A branch can be a sentence. And have a real day. There is urgency in ideas.
But the best living in a debt growing country feels worse

than version-2 pressures diffusing
the air that richly dark has the outer sky above.
During the break we reached anxiety. Big
thick crazy quilts the shame buildings

marshaled over property wings,
the bubble places where the “Great but I’ll just hold...” matter.

Antinomy. I should know. Something after was pouring out, dazzling its double structure forward filling empty screen boxes you were bound to organize.
And you were rushing and pausing over more optical symmetry. An interim for you, pushing up and out. There is little point to cremate your fixed melody tonight unless there is nowhere else.

I am a non attorney spokesperson.

Planet Earth has been coined a Taoist hell. A coinage ringed with grassy estates where men like you with money and I can tiptoe or fall further. One observation is easier than the rest. Tag, you’re it, absorbed in desire to sleep with anybody great.

Sonnet 7:

Outgoing at noon, attending on what? I’m not going out. I’m mouthing off about getting on with or without you. Just look how my sight’s scripted by high pitched infantile alienation, falling over you. Again. It’s not too late! New optimism apparently pays serving your burning head. Another way we’re both blackmailed over there is nothing low, nothing sacred.

Painting formalism.
It pulls you into painting along with lab wonks, emphatic cat stranglers, lesser rogues, screwball robots painting the same painting of different action hulks who celebrate casino archetypes.

Silent movies, early and often; three or more faddos over a twine painting attempting authenticity; spoken text in utopian media, tense and alive volumes of notebooks; high and low brow platinum blonds and flamboyant offspring, painting stagey inculcation.

Beating me up pouring coffee to make me cry not today.

You sit languidly, the other side of the room. You’re locked in circumstance.
Your party last night was great. You like to dwell publicly on crispnesses in whispers in the air. Not only that, you may already be a laureate.

You’re the single most meticulous detail for me. You chill the sorbet and warm the surf insidiously. Your sleep is like a language recognized by flowers of near distances.

Mercury is wow! Mars.

My friend’s snooty and sells antiques?
It’s about people acting this way.
The charger thought we
knew we thought

the skull pile is hot
since it supposes completion as marsh

-puissance coming on —
Anyway, this just in:

Approximate loss’s busy reaching across
the aisle, going there you and I earn points.

Sorry, I have no association I can share. I was held up at work as songbirds flew in from the sky everywhere. I don’t know why. When I was eating more I stuck my fingers down my throat to empty it. I am yet to be reborn and am thus a saint.
A saint in a new era of a minute from now learns to kiss your life goodbye. After the credits an aggressor from wikipedia opens with a right cross. I usually fall asleep before the u-boat takes off.

Sonnet 93:

Better to live more as love may near
Supposing I’m in many ways a deceived husband.

A coterie of enablers cooperates fully. For us,
A love interest is made to look calculated.

For there can be no hatred in our eyes.
But, facing love, the early light seems to
Urge us to go out, rehearsetoo much and get wasted, frowning, moody —
Eve’s apple was Adam’s.

What have we beside a sack of parrots?

Hey mmm
Europe with Alsace in the middle about to be a pain ..
I’m furious about pure consciousness, its transparency and orchestration. A conduit of expanding stops and sharps. Or is it a geyser in a box?

92: Once again love ends. Happy it never stays; love’s a vexing weather of manual labor, inside scars. A heightened blush. Far from love talking, American Gothic is under manageable stress, learning to fear the worst. I don’t know, is there one last better state to restage, to live? It depends on you, sleet dashing nowhere like boiled-down jazz, which was formally difficult and, ooops. Someone happy to die is on fire.
No — do we take their place?

Language is spoken better where it’s taught. While you’re at it wedge correspondence. Then add neural linguistic product with teal / aubergine edges to develop squeeze pages; flicker the colors and offer joint ventures in which you apply marketing’s advice. This is the ballad of how especially my guest room is the office.

Take-down décor really scares me. Take-down anything is East Coast enough but to specify a wipeout draping fiber ... only it’s pardon me, and still it comes back to bone substance.
I have no name now but my ass is about listening. 1st Crusoe the boss and Friday then Jessie, Natasha. A small party turning into the lost colony as the fete evanesces into a seminar on comparisons, fact-rechecks, back formations.

