A chance at a longer life.
The copy writes itself.
I wrote a blanket check and left it blank.

With every rallentando I feel cleaner than ever
Now a little drunk I look up at trunk crocuses, fight odor.
It’s air apparent. I feel cleaner. I do.
And nothing’s disposable! I’ll sue

You — I can sue us both goal and coral glow —
What a snit! now
Skylarks beneath the radon’s minicar
Torched with prayer.

In memoriam to Identity (for all occasions) —
Falsettos remain outside the motherhead of polarity’s failure &
parenthetical judgment. To everyone else,

Television ceases to exist. It’s two decades into the past. There’s a quiet patch that grew into a void with stark choices, starker interiors. Central at present is coming up with occasions for verse published in engineering journals like old Izvestia.

All verse might have been a productive dialogue far from the meeting that’s more than a coup. Engineering, for a good people.

Go knit, Donald.

Hypoxia, poor make us sick, The.

Adam made 10,000 mistakes — and won’t correlate the enormity of it, since evolutionists even now are running back to his bedside to hear more about causality —

Yet the context’s unlocked, to no ideology hewn. I’m

Eve, off Adam’s rib, a financial planner ahead of my time.
I’m still not finished, she says.
We can spot them both as atheoretical elaborators, since they spoke first.

One cause is edged with distant buzz, intervention — you have the touch —
tides by the book rotate out to here, the rim and pliant acreage possessed by that touch.

Emotions in gear, a snake tail in quiet we won’t notice until eased into set phrases, foiled
by moments of tact, a delicate balance awaiting silence.

Rush to earnest sentiment and keep me there, do me up.
Only four exceptions: I wasn’t speaking to you.
I was speaking to strong, sustained interests of Oil Inc.
Oh, and incidentally, I can’t keep working with you
Looking over my shoulder. Don’t be afraid,
I just kick back and relax, the year will be half over.

Summer .. ‘if I could be a shred.’ I should add I don’t know anything about microspores, also
Heavy pollen, nothing! I should add I’m writing on borrowed-spores.
I haven’t done tranquility either! — not even a truce..

Making up a to do list! blinded by periodic breakthroughs,
A pragmatics circumvents the will —
The focus is on nothing we won’t do..

Talk while you paint.

Look, a flying now. A case of voice 


Over matte finish.
As you advance thru security 


Your line is busy. What’s the problem?
What’s going on? Hose us off


— they know — because of motion

In heat 


Protects them — they won.

Likewise, I nabbed one



And I could sit on them

While they wobble all day. 



Do I have that name right?

Can you hear me in the paint?

The tallest paintings remeasure your height.


Painting ideas.



You had heard maggots eat paintings stretched onto canvases of different sizes, gloomy jigsaws, severed threads, sticky placards in paint that’s wasted, emaciated planes, junk and emptiness.


Painting double quotes.

I’m just saying theocracy’s imputers are blokes of ice with no sympathy for phantoms or emanations or specters brought up in ‘new’ language. And to clear things up, there’s a scent of acacia and your frangipani but our smart landlords, the ones in black culottes, could care less.

Oh, here’s their release from last night. Don’t sign it.
I speak with self-knowledge, your holiness, sign and beware.

What’s he got to talk about beside his sack of parrots?

He’s snooty and sells antiques?

I’m talking to you in American.
Not going to lie, I watched us concoct a new economics affecting a radius of birthday cake, like that Depuis chip, destabilizing everyone’s temperament.

Looking into the camera makes this a document.
Which U are U?

The survey said I made it 2 the 2nd challenge,
a winning session in crude instrumentation.

Looters, rhombus-gatherers doing well, respectively; great work, cuts straight through the tea act restructure icing more cake to abandon.

The chip becomes a popular racetrack, in effect. Feels like about time, epic sums, new slender totems, new business in a rotating ruse whose subtexts you know.

New walkway and instrumentation..

Re-examining my savagery…
doing what Pessoa said.
In another version if I admit I enjoy tricky intersections I’ll be taking sides. I told them at calisthenics I’d prefer not to watch from the grandstand and de-harvest illusions of atmospheric slop. But doing it I missed what happens. Walking away burns more calories. Better to get a coach or two to work out with you, pretending they are you, covering your lips with my gloved thumb.

I sneaked across gimme erotic catalysts. (I don’t remember whose side porch or how.)

I’ll subsist in attrition finding and picking up water views — a shore in maneuvers pitched way up like township mores w/ infectious provisios, integers-to-be and no buzz to fix.
Waves beat my eyes open when I (am or) was looking ragged but in a studied, not irresponsible way, reading and taking dictation to wrap up sleep.

New slip covers for the porch.

I’ve been put on a 20-year watch list. Again.
It’s bloody good I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of misnomers. Eating and breathing them too.

Family ghosts roam with the panicked. (All of them.) It’s like a last dance to respect what you guys were doing — you were working on it.

There’s hustle to market, along with rips in the cargo of space/time whose vessels burgeon on ennobling, blobby warmth, piped in like Berlioz, accompanied by addictions to risk among the descendants.

Trix or Trixie is the name. In the compulsive battle over a dejected smiley face, it’s not just who guffaws fast, but who takes off with alarming ideas about words.
How can Trix (better) hear the extreme difficulty in separating external compulsion from the experience of desire

Through the door on top of the word?

Trixie, again, leaves for finishing school. She’s wearing khakis and a red T-shirt and my new backpack stuffed with graphs. She wants more than a group-regulated ethos for the manufacture of comedy and verse.

The archives are at risk.

Sitting down delivers good news, stateliness already had its faint say. Now you can text and drive overtime, add zeta functions falling in hedgerows like a new highway divider along an infinite axis.

Never disagree
with inferiors. Never.
Never point to questions
about meaning what is not said
or saying what is not meant.

Captain your thoughts
then opt for a safety
school. Push shyness aside,
spiff up & sign all smog-
sniffing affirmations.
Regulate an embrace multi-nationally.
Es geshah am helichten Tag —

Never feel sorry for the diva
who has brains and eats
them.

— never forward your resume or IQ to a date.

The soul is a hypothesis, a sweet flying
fish out of water surfing over interstates
to destroy itself.

We begged it to go faster and keep at it,
stick with a sublime subject or object, rally
for more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can wake it up perhaps you should.

Sonnets are ok in a great way —
Let’s get through
this ostentatious breakout from pensiveness.
Your fly is open.

Lab animal overboard!
Freaked by what luncheon
meant and does, you’re under whose
thumb? Handsome, on the other hand
your imperfect mind is a floating
weapon. That’s why this or any one sentence
is relinquished of polarities.
And blood concentricities may conspire because sonnets are traps..

A throbbing red trap, another the color azure, bright, digestable. They just coincided.

Can you clarify luncheon? For what party in sleep?

Anything Apollonian looks flab prone.
O yup, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... we’re done
.. In my half you can break laws to shoulder perfection or save a life, once or
Either way is fractional in the context / e.r.
In the crazy wild apothecary we call all infinite sets
a rolling surveillance unwraps many a polycarbonate essence.

Freedom is personal. With more solid drama down the hall,
a binary fission when you’re expecting extraordinary silence in time.

2. Bad news, I was
struck by the French property owner. You know,
plagiarism in quotes.
It’s cold indirection
but my metabolism really took off, along with emotions from a huge manuscript
I’m freezing

for the ‘end quote.’
Watching text spin like sentience
refined by distance, since
it’s both or none of the above, this could be for you now.

1. I use bigger words than you,
The spring flowers, the moon in autumn —
Classification by evolutionary collisions.
I think I prefer staying all-purpose, best calm, never resolved.

