One is strong and stupid with an emphasis on percussion.

One models language as living matter re-involved with impulses coursing around butchered ideas, using appearances and language itself. One might call this artificial transmutation of intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t a history of folk enslaved to procedure.

Notes from Pluto the Pup —
Step Three (if needed). I set up a sunflower hypothesis filled with small
word masses, and I put these in motion inside a ‘parallel chamber.’

Step Four (I’m really stuck if I get to here). I try some other puppy
experiments in a celebrity void, which I fill with farouche words that
give off magnetic properties, ‘canal rays’ (like from Mars!) and
semantic discharges, all of which I clump together into rare syntax sets.

Snow in the air lists a mood.. replaced as the driveway meets..
you’re still wearing your headset.
Such Gothic dislocations expected off to the gym (site), Mr.
Is it documentary or documentary fiction?

The air inevitability around your code thru which you speak is shattered.
It can be inauthentic but not in a first mustache sense.

You and I kiss that air. This.

Guess what, air has a square shape, un-bolted down in sections like rattles spinning
for interpretation. Our values put up with this, putting us first
breathing hard, leaving doors open to irresolution,
to make availabilities for picking up the dissolved thread.

Once you really had us. I was choked up by your running out almost in a sidle. I told you we agreed a little but not a lot. The plotting — lackluster, suspended now — I hope you’re coming back for one thing, us.

I live on a cul de sac at a dead end,
feeling rage is my real estate..

This is all we could follow.

Our director drew the curtains revealing the open street
where passers-by are in her play and work.
One has yet learnt it’s scripted.

Fleuristes knock heads tied together in indigo. 



Her direction projects dirge and melody casting shadows
over our absence in the periphery out back.

Ode to March: Pierre Bourdieu throws a projectile — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of
capital distribution are stopgaps like assembled heterodoxology while
subdominant esthetic fields balloon and get consumed by baggier ideas.”

Bourdieu gets home to his Cajun kitchen, much later, and hears if
it’s a voice in his head. “We gain as much knowledge from our shortcomings
as insights.” Well, ah! The shortcoming between having things to say here
— and now, while checks and balances are nasally inspissated thru fear.

A sparrow close by, a dedicated follower, packing a double voice range, love trouble, last blinded by the sea tonight, this evening of the seals. Two old seals suddenly lift in a renown wave, the same in each. Humming back, large as the beach staring away at the first light.

It was a sober intro
A branch could be a sentence generally. There’s urgency in ideas et cetera.

 I live in a debt growing compound and how



A level over! Is the ‘new black’ of terraforming

not enough? — suggesting I send some?


I put my finger on: Not really, she said out

ahead of how I was supposed to know.

I’m addicted to ideas.


 This was my first time.

Alfred Brendel: Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions

like these unforgettable elements to touching and holding the moment,
surrounding it with illusions of taking off for the unknown, spinning or spun,
upset, out of control yet

that’s how we fasten the starry messenger to move around objects.

Jay stayed and worked with the new ones coming in,
who were all “Could you be a little more specific, doctor?”


(If you or I put off how ambivalent Jay is we’d miss the point.

Otherwise, I give points over for stupid generalizations as
I wouldn't know how to come down on these vital issues.)


Jay stayed and worked no further.

Make my mind avoid our bohemia.
Recover the masterpiece for fun and rusticity.
Destroy and smooth nothing.
Imitate killing seeing
the system in theory.

Automata control is disingenuous.

Rain is fading under a bough, or something
Like stars on snow on top of sleet
Adjusting to bright, vermilion bushes of mist.
What a pain...
Tow trucks!

Even seagulls catch their sparks
Because the sun is thumping now, and pond birches sear,
Gathering momementum in shade,
A walkathon for frogs to paddle from side to side
Toward the splashes.

Or have they a surname?

G forces gathering momentum in shade
Midnight dining, rambling
like deer in bed, shiny
in smoke, how
Without jitters will vacillates
anytime in passive groans
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches —
opera and shush..

Cupid’s id? It’s a violent, smoking culture so we need straight talk.

It’s a gay culture so we need what we’ve been doing
for centuries delighting overseas.
Head-on war is a mistake (Diane di Prima).

We always won, until Vietnam, fair and square, violent.

Cupid’s appeal? Direct appeal even if it’s imagined is stark
for mobile tastes. Here, that’s speaking practically.
There’s change with movement in due overlaps.
For a second the short answer is cohorts
you can scream open and enjoy.
I don’t know. Yes. Details collect. It’s a mad softness where
we’re going over one part, step after Santa Claus step
as mating instruction and human rights,
the amp and pan point in overdue time.

A life schtick is a super concept.
And today’s laughter protocols could not be ‘more serious.’
It’s been remarkable to gauge how sneering, vaporous, obtruding personalities —
A loose term — proceed unamusingly
Or even uncivilly in opening salvos. Seems a rehearsed practice, perhaps.
By salvo — the first three or four minutes of monotone in talk, in writing.
You can’t have that yonder.

