Maria Shriver
O! the intensities of april, arrived early. Maria Shriver, there is no dogma dearer to you than the implicit sanction left in your words. my final fund will be broken into bits and transported elsewhere - at taxpayer's expense - for the joy of rallying with your destination. my mere hope, within the dust of any day, holds sodden dreams within the scope of what you call possible. anything is everything, and your word is a present. when I hear the deft language sink into you, squirm willfully then fly into space - such exuberant noise! - I want to dream of headwinds and wily accounts. nestle your rank in my file system, Maria Shriver, Maria Shriver. your name is two words and one impulse. the ground is wet because water wants to obey you. your brightly construed deity helps the darkened and shakes free from the petulant mass. leave me in dreams, Maria Shriver, the cool shroud. I perspire in your world view. the vocal possibilities of all you do incite our most virtuous endeavours. please stiff arm all disharmony forthwith, and approve the light of variation. I am yours, Maria Shriver, until you choose again.
Tone Poem
Maria Shriver, dear triangle, how supportive you can be. the trail to perfection runs thru the town you own. you make things important, joining one word to the next. when the words are strengthened with the relief of your smile, all will come clear. that day will be today, or any other date that can be lived. the insistence on a political diversity is the best joke for a sunday like this. any other day, with your implied densities in check, would be swimming a lake for the rest of the afternoon. oh, the water is cold, the season unfriendly. yet Maria Shriver, you are a name and instantaneous approach to the field. this field, where all happens and needs guardians; you can be perfect. the wording of any document you invent will set me, for one, back on my heels. I love how you have that thing in your eyes, nameless but intense. and if your happen happens, it happens. why not? all arrangements are fuddled with stillness. each plane bangs into place and the structure holds. force directed intelligently, like your teeth biting the reddest meat. how vicious can our heavenly present be? so much to hope for in a political system that traces language into dark places and disguises it. how prim, how preposterous, how tacit. any Maria Shriver who will light the confronted lamp will receive reward, and as time itself. let me, mere and tired, salute the process and the processed. now, when I have time. Maria Shriver, you are tone for the day.
Empowered
greetings roam a land kept in check by the vowels it must speak. imagine each word as a registered item on your personal menu.. each goes somewhere. one right now flies a small plane to Hyannis, where the whole Kennedy clan stays in touch. the ocean laps the land there, sinister in its lascivious need. is the magic of Maria there? a smile set in ice. and her husband, expanded into the god of wealth and sheer bounteous goodwill towards whatever is good enough right now. and the words they speak together, launching the latest roses into the argument of who will survive the terrible blunder of the coming days. the age of politics makes a lot of sense to those who are equipped to play along. there isn't much to discuss. the nation begins to sizzle and I want to tell you, Maria Shriver fills me with portents and remorse. how can the iceberg sail so willfully into the warm waters, knowing we need the life of that chunk of ice. look at the comets that fizz thru our festive sky, listlessly seeming to stay put, but inching along. oh Maria, am I your man now, freed from the politics that went before? Arnold is an edgy entity, he challenges us so. my framework wants anything so charming as the processed cheese spread that is your hair currently, Maria, meaning no disrespect but how, anyway, can we tell if the notions will last? Arnold is a cigar, as he himself likes to brag, and he knows that Planet Hollywood is just a way of saying hello to a future where the beans are counted by officials and the troubadours are helium-filled. will the dream last, as Maria's hard won teeth suggest? can we all be cabbage in this lovely coleslaw or must we watch from afar? the power is in the hands of those who no longer dance. which is weird to say, since the rhythm is an earthquake. no one wants to congest on the particulars, not too often at least, but Maria Shriver is just a name and can't possibly stand up when her hair burns so freely. no one knows the wooden heart that Arnold had made, dreamily apportioned for practical use. the days that need such pictures will be filed into the right boxes and these boxes will be attached to helium balloons, like troubadours, so lovely, and sent sailing. the world, as we know it, is fit into language every day. and it is not even our language, tragic as that sounds. Maria knows the goods, shining freely in her store room. we join her in the rites.
Basic Loss
press junkets for my baby and me. tell the intensity called Maria Shriver to let loose with her hellhounds, we need some good. the rain is harsh and extractive, all this livelong day. why are they discussing things like poetry when dead people are so alive?
Maria Shriver scans the turbid territory in which the action remains. this day, something will happen! it is logical and a restraint against trade, always a good thing. the battle versus the dark thing may go into overtime. Maria Shriver: light a lamp for us.
today poetry goes out the door, again. the name of this is collusion. the rich people will torment who they please: that's why bookstores exist. when things get straightened out, walk away. the end of Christmas season will spoil your breakfast, forever. Maria Shriver, your teeth burn in my dreams.
cold logical twists are code for how today will always be better than yesterday, since yesterday never happened. Maria Shriver watched and saw nothing. she looks ahead, shaking her opinions with dry abandon, and sees anything that works fill a space that makes her name. she is a person filed into the right place. Maria Shriver, be grandiose scheme for once.
the disappointment is just a tool. it's just how the community picks its bullies. the latest drag is catching on. if Maria Shriver still has a beautiful career, the active brain will loom in new consequence. anything follows the Maria Shriver outlook. the brave are teamed. the works are given. it just doesn't matter when the collapse becomes local, okay? stand up and try again.