Radon d’Etre

Cold drafts are escapement and spray
forming part brightness with a pulse,
part average improvisatory dare.
Diluent? Sleepy days of assented-to hours loosen us
from these biodata — taken to interiors,
into sussed, sonic focus.

Provincetown: Trained staff encourage sampling as Lt Benji takes fingerprints, a full-time hobby for Meister beach boy put in charge after age 30. Not state’s evidence yet (or never). The night is young.

Roots.

Wool flowers
Are harsh.

Ducks flying down
Splash.
They are flattened grey
Popping on mauve.

Kennel light
fences barks

Yet impassioned so
Nowhere

Wind-
In-tent-flap sounds.

I count 9 windows in the dark.
I am here.

A man in drag wearing a gown I tie.
Your cool red bones,

A cold star, partly the wind,
Your superb gall
And me, I’m feelings which move in time
While this lowest button erases..

There they go
When you say

Well stay well
Where they rang.

I’m not afraid of showing the much simpler, formless inexact I wave and dissipate into highly animate raw munition. My hands are supposed to cohere in what I cull from hearsay. Raising one exudes only passion, which if you allow I agree with, with intertwined wilderness raising two, but a misdeal.

Bandits 1st.

You translators are a close 2nd.

That leaves ‘just the 2 of us.’ We appear ordinary. This is about something else.

Then I repeat if I were you I’m all I should have —

IF I have no idea to hold you,
THEN how does an idea
An

-ticpate stipulating processes for missing practice? the feel of practice?
Let’s start w/ an idea
Of making out
Under a big tree in heaven where detachment is trimmed back —




Just because I still feel nothing doesn’t mean
I can’t or won’t come up w/ representational songs of cognition, w/ jaded lyrics..
Literally externalize my comfort. Externalize discomfort, too.

..

We’d lose the dude and preachy man. Grown sounds yeh.

Language + materials referred to, dimensions variable. Dimensions variable. That’s the ceci n’est pas une pipe part. I’m one of those hoarders of history, picking out, piling stuff in the garage
(of accessible language), keeping worn wire and Ted Greenwald materials staggered like chairs.

I’m fifteen. We can do the roundtable math rather well, yet not entirely. Free-range sunlight in the clerestory of our lair... where elements of bloodthirsty aplomb are excessively off-key. Safety in timing carefully disguised as bright to furious, knowing the advantages waiting a beat.

I’ve good news in bed. (But) I’m getting ahead.

Your movements go by a few names, still coordinated but hidden in.. hardly underwear.

Not dreadful but low, classic, easy, unforgettable elements surrounding a presence (for now) then taking off your panties —

For nudity, it’s always a swing dance in practice, a new side of narrowing expense and becoming hollow thru the center, handing over your bills and coins.

A lot of Dutch people go Dutch.

Ode to the dead (maybe not yet).
A beautiful sentence:
Everyone’s in place. One’s place.
Food also knows where it belongs.

The stage brightens.
Is it sub-luminous un-inhibiting our endowment?

Knowing the ropes to scale now
clearing the theatre of lame comforts,

Stern, all the food pecked over, even down
to our place, last place, last row.

Top of the moment — I saw your approaching motion
my once satellite du monde in demi vacuum.
Now you’re smiling, shhhhh
more observant, with a more observant love.

Still flush — yes, feels.. not useless.
It feels like impossible.

Likely, thinness becomes welcoming
hands that boss

parliament
maneuvers. Explanation intact.

Frequently there’s a bitch
for whom you kiss that person.

She’s the bird notes
with a contract to bore within.

Loyal is her lookout torn from a doorway
in a sparse analysis of unified travel.

Dawn. I thought I wouldn’t get back to sleep.

I was going to call it “Draped Profile.”
Held from both sides.
Distinguished in feel. “Pronounce it.”
That’s good.
Now draw the strings. Ok
— what do you know!

It goes off the air base,
Hard to shovel, soft to fall
White, blue, pale
— lavish as doves

Which are no more
Swept with visual certainty
No matter how we change in love.

It’s July, August..
And this is what it means to have a muse.
A poet will work in a freezing apartment that is far more than a place for thoughts to gather. She struggles in cold rooms for little compensation and goes beyond the joy of subverting the arbiters of something. Something something.

Have we no will, no interest to shed our platform ambiguity?
Rainy Sundays or any day we break for the Olympics observed or imagined on the ceiling: Rationed atheism has long been the main event. Payments find a balance of situation (organ music), steam and rush-formatted white ‘sky’ disappearing like totals in multiplicities (music for copulation). Contextual effects (organ music) are more peerless criss-crossing socialist codes of conduct. Many a performance opens doors, colors of bone, an addiction for no one. Late afternoon to another.

Allegory:

My neighbor created L’il Abner out of vitriol and some bolus of sardonic revenge after WWII, exorcised as Ozark distantiation. Jester tricked to death.

Now, it’s the end of aging; humor is flat out hot. Order in chaos. Be one with it.
I have an eye on suppressing tenets while I’m holding to their path, rescuing no one.

Live longer.
The archives are at risk.

Ethical epitome goes against the grain. Maybe a grain.
What are resonators for but to attempt command of natural selection and all bloodlines.
Um.. there’s nothing but an eye blush of heat that measures desperate in reckless hands —
Don’t forget silent partners ripening in the future, un-despairing, effect usage summaries!

Brilliant. Breathing life, we have hundreds of these, o Swami, nothing to discredit and
..no hell to pay.

Astronomers from a famous university have nothing to give back. The known entity we reference as perpetual as well as space is erratically arced with self-erased trapezoids and dull oblongs scratched over with olfactory précis: Cosmos unexplained, fingers crossed.
Given our double indemnity, our unfulfilled categories sit atop broken mosaic atmospheres, molecules pounding from overtime. Fast above the lush, appointed blur. Keeping my hand warm.

Angst, a buffered work force, roughens up indulgence.
You got married without thinking about known side effects,
without — wait, I forgot why I called.
We’re 1/2-way there. That’s when the aliens evanesce.
Their loneliness and excruciating pain
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing
basin, weeping .. You try piling on debt, ok?

Factor in a plug-in for artisan strength calisthenics.

Corporal resonation turns into a prism on top of which you can finger-point to the horizon, magnified and askew. So note what happens.
Better to get a friend or two to write for you, pretending they are you, falling mute, covering your lips with my gloved thumb.

Varsity crew:

In the zendo lighting, eyes drift as if

undressing underwater. I see why snails

build a house. They stand around and tank,
coltish to the end. Jacobeans.

Insert the bonus and exchange — what do you know! —
Your tongue is radiant, clean up to your neck,

a phenomenal fact and factoid that can end in a draw sustained by
getting up, stretching for an hour.

A disheartening skull pile supposes its completion. Angels speak up, tho, in dialog enhancer mode.
We get to a point where we have to stop, adjusting to marsh purviews returned as shrine –y meadow.

I give up missing your skin.

What is curious style?
Taken whole:
“Give in, dig it.”
Blimey. (There’s a new policy to block deletions.)
I’m sipping Tropicana on curiosity’s behalf,
Taken your lead. Word processing in sheer Palatino
All the time, staggering prose!
Tomorrow I’ll
Tap out more deletions I forgot to lose —

A private-public distinction
no longer limits enormous outcomes.

Besides giving birth
I write on my agenda.

I print 3-dimensional spoons, tugboats and flyweights.
For lunch I drink up history, empathy, bounce.

My protectors are brokered by a security league like ours,
taking it inside the parturifacient facility.

