The East Village

Allen Bramhall


dialogue resumes as emphatic tornado, leftover from imagined excuse.
see how much remains within the discussion after absurd reaction to
the same old ideologue. fridays are mapped, awaiting us. in this
engagement, time plays serious games. under your breath, you will want
to murmur vacancies, of which few now remain. the laugh of beginning a
moment tooled circular and rolling on.

the people listen, working and willful. they want this territory made
clearer, to define a poetic place where politics tastes sweeter and
everyone has a hand in the harvest. the colours of each grape vary
interminably. this mundane distinction supplies words to those hardy
enough to look for them. friends, check out under these dolmen, so
radiantly expressed.

the torture that marks the enclosure of chance with the determination
as to who wins (and what the winner earns in such) fulfills a vague
prophesy that was written down long after anyone wanted to know. this
is an effect, a weathered moment. eventually the tune changes, which
means those interested will race to the mailbox, accepting the
vagaries of storms and such dialogue as happens to maintain.

on a day of such unguent sunshine, the violation of discussion comes
under a new tyranny, plodding towards a whatsis that will inveigh
against the architecture that was so beautiful in its day. nobody
remembers when that day was, forcing more discussion, and difference,
then they whine about the offering. they change everyday. sometimes,
they are us, if we look around quickly, without overloading our
suppositions with trace elements of chance.

the table turns, which is windy, and veered. rupture in the discussion
goes against any recent determination, yet never maps out clearly. we
should have a Lewis and Clark contingent, and let it go at that.
mountains, rivers, strange people, under necessary. time has been
fulfilled (up) and we can return to the exact word we meant and mean
to say.

rotating verbally on the precise point, forgetting to elabourate,
tendering simple, possibly witty remarks, then going to the bottom for
a quiet sulk. this is how to display. we are outraged, and up against
a new but gracious model of inconsistency. it works for us as we
wobble on our throne. letters are that important, straightened for

people discuss their nature with elegant detail. my god, they say,
I've been approved in my life. that laughing sound is just a raccoon,
hovering over the idea of home. still, the first chords can be heard,
as if distantly, then the volume rises. emphasis becomes a position.
we aren't just talking now, and discussion no longer remains an
adequate word for defining the particular playground. we immerse in
such shade as has softened the flare and made us comfortable. comfort
isn't the only devil, and not all devils are comfortable. in fact, in
the parlance of torture, our discussion can be seen as play.

fitting words form on tongues, causing an image of love or at least
suction. this implicit searchlight directs the protocol, leading it
into the stable, where it can keep the cows and horses company.
chickens have their own containment, noisy but cyclic. talking over
each other, the participants discuss the torture that left them
amazed. here the tempo becomes a terror of motivated implication. the
buildup, the stretch and change.

versatile people word themselves. painting the images into wet cement,
when no one is looking. hardened, those words will show that Bob loves
Sue, or some similar construction. people are people, in some way,
like a vote for tomorrow. today, like any friday, bears a change of
view. girls and boys race about, filled to capacity (so to speak) with
news or highlights or some chatter that can't be even slightly

the discussion itself inheres, for why shouldn't it? voices are
logical, always. what people say trims the branches that overhang the
path. the tried and true reverses daily, becoming stranger each day
and sometimes more useful. there's no need to fight, but pleasure has
its needs. torture wants a buddy, so much so that the verbal potion
tastes sweeter than ever.

someone explains that girls should not play baseball and that resolves
into a picture of someone down the street, or more likely a door with
a doormat that says welcome, in proverbial setting, ready to be
studied or ignored, certain as behaviour. the torture of any
discussion becomes itself a discussion. that learning effect trims
once again the overhanging branches. now the wandering brood can stand
straight as they follow the path.

exactitude forces proud moments on those eager and vengeful enough to
enter the donation. as everyone knows, exactitude is a torture we
cannot live without. it settles harmony into the appropriate
complacency, allowing discussion to fulfill expected inherencies. talk
distorts the simplest thought but never deters the momentum.

discussion needs a home, as human concerns vouchsafe increments in the
daily rise. we sleep, we eat, we play with farm animals. all that we
learn contains emphatic residue which can be switched over to the
other side of the brain, where our thoughts, as such, go. going is a
way of life, just as life is a way of going.