That was all I felt.

Discuss the cut-off points where ideas can meet and turn into habits that muddle thru and onward, neither wifely caricatures nor whores. Talk about process.

The door to the exchange left ajar

Fizzy purviews haunting what hang around samples from The Inferno. A wave beats my eye off. Don’t care. Structured improvisation vibrates thru volumes of time. I’m chatting up my repressed side to save us from scrapping our early decisions. The charge is to fail to remember the (mission) exchange.

Nero fiddles for the top one percent.

126: Don’t talk with your mouth full. Process self-disrupts into phrases and glass, fickle process components and the stiff, gnomic atmospheres to bring accoutrement to terms, waning to grow! Hold your lovers there minutes in pleasure. And go on, keep to your purpose, even in power, lovelier.

As you say in social sciences, it’s too late for Cy Twombly’s nervous breakdown. There are gaps we see now and through. Louis Pasteur enjoins the loyal center. Candy ass.

Your reading was beautiful, well pronounced. Perfect make-up. But boredom is poor experiment; that’s what we said to snap out of lightness, joy, the eyes-open dream. Knower and known are clean, osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the public, our public. And I’m less affected by less meaning, un-giddy like you. Duly of course sounded, I cover my throat.
“It’s nice to be interrupted twice.”

110: What are resonators for but to effect command of offenses we’re uncertain of or sold cheap. There’s nothing but our affections left. Love’s confinement a desperate measure, and it’s true, in reckless hands, yet for silent partners like us there’s depth to surface and mostly un-despairing perceptions (grinding truth) of what won’t be contained. All of the above.

None of this is quite déjà vu. It seems rational that with a little prep you can achieve more intimacy with a poet you’re initially trying to know. If you want. And, of course, you’re helped by the other, the other’s writing, I mean, since poetry is one medium for splendid self-introductions of a stagy, framed sort. No, what I am about to say ...I want to put here and it’s not entirely rational ...there may be a blushing-waif-zeit and atmospherics, but certainly a range of collective empathy (psychosis?) with a potentially or partially vulnerable social manner that, together with your own empathy and vulnerability, will put you both a way forward; you’re talking fast and can’t help rolling your eyes, even before you have intentions. This happens a lot but not forever, especially with one ill bred who misapplies the moves and the language to enact motives beyond the immediate speech act.

My first night at E. 12th everything was as though I had been decamped here for weeks or longer. Tub in the kitchen, finessed, a foyer, walled in packed bookshelves, a studio workroom off the foyer filled with files of graphics and drafts, a large emptied bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows, large, no curtains, just windows and walls with decades of paint peeled and peeling. My bedroom is perfect as-is, a futon, a sprig of damp pine in a ceramic bowl, one or two books in-process. I knew the poets in the building, a few were famous, many pre-famous, so that’s not a shock. It will all be familiar backdrop in a newer craft.

First reading H.D. (in high school) set my fingers tingling (not my spine, tho). Reading Donne, breaking down how conceits interlocked parts of the argument fired my brain that, great thing, I experienced physically, but I don’t remember which parts, precisely. (Again, this was high school. I bet it was adrenaline added to all the braining in Latin and German and maybe the attendant headaches. I was more involved with Keats before college, but his poetry came in dreamy concretion, to me, and I don’t think I “felt” his words so much as “saw” them and me in them. The visual over feeling. At this point, embarrassing to admit, I wanted to be an amalgam of Keats and Donne. I was I anxious.) First time I felt a poem through my skin was long ago, listening to Kenward Elmslie read in Boston for the first time. Boom boom up and down the limbic whatnot. I still feel it, breathing free..

During the break, there’s a nightmare where we go away. Go on a way for now. We’re on tv a lot. It’s a gen condition, but hushed up. On tv I have a family resemblance dilemma along with young poets and cohorts I encounter. We’ve been brought up in visual culture. And since it’s being archived, there are poets who affect me in lit-crit ways I will never let them in on or admit to, ways tied up with influences and emotions and, notable (notable on a paranoid scale, i.e.), I get it they may be viewing me in common, collateral ways.

