The East Village

Allen Bramhall


the bear relegates itself to a prairie sort of idea, far from home.
home is an indefinite principle, aligned with vanished breeds and
flooded river courses. the surging of the refreshed river nearly takes
the bridge away. the picture endures with a smell of grass. when death
loves us to much, we are bent to the boundaries.

love itself lights the match, the match lights the candle, the candle
lights the room, and so on. who we are makes a good discussion, tho
anger can be just as vague as any fire. the forensics of the moment
allow study, and imaginative reversal. the heat rises, and hot ideas.
people are claims, very nervous. hand holding sweetly brings an
estimate, and that makes a chance.

heat fills the room, having somewhere to go. the expanse of our
embrace brings definition. definition is just a point in time.

the violent discussion centered on some fantasy about power and place.
a bear could be impressive, or it could be a homeless wandering
effort. we may look around and feel stricken by the desperation of
each moment's weight. the river is nowhere, just weaving along in a
movement of thought. the vision inheres, usefully and provocatively.

there was, on a day, some discovery: the continent, a practicality.
people are justly proud of their environment, invented daily and kept
clean. there is poetry and there is disappointment. the situation
contains marginal excises, taxes to fear. this fear melts into
vacations by the seashore. the first sunburn will be a pleasant stroll
into the village. each ensuing sunburn will control the volume and
mettle. at some point, there will be a charge. the cost, extravagant,
will point toward some nearby point. this is an area to survey, and in
surveying, stick to. we know that each pond attracts the same
waterfowl. no distinctions are met. water is everywhere, agreeably

words are perfect bothers. vacation cannot stop the misapplication of
theory, the structured responses taken from old books. there are so
many who wish to speak, but it's a careless job best left to those
with airy claims to make. aggravations of sadness merely evade the
fortress being built. pundits bring their camel for one last drink
before crossing the desert. the dreamt of vacation will fill a flask,
and that will be it. it is well.

our disputes have been invested by frantic time. this place we discuss
with our arrant regulation shows strange process growing and growing.
there aren't many distinctions outside of the usual ready-mades.
things are strictly funny, odd, full of complaints. if the volume
raised, we might have something to hear.

rarity rocks the boat. that is, music playing will provide an unctuous
referral service, and ideas will march into many corners. this could
relieve us of stress, or it could prove more shadowy than we are
prepared to endure. what are we, people on a mountaintop, or gussied
up pilgrims on the way to a church social?

dialogue is a tradeoff that wears thin at times, simplicity giving
lousy traction. it's time to step aside, which is another way of
saying let's dance. we can all go out en promenade, or maybe just fit
ourselves into a space and call our words dance partners. either way,
we have a launch that we could observe, and in observing travel along.
into the sky or out to sea: same diff. it moves into places that
aren't easily found. this language boats to anyway, carelessness a
trial. we could glamourize what we do by calling it a search. sleep
will be kindly tonight with that reassurance.

inside the logical extremes we see things and name them. this flicker
of candle flame is an entity called the soul, for instance. no, Allen,
it is a butterfly. discussion formulates useful rules or adjusts
sounds and sights to the exacting register of our pleasure. each
person has a weight to bear.

working towards that picture, which is love, expressed as a place in
time, surrounded by places outside of time, which we watch with an
envy bordering our self-pity. love helps flood the riverbanks in
springtime rush. the smell of mangoes, the sound of someone whistling,
the sight of purple iris, all enwrap in a moment of reflection. this
is a spiritual gradation in the catalogue, pragmatically idealized.

our positions aren't inside poems, tho we look there. speech is what
children do, yelling on the swing and slide, falling in the sandbox,
opening a refreshing cans of Coke. suns grow large and burst into
tears, diving thru space spectacularly. wešve heard the stories and
are unmarked. the gradient chords arrive just in time.

lovingly we pet our excavations. that is, there are people into which,
in whatever way, we go. nothing is lost or stolen, but there is that
extraction that kisses the limits. one wonders: are you, am I, ready
for this? peace clears out adorably, and ramifications grow flowers.
the purple iris, as a particular, looks as informed as can be. the
time, fluffed with purpose., is right.

working in this captive state, which is a generation of release,
springs out of the methods we have used. we aren't looking at poems
when we dream. we are right to verge on the predictions made by the
experts, and we are just as right to veer. look at the facts, so
cherry, so spruce. we are intentions, we are filled with expanse.
every word we have has been there all along. that should surprise, yet
we take this as given. can we be so insouciant?

the dog lifts a leg. there is transport. the dog pees. the escape
velocity of this moment of activity slams into the heavens and tells a
story. it says the dog is a machine, and those witnessing the dog
peeing are machines too. there is no language good enough to grow the
needed inclusion. how we join together is a mighty devastation. we
wait thru tornado times, and poke our heads out when all seems clear.
tornados are rascally and help no one. the noise is tremendous and

bears run thru their paces, scrambling to be wild where the edges of
understanding relax. there is time in which, and so on, timorously
true. it is not time to give up.

work goes on. definition of work goes on. days go on. we are on a
train, or a river voyage. we know where Lewis and Clark went: clouds.
Sacagawea never was, and that must be explained. mountains are not
insistent,  tho the stories carry weight. momentum makes the simplest
gravity an action for the day.

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