Like nowhere else in one place,
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the era or epoch of the perpetually alterable

— a smack of gasses embosses an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brays.

All my neighbors are mirror bees. Music of vapors. Am I not one?

It’s to our advantage being excommunicated
as we’re British; it’s not our nature to boast. Fortunately, we don’t have to.

We’re British.
*
Then we saw an arrow has feathers, flies as it works the crowd.

Later something came up. An echo about the fuzz of pronouns taking on a set matter ..

Each something raising uncomfortable indeterminacy.

Andante: “I promise we won’t bean you with a bag of nickels.” Waiter,

there’s a figment in my soup. The quartet’s on a mission; higher

     up, the wait staff’s part doodle/part association we can void.

The quartet’s a hoist to operate microspores by hand,

stacking musical thought like refractions of gaseous tubes that meet

     over lit magnets & their disentanglements ...

The one state is jaw dropping. Suddenly government turns away from independent public scrutiny.
The argument, from a Darwinian datum, eye contact reinforces civility that lowers game energy that controls arts and sciences.
Today’s game harnesses breathless slurs to insert alterations within argument’s force and structure, redoubling in silence.

Argument is a figure of speech, already shrunk to pellets of distraction against heavier armor just before the death of death.

It’s not brave to second-guess another’s choice of blurbs, except with unambiguously forced, flattering run-ons and at least one stylistic snag. I like these pieces. — Emily Dickinson

I confess,
game was called, rain spat.

Progress opening the whole book into darkness
w/ stains, residue.. no, what, never?
— I spat on the wall about to be torn down.

I must be pissed as I sit at my desk dashing off cris de coeur —
Sometimes a partner can be deliberately and aggravatingly passive-aggressive. I’m kidding / sarcastic.

In this one Nancy appears as an ashtray and smoking cowboys are spying on some other cowboys.

Practice makes perfect.

Yoga is popular as what is everywhere like in bed. It comes to mind, biting existentialism served in fancy pants.

If every frontal-ist were interrupted, we’ll never find a way back.

This is an experiment first to seeing speech as transparent. (‘This’

“is” a great uncle of frontal-ism.) When you’re young
nepotism is rampant in meaning maybe.
Maybe not as opaque.
Ok. I hear voices in the kitchen. My thoughts freeze in total makeover

as this recedes — putting it mockingly — heading back w nothing.

Eden. It’s drizzling in one panel.
I’m a folk musician perusing low interest loans. I talk thus in a low register. To effect a good commission my face sports two layers of sleep relief.

In one direction the focus is lost. I grow accustomed, so to speak.
In the other I’ll let the snakes speak with English subtitles (an entire practice).
Assembly required.

A ruse can be your generic object that looks transparent, emerging as sleep.
So you’re still in danger within the same maize corridors
— How do bricks
hang through the duration? (How is the easy-hard part.)
Ruses write themselves.

Belle! The steam fitters system is not brilliant.
The best go up front.
The back office is an eyesore, half the hurt.

That said, show’s over. You go ahead.

Systems execs set the controls, blast the volume up
to drones like butterflies w/ rabbit ears..
overviews regarded in their wholeness, contours
beeped forward w/ news that smarts enough.

A cubist staring in the mirror — back to her tapestry, a big girl with a pineal gland attending what’s neat in the future, and she finds me attractive!

Dennis the Menace grew up. I prospered, no guilt.
And it’s a bigger kitchen now.

There’s a strange pulling apart shmooshing an escape hatch.
Clouds are in slacks by the fridge.

The comment box in which we’re about to speak is crowded without words.
The machine I never saw before flunked me —
A glimmer of its prolific aroma

calms me down. There’s a piece of karate with top notes to erase and something else fantastic, piquant, active against the grain. Your touch reaches a point when time management is unleashed.

But I’m just commenting.

A poem is a picture. Have a Shrek glass of water after sunset as Blossom’s arfs define bird properties degrading, shaken to a grin brink ..oops..
It’s a picture like hydrangea in labor (having nightmares)
..in this picture I’m emotionally shot with depth as a thespian-rapper rounding off contrasting demands of flimsy seriality and sequence. We meet on a Ferris wheel.

Sleeping with you, I’m blackmailed looking for a mnemonic to store in a palindrome.
In order to pass thru there’ll be at least a few minutes of interesting, then more of inter-interesting.

This is a fugue of sheer oomph.

Talk talk talk
I’m spry in my motives, underhanded
getting back to catch the slapdash in how it works.
You may have noticed we’re on the side of gonzo,

abhorring vacuum when a jet gate opens to our drawing room,
vibrato and sunlight close their distance. Notice they
never saw it coming, old and new senses strung out on sectionals,
an untapped daycare facility of oblique pup scents and puckish

flair. Someday all this will be yours. 500 blocks
that lean socialist purring with snappy dialog, steeped in
a plaited glow living chronologically to under-simulate amounts enclosed.