I’ve got to. Not to go down.

This is in response to the inscrutable commerce-vector coursing through pop concepts, bringing unique comfort to support our position in the food chain, which is in dispute.

I adhere to the same late-filing rule as you. Am a keeper of years all night.

Art is theft all right. I’m almost a novice enthusiast. Years from now.
Then I shall break down and cry.

I taper our next stage with visually inevitable things and select for keen gameness. Today a deep-seated specialist would work with genres and forms and play something interdisciplinary; I see. Um, ok, yes, ma’am. I’ve misspelled some signs.
I have not fulfilled norms set by stop action. (Politics and dignity of appearances don’t mix.) Nothing personal, I cry when it becomes subsequent. I credit everything on the surface without a message. But now —

In Throne of Blood — if you’ve seen it, you won’t forget — the tall growth of Cobweb Forest is sawed down to new ends, camouflage for an avenging army on the march. The sad image is threshing fir and pine needles that shield warriors advancing to unseat a despot flummoxed by presentiment.
Ontologically, a wild deed like rewriting a poem is complemented by an autocracy of attitude toward its occasion; they combine as a sawtooth. Standing by and looking on — face it, I’m prone to passive aggression — stunted, I limp off scowling to the dull deforested haze of profuse misses in experience and lightness of touch.

Poetry on the style page (where it stays).

Combustion and dust spores filling avenues between skyscrapers, your honor. People borrow shelter in ice cream convenience stores, then run to the subway, running with asinine language (you can’t call it dialog). Ugly apartments. Life-draining clothes. New affections. Highly recommended.

114: Things to ingest.

I flubbed a sacrifice to appear tough, best. (Each moment was electrocuted in pleasure.)
Shall I say my time is for my removal waffle and sproat interpretation. This perfect
Assembly as birds cover their nests, beavers their dams. Poisoned on your flattery

I put a recalled toy in my mouth. (Eric Dolphy)

We sometimes need fresh lexicon set for the mind-body problem, words to determine their own behavior, items like primality and cuboidal, glints of jazz, a glorious set.

Will you cover me?
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.

128: How often climate stands a tacit partner confounded with snow, which I know jacks about. To be in concord, how often my envy walks into the wiry mirror, tickling the ivory — music for a white harvest. Your hands, piano fingers are morally exigent, maybe, dancing chips shivering in a synthetic silk-festooned weigh station, changing state and situation — how often? Blushing! It’s new weather boldness leaping either side of my poor lips making inward sounds over your lips to kiss.

My area is interpretive search.
You’re always not talking.
I get your point (approbation without the tedium of argument).

125: I believe we fall to nature so ketchuppy-and-pink that an oblative canopy over beauty, wit and fashion is established.

I blame eternity. Only me for you?

I’m flipping out, whoa. Lose all, and more! A white screen blackness. Inform, suborn, freeze freely up-though external leftist bases lower right, then a right your lips moving up and down, talking design.

Changed my mind. The rent’s too high! No one can help me to switch landmass.
To set me up is to hit the meaning of being a musician, not mixed with seconds. And it’s clear whose side you’re actually on, landlord.

The U.S. idiocy pledge — I hereby ...
I hold hot and cool scrims of mist and water balloons floating over a lap pool, views down hallways into stairs cut apart and fronted with rock waking in hazy brightness without a clue how we got here.

I’d be lying if I said we aren’t criminals.

Here’s what I would say to your teachers.
* We started hubble.
                          *
Being a family is our work.

Attention.

As you advance, there are four surveillance cultures from which to plagiarize a response, while materials become more complex, building on what’s been put in the record.

Is that all you’re having for dinner?
One will need a clearer message for individual agency. There’s no humor in discretion. Wind in your hair makes us sick.
We can provide hacks for frenetic formality; tap the death screen. And when you come to a three-syllable word you don’t know, you can just reference your dad’s manual to nab the one-syllable translation of it.

True, false, is it a gaze or maleness?
Yes. It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and
Time’s up.

The traitor’s bags are packed.

107: Hand-me-downs are not deconstruction, not mine or yours.
So this is an edit. Rent the wide world v. purchase. Own v. confined release.
(Color had risen to his cheeks. “I want us to be in charge.”)

