Hello

For those wondering, the lilac can be a metaphor (the lilac was her devotion)
or it can be metonymous with the deluge of celebratory blooms
consecrating a performance ground; either way, what one knows is fact,
is its frame: particularly I grasp the stalk of the lilac, which is dry pine

in texture; next, the blossoms do not collect on the top, but instead sprout like arms from the central line; she looks like a tattered coat on a stick when in full regalia. And that, in itself, is a metaphor for the lilac and the writer, because it is the form we all aspire to; it is so dynamic. A rose is a rose is a rose only when it stands up. A lilac is a patchwork of petals, some groaning in confusion and dry madness, others bombastically tip the balance. But whatever the appearance is, you can be assured that each flower creates its own work in due to the attachment to the central process of the plant.

I like that "groaning in confusion"

I would run a real political blog,
had I the patience
to wade past the truncheons
of Beltway duplicitousness
on a daily basis.

Chronicals of the Lonely: Shooting Star
by Tearful Joy
3rd instalment. rated for implied suicide.
a bridge, rain, and a shooting star
will be found within.
The title is a road sign
spraypainted dayglo orange;
STAY OUT, it says.

This is from a www.fictionpress.com--
a "nice" people literary circle
molded with tones like cowbells
striking rotted wood.

"Butterfly suplex" is a wonderous
word-- geekdom in prickly
ecstacy. The drunks are at it again,
like loose mustangs in the suburbs,
cacophinous mangy manes
popping with blisters of booze.

An Obscure Literary Term and Literary Theory That Sounds Like Coughing

choka

when you write ten words really fast, what do the words mean if you just slathered them on the page?

synechdoche, metampsychosis, Bartelby, distraut, disparaging, pirate, discovering the kitchen sink, and scam spam lam tam ma'am ram the damn span of things.

I read once that for every 100 bad things, we get 1 good thing. People who are exempt to this rule are greedy.

I hate poems that talk about "you".

I hate poems that talk about "me".

I hate poems that talk about "you" and "me" s as if it was pencil and octopus. Baseball and bat. Fish and basketball. Hat and dinosaur.

Specificity. Spe-ci-fic-it-eeee.

"If you're reading this, thank a teacher; if your (sic) reading it in English, thank an American soldier." Huh? Relying too much on alcohol and irony. Is that really an irony though? It's more like a didactic manner, a double mirror if you would. Spanish is quickly becoming our language. Thank you AMERICAN soldier?

Borders are fences, but they make something of whatever's in between, become sparkling like a new watch.

From the bending furs of grass,
the corridors of space and sky
run vertical, halting only as our
own desire wanes.

Lampposts are matchsticks
are struck like accordian chords,
breathing out fuming light
like a bad wedding band

Loudoun street melts into houses
as easily pop market stands stood
bolting tall and strapping, cash
flickers from pocket to pocket

crumbling into a distant thunder.

So, a man is an editor by trade when he meets his wife, a writer. She will be writing her first book. He has suspicions that the work is about him, and he sneaks to reading chapters, distraut over the astounding secrets he's encountering. But is the work a fiction or biography? She can't decide as much as he can't decide how far to trust her. He's been expected to publish this book, can a man overcome his paranoia and devote himself at the risk of endorsing his own critique? The story is about him putting together her story as the details become more and more immediately familiar. Will the book lap itself?

Marble and Liam are old friends; however, Liam is despairing, falling into hard times. He then hatches a plan to kidnap a rich girl. Her brother is in on the scam, but Liam includes him as one of the victims. Marble is secretly devoted to the girl. The two manage to hold the pair of entitled youngsters. Marble is no better, finding his ex-girlfriend has killed herself, and his ties to that family deepened, but for his own purposes. Sub plot includes Marble's father, Richard, whose story represents intertextually, the plot of Richard II, because he was a man ousted from his poor relationship to Marble's mother and his life attempting to reconcile his lost condition. per example, Richard II tries to create his identity without the crown, as a man lacking...Richard's central metamorphoses is his reestablishment of trust in the opposite sex. I'd like to think that this whole story would center around the difficulties we face when trying out who we can trust and why, but the action is chaotic, so what stable thing can stand for finality. Trusting someone is not about being positive, it's being certain of their condition. Marble has trouble finding stable people.

Bacon, shamma lamma ding don. The exciting adventures of e pluribus un"betch"um.

I'm gonna write, now, on the passing of an incident
between two men who walked a same road
and a different path. Assume neither innocent
before the story, or else you'll spoil the goal.

And to say again, it was a road shared of time
beyond place, within that dome of sky
commonly Death called; the banging toll of time
sounds into all ears, and the dust will fly

into pedestrian craws. It's fears, we say,
that impress the dirt after life.
Two men walked on a narrow lonely way
away from life, but dust in grief,

dust in persons, one man to declare to another,
Have you seen any great heroes here?
I passed last night, and I been walking further
looking for an Abraham or even a Hector.

No one's here, no giants, you, actually,
are the first I've seen since my steps
first started from the woods behind me.
The other man was a bundle of strips

of cloth, like dressed on a twig. I've written
a few songs, he said, they may be
to your liking. And he sang about forgotten
lullabies and dreamy shades free

as flying geese, black pepper ground
against a milky cobalt sky. Wonders
of immortals, dashed bravey sound
with force and strength. Blunders

of ships and sky sailing rapturous
ovals, burning in capital. The walker
man said, you're true, the melodies
are good, but the lyrics are taller

than ever.

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