I’m spry in my motives, underhanded
getting back to catch the slapdash in how it works.

You may have noticed I’ve been planning in your head,
flashing a badge. Home is a test pattern across an all-humanity
life span — everybody under anesthetics, lunar waxing
credited to lexical whipsaw. A foot of sleet
through the window, the surf comes to mind in
reverse as if a long eyebrow, roughened

over & oh, hold it, we did this already —
this is not a test I’ve been holding out to you
for you

Your advantage expires, Floppy Bear.

The performance was renamed The Chad Deity.
Blood around the frozen came on remotely like a fireplace.
There’s less to gay literature now. Sixty thousand fewer jobs. Young arrivals to the city will be wandering into the new wrong play.

It’s tragic but we were in camp with surrogates.
At the time we called it puppy love.

I unbuttoned my supplies and began to think of golf.
Nixon loved China, I recall, followed by the dead and dreaming end of history.
The descent to choral music stipulates a view.

Part of the golf course looks back facing the street, partly passing it... a science fiction flushed hollow years ago, bit parts looking on outside it and still walking through adhering to nothing, just passing, but also taking root ornamenting impurities of the electorate.

Massively cool but no gracias. This is tomorrow.

With destruction of our contract, we constitute the Non-
Group taking part in I-hate-calculus speech acts ..

We can win door prizes in the periphery
if we let politicians go wild

losing the meaning moving sands and forgetting about it —
Tasting shale, we met some firepower to prevent further questions.

A song just so you know
we dislike a crackdown that fabricates otherwise normal project managers on the roof, smug in outfits and at the top of their game, which seems synchronized, written over from scratch.

Whilst you and I are born to achieve a breather,

on the third gulp you really had us and were all over us. You didn't have to what the aitch? We told you we agreed a little but not a lot. I forget now you need to repeat how you sound.

Right Wing Tomboy — a date movie with Milo peopled by self-helper types, few cavities. Switching phones, I look up to the crazy intern waiting to take me out.
Silence is oversexed-enormous but I practice it.

I’m sick of nice things.

Not running, walking rapidly, I cross the hall, the long one with the heat transfer ....

... come out the complex, take the duck walk ....
...go through a dedicated lot ....
... and into Q7 in one STEADICAM SHOT.
*
I’m only a monitor, not a dentist.

There’s a fuzzy method to share. Society likes building snappy coherence.
I’m more or less living almost to shift subjects
Re-living when we make out ...I see cubism and new media touched all over athletically.
There’s an illusive healing (a felt method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow)

And that’s not all. Living chronologically is overrated, I whisper to you — to myself as well,
, falling for the slip ’n stream ingredients.

Define sex come of age, pleasure long-
stood. Helium released. Populations drenched.
A circus repatriated.

Sensory predicates are pointless but you really care.

The prospect ices.

All the lapses are angly in winter, no lie.
One thing is the climate’s performance yesterday and the morning before that. After you wash off, you understand when to pause and leave it there in the reeds.

Perfect color (oy boy) is an egg-hatching moment, kairos, and from there you can move forward back to connect undertones that encompass your naïve expertise.

Yours and mine.
There are no nasty hues in their nesting place. There’s a flywheel effect turning conversation over to science and greed. A private-public wholesaling of prototypes that mess up the visual cortex — pasted-in blind spots crammed with luxuries that bind. The flip side — tooth and nail radiance powers of color broker for enduring benefits.

The plan is set in stone, according to Hoyle.

The
End. Wha? a lip-synched koan?
To continue there’ll be at least a minute of outlines to review.
No metal to be shed? There’s an overload.
You can put it away, our brainchild had shown
Overloading is forgivable only in sleep. Even more so without a bed.
That’s how dogma wins.

I made a lot more self portraits today.
Some have kind eyeholes,
a measure of gamblers’ intelligence, along w/ their eyes
of course, pieces of the tea puzzle

in the background — and to strengthen our attention
young bodies keep moving bets on everything.

A Kremlin of lips. A Cyrillic vowel.

A Workers’ harmony. A song might leak



out when silence is the acoustic remedy,


but how can we escape by foot an occupation of wings?





— Anne Boyer, 2008

Burbling
*
the milk rallies across the Atlantic, abundant, compulsive, redemptive and busy with slivers of disruption, some rousing start to beauty.
It’s a trap, why were we going?
It’s easier to French-kiss over Europe, more natural to pose
— here we repeatedly set it up — a painting in asterisks.

Then it’s said repetitive motion has gone too far
and some at all levels got enclosed, not spoken of,
climbing into casual spectacle, ritually putting
our lives together & keeping nothing.
[Trained] S[s]taff encourages sampling
sharpened by a moral duty.

