Blast Orphic by Robert Mittenthal

To find the conditions under which something new is produced… 

            Hear ye the blast
            Whose orphic thunder thrilling calls

From ruin her Titanian walls                          

The standard deviation of what’s unknown. 
This nation in one corner launched as if there were but one book.
Each syndicate of words subject to the fates of communal order.
An algorithm of control that features an infinity of concrete relations. 

I chose all of the above.  An ocean of swallows eating the ends of the sentence.  At bottom the brain wallows in image and inverts itself.  I love that I hate and vice versa – it’s the body tells me so.  To invent the logic memory muscles into, I exalt the torso that remains.  What’s lost is the prize of apperception, a polemical affection or expression of fate.  It’s found wherever transcendence is sold by the jar. 

Welcome to the land where ‘hello’ is a restraint of trade designed for the reader.  Against an absorptive feel a tinny voice lost in the machine.  Average motion astride its ordinary gesture.  If one could measure dramatic mean, (I mean) I would admit I was one very proud potato. 

Struggling with words that were not my own, I became the machine that speaks, an assemblage that rolls out into the clear.  Until the exploit overwhelms, Mr. Potato sticks his ears in, waving empty extensions, firing arms to frighten night.   He is the witness that yields the spore the spine mistakes.  A sprout that miraculously becomes both mouth and anus.  A reduction of the already condensed flavor.  A secret informant who balanced the unbeatable egg.

Selling but never sold we depend on the constant touting of those with horns – the distance measured between ascending and descending.  Only truth contradicts – which shows how false or invalid argument becomes me.  Logic plays the passive victim when conservation keeps book.  Each double entry looks back.

Integrated in the laws of sleep I gather myself wearing the same Godzilla suit, raking fallen leaves for the moat people.  Thus a high dose of display is forced into a sentence.  Each image identifies a dancer.  Reanimated, the colony becomes more than itself.  At the point of a cloud there is no point. 

Thus, sensory details fog my view.  The optimistic size please… it pleases.  Its divisions unite the tunnel and bridge crowd.  Oh – to live in white hats and invest in established difference!  A generation of images merging into night.

            Hear ye the blast
            Whose orphic thunder thrilling calls

            From ruin her Titanian walls