three pruntifora from Unknown Zone

o!   so that’s where

long troll & tiny line!  

troll takes out a symptom with tonality,

takes a bite,  lunch w. maybe...

tiny bits of time re-agreed to in a

line,   in a stanza          rad

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

the crips

stupidity is the leafing voices

is a mind quality with itching but

the void slithers under a flat laff;

leafing into ok w. no breaths... never have!  never have!

voices crack and eyes roll clubbed

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

high-speed  underload

are you coined by a rip glance?

you keep moving,   coming into some future

coined words are so complicated!

by seething,  by intro hack;

a wink,   then he nipped round the corner...

rip this anything, stasher,        or

glance and the toll mounts--

2 histories

history of the narrator

two dollars a minute to breathe:

dollars you can take out of the verbs where

a team’s erecting a new barrier to let me escape;

minute droplets of ink and honey have started

to form on your time together—but just remember, this is your time off !

breathe now,  and the vocalizations ignite

history of the xmas tale teller

pinned in by eyes but trying to see:

in the gloaming,  no wait you don’t gloam anymore, do you?

by the waters that babble right off into

eyes crying with dry time & mica glint semi-lights, --

but still feeling the snow flakes cut,  inside a core,

trying to agree,    w.  some of the arguments,

to drink a famished illiteracy. . . .

see,  these are seasons where they sell us,  and we buy breath back,

Pruntiform on a sentence by Deborah Baker about Allen Tate

Tate had been first to disturb their composure,

had fired a warning shot over the spent words—he’d

been looking all day for miles of mausoleum:

first for burying indian corpses, and then for living in,

to not put too fine a point on things......

“disturb” was the one activity he had not mastered—

(their feelings were too easily hurt by modernism)

“composure” on the other hand felt totally passé......

study 130

slow event the care slam   a make rain hover

event in that the quire torn shows leaf,   or fruit word   so

the most entangled kept quiet in anger to

care about  growing in the dark;  it shivers   a run tide

slam, remarkable:  fame dim or pounded reach:

a non-knowing that reaches blazing will

make tracing postural & ruttish— vinosity in the

rain thunder and hiding, facrissake! .... (so ... just

hover there till we can figure something out)

matins

artificial wind inflates across the morning...

wind that target into a post-contemporary shell: it

inflates indistinct memories of futures on discount

across the whole store chain into the brilliant lamp shadows..

the felt indecipherables are still a quick lurk near hallways &

morning flings a singing moment to silence

processes

rack flame click rush flow sight insight

fame as nearness, under here like a there, zooming

click clck goes wild yearning in a thought field

rush amber texture gliding outward into characters w

flow aspects rampaging in the paragraphs;

sight:  vision hearing flaps like a banner where ?

insight:  logged off,  the crackling timber spins 

lost Greek historians

lost historians burn the sun filled air

historians are fever-filled dreamers asking about worlds.

burn with their presence, in the sands of questions!

the linkages provided by digital circuits blur across all the sentences: a

sun flowing across new verbs like pebbles,

filled w asking, answers thrum,

air streams thru a world of new generations

Milk Row

flushed out along the margins as a creep society

out into a swirl of stasis,  as if a cannery stood by the old graveyard

along the street that was a road they trucked milk down in

the times they had rangeways & cattle out across the city streets;

margins of who we aren’t but partly were slung over blue sky days,

as a reminder that every bit of time comes from bleeding:

a lash manages place or location,  like if you broke a stereo or a mirror; so you

creep thru moments on streets named for gone buildings. &

society swhirls around, frittering deep in your/our/his/my nerves.