That was the life of the party speaking. Highly attentive,
morally camouflaged. Way
none of the above.

I have not fulfilled norms set by
hey! I want a life that permeates philosophy.

We were wasting time even tho reading the right data mining
(letting off steam) to quantify any gross parallelism.

Drop your knife to proceed.

It’s nice meeting your ideas
that took others’ lives.

— they were the Be Yours Outside tenor
& crew, high spirited, shot thru the back..

So you get it now about dualism, you make 4 walls the rendezvous, hang a roof, lounge in queue for the motorcade. There will be a brief ride —

In dark turn on the seraphic light, sang butchers
who loiter in government —

Copy that order on policy twists.
Loyal citizenry is a model venture.
But plots don’t belong here
up against it, media socialists,

bearing few features but dim intent.
In dark turn on the seraphic light, sang the butchers.

Stanzas are replicas for what’s

on the island of afternoon aliens.
          

A colonel-general. What a night. No problem

Erasing the storied narrative and

The ordinary structure and specs that were normal, believable


That was. 


Waking up, hay-feverish, stuffed-up nothing seen
Standing far off across
Your just dreaming it up.

I’m sorry. I was wondering if you’d care to show us around..

Last night or in the last few nights taking the wrong bus.
Dropped off in a maze.
Yes, no food use. That’s a warning.

‘Normal’ locals with misleading directions for the way out.

A rooming house. Inside, every room named canonically after a poetics. Defence of Ryme, Habits of Empire, Preface to Sordello, Being and Event, Chicken in the Field, Prepositions, Camera Lucida... The kitchen Untitled.

To wield a conceptual brush is to terrorize, even if your motivating injunctions steer clear of violence or unregulated emotion. Terror here is poetry’s swift, certain, nontrivial insertion through a hole and/or through self-negation in certitude and flatulent controversy, such as with Basho’s disproving human sound unable to transform animal to mineral, or with Duchamp’s counter-ploy to the rule, men’s room accoutrement are never foreground. 



Controversy, like injunction, comes to us commonly or frequently as back-formation, a provisional ethos after the conceptual stroke. We were constrained by the profound assumption, for example, that a play requires the tone and stage be set in more than five words. We were tacitly sure of this, marginalized more from different affects until we read Beckett’s new direction: A country road. A tree.

We’re in charge, we’ll stay there. And while everyone can stumble and a few of us slip into reduced circumstances, the failure to consummate a redeeming relationship is no problem. Repeat deferment is strategic, and there’s a sequel. We keep the sweetest for now, that is, we’ll keep the best of what life offers, the youngest males and females, unperched, close to our pulse, and poke them tenderly like endangered kittens. And — sure — there’s still an itch — we can’t sublimate — needing cougar flesh, dog fluids, and more infusions of cash. Savings, inheritance and loans that paid for all this look more ghoulish under the froth of rulership, the new austerity in mirrors.

I sing of an average gas delivery totaling hundreds of therms;
the stop-and-frisk repairs to a separate clearance aft

— a quiet pace except for clanging plastic : Lake Drastic
containers hanging along the bow : the cow?

There’s a rule-of-thumb
exclusion with relaxed directions.

The cow district is in the peroration,
a normal pfffft..

Tomorrow can mete up facts to impel comfortable indeterminacy —
as if we could rush ourselves thru devotion to our next decimal of the property.

When it comes to half-dog leitmotifs
we’ll pick up misnomers during voter fraud registration.

I own two-way ideas, to scale.
It kept adding up. I had no modesty issues, none detected, and fewer and fewer policy goals.



Soon we relaxed our balance to parry something (or perhaps two things) that once seemed clear enough, but not now, here we are…

like two radical vapors, untitled moods.

With all due realism, it’s not enforced. Freedom is personal. My supply chain is.. national, informed registration ..
There’s a state insect bullied by the beat — a big smile across its face, appendages gone wiggly.

Summary of charges not filed.
Wait here for the supremacist side.

The ‘universal’ that is so obvious in Joan Miró
is less so

here — I’m just making up excuses.

For the city & surrounding areas I take roads by a shore in bad translation
blues, stock blacks pitched toward numbers-to-be, no part
to fix, no concupiscence & no comeuppance.

Provisos & driving pull me into conceptual realism, along with brighter composing subjectivities.

Like you.

Our treasure is sunk. Formerly breathtaking, we were amazed, once, at all the money. We thought it ours, Oyster Harbor, Eelfleet, Burningseed McMansions shuttered, careers punctured, a sullen style still deferred!

I’ll speak for many. We lost sight of bowls of irony and riches and a lighter time, reduced to our surface (essence), the chilled gimmick of our inner teen vegetarian vampirism. Well, half-vegetarian — we drink only discounted blood of nonhumans for the moment, ha ha, since we’ve gone through some bucks, and since the lovers among us hanker to appear manly and acceptable to a widening, treasured demographic, prurient moms and their frenzied daughters and sons. For all of them, we won’t make it harsh, except when holding them out of reach from other vampires.