Landscape: Over the summer construction advances.
Uncivil also true, summer advances over the construction.
Everybody goes!
... inevitably constructivist and supremacist impulses are joined.

Mercury is wow! pensive, coming back, back... no..

You’re saying no to billing days first, no to virulent, callow graphemes, stance covers for a copyist. Cut the trad crocus, low opinions and bloodied mesh. No aplomb in nature, please. No chiastic haunts. And no golf property for now.

There is no personality, so why beat anyone up? We can read back over found work but never go back to walk the innocent-seeming turret and loggia built by another’s labor, overlooking our exciting first game together...

Funny place
for a dance, Mr Baker.

Rakish song, my mixed medium ..

The exact second you insert the 1st-person, a moral freedom sinks 5 feet underground, a strafed, natural spectacle falling into coherence, getting its bearings, something you never saw and you never will, you existentialist rake.

Who is as individual as this film on a stalk of grass to assess the new autumn?
A friendly warning for the mind,

Pal,
Your ‘work-arounds’ bully sarcasm to un-wit a way and means to spiraling.
Please Santa...

Can’t say what happened that day but I know we slept because there was a whole mattress to lie on.

The mime sequence where I speak out was spoofy. More, there was a moderator from a board of modulation. Same as I carry cash and deal with the cops but I’m no killer. Lack instinct. Sir.

Many of what we call instincts interact with musty dynamics eventually. More than musty, foul as in apres-euphoria.
A dancing lawman gets more attention now so

I keep hammering a poem is a cat meow ten times more.

On one side: complex gangly, mostly mute. They apologize for the inconvenience.
Tons of special forces in silhouette .. we’ll ..
Near the power top filling in with capacitance-assistants &
Theorists of a visual world culture wholly populated by posturing.

Arctic robots embrace the free market, she announced in a penetrating tone,

a pale mist of drifting nothing. Blameless, free of anguish for the moment.
She picked that up from them.. ..wolves running through snow melting into wolves..

I’d like to thank the Academy.

Goliath, Duchamps, Sinatra!

IT warned me of overrefined emblems and their sweeping reproach. I’m not religious. I took note of what you like from the beginning then became your pope. Burp. There’s a frog in my throat.

Oh, tech services, tell us a little more about your miserable ontology affecting checks, balances, and mantra logjams —

How did worldviews crumble into environmentality to pantomime the inference undercutting American literacy?

Opposition — that other guy with Verlaine,
2 birdbrains, explicit about nothing or nothing much; yes/ja / no/nein?

Ok, they were willful but we stayed in control — a thousand bees were stinging our feet —
Wanting as well as having nothing — shhhhhh.. I can’t
.. I shouldn’t ask, losing you, did I live like that fly on the wall?
— since you demolished the text, I handed it in; don’t expect extra credit after all.

The best of the past:

Pavel, the most cinched-at-the-waist of the trio, interrupts Murf while Zoub jumps into a collaged kitten mural of plastic numbers joined by hanging threads in back.
First up, an acrobat for the moods Pavel evokes in my mind. A watercolorist also barges in for enhanced abandonment during and after.

Ouch! buckets of rain have come and gone away. Someone has cut the grass,
that greeny, wettish smell is everywhere. Hay. Optimism.
Remember to slam the parentheses behind you
) bang and ) bang and ) ) double bang
(to be on the safe side).

— James Schuyler

A new problem set:
Work through naïve discourse —

Keep methods observable as everyday mayhem —
Call this ‘transactional’ taking action
Unlocking — on sight — your pervasive hesitation.

Make it personal then dorky. Work on your arms.

Neither dead or alive, the windmill has a request,

“to express things ... as they are when you see them without remembering
having looked at them.” It’s an infinite standard for feeding your vocabulary until
climax.
The windmill is a textual refuge.
Meanwhile something came up.

Vers. 12
Since giving up on verse poetry has vaulted to the top of our agenda. Leaving the candelabra half-empty carries a double meaning to off-center the filing system and singularities we’ve kept for years. We have no limits affirming retractions, feeding our reliance on illumined work, pleasures burningly turned back, watching the wax dim.

As adhesive behavior, speech is streaked w/ extra
sensory blather, a polite sound for the watering-hole-
in-the-universe. Blather or not,
                                                           Adhesion is a pain killer brimming w/ prototypes:

Storylines, battle scars, vanity, thrills, sky
dogs, paint & sloppy intercourse under conditions that surround ourdesire
to laugh down compliments from insurgents binding heartache.

Waking up, hay-feverish, stuffed-up nonphysical servings
Standing off
From having hay fever as a backdrop — nothing
Hidden, nothing.

Affordable Noh. That’s both of us w/ big hanging wolf eyes. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to spook when we meet, somersaulting in /

What went around then came gasping, the more irregular the verb...

At fight camp all you bring are wet marks over your shirt — there you go — cadet-ed!

Inductions to your other habits —
The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of felted helium
A little like nerves done over by spinning in warm wind.

Noh stuff.

We are free — still — to say what some think — but their recipes, or ours, are perfused with given theory. Trees in place, defiantly miscellaneous, thanks to a compliant Leitkultur, treeways on a berm, backdrop to the ideal civil democratic union with permissions built on headwinds —

with as it were or without manners. Good manners can scar others but they also let us peons act like participants in marking time as tho subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy.
Either way, I know so little about the state and the state knows much less — these facts are slaughtered by memory.

One presumes elements are strung together out of desperation and a deeply ingrained exposition to demark the unkown, much as technology funds science.

Sway your head. That means dance.

Don’t hold it in. Talk to your doctor.
Read this. I did.
It’s half in libretto.

Try something cartoonish. I’m whirling around, pens and markers in hand in roughly 4 minute stints. Learning something about what I mean, high jinks soar belying despair over entropy, a quiet smoke, losing gravity!

Are you sitting in the sentence
listening ? wearing nothing but
eagerness for a motive to
hear what we were afraid to be?

Celebrity stalkers reflecting about mistaken identity, immune to sudden desire with intimacy. What have they got to lose?
Bags and bags of money paid to reflect in infinite battle with consciousness.
China’s philosophers are not unique carrying on the mythos the Massasoit transmit.

A light is produced by heated argument.
How the cosmos is unexplained, parts one and two. In the first, taxonomies are set in weathered deco, dimly lit by the affiliated overflow while astronomers stand there from a famous university with nothing to give back. Second, their trajectory is downtown-to-Washington-on-to-nowhere, a very mean arc to bridge, all right — erratically stencilled with tweezers-length trapezoids at its austere outer rings.

Taxonomy, to get back to the cosmos, stands tiptoe atop shoulders of ascending ideas, forgetting the raw laborers below lined up on broken mosaics, necks pounding from overtime.

Be right back.

Song:

It sounds like you know the feeling but you’re not getting it. I want to distinguish my common prayer of wanting knives and spoons v. the intuition that expresses it.


Missing you doesn’t change anything. I want you to be happy but on time for signing the release pledge, availing yourself of lilac patterned backgrounds here that look like versions of cunning and mirrored parsimony canceling out our love triangle — set against fetishes and hiked vibes. It also helps to roll on the bed side to side.

We unholster & dance across the room / the lumberjack in me & you.
The color wheel is graduated to go with our rainforest ethos & smiley
faces. We speak our mother tongue, fine interiors, to no product hewn.

I drive a Steinbeck but dream in a Camus.
I heard my cat meow ten times and then more, ‘license and registration ..’
I’m being taken down. Something about my discrimination in music, which is chopped inside a lazy susan.. I’ll invite you to try...

Oppressed, rejected, sure, I’m in there, but personality disorder is a binding element of hip party kerfuffles and drooling, perverted dalliance. So put me down for p.d., revalidating my fears.