Seconds later I was reconnected. Uncertainties are now assured.

Would you like to ask questions or can I dream on the problem?

Surely I have ideals and uncoded momentum, bolo intact.
Rain twisting, “tensile lines.” So wave back, s’up?
We’re at the prelims of collapse, I suppose.

I’m on the outs with prelims, down with the innards of English.
Down with collapsing too. In fact

I’m breathing without commodity or form, trained in my language.

The trees are full of policemen — Filip Marinovich

As noted last century, there’s a rustic prep for a painterly style and muddled cool. We come from some landscape with a father, calmed by his fear we were of a kind he was to others.

145: Once I don’t hate you

there’s a glow to my argument like an avalanche,
wintry but fun and explosive. Like a vending machine.
Day follows night, love’s hand made me, altered me
flown straight away to your heart, not to hate.

In full bloom, full blown.
There’s too much junk in triangles. (Conductors know this.)
That’s how I got to live alone anticipating mind control as
disingenuous. As
my own adverb creator I found action verbs with alter-egos,
asides, and decorative indeterminacy.

Love memorials are cool.

The smitten dissipate. I’m a fan without a noun.

152: My honest faith is an American idiom
in loving you. I lie.
My eyes swear against the broken things they see.
Perjury. I accuse myself of swearing against the truth.

For you

I went to hell with you.
You gave me hiccups back when, floor six. Now my senses are restored. The unoccupied mind is long overdue.

And I’m back in my vertigo seat, reading over and writing my disciplined boilerplate, my editor’s marble thought structure swarming with pleasant memories.

for Souza

Music up. See this pigeon? He’s a true antihero. Incandescent.
Along with the meaning of structure for couturiers and magi,
varmints in then shortness of breath are indexing our suspicion
tho objurgating — Varmints and saps they are — knitting their brows to go
nowhere wearing rubber suits stepping in, out of buildings, thinking
climbing stairs, it’s 100 percent normal running up
debt to keep devotees heartbroken. So we’re with pigeon.

Music up.

Let’s see what we get at the top of the poetry game.
There you go again. Tax and spend. Death panels. Lyin’ Hillary. Toxic concepts infuse social ideology and organize perception. Political samples predict voter behavior.

J is crazy. Play along or rue it.
You guys go ahead.

I’m going to take my inside voice and ...and turn around and walk away.

Outdoors I pledge you a wholly hidden idiom of renderings, highlighting themes out-of-focus, left to twist in the leafy apolitical acreage.

Director’s cut.

New day! Matins yet ghosted, Starsky’s tongue in my ear
& all the bobwhites in Appalachia hush... off

& then — second — noise
of collared, greening hospitality where Hellenic

banter might calm a tax credit havoc.
Third, I stay nonprofit
worshiping that everything belongs.
All else is stress related.

4: In a coin flip, you
and I’re leisure-loving. Nature’s doing.
Fair and it’s that easy
and so great I’m leaving you
my saddle in your extrication from hallucinatory delirium ..

Tho you’re still up front, in legacy jeans, what nature calls
trafficking with fog to bequest lilac-dark in the air
and offshore atmospheres yesterday and the day before

If you could answer.

I’m drunk on history, empathy, bounce. Or plans change.
Kitty is sick of nice things. Not now, it’s daybreak —

Conditions look gray — wanting you (I do), a profane Rubik,
not out of calculation, how far & vast connivance
liberates us to oppose purring put aside.

2: We never come across it.

Yet a thriftless parabola intersects its pedigree that was.
Gestures are precise, eating shame. User eyes,
proud motions. Warm and cold climbing down the third hill,
there’s a new quad mainstream-underground

deep-sunken eyes — we — some of us — avoid them. It’s hardly objective
when a big tantric realignment is authentic now, will

hyper-rufflers be juxtaposed by an advanced milieu? If
you, will you cover me? how much? let’s besiege the
rectangular coordinates, summed up as praise

understands pleasures, the eyes, neck and chest.
There. Got it.

1: Ornament is content.