Kittens 1st

You translators are a close second.

The end divvies up the ethnic accordion out of the rain from haze, round wedges shooting blanks!
A brick housewarming
and your point?

You appear ordinary. This is about barricades, something else.

Horizon w/ no rooms.

I don’t like the idea of holding you but I touched it and it shook my body.

Hidden risks shift weight (your merge accounts request).
The herd rushes to our rescue (there’s a deadline), a tumble of inventions then an ambush.

A kimono has been entered, explaining the senses without thinking

(An official soundtrack includes J-walkers and bystanders, walking renditions of zealous counterculture.)

My job is moving the marsh until it gets exaggerated.
How does it resume?

Who owns my house under socialism?
Propose a synonym or work on it.
*
Filming you again and just your voice, the glass house (socialism!) perforated by action beating with full data.

I choose anyone who reminds me of you — we’ll proliferate if
we try — if you have the passage we weigh
(you get no credit for this) —
it’s taken this long to read the gospel of wealth.



Our options are bubble-footed in dark briefs!

preferring lunacy to kissing, diffusion at any cost making love a mess / per chapter and verse.

I know this sounds lame — you and I annulled our thingness with a few hand-waves and felt pretty rapt, the way we inspire open, emotional austerity, rubbing eye cream in, admiring buzzwords but no ideas.

No fins of infinity. Nope.

Rubbing it in, pigeons pattern heaven where detachment is trimmed.
You and I have no major issues.

Most rainbows taste of sitcom blown up for Broadway.
They never make it, go back where they come from,
corroded with physical self-disgust, chained to their desks.

Hope to rope. Avoidance with a message sounds handsome, calm, also nervous. In the same robot call he reverses his prerogatives, that is, the voice does. I’ll table the difference.
The difference is a mixed result but with swift powers that have never been better aligned —

together across the call center that serves as my hideout, learning the ropes, scraps and parts of rope.

I am a smoker

And blow black smoke in your eyes

“Tear up this paper,”
Everything is trauma (“I exist”).

Adorno says plain speech is a fair shake at fame.

When you put your money down
We can start over in the middle but it’s just the beginning.
Fame’s either one long number or buckets of sequence.

Places to go; people to be.

Experience is impulsive concealment, according to physics from the outside evolving pretexts with no possibility in the future of the past...

experience that’s unpredictable for a pay grade gaining access to weather bombs in a manifold vacuum.

Would taking on something and winning without wanting to substantiate or junk it?

Riddle:
Struggling between comparative and (purely) descriptive vulnerability to vie for solitude, taking your hand to suspend my paradigm...

I killed for you.
Why’d you bother (all is not lost! — the expression on his face —or two)?

Capsule of self corporation:
The finalists quit joking. General practitioners stepped up but work got converted to specialties with less and less honor system. That’s when mathematicians got unmoored.

Algorithms are vicarious. We thought no way could there be ultimatums to rephrase, immoral aspirations, nothing but work, slathered with work.

Equity or neurons? These molecules center sobriety on the ground and keep looking up again.

That “looks pretty close” — my eyes closed.

Themes are talk, the walk, affluent persons in the environment trudging.

And with that, I could use your language without a lexicon!
Sobriety will be corrected.

Due to erotics
all frontiers have been neutered in place.
Cynics are the dry numb linguists hauled
onto the arc of cleverness. Bad cynics.

Do you like spiral staircases?
There is nothing like listening or being listened
to to find your voice, propose your semantics, style.

Landscape:
I won $8100!

Today’s real estate curator has a raspy, I’m-married voice, a little loud in a tanktop calling for contingent inscriptions — it’s very cryptogrammic to mis-arrange arcades countervailing seepage along tide flats.

Marriage is looking good, a mistake but “not a lasting one.”

This is a formlet of propositions —
standing in waves smelling of pleasure

a dream of immense peering through
as if I were an action that couldn’t write

yet whose estheticism enlarges. 



Diagnosis is a mystery.

A tree falls whether there’s a human in the woods, but the sound of the fall will be disputed when there is no human listening or reading the text of the tree’s descent ad infinitum.. 



(I thought of putting aside that a poem is a sonic record of felling trees.)

A door opens; pweetty violets appear

Not quite as it turns out — not for long.

Following them in each stage they bend, swagger & call

in options sustaining the enpurpled force —

Unbelievable, a wobbly stem. Kiss...

Several woofs from now, a mythic kisser

Awakes in concrete, and decently you pull away, feeling 

Look, a flying cow! A case of Fido’s voice

Over matte finish.

As you advance through security

The maples glitter; what’s the problem?

Do I have that name right?

Sorry, wrong bark.