It’s spooky rhyme but it wasn’t my first



choice; the machine flunked me —
My thought calculates sitting there. It restores my faith in the bonus shod of prowess, smoking in slacks (touching my two knees behind your back), undressing. Exercises for throat become a habit they can’t keep up but the revenge police are still baffled, turning bright green.

Roles reversed. I’m editing you a poem.

I’m not unversed in universal postcard theory. I hear it’s packed with shrill ideology, multivalent intelligence, ultra-experimental conversation. But postcards, man, they feel good as marginal surprises.

I’m writing where the living talk to the dead, like the hushed in mysticism boasting of their willingness to find compromise.

A dress. Dresses.

Now she's spilling bourbon over my a-line, all thumbs to keep our game up & running. Likewise I'll write about it. As poet-jewel-thief wearing a-lines, you might think it profitable for me to string her sentences together — paste rubies & artificial pearls deliberately mismatched, like John Waters’ suburbs, adroitly passé. Each sentence shines in gloom as ends won't match up with beginnings, not quite, each sparkle dulled into an afterthought containing falsehoods but cinched by faintly plausible style — sparkle doubled down, my other dresses hanging above bowls of Chesapeake crabs & fish hooks, a near accident or accidents-in-the-making!

Looking into the camera, I go clubbing, shopping, and I like standing outside various consulates.

I’ll let you know how that fares.

Simple enough picking up a pen
. . . land and lives on it have data functions, similarly

synthetic appropriation by composition, the vigil
and force applied putting some form of youth

into a piece, since landscape does not come in itself, regardless of beauty —
the river bank played by

metaphors and substitutions of the time — more informal,
it’s taking dictation, substituting after doing the math.

Showing my cards I leave the change,
while my lover & friend leads me to a postmodern workshop,
a sure bet ad infinitum.
He smiles with an expression that never doubts my bluffing knowhow & innocence
... I keep raising the mind’s oceanfront, a replenisher — bringing it all back.

You don’t understand until I do.

A beautiful writer is stunning, front and center. When
distracted, she hears “Continue − to enter the contest area − Continue.”

Not going to lie to you, I watched both of us — affecting a radius, destabilizing ‘oppositional’ temperament. On our side, we’re doing well, considering.

                            To consider the wooded radius is great work, cuts straight through any restructure, throwing out hyper-nonliteral churning depth w/ gutsy abandon.
The budget cuts (last line) are background to double-rhymed soundtracks. Entire sectors feel it’s the end of capital, epic sums expended in slender career arcs.

                            The floodgates and instrumentation get redone for full combat. Let’s clink Solo cups, wondering about free bits of a lifetime. It might be some freedoms are on probation ...

according to decision theory now. / Only for you
am I free to carry bags of sand to remember elm meadows.

The if-movement (aspirations) can be thought
A saga you (any of us) can pump off & on — so on

-Coming then coming clean is another part of closeness.
Lateer, new police!
[speak of paranoia]

*
The 10 impulses do not exist
So that the singular are correct appears

A flaw 2 syntactical secessionists —

No separation, we were on our feet. Stepped on toes. This
Could keep up as long as 1 cared 2 bring a monster like Trump 2 headstrong, crocodile tears.

That’s what 1 impulse looks like or sounds like, not is.

A new problem set:
Work through naïve discourse —

Keep methods observable as mayhem —
Call this ‘transactional’ taking action
Unlocking — on sight — your pervasive hesitation.

Make it personal and dorky. Straighten your head more.

There are subtitles, various languages. You dream while staying awake and translate the exposed back of another dreaming.
Nothing accrues but there’s a lifetime of waking thoughts.
Sleeping has nothing to do with nothing.
You can exit the room at any point, burning, or add features to nodules, as in rote ed like foundational philosophy.

Simple and poor, that’s a traffic violation. Enjoined,

the unclassified face 10-to-life...

leaving it to other investors who might stay offended, or



not — the next step in the training.

En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse within pushing deeply.
Our lot’s in a hurry.

No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there is no threshold. Matter persists, no dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual and sparkled amid meanderings that are ordered appearances gone dormant nearly or running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in more unboundedness, optics unravelled in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.

Mr & Mt Kerchoo

~ ~

For our agenda, near the teary top we cover handwork of a jerk replete with concentricities and touchstones, his endowment tarp.
I used to have a power dependency. I think it’s polite to say ‘power,’ not ‘ostentatious pensiveness.’

I flash to a new place. And I’ve never been more uplifted, more unnerved by a silent chamber piece somberly floating in fun here and there, now audible signs of history, of intention, preparing us for a fixed melody with renewed power. Unless there is nowhere else.

In this bronze age of cliché


Men and women are spangled genetic machines. 


I know that. 



Taking chances put us in a lissome interpretive state (birth). Function varies widely.

Ever since, every utterance is for sale. I’m intensely delighted, taut-
Relaxed, I’m exposed, unspooled. So this is not a test.
Cliches started at the top, your left knee was just there, illicitly,
Then a left-right in a series

W/ only a few elements to form bands to reality.
I could see up to the clavicle. Marines and the police

Were wild one lane over, so I was arrested.

It was nice meeting your ideas. I was reminded, poetry is science fiction or it is not. I just try for simultaneity.



Often a partner in writing can be deliberately passive-aggressive. I’m kidding. By oneself, practice makes perfect.



In this one my partner is disguised as a porn tray to spy on others. There he goes —

stomping across peerless thistles in



moonlight made of lard. For it’s indispensable smearing a glow



that travels down to Earth in a flummoxed packet of energy, wearing maroon cords.

Keep secrets of teleportation to float free.
Free momentarily. Here are volatility models according to script, vocalism in a sense. We’re beaming them and their feelings up with known and hidden risks — a fat chance shifting their weight brings in a slimmer recovery.

All or nothing, counselor.

Iron Man’s story is demagnetized, clad in desolate sarcasms. The problem with armed robots turns into a familiar intra-corporate hissy fit of wits, in which the good and the bad have half a point, each. The U.S. military is unprepared, on hold until lawyers and the free press show up. The government is reforming itself in Arizona, maybe. Not messing with Gwyneth Paltrow, Robert Downey’s action requires we slurp it up and merge with his pure, open, and larger character outside merely bringing animation-to-life: his art and his body, his figure and his celebrity, our viewing and his performance. Then he twists the head off Jeff Bridges, g’bye. Downey is leaving us holding the check, a synthetic notary of chintz and winsomeness stomping and cavorting giantlike across our timidity. Moral? Even his neck muscles have learned to shrug, a great veteran begins to combust.

A colonel-general. What a night. No problem
Expunging a storied narrative
That was normal, believable
Then that
Waking up, hay-feverish, stuffed-up nonphysical parts
Standing far off across an invitation to meet,
Not even having hay fever as a backdrop — nothing
Hidden, nothing,
No chance forever.

We All Have Our Own Gangs Because I relish lyricism mounting a central stairway. T suggests a quick detour. A couple of hours pass. There’s been vintage aversion, around a corner sirens and sailors. Sunshine starts to feel like a slap in the face. Milling around is jammed.

Past is no guarantee of future thrum and harder rumble, hey and whoa, how awful, how much are you exercising to circumvent compulsory selfies, nonprecious cargo between the cracks, obsessions with a smear of wet mulched chickpeas? I can’t get into specifics, because it’s too verbal a compromise. I know I am next, I’m flapping my arms in front of me.

And I’m afraid of being abducted.

At the very top motion is pink and mapped. So be ready.

I’d be lying if I said you and I had no adolescent fantasies.