The yews know how to wear theirs, contracting buds to bury bright content with our bed in it — the last day we ate the world. Together and tender, flaming, increasing now
and then their memory subsided in time, turning dull and bright green.

I’m a year late. In choosing what rubs me wrong or why I don’t want to be seen with you or apologize for one more ode, can I eat something?
I repeat.
I’m making an ode to winter, coming on, just getting to you. As marriages go it’s not all bad. I owe my bros an apology. (Not you.) My better half too. It’s just an exchange.

Summer!

What about Lars?
We didn’t kill him.
                                                              — The Thing (2011)

Why tonight?

My day jewelry drove out surface tension and gave us balls that took off and ran.
Software permeates where we hurt —
Show me holding the moment once.

Once and be done.

At arm’s length..
There were dimensions an hour ago enabling 2 events in a plot we’re party to. Tenebrae, we said. Let’s return to the olfactory sketches, in which the cosmos is left and right unexplained. Constant and converted. Incandescent, then, our ardor comes back to choke a rocket sidelined by a braided chord worn as a necklace, a burning space distinguished by the complements contained.

Sex is a sardonic comfort with a sober edge.
Time’s up. I have to guide this girl back to her tapestry, a big beldam with a visual cortex attending what’s neat in the future, and she finds me attractive!

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

Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”

In this chapter I fear the sarcasm.

14: In my judgment
what I know is in your eyes.
Good luck can never bite. Except not at night. Newer urgencies
where prognosticators feel rained on, pointing to each other
so exposed they feign ignorance, aimlessly...

And yet bad luck when a lightning rod derives its light and lightly
a chemical wind thrives for a second and returns to stars —
doomed as cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.

In text design every utterance is for sale. I’m delighted in my forties and fifties, and after, I’m intensely relaxed, everything exposed as muggy air filled with puzzling results you can pin on like tendrils.
There’s a low threshold for unlimited text space and transfers, however.
It’s better when I wake up we’ve landed.

Volumes in the sun sound great. I started at the top, what was there? I was just there, then a few rain forest elements incised to form solid bands connected to now-text or a minute from text.

In every country other than the U.S. confessions are taboo. Not here. The first person is like everyone else in lyrical society, boasting bragging rights for having interesting things to read, packs of old love notes, crayoned hearts and drunken smiley faces, pledging boundless love.

Of course the I-tropes are... sticky. The Ivy trope acts as if it spent decades on self-gazing, an assembly of pulverized dots — big, jaunty dots that gather at will to darken world markets, ducking your punch and closing the distance.

Something came up. And what’s not mentioned expands underground.
This is unlikely as lightning gaining on fog. Lightning understands

it’s disassociated. Has nothing to transact, no product.

How is it fire some want to be? Up in sparks fog glows

and falls out with grey streaks that look glazed or remedial past

the exercise and expense of the seven seas.

Our dual cosmos doodad self-inflates as a product injector window-dressing cultural exertion, just like weather bombs wearing Beirut colors, pebble and pale, lucent grays.

Colors burn up all right, each color of stone raging with a claque inside, giving access to a haystack that we call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.

Sonnet 65:
Horticultural experience in impulsive concealment.. it could be a physics meditation held outdoors in summer. All night a flower action evolves stronger, steelier pretexts, many out of hand, petals and stems from an impregnable riddle.
In time we hold our own, stumbling upon a miracle of zoological jewels that held out for continuity as it were — trademarks of both natural and technical production, mortal yet boundless in value or a variable of beauty either way.

Waiting for Hillary.

62: No remedy patterns heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the bright series, brocaded & then stiffened into sympathetic parody, quite contrary to remedies.

We have functional emotions, I think, grounded inward by self-love & this choppy vocab of defined affects. There’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I’m painting the last place you look, shifting iniquity to self-inquiry. Stay with me, never stop. Turn here.

Do what you want. Just a few things I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I was curious
as sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.

So there’s a rule-of-thumb with natural stenches & hidden dimensions in the landscape, ultra altered like ranch dressing. My god

Small islands served with the right dressing are hideouts to do what you want. Tall men are restless in the rain. Excellent. We’ll conquer, read over the presentation, juggle heads.

Dance: It’s a sorry concentrate: Until I went broke I was indebted.

