The East Village

Allen Bramhall


the bucket is full. rain captures the discussion, which is a speech,
which is speech gussied up for play. title remains with the author,
who has nothing to say except that the saying improves local air. deep
breaths make us consider touchy subjects. our mass grows. we'll use
that momentum well. if anything is something, we will know.

change panders to a certain part of the population. it'll be all
right, if enough noise can be made. troops change their boots, working
hard on practical matters. there is a walled fortress somewhere, and
it looks beastly resilient. bears roaming the countryside simply
punctuate oddities of thought. four-legged gestures, patterns,
witnesses. they seem so distant, as, rationally speaking, they are.

the day can't be greyer, rain being a central captivation, haha. oh
the pretty flowers delight in the early summer days. poetry makers are
out in force, raging about their need for whatever can follow in such
and such a way. ideas are people, or peopled, like farms sometimes

the immediate lives, or lets itself be seen. being seen presents the
central idea, working moms and dads worrying the details. poems that
are left to us are strafed by function. this is an aggressive
community thing, forced upon the populace by those who know. if we
could just read into the furthering, our schooled fish would swiftly
shift directions. no one is more tired than that person who reads up
on the facts.

rain is welcome, very today. very yesterday was a hard and fast
sunshine. very some other time there will be more apt descriptions.
the community sticks by its guns, severely encased in principles or
practice. written in the laws are more poems than a person can read.
these poems rove the land.

sampling the sun, known now as a dog. the dog raises his head, that's
sunlight. the form of connection just shown illustrates a vague sense
of distributorship. you are listening, as you read, or outside, the
dog barks. this is a story, and the sun shines over all. somewhere, a
bear roams freely, an idea. many bears roam, but fewer than formerly.
the dog maybe just sleeps, on the couch, say. the sun is fragrantly
warm, or it grants space as a picture to taste. this is belief,
consonant with the heartland of theory.

dialogue converses with itself. components trade back and forth,
forming walls and doors and wee windows out of which or into which
rare visions are assumed. sighting along these lines, the next word
will hold something that might be anything, or the nothing situated
between. this found energy makes a compelling story. stories work well
in this climate.

in this climax, colours spread from the sun (barking dog) to display
intense nearness and heartfelt need. that's today, a day with a name.
the sleeping dog has a day. the bear exists somewhere off to the side,
a consideration for plunging moments.

claims of arabesque loop over the far hills, documenting the caprice
by which poetry gets "made". see how frequently the images become
birds or stranger creatures. this is a freeway, and over there, that's
a bridge. the skyscraper in the distance is today's destination.
poetry is a signpost.

the bear has no trouble but makes some. you are hiking, inhaling gusts
of natural power, and the surprised bear becomes logical. your poem is
a city or town, a community, that is. you feel an adjustment, each
time you read, write or even just find (say in your favourite
magazine) a poem. you are glad when you know that a poem exists as
defined. yes, that is a stupid way to feel.

books exists, or so you hear.

writing marks a place. the place looks like a runway. it looks like
the plane taking off. it looks like the plane is a little close. the
bear that now enters the picture is a marketable concept. it jumps
over ten foot fences and strides on hind legs. this is funny.

there is no discussion on this outrageous day. people trumpet their
keen polemics without an umbrella for when it rains. it will rain, and
the plane will take off. the bear flies the plane because that just
happens to make sense now. readers are people in flight, thinking
about flying bears and the little trees way far below.

documents change every day, legal as can be. if you read one thing,
you have read everything. what you read is a position in a process of
which you are part. you invent some of what you read, and you patently
mire in parts of the map. this work that you accede to has its limits,
and those are impossible. every gesture produces a love that insists
on meaning, all thru the day and night. these wavering lines will
twine and find a way to rope you in. you are booked.

all that drab stuff goes into practical logic, back in the days when.
nowadays is past, we're in the future now, a heartbeat away.
discussion always maddens with its violence. so much needs time, and
so much time just doesn't fit the picture. words are made to live as
such, in pens and names.

everything is like something, which is how we can tell so many
stories. stretching imagination, then squeezing it into a container. a
farm is a place of cooperative idleness. where one can adjust to the
miracle of facts. it can't happen. too may distractions rule the day,
and said private notes to one and all at night. hello, this is

sorting things into rational clearances, sale items and such. how much
is a discussion worth, and can anything be something, at least for a
night? what exactly does one dream of? things? time? places? the
needless can be disputed, released from its particular pen.

poems are internal markers, external machines. the machine has a fine
sound, and it roars thru the day. attention paid to it makes it live,
or leave. desperation captures a sense of wonder, isolating the most
serious aspects of the discussed framework, and placing it where it
can be viewed. we are a talking sort of animal, unlike the bears.
roaming and roving, the bears that we think about are just noise and
expanses of fear left out for us to see. we see bears and what they
can cause. it makes us think.