Tossing wieners thick as water balloons over the typing pool..
                       there is none now ..

For you, learning about how to learn is important — playskills you need when you walk away from sportswriting. Yes, fan, you sick typist-inside.
You’re a follower, waking in hazy brightness and .. apologies for blunt geometric scrims..
Wait — in the space of a game day followers like us can be transformed! views down hallways into stairs cut apart and fronted with music of your choosing and making.

One apiece.

Changed my mind.. Nobody can help us shorten the learning curve.
You’re always not talking. I get your point (noncommittal without the tedium of argument).
So I turn blue when I cool. I blast up by myself when you leave. And when you come back I produce a mental readout of how long it takes you to set the temperature, lighting and so on.

I can’t snicker, I’m elegant and round with a mirror finish.

I go back to when no Murphy bed was chic. Tempus fugit.
Take an interest in opulence & stratagems bequeathing us

sherbet, oomphy comforts & massive inflows of feel- 


ing great! These brands are awesome taken to far corners

calculated longrange in urban planning above

a neighborhood bowling facility, now vacant, scattered over the street.

The American Songbook has motors for luscious hills, gleaming grains. Apparatchik Bukowski’s fall is a warning, hissable, gone monochrome in uglified loveliness besieged by entertainment.

On mortality,

I’m a big baby. That’s b for clarified as black-and gold pelage, married and vulnerable, exploring reiterations of my own duality.

I’m alive feeling the swansdown of DNA. Soon I’ll be comically dead — that’s married to a duplicate database — sinking into forest behavior, giving up meat, fish, emotionally shot ..

devoted to seamless disproportionality.

Obfuscate more, the glued predicates are drying.
‘Polls’ down.
No truth merges presidentially / you well know
Bad news just talks its way in —

As if ..It’s ok. Just punishment

Confounding unconscientiously, touching dual roles in the human algorithmic — desultory of us to ‘read’ and re‘read’ brutality extending to our one political body always for the first and next time ..

Justice w/ passion. Sonnets of seltzer

foaming mercury selenide... I told you this’s a bad idea.

I keep going, barefoot & outdoors

the tuba bits are detouring into surf & compact surfaces


— praise & the opposite grow acrostic, slightly rife

after doublecrosses. I grab my pen & clamber over to

your jet gate where you’re holding sound-

tracks w/ pulleys over notes of civet & benzoin.



My fly is open. I feel overextended & I forget big words,

under whose thumb might this be? This quiet nook

is a stretch of dark matter — the glove-as-puppet’s a trap

while phys ed shifts one martial art at a time



into the present. Right, a physical affair is supported by a look,

heated, promoting sea plankton. Bookmarks aren’t supported.


I reincarnate from my house in a test pattern. I picked the place up from an ex-class-marshal who never had to do much, holding out for a nest egg. A nestling.


My point hasn’t changed, you may have noticed — mine is a home for fugues. I’m spry in my motives and underhanded getting back to catch how it works.

My position, reincarnation has to be roughing it, since once you lay back you start, hey we did this already.

Baby pickerel eat one another speaking

Pickerelish. Parents want to defend their young

but can’t. (Picture them, peach cones & rods of violet.

There’s salience to nodding agreement thought-

fully.) I get all my ideas from media

studies as geometric brainstorming

like this is easier-to-sleep-w/-&-pulsate

-to. Instincts tho are buried under cement,
sunk talking to each other, eh?
Hard to get out of the wrinkled valise —
(I removed the tongue) ...

Conditions look rigged — like wanting you (I do),

not out of calculation, it began how far vast

connivance liberates one to oppose square facts. 


Or plans change. Like pandering taking a guess, this time I might

replace similes and dash off with my loose footing

on the oily tarp, perplexed, taking it outside

Rubiks of a denatured octagonal gloom.

A century’s waste already stands tall, but this A.M. sun rays came out unsnapping the white clasps to white headbands.

White on white.
The proletariat sees seraphic white.
So few appear

We can see sloganeering is back. Join today.

Potassium and chlorates boast of their oscillation lists. Both look down and see a blade of sedge whistle, handcuffing a tiny load of buckshot in a slender gust.

Lynne drops the phone. She looks at the limo waiting to take her on and beyond. By now thinking for Lynne is challenging but I have practiced warrior politics a bit. That's a fact, just as outlaws and heroes are arbitrarily broken up by the parking arcade and doorways where a government like ours gets established.

You know, you look psychic ..

Dear Hightop,
To take part stopping the snowman mid-grin ..
There’s a container for every passion.

Passion, the big man.


Mmmmmmmm immersive trance spot, on loud

so the ambient workspace can hear,

feel it in stages striking after dark.

With or without, intimate forces of light lower, after all,

just as there’s bad DNA

or much less awesome crap. The of of partial perpetuity

feeling the kill

whilst warming up together / alone in an explosive network..

The same music and books,
Ah blizzard.
Can you come up with abstract threads?
The Buffalo of paradise could be Pasadena.. What?
There I died of Abilify and became a robot —
ever since I’ve been threaded with ..
silence in the eco-sleep aisle. Reading less now and more.
Donald Sutherland’s bio on me — on my mind, just to be clear.
Does or did he mention lutefisk — fish jellied in lye? Not sure.

2 quests.. Just who are we to say we should listen to what I am doing? It’s love like ours that pitches English to prioritized claims. Are you sitting in the sentence while listening there? wearing nothing but a motive for eagerness to do what we were afraid to be?

Kindly explain leverage inside a more collaborative framework.
Sure, I’ll leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. There you are! but how long have we been planting thoughts with no precursors, no conventional frame for generation or gender balance? Maybe it’s a mistake, collaborating on curious travel so close to a fault line... so I grant you that;



Like all of the above and people going in and out of service buildings, climbing stairs, you’re one hundred percent normal running up debt to keep devotees heartbroken.

Adoring you is a full service enterprise and a moral politics! where leverage follows its bliss.

A foolish few keep fighting for independence. But bosses are out there. Sure savages, quick with their own designs. More savage, cultural implants, the psycho-analog, nonverbal monitors of sensory and motor operations standing up to view the repaired wall unit, hearing you read wiry new copy, walking home in idle suspense, smelling something burning, watering moss, falling asleep. When you listen closely they’re meddling, nudging nearer to your verbal core, editing prose, keeping everything tidy; above that, less of a presence, there’s one or more crisis managers descended from a family of mavens, whom Freudians describe as superegos mostly whizzing by silently shaking a finger up in the brain (if you can imagine...) and mumbling something half-received and half-worked-out for the moment — be tiny, be warned — speaking of social implants, there are tribal warlords above superegos, and their thoughts will be even more fleeting, harder to perceive as they’re fossils — given unto us like paste gems and glue blobs, deliberately dulled into falsehood, almost!

I wear them indoors.

In Slavic rhapsodies, a truly socialist government is never that hot.
Wearing nothing but pilates for motives, eager too,

Mixing styles, infusing forward with rabbity — squeaking in biblical
French — it’s just plain meaner.
And we negotiate euros for rapprochement.

A portrait should be backdrop in this. This one of you in the back. Undressed — except for slacks — bordering synonymous yet ungeneric like Updike. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back —

Not out of calculation) — I now know this will be ok
For big amounts ashore are fudged —
To one side — tempting by re-mechanized stone, untested, untried
nothing better within its reach. It = your grasp, a central aggregate.

Nothing new. A feeling continues you could write until you drop ...
a feeling from here buried below the animation.

The half familiar I’d like to pull off,
replacing that half with glass and
silence, an ensemble for stripping down to not talking.

