Training missions 1 Mom's a tiny bird
Dad
something of an allosaurus with radio
activity on his breath. One up in flames, the other down to earth, but the poem watches on indifferent and amused, posterity hanging in the balance like it means something. You can just hear
sniffling in the background. Meanwhile, space junk falls across the satellite image, striking some in the temples. They get up off their knees to slouch on their sofas with the rest of us. Real salaries shrink
as citizens of good breeding plan a more profound engagement with rehearsals. Reclining, we dribble coffee or tea or high octane gasoline all over the carpet furniture, even our genitals itching to get busy with something, we don't know what. Yeah, we've been spoiled all right and it shows especially during commercials. We've forgotten when to say
good riddance, we won't or can't stoop for change, and disappearances to the contrary, nothing nothing seems to burn, Ringo not even in the studio. But the poem hasn't got a clue. When confronted directly it says it has all the words it needs
to get by. Who doesn't? the most virtuous of us snaps. Mom and Dad tumble in the elements, and the rest of us advance slowly our every movement monitored, tight astride the hunch that something needs to be done about this words or no, poem or no posterity or no.2 It doesn't, it can't
end there, though. We'll discover what's taxing in the process
sure
but this is no guarantee that others won't arrive pat click trails to check volatilities, portfolios shorn of all that expresses the ragged fundamentals the sort of thing you hear on the boardwalk
or eavesdrop up a high rise in Seattle, or near Denver -- false eminences, that sort of thing keeps toes protected teeth buffed, eyes carefully shaded against the sun against one another, a shrewd static state of if-you-don't-mind and when animated, not a little
goofy -- yo, boobie 3: that they had been here before, Mom and Dad butterscotched
chary
evoking ornithology and halitosis, the crocodiles cry as the klieg lights give them to understand a few tweets and a camouflaged cough
or two, burbling bebop into the mike and all the while, us, our curious nostalgia for miniatures, air the size of Shinola, roughing it to the point of tear gas, prevailing had been here before
we are lucid now are we? having committed their good words
badly wrought
privacies, to memory as we have committed our own only to burn brightly burning through fire itself
all the evidence destroyed words poem posterity save their hoping like hell to hope like hell
like hell
would but put them to sleep,
like hell would but put them to sleep

Training missions		1	Mom's a tiny bird Dad	something of an allosaurus with radio
Training missions	activity on his breath. One up	in flames, the other down	to earth, but the poem watches on indifferent	and amused, posterity	hanging in the balance	like it means something. You can just hear
sniffling in the background.		Meanwhile, space junk falls	across the satellite image, striking	some in the temples. They get up off their knees	to slouch on their sofas	with the rest of us. Real salaries shrink
as citizens of good breeding plan a more profound engagement	with rehearsals. Reclining, we dribble coffee or tea or high octane	gasoline all over the carpet furniture, even our genitals	itching to get busy with something, we don't know	what. Yeah, we've been spoiled all right	and it shows especially during	commercials. We've forgotten when to say
good riddance, we won't or can't	stoop for change, and disappearances	to the contrary, nothing	nothing seems to burn, Ringo	not even in the studio.		But the poem hasn't got a clue. When confronted directly it says it has all the words it needs
to get by. Who doesn't? the most virtuous of us	snaps. Mom and Dad tumble	in the elements, and the rest of us advance slowly	our every movement monitored, tight astride the hunch	that something needs to be done about this words or	no, poem or no posterity	or no.2 It doesn't, it can't
	end there, though. We'll discover what's taxing	in the process sure	but this is no guarantee that others won't arrive pat	click trails to check volatilities, portfolios shorn	of all that expresses the ragged fundamentals	the sort of thing you hear on the boardwalk
or eavesdrop up a high	rise in Seattle, or near Denver -- false eminences, that sort of thing	keeps toes protected teeth buffed, eyes carefully shaded	against the sun against	one another, a shrewd static state of	if-you-don't-mind	and when animated, not a little
goofy -- yo, boobie		3: that they had been here before, Mom and Dad	butterscotched chary	evoking ornithology and halitosis, the crocodiles cry	as the klieg lights give them to understand	a few tweets and a camouflaged cough
or two, burbling bebop	into the mike and all the while, us, our curious nostalgia	for miniatures, air the size of	Shinola, roughing it to the point of tear	gas, prevailing		had been here before
we are lucid now are we? having committed	their good words badly wrought	privacies, to memory	as we have committed our own		only to burn brightly burning	through fire itself
all the evidence destroyed	words poem posterity	save their hoping	like hell to hope	like hell like hell	would but put them to	sleep,
like hell	would but put them		to sleep