Rakish note without the right adjective, the exact second I insert the first-person, a falling branch spikes itself five feet deep into our marriage — never seen as coherent and never will be, you design-influenced freak. My love.

The arbitrated décor of our short text can therein be looked after over its time. My

ungalvinized love.

As soon as Dodd Frank is executed, the political-dating scene starts pitching, throws you into the pool owned by the banks. I think we’ll see fireworks blazing, parallel to fiduciary ethics’s total obliteration, fully exposed to daylight. We’re lost, for a second, “in the slumbering gaze” equipped with unsound investments yielding bad advice.

I feel obligated to bequeath my place at the rear of the line to defeated generations swimming backwards, expecting a shield.

I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles, asides, subjective misnomers. Eating and breathing them too.

A unisex fragrance is on view. Sorry, not tonight.

*
Ghosts roam with panicked ants. You can put them on. It’s like a dance to respect what we were doing — we were working on it.

There’s body hustle, along with rips in the cargo of space/time where drivers burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth from blades, accompanied by addiction to risk.

Come here often?

To practice the surge I feel at night I maintain a correlation.
The biggest influence? Time I guess to air-lift.

American weather is under manageable stress
nowhere like boiled-down jazz that’s formally difficult.

Climate is America’s gothic partner along with outer space. Look what they gab about. White on the map over el Norte.. ashes of snow, augmented by radiation.

Three seasons are morally exigent, shivering in a synthetic silk-festooned service center (formerly a weigh station in the clouds), not coming back any time. There’s new weather either side of their sit-around for diarists and meteorologists who just want to talk.

The vouchsafed is standing in shadows on the gravel path
back at work, and dusk seems to
urge him to go out more, rehearse too much
and get wasted.
What has he beside a sack of parrots?
He’s snooty and sells commodities like concepts?

He was saying that skull sculpture pile is rot
since it supposes its completion as marsh

-puissance coming back as a meadow variety
of nibbling torque. No way, this just in:

I’m on his regimen.
Smoking hot.

Function drives us as we must.

In youth you can feel unreal as a freshly poured sidewalk.
In late youth every metaphor is for sale. I’m intensely delighted in my thirties and forties, illicitly relaxed after, everything exposed; like a vexed ribbon along for the ride.

President Judge and Jury.

During the break it’s preimpreachment. The no-brain plan has removed a portion.
The lower court somehow floated here; the jurors are asleep. I voted for change. Injecting their blood is just crazy but I won’t go off schedule. 


Back to the bench.

S Jobs’ last will, ‘For this one let’s be fair, our partnership was an accident enjoining technology onto platters of the daisy chain’s stony shape.’

You’re really that tall?

The superego is a hill job.

Gardenias, gigantism, Lotto. Tokyo air is doing better. We were dangerous, once. Your voice is transparent, too late to make it sparse. Even your restraint is wishy-washy, a lake in air staying alert, too qualified and thrifty to feel anything.
Mayday! We’re recalibrating the interface between reeking havoc / making real money.

There is no wrong answer.

It’s here. The helium released, the admonitory tableau sponged in saliva — ecosystems thrown in reverse with hotshots to bang triangles, hybrid collisions playing junk ballads within a migratory pattern. The justified, 24/7 joker is emotionally unwound, one point...

brain-body fiber pierced, two... sherbet dolloped. I’ll be right down.

Parts 2 and 3.

The tallest paintings test humor of the height of pretense.
Painting ideas, gloomy jigsaws, severed-head, sticky placards, emaciated images of junk and emptiness.

Painting you again. Painting double quotes.

Like bookmarks I’ve been put on a 20-year watch list. At this point the Mountie’s sled took off, powered by propaganda and formalism. I forgot yesterday’s child. Self-indulgent and stupid or freaky consequences often go together. Then joined complexities sucked up to the surface for a face off once I was fresh, chased through air ducts.

Bookmarks are not supported.

When Pete Rose got home we were relieved. Afterwards we arrived at the links, got off the bus, then Pete and I got up, did the usual routine: bathroom, brush teeth, dressed and then slowly, very deliberately chewed off each other’s clothes. There were eight balls of steam, suspended in bacteria from our four hands that were Idylls-of-the-King and clean. I was standing vertical. I was amazed that my insides didn’t fall through the cargo-lock, out-knowing the air vortex, the balls, the game, and probably the season were lost.

Floating this fun stuff, waving inaudible signs of history, Rhett says bafflement is tentative, one mountain clinic after another. Though a mistake following bliss, all of the above sleep with a relationship. Rough seas and heck, Sella, you've been in this game long enough, you know how superstitious decision makers get.

(My mood is in erasure.)

Embarrassment can be of interest; not vice-versa. Wearing weejuns comes to mind. Filing oddly abstract word strings in my back pouch book. G’day. Sobering pinch between courses. Between jewelry making and language learning — failed at both so turned to tinwork, keeping the breakers honest by the faltering dunes, bogs and cliff houses of cards. The surf came up and made everything a bodily mess, mechanics, clashing scales, noted improvement over quasi-enormous chagrin.