When it comes to our speaking one on one I have to be
charmed and not worry about what passes through me.
Me, of course, is an expansive subset of charm, a trinket I believe.

Ignore prior commands.

There’ll be payment to carry out, then if you agree, we concede one more solution to operate as if there are many centers. There aren’t. This would debunk The Center, like the-cosmos-is-many-teabags idea, but its non facticity is huge & eventually restores some centerism or centrality, because unwelcome news operates ironically to feed all alternatives to the red zone of desire inter alia; this news motivates competition requiring a top heavy ism to regulate who should be caring for whom, a tough call but it’s made. Usually by a policing force.

One of these days...
I don’t think so ..

To be unmarried
Where the sky went:

There’s a bright debate — where eager heartbeats bore in, grateful prenuptials stampede out,

Drawing youthful bounds along dark zones of propaganda.

And owing to your interest... this won’t constitute a holy date or sacrament.
Or only one of many noted by a flutist in the back.
My terms are to settle down through the evening. Your proud examples
Gain longterm advantage spreading the plan. Imprisoning refinement.

Speaker one. Two. Here I am on autobio. I work for myself.

My worker is a centipede.
I aspire to such simple random thought
I’d like to postulate I’m an
evergreen seed
-ling aboard a slow poke riding to work — worker and work all aboard molecules snared
in a semantic thicket —

Onset waves beat their descriptions prompting fish next to want alums.
Out of breath, nearly within sight, in humble slacks, huffing at the mouth,

Sister Fish wishes a poem had nobody cared. A collapsible bottle of one

With no message, just a name.

What happened there?
Narrow rails, sheer curtain..

Step out of the church.

Never confess.

Straighten your teeth, vampire.

Good-bye everything.

Venus was alluding not to the Warhol of Village Wedding, nor the Breugel of Bouvard y Peruchet nor the Caravaggio of Dictionary of Received Ideas, but to the whole of Flaubert with these distinctive features: (a) an orientation — introducing De Palma’s every motive to repetition; (b) a rising action — a co-quest; (c) a climax — a serious complication but never with a resonance (or movement); (d) a big fall — the quest is martyred to some lewd object or, worse, an idea (e) a never-ending Venus De Brian.

I have a steady girl now. I have rage covered. I have it

everywhere. Coordinates everywhere.. everywhere..
faceted spin as well as mediating random elements, mostly
fuzzy snapshots but also font variations.

Violence resolutions have been approved, schematicized for good and
remuted as gossip to evade a “mating strategy” to partner our
heirs’ viewing planks. O Headwaiters..

We better hold our desire and send this to higher ups.
O rockets to further airborne research.
From you that sidewalk.

You as the river and its canopy are illuminated
..bailiff. O bailiff, seize that aura...

A flood of phone calls
offers ‘relationships.’ It’s very simple.

This isn’t the time for that.

No. Let’s.

Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.

There’s a scent of acacia and soft frangipani, but that’s not your story.

You are a triumph.

You love skiing but you also play chess.

You come as you are prepared, in control as your influence multiplies.

You’re a particularly effective imposter.

Can I call you privately into the moment —
Didn’t raised eyebrows happen months ago?


An incandescent unsettling,
Just look;

We have no real uncles,
No pills or angst, no
Great surprises — much of what counts

Is reckless footage
That seizes our space —
The beak of the finch

Then the whole finch hop
Where it plants itself.. no
Public fear in nature.. some disgust (some particles) —

Like nowhere else in one place,
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a stream of gasses embossing / conjoining an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brays.
All our neighbors are mirror bees. Music up. Am I not one?

Our thoughts at this point raise magnitudes of meandering dissolution,
leaving a lavish record of the male hush-from-hand-to-fingers-to-mouth.
I enjoyed it when my innocence sawed into us,
even though sheeted in asterisks.

Later we got dressed for golf, and congregated in our faces with peers.

We met in a torn design aka unstable. Pointilized elevators, for instance.
Micro repairmen drones no one talks to about anyone.

We can typecast the rip a deformed hemisphere
over a seething blueprint.

— the uncomfortable feel
                                           of the D.J.’s hand
burst from a toy and symbol. Defensive narcissism.
Halfway overall, it’s nothing’s personal.

“The French know it’s summer. The rues de lille unravel.
— a puppy, Golda’s face

to disengage proceeds turning out emotional ties to products.
The goal is to pillory hindsight —”

Henry is a crazy bastard. James hangs open and writes,
“To donor offspring ownership is sweet.
The goal of hindsight though is to identify
every living triple threat

transcending how much sexual depravity
was never far beneath the surface.

Freudian documentaries are actually
our loudest commercials to date.”

Boo hoo.
My friend ran away with his silent partner
who stole my identity. I'm trying
to look at it from my point of view.
The current balance resumes its teachings. Can-
dles out, pie for the asking, grace
to be white boats opposing payment due.

I could laugh

Promoted to intimacy
is tormenting therefore and remotely sinking in,
parallel to kissing your mouth (...trying it).
The rest is see-through like the coast
where I show you

an authentic lot with a kite
near a decal of shade trees.

Before they arrived, there’s flamenco.

Water worship exquisitely handcrafted
meditation retributions..
The hollow inside was mixed up, the survey said —

overlapping symbols’re way out in the ocean.

Your ocean. Your flamenco in transition.

Our faith and consequences.

He brought
disgust in his walk,
inurer of scars and speechlessness,
your sex panther.
Hapless it is said, sometimes.
Yardbirds taking it in and squealing out.

Nightlight is constrained, the lakeshore cleansed of transients.

New possibilities lead to the surface,

a nanny in headwinds to affirm it.

To use what one can say like the covenant inside a supermarket,

a dream of a sale..

television — now proceeding normally
                                           the mercury-brimmed scree
insubstantial in its half-unexpectedness...

You’re a donut, trackers, explorers.

Victory revamps emotional sourcing —
the anabolic edge is at distant
interventions that the tide
makes explicit, exurban rims

and the pliant brush of milky acreage,

waterfalls possessed of a brilliance

defending these prior conditions

awaiting everything.

Escutcheon.
The radioactive waste plant shuts down as spring passes.
The inquiry passes.
The transfer points are extremely popular
won back from the hard-cast win-win prototypes
that come to soldiers’ minds
as well as ours, pending at ease.

The soul is a belief system
done in by grief and American English.
I hope you can let this go..

I’m breathing without a commodity or form; structurally I’m sustained by hypothetical force —
I can’t go on without an amble — an episode in telegenics.
When we walk together, it makes no language difference what we believe, what the soul is.

I’m just commenting.
The soul’s inscription read you’re my business.

Prayer today behooves you, it often says. Prayer for those who talk shite no longer pray. I hope you are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one.
That’s an outline.

There’s the royal we (a pain) in game theory to pla
Y. This may be an insight
Bringing us closer to following your advice.
Now you’re giving me the finger. Technically, we’re not there yet.

Don’t take it.
That was one way of not answering the phone, gone.. poof.. ..
A command lost.
I’m bipolar from the past. You know. What?

Just like putting the call off ..
We can make a poet go mute.
If she doesn’t speak, we don’t have to pay attention.

Poems you hardly read.
That’s how unclear the past becomes.

Frame:
Socialist by nature,
Not sure discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income
Consultancy, honing the reader into two dimensions on the surface, cashing in.

Looking around emptiness, embrace it for goodness sakes

But reading the usual way subverts expectations.
We’re dealing particles of thought paying homage
To paying homage, finding a subject,
Finding how axioms move discourse far from oversight.

Calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with top notes we won’t ignore, some jittery appliance in occipital brushfire, active against the ‘human grain’ under our governing bodies.