information proceeds from every certified torture, stretching the
canvas so that the paint may be properly displayed. results vary with
time, but thatıs a sad old story. the discussion needs torture to
expand the theories into forceful attitudes of attention. we arenıt
children forever. there are steely explanations to rotate in the air,
carefully, so that details may be discerned.

information rises from that split of opposites, and decisions are
made. no one listens to the results, which is quite the relief.
everyone is a puddle, but puddles don't live together. one puddle,
that is all one can consider. one puddle is enough.

friendships are integers to add up, or down, in whatever sequential
verity one can determine beforehand. the processed idea will naturally
float to the top, and we will have earned a new torture. strict
enzymes of conversation allow discussion to invent new sounds, such as
wailing thru dizzy sex, or waking abruptly in full-throated opera.

doors seem to open but that's just relevancy making a new ballpark in
the center of the busy city. in time, people will structure their
words with newer ideas, buying their favourite inferences with
reliable coinage. there is no greenness careful enough to let loose
with the rebel yell for the battle to come.

fires are strobe-lit spectacles that warm conversation. we tell each
other that discussion tortures inferences and brings relief. we know
nothing but at least we can fill books, as needed. any word we find on
our trips thru dictionaries will provide us with rage or gift
sequences. the budget of torture, defined as night in a luxuriant
throne room, displays the causal outrage that no one on this planet,
currently, will attempt to subsume. meaning is a bet.

if chalk marks can be easily erased, words must be entailed. no wine
is so furious as to clear away the inner dialogue from the torture
chamber we call our talk. nowadays, excitement is a daytime thing,
rounded out freely to be made more simple by time. alerts will sound
thru the countryside and torture will seem so sweet, like a roof when
rains pour.

answers make a wet pattern on the floor, a leak from the roof. rooted
in theory, the make up of trial logic constitutes the new sentence.
everyone gathers that they are someone, individual and mighty, in such
program as can be inferred. the cocks tell the same story, over and
over. morning collects us.

a person in the middle of outrage views the coming tornado and turns
to a friend to say, this is my element. it means a lot, voiced so, to
be near the answer. no one wants to be lifted from the single valid
place, but adjustments are constant, often useful. the sputtering
magnitude of the spinning wind makes an impression. there goes the
shack we might have lived in, in the glowing days of opportunity. the
discussion holds that for a while, in the same way that turning out
the lights at bedtime becomes a ritualistic murder, an associate of

wordy passages can be read quickly or slowly. the trip is semantic.
fine feeling may be dug up from the earth, as a reward for
perseverance. the long squeal from the raccoons, quickening night,
skews the whole logic. one is awake to hear, and in hearing, the envy
for action (taken) becomes a radical procurement. meanwhile, the dog
scratches after a flea, or anyway, becomes alert. a restful period
might ensue but such predictions are just weights. mermaids and mermen
need no such provocations.

the truce, which collects profit from every venture, slides out of
sight for a moment. the discussion has a causal underpinning, and a
great pragmatic clearance. sentences were neater than grunts, as was
understood from the start. the start was an effective entity, and the
discussion took advantage.

people spoke and filled themselves with their own offerings. here is
my word (they would say), then steal it back. this bakes the dumb
fucks who weren't listening, and they die in the heat. dying itself is
an envious position, calculated to arrive at some pleasant chords that
invent songs to carry the margin out a ways. we aren't talking
miracles exactly, just a discussion that tortures every living entity.
by the end of the page nothing more has been discerned, and that makes
for grievousness. if one could tell, one would be freer and more
simplistic than ever before. craters disguise the moon as a victim,
but we know the chance of that.

sorting thru the vacuity, looking for word choice and spelling excess,
miners who have been so busy relax and let loose. they will harm no
one, not even those vigourous aliens who probe the workings with
drastic logic and sweetened chords. our words are closets, and our
coats are plums.

drama of report freshens and creates a parliament worthy of the
resistance. trendy vacations lessen the required broadcast, sorted
thru endless debate. charm is a hank of hair, cut from the head to be
saved as a variety of religion. not a word gets thru the discussion
but that it (word) fails to register properly. we talk a lot, don't