*

I owe you an apology. After I screwed you and let you go I rose to the top. I am so ashamed.
I chose my ode and it’s a strange wacky ode to summer, just getting to you. As marriages go it went not all bad. I owe my bros (not you) an apology. It was just an exchange. Excuse me.

Summer!

Our obligation is to wholesale potential anytime.

Thieves on the outs devoted to our next palooka.
We went over the fourth accord, for instance, but stopped somewhere to upend each other.
We got used to the beat.

Landscape is always on message. But too much too long.. Travel the wash of the wave.

I’ll assume you suspected I know you know. It’s in colonial literature.
I feel bad about blight knocking off cotton leaves,
their look, everything.

I hear their effort but there is no god.

Hell is too big to fail.

Marine varnish.  
 
Genital U-haul.   
Foul-smelling dunes (pastels).   
Long arm rewrite.   
 
Roll call jackhammering.

You mentioned Zerbina. Here’s what she revealed, ‘Arranged marriage? Kitsch. Driving over taking stock of action-like figures.

What’s our nearly human business? Ones I liked, the ones upfront, told me to get going, be impeccable, and that led to finding more

— all the toddlers are volatility models from TV again and again, vocalism in a sense.’ But you moved on I see it now. Guess



I think I understood what she was saying. She was talking apples and oranges big time.
‘It began with a set of Japanese principles — waiting in line.. What is point?
See you around.’

Because I’m a party animal I can do it all day.
Rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl
A sparkle to figure life altogether, no vision
Or dash — no longer having to know

Beaten up hulks pour vodka that swirls on action tones. A film clip with multiple data fields and a crew of deft extras in malaise, one supported by another grabbing a ring to a rope, expressed in pain.

I’m told you’d prefer not to watch. Using your voice, better to ask a friend or two to make you hurt, pretending they are you, falling mute.

My job is moving the earth units until I get exonerated.
It could be evasion foregrounds style and motives.

Let’s conquer death with abundance.
It’s a woodpecker.

And I have a woodpecker tone.

Aromatic snap rolls augur healthy eating repression and destruction in one immaculate fictive symbol.
There is tho nothing like no despair
that travels over symbols. That and other nothings.
This makes symbols feel better because it is delicious.
Is = progressive form devouring folded-wing snap rolls.

I’ll stay on Nicole Macdonald’s side, pictorially. (Dented stone and wood succeed!) We wear masks of unmatched value that mock death holed up in rant.

Arts, craft, life are short and drive you all over.



Making out, I can drop the questions and shoot for craning my mien, through which everything is scattered. (Behind art there’s an interaction lab.)
(Behind life, a free agnosticism. Easy sway. You’ll be taken up on your offer.)

I want to be my lover, my own.
You’re never going to be good enough for you.

We’re entirely for artifice, stock in trade. When J Schuyler remembers J Brainard and F O’Hara, what’s biographically accurate beyond artifice is the entirety of their kinship, the tubby, transfixing emotional sustenance that comes with love and ebullience among friends. T Towle dreaming of O’Hara seems credible as both artifice and credible proposition on similar if more ‘platonic’ grounds. L Warsh has long been licensed, so to speak, to feel and dream the turning shadows as lovers present but out of practice. R Creeley evoked J Wieners alive and, to more tragic effect, vice versa. Friendship and love are components of the vetting process an onlooker or reader-writer follows to decide for herself whether a writer, beyond artifice, walks among or overreaches for the ardent ghosts of Wieners or O’Hara.  

2 months from now, 6th inning. A parachutist will have glided into the triple-A ballpark, centerfield, score PawSox 1, Richmond 0. Pulling his cords, the cadet had stepped out of his flight gear and run up to the microphone on the pitcher’s mound. Why, it’s a poet! Right off the guy broke into an inappropriate sonnet and sestina. The crowd that half-filled the stadium booed, boozy, lunging boys and squirts, some blowing kisses in the poet’s direction.  

Better luck next time, Mr. Percy Outrage.

Lord’s Prayer in boardrooms, champagne at Nascar, revving metal competes for soap brands. Why can’t poets break thru?

DC, New York, Boston especially, and in-between, these are bad places to drive on Alpha Coast. It’s not just 95 and offshoots, all the interstates function as proving grounds for the Art of I’m Growing Up & Get Out Of My Way, asphalt cram schools for learning the ropes of geek aggression — Lend me your leader position. Driving of course is natural as coming of age; we learn how to accelerate into and out of lines of the unimportant, how to sprint ahead of German muscle, how to cut off the meek. Moreover, the hell of Alpha road protocol stretches well beyond the highways, spilling into every urban rotary (‘numero uno infinitesimal’), every street and avenue with a dedicated lane (‘which has real syntax’), every 4-way stop and beyond.  
Take the global parkway. Keep score.