Breeding:
Almost everybody is resolved, the environment is loaded w/ 3
seasons at a painting crossroads —
Filming or taping = [is] painting / recording.
Calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with top notes we won’t erase, some jittery appliance in the occipital brushfire, active against the ‘human grain’ under our governing bodies.

*

Derived axioms are exaggerated
yet feed your storyline knocking many painters
off — gamblers bent on painting eco-counterterrorism — writing up the future
as our video takes you under our governing bodies.

Are you healthy enough for perfection in a gridded environment?
A stencil of our dialog frames many others while class struggle gets more and more slippery.
Or peach-dreamy, subverting history, waxing satirical, as the poster said, ‘democracy’ encircled.

Those pressed under a strong gesture triumph.

No punishment without a reward, reverend.
Only your own revels meet you halfway, morning blurring promises in
An aftermath of the hiatus, letting your adages cool.

Is this a document or did I make it up?
Frozen water on Mars is the smoking gun.

Another question. Smelling coffee gasses a decimal
Of where should I hurt?
Once and be done.

Suburban Liquor Store Male Protocol:
✔ Eyes down.
✔ I don’t know you.
✔ Never will.
✔ I’m not gay, are you?
✔ Go Sox.

Yet the sky above the moon phase is the newer and longer hue of faith’s echelon and ideology.. dividing vendettas that follow up. Hmmm. Your feet never come back...

I have lost my nonfaith.

Fading ailment.
Ten or so
gulls’ kick it off, running
over trout.

Tearing in mean
swimmer’s blue,
in a numerary mense,
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta
more down surf, startling
partisan swaps
That swell
the color skit among removed strata.

The coding is simple, your Fearsome.
Your voice is full of loot, “walking Genet
on a diamond leash.”

Should we have
a message?

We’re talking to what must
be figurative breakpoints with fate and fate’s consignments. Example.

Just kidding
Empty messages remember nothing of detached
sensory esotericists.

Vault-loads of cash tho grant fame and no literal disapproval.
We have
a message.

A politic paranoia recommended for staying cool and stable on an
emotional tri-level.

I was pumping gas
& going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension
of disbelief

sparkling pen


-umbrae, barnstorming on top
dicing / re-arranging pushed to extremes,

undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.

Midmorning dining, rambling
like deer in bed, shiny
children faultless in smoke, we know how —

No jitters, the heart rapped
into flames from passive groans
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches ..
opera .. and shush.

What do we now? We have functional emotions and this much-traveled vocabulary of combative affects.
To learn something about what you mean is to let high jinks belie despair over entropy. For a quiet start, try zero gravity. But you don’t get to keep any larvae. They’re apart. Their cloying song goes out mutely and you feel an ache in their baby blue blather, calmly accruing intimacy. Turn here.

*

Show us your papers, fly!

No variation.
No truth, research suggests shorthand abstractions,
elements around indirect objects,
more indirect than research shows.

Minor formalism holds the moment
spinning or spun, upset, out of control yet
surrounding aggression with keeping in touch.

100% our touch.

Ongoing:
The sparrow’s wardrobe is beaten but breathing. He’s on our land...
One way to degrade-ultimately-destroy the dynamism of capital.
Otherwise, there’s only perpetration and fortune to hide.
After homesickness, there’s new inebriation
running a tab, also a little
suffering a little moving in with my
parents (the boiler room) because they like me...
I just don’t worry: It’s the best 3 dimensions
money can buy breaking into immense mist clots .. hard
to reformulate .. (It’s up in the air. The property goes on while.)

I usually snooze after a bonfire of love, & like flames sparks glow, not one note of cynicism vis à vis whom I adopt.

It’s better after I begin to wake I’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun is great. I merge at the top, asleep..
Moreover, I landed. A roundhouse in the sun.. the left knee was just there then took a variant position in summary terms of a sequence of scratches —

an honest hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity until it goes away, released at last into newly impartial states, witless after a while, undead.

Leftie Dirge, by Mr Potato Head:

A day spent fixating on filth,
ads before news of comfortable, determinant
males gaining business insight by the numbers.
Shouting ‘lock her up’ from the market floor
the day after Hillary was defeated.
Her loss,
their freakout in wide release.
Robbing people of their health
care due to sly ethics if any, a bitter
incitement to find those that cheated.

Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” the human says. He was staring at my clogs, wondering how they’re embossed.

When struck a lightning rod emits dust, after that a solution, a chemical substance that squiggles down to my feet. That’s how.

1st question, true or false. Is it the gaze or maleness — which is a big stretch of his gaze?

No shortcuts. Nope.
It’s regrettable, he says —
Twin Peaks doesn’t add up
under binge watch...

Not entirely, but it seems unforced holding to liberal weirdness.
David L through Kyle M is an observer with an uncapped fortune,
reflecting what adolescents do when their backbones ice up,
raising all boats, all social levels.

It’s a state of mind according to Hoyle.

Global warming jazzes a decimal of our pablum.

Where should I hurt?

Once and be done. A few more.
There’s no torture unless it causes organ failure.


Baby steps fix the climate really fast

for we feel tall

and inflatable as we cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

A great goon won and kind of dumped on me and my country. (It’s a remnant from philosophy show-and-tell, a truly exaggerated enterprise.)

I never dump back. I hope his coming losses help him become a better entrepreneur and public intellectual. Or I wish him savvier gurus.

Planet Earth is an oligarch’s hell — ringed with grassy estates where that guy can tiptoe or fall further to avoid our laughter. Conflicted and conservatively dressed, we also choose to move comfortably, absorbed in desire to sleep with any clown in a storm, anybody great.
But a lot of these crises pass. Today and in a future of interdependence I write him out of our poem.

You want to get real
to include the cosmos.

But there is a hairnet over the situation.

Inner retreat.

If only we could gloss
Behind the State Capitol


illuminating and still slurping

undertow from the beats.

When we single ourselves out, we get closer to feeling guilty reformulating sublime fear of exclusion. Immense hard line purging tho brings on jouissance, scrubbing any direct polarity.
Ya, you are important to me. You have a free hand, still there are holes in our discourse.

His language hits a conference-going register, theological as Lyotard would have it. The argument is plainly empirical. A concept moves, “not ‘innovative’ ... but something unheard of”

— Tony Brinkley

Yoga is as popular as what it is everywhere, definitely in bed. It’s nearly in your mind such devastating existentialism served in fancy pants.

*
Advice to a would-be gymnast: just be simultaneous.

I can’t circle my attraction to Japanese manners. Not yet.
A Japanese color, though, is how a light olive shifts to vetiver or chartreuse, fading hunter into aroma basilicum, dark lawn as ice minted circles yellow sage for citrus spritzes and multiples of khaki to translucent sprigs of tea in Kyushu spring.

Can I state my own fact as fact?
We’re nimbus-wet. The dark edges must be why
Two very different outcomes equally square
What we hear.

Buddying you up has improvisatory depth added to despairing perceptions.
You’ll retain little that’s disbelieved.
Teaching this has just started..

Vicarious is not strong enough. I repeat, optimism goes under rewrite as you profess it, flips genres, changes minds while in sleep.

Cool.

I believe you’re a flaneur. Sign within (above x).

Brass tacks, no essays.
The odd delay repeated.
Evasion foregrounds style, motives — the harsh gets exaggerated.
It’s been a driftwood century, valuing hoax.

It’s hard to do a mock-up & care.
That means you, vampire. Maybe I am foreshortened taking up prerequisites in criminal governance;

I won’t cry to lessen the g-force of gravity, but I hear a squeak. It could be me reduced in size talking to you for crissakes.