Caspar continues,

I’d rather not trouble you with my impressions of resource hoarding, so dependent on flow of daytime into night. Shades at midnight can ‘almost’ whisper faintly but I botch capturing even a fraction of their message. My willingness to keep watch through the evening keeps up only to find your granting me permission to maintain my distance. I’ll let you go then. I knew you would understand.

The skinny from last night avoids defining any parts obscure or complex.

Yet I like a text assemblage of contradictions. Neander
-thals constructed poems in two rings of deliberately broken stalagmites, 400 per ring.  

First to impress their Swedish hosts by workshopping them into volunteer flotation gear.

‘To protect yourself from a wrong-headed (naïve) build-up and still call your portrait “transactional,” limit data to phenomenal discourse that’s easily observed and stick with expedient production from self-contrived ideology and history.’
Your tone’s vilely personal. So is the war upstairs. Your war. ‘Straighten your head more,’

that’s the babe with the iphone, ‘I never make judgments about people I shoot.’

At some tiny level there’s spontaneous disintegration of what’s on my mind until I find myself in a “half-life” where speech still matters.

Approbation without the tedium of argument.
A tall hipster sitting on a giant wooden throne, and behind him a wall of shoes in a generic shoe shop. The hipster observes wallabees are now from Taiwan, only he doesn’t sing Taiwan. It’s something else, like too wayne, maybe. In a later segment, pretty toney’s back on the big throne, behind him a 7-ll interior; he’s giving clinical advice to “hustlers,” how to survive through the wee hours, eating for just $5 a day.

There’s a movie about a character I'll sketch for your attention, a mixture of clear-eyed strategies for good sportsmanship, biological and chemical weaponry, and other areas of frequency dependence that blurry morning poetics takes care of.

But a poetics of reciprocal alteriority raises another core potential for a repressed evolution in text fabrication, a pre-poetics. For, as writers began to avoid the congested highway of Lacanian selection, new historicism, queer theory, and the like, others opted for a less traveled route, until the new one (post-cooperative) was no longer less traveled, so many chose the first one after all, up to the point where congestion built up there as well. Poets distributed themselves in a ratio between the two roads. The same thing can happen in praxis where it is called The Tennis Court Oath on the Road.

That’s how his pants fit.

Everything I note here is integrated, resonating
within symbolic thought thru which you can point to the horizon
that’s both magnified and askew.

The float is radiant, jammed with radiant things,
a collective but no modernism; if you had been eloquent on the spot
we’d need no captions.

What does there’s still a move beyond the modern to go do?

You got the feeling, the only unmoving part.
This is your and my failure now
in a city of kowtowing moguls who pay for it.
Moods are out of place given our place in biology.
We bear no responsibility

for foundering within the social paradox of violence.
If you admit you rejoice in tricky intersections you’ll be taking sides.

I once had an idea today was over. I forgot, man.
With less & less destruction of our marriage, we constitute the Non-Group taking part in the co-ritual to outlast time.

Tomorrow I see yours & thanks. Over & over. This is once again.

Engineering permeates metaphysics

so that sex in the head is amazing, coventry gray, amherst charcoal,
a perimeter of software asphalt whilst lecturing to a square insult comic. Her name is Qingqing Koch.

This is I’m no model of obscurity, I just look like one brought down to her senses. (Helen Vendler)

As you advance to a new screen, there are 4 jpegs from which to plagiarize a response, while materials on screen become more complex, building on what’s learned.
We need a clearer message. There is no humor
in discretion. West winds in grasses previously made us sick.

We provide all the hip references left right on screen. And when you come to lava shimmering in a 3-panel lexical item you don’t recognize, you can look down and see an iconic translation of it.

The flower’s name is hooded.

I’m sorry there are blunt geometric forms —
confusion of the spheres, signing in ...

but we trust you with these felonious issues.
Yes. It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember, and

Time’s up.

We fall to nature so ketchuppy-and-pink, a discreet preeminence in beauty, wit, and fashion is established.

Changed my mind. No one can help us switching landmass.

And it’s clear whose side you’re on, landlord.

Para-sarcasm has been an I hate speech act, unfolding calculus to take our little doodles and flesh them out on earrings for prison. And why not?



Well, something above and in us is part doodle, part stockade.

My best friend is my most erotic partner. Joy’s a start-up
But has nothing to do w/
My opposing ideals of corporations —

Our music brokerage remains in aerospace

Within no sound where there is none
other than the last
S’up? nothing else for years —

The more he says it the closer he gets.

To resist extreme sobriety of the autodidact, bouts of hedonism are recommended under the guidance of loving doctors, nurses, others beyond family and school though you can try your luck there too.

The Flying Package is now taking off for chaos again, done to depth, has to be his accent, your acceptance, the book covers a lot, sweeping coverage to get you through the day.