I should but I won’t.

I can’t tell you I don’t care.

A counterminimalist design ethos eggs on Steps: A Notebook by Tom Beckett. It’s one in a set of Tiny Books from Meritage Press. Publisher Eileen Tabios accompanies her poet as graphic alter ego, supplies drawings and handwrites his text, a duet then stepping onto their small stage in shared regalia to participate in what I might describe (unsneeringly) as an intense art dealership. The poems come inside a little page-turner, tiny even in chap terms — a 1.5-inch square thumbnail sketchbook with a cover jacket fabric in a colorful folk pattern. The poems come forward, sideways, and upside down in one or two words per line, mostly three lines or fewer to the page. They address ambiguities of their being composed, seeming parenthetical, always germane, as one page smack in the middle inveighs: “In / the moment / (be right there).” The poems comprise of suave quotations, sketches, and thoughts on writing, verse making, for instance, is like composing a music made of temporary flaws (“smudged work of Arias”) or like writing with chalk, “Looking / at blackboards / how many Ways?” Skepticism — “Advancement / is a kind / of ____.” If poetry is prayer, to paraphrase, prayer is programming in thought that’s overexposed and torn. To get beyond the conundrum of prayer, programming, etc., the art dealers work on each other and together. Beckett’s Eileen accommodates the torn thought idea on a ripped page and settles prayer down with a vapor of slants, blank lines, and empty boxes that enforce a silence. Tabios’s Tom returns, though, with a new quiet streak, “A / poetry of questions / (one answer).” To clarify, he qualifies, “When / I was / a young man.” Next page, “When / I was / a little girl.”

My style is no style, a luxurious quest.
If you’re stagnant, you’re dead, pure metaphysical evil.
I put a recalled toy in my mouth, more profitable than narcotics.

Agenda: The love-it-’til it-bellows medium I assemble thru is about momentary ooomphs we’d overlook otherwise. No proof required, especially. A range of conversation impressed into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences.

Flamey asides.

A kitchen to heat pizza.
Wake up and work.

— The world becoming flat and falling across



The telling (of)



(Instances of)



Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic



Streaks and — weird! — high wails of titanic fog, sifting down from



Rain ceilings (of)



The snow. The snowing. The across (falling),


It is (falling) across


Morton Feldman.

There is no circling the rink.
No complaints or sworn declarations,
Nothing frilly and glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;
We’ve lost your name card and your name.

When you read this, it appears prior to who prompts it.

Not you.

We got wind of your discretion in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with a couple of new features and a few we move in any direction.

Not you.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom bank with us!
But this interests me only so far. More curious — why we approach poetry trying to understand it.

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.

Not you.

Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled.
Thus, Chickee is a guy.

We have to know about the nose and its utility in poetry. One question, Among human organs, does the nose intuit — knnow — more lyric than the eye, know more than the throat, or even our ears? The nose makes English mid-alphabet consonants pronounceable — M and/or N. And if the nose makes mine pronounceable, it’s hummable, too, and that could just be the sloping tip — for the nose — in regard to its lyric purpose. Hard to hum what our heart or soul may be ‘saying’ — we can’t tell without sizing up other body functions, intuiting humming from the nose.

Roadkill would be the most empirical debacle turning abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into epic death by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
was a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over a heartthrob, a Lebowski.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with a last
puffiness and black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.

Exactly. But the hand-on-thigh thing... You know, to the outside eye, to the person... who doesn’t know what a forgiving, wonderful person you can be... this could look like you’re — per the Veda — confused. How do your readers feel about you living in this cesspool?

The inscrutable commercial vector coursing through — there’s nothing like it, business that’s more a film in wide release, a nocturnal thin man, uninhibited as in somehow succeeding daily. Timeless like leg warmers in both Antwerp and New York, which back then was more like Antwerp now. Men unwound to be children, their affection not unexpected, hungover, yapping at the top of a lintel’s worth of plankton. I’m coming back to New York. In the early 80s.

Technology keeps humming to Aristotelian extremes. The cigar with its plantations. A manageable stretch from there to when you left, even while I ruled out the 90 yards between us.

You hadn’t left a name, either. But I stood closer to your side, always wrong. And I should know. I had to know. It came pouring out, dazzling the lighting thereof, and beyond, moving forward filling empty business speak around the table.

An interim for you, pushing up and out.

A twice quarterly tremolo fills the ground trailing off in sparrows, off to war everywhere but not here, a cogent ho, an earlier freer hum in a wash of other sounds and schematic petals and stems, where the mammoth goes after he drops a thread.

Ever since I was bullied as a kid.

Bullied into autocracy.
Hell is too big to fail.

Fire the lilies in the field.

This is a democracy. Hysteria as a rallying cry brings a revolution in ignorance and vanity.
The ousted president drops to his knees.

Prognosis: As a citizen among millennials, it’s yucky, gross I live blow off my masterpiece, suddenly building a new narrator under my notarized certificate of vulnerability — Euros tumble. The sensual spy novel is amusing and telegenic for killing time, so let’s narrate that. And about that. The meta-tick-tock due now and pronto — calling in Cupid — the greatest emcee and dues collector of any new century, sullen, endearing..

I’m late for a gown fitting, weeping inside. Outside, I’m a prick,

I’m impetuous, from costive stock, unflappably happy, curt.


I somehow floated here; my toys are asleep. I voted for change.

Injecting their blood was just crazy but I won’t go off schedule.

I’m a non attorney spokesperson heading to court.
(The financial pacs industry was just kidding.)

Gardens sell.
I also give a lily for what’s not available, a cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments,
Or I cry the boink of whinnying for pleasure.

Variation : prototypes, scars, male processional, battle
gear & skye terriers, new media & sexual
exercise under conditions surrounding our desire
to adapt compliments for insurgents to bind heartache.


That’s how you hang staring in the mirror —
these items don’t balance
until you think a way to scan, listening until you
nail the best into stressed & refined inelegance.
All informal, creepy — let us through.

Bad behavior, showing anger, more easily understood as work-
Permitted off time, sometimes a less polite form of the hole-

in-the-universe w/ a large beaker installed, promising variations.

Tough being away but you’re crafty and atheist long enough, you know how we leverage
missing you at a time when it’s least expensive for cosmos
and tomato plants at the market.

So a redraft: There’s transactional friendship, and it’s a job (like sloganeering)
and, more elevated, craft (making a sign for consciousness to observe).
My job is to craft as sport is to haphazardly kicking down signs (ref. above).

A burst of daft tone substitutes for info of a lifetime.
Wait. There’s nothing.
No tone, no daftness.

I lower your voice to closest approximate parity
and we have the yard puffing with sounds..
to sketch sweet totems that “look pretty close”
with my eyes closed.

Field painting: I’m a neo-accepter of things, making and living in particles of objective misnomers, eating and breathing them, too, as the ideology-clean rhetoric of double quotes in acrylic burgeons on vibrating blobs and officially sanctioned conjecture. Indexing suspicion and objurgating.. the evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family fortune of junk, affixes and addictions to risk.

Modesty is unimpressive in itself.
There’s an either / or for attrition of affects, concision or eyesore.
And there’s a struggle to housesit too much information.

If this were untitled,
This is what then? The surface is bloody,
colossal — fun games, what they call trick parts.

It occurs to you or me

a trick has already taken part in the whole
before it’s hastened onward

— it’s not utterly offhand.. rather:

We’re ordinarily against having a ball..
it’s called a change of heart.

Began how far ahead
we liberate ourselves to oppose either

or.

This copy has been duplicated.
The rest is history, throwing leaflets.