I just can’t do enough.
Now an international scale opposes the light in my body. It’s scary-loud at first, yet there are comic possibilities as dreams seem to centralize.

I came to my senses separating to put up a lava tint. So what if I say prompts the assembly made of torn Gillette letters and small decimals?

The 10 impulses exist. Do tell. So it’s a great coaster. We can go for a ride?
That sleeping 26 hours would be correct appears a flaw in the secession.
And we were on foot.
That’s what it feels like or sounds like, not is.

Dating overnight could keep on as long as no one cared to read into it.

Sing:
The virus is already inside you
Hunting in a lather of swing, lacking other nouns.
Remember thoughts?
What if thinking doesn’t work. Now what?

No single body move thinks back,
a trick the unexcelled Spinoza observes when a lather foams.

Go do it yourself.

Mean of them, there’s a message. All you have
to do is ...
Choose your words as a buy or rent equidistance yet defunct phenomena within quanta. Choosing ten words creates an entire platform to spin off constructs, happenstance survivors plucked out of a good number of now-dead parallels.

Passion motifs should die, death too, no recovery to get “permission”
as The Analects 論語 will be tantamount to sex medicine
boosting value, in cold bewilderment over consciousness / a risk
and vault-loads, bags and bags of humanly virtue, and
many new non-identities that bring risk-takers close to the sex kitty within.

Or live to be admired. You might like to check it out. Ask
me. We have a losses board this time.
Growing with messages. I keep circling staring at the new wing
thinking how light, how each light beam
can be rare and mysterious, a physical

crossing between Rattle and Hum. Higher Memes
| Religion | How People Talk. Where did passion trend?
Search: Wittgenstein reads False Prospects. So too The World of Normal
Boys transcending genre, understanding the painter’s task.

I miss knishes.

A line from

each year corrupts the exterior ultra-field and stream.
Anyhow I’ll show three cologne trails. Be funny and comfortable, first.
The lighter is literal and has more fun. Inserts a handkerchief.
Shaves twice a day.

Last, best, final. For the good of your person, family, the total airborne, hands down, if I’m sleep. A loner now, I’ve been searching awake all morning.

96: This is weird. A focus group from the groom’s side picked us, agreeing
w/ newer media featuring youth lower right, your lips moving
up and down, documentation, more or less:

In the vicinity of your fingers being led away...

Here’s the stumper.

Whatever the ism the urge to oppress is put down to error and base anthropology.

We open our front door and see what the state translates to. The shortest path ignited by havoc, honest and exhausted gazers. From it’s-not-the-same-now to the science of celebrating their betrayal. Sort of addictive.
And anthropology won.

My best friend is my most erotic partner. It’s a corporation.
But this has nothing to do w/ simplicity.
His music brokerage remains in aerospace
W/in no sound
where there is none
other than the last.
No other devices for years.

The more I say it the closer it gets.

Borrowing high, mighty simplicity, the killer bee leaves its business card to teach school reform. It pushes flip-tops open. Put this together, there is a life that’s sustainable, even made up. Stay eco-friendly. (You are under no obligation.) This is a real company. We call her Killer Cathy.

I feel socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing
The center
More than any single system,

A huge agnostic discipline
About attitudes behind morals.

You know this open and shut —
Take it down / or thumb thru

The balance left over. Inhabit the brim

To the point you don’t have to know anymore yoga than
We know now — less than nothing, which exists practically.

It’s a misunderstanding of gym etiquette but it gets you ashore with one* shoe in hand, mine.
I’ll find you.

*that one shoe = 2 I stole from you.

I like art.

That’s your interpretation.

Can you penetrate our people’s ethos growing up empty of teaching, unavailable reserve? Reserved to understand thick grasses amounts to ridiculing the phonemic state of flying birds.

(Someone asked me not to float this.) That’s how not-shitty is while our so-named public face makes a living, almost kidding and choosing hands on fire. What kind of prose government takes dabbling more lightly?

95: Pretext takes over. Lascivious comments per the report.
What would be less fantastic? A kind of stainless praise. Full shelves of inexpensive great plans.

Naming your name tells the story, you’re behind, widely preached against, against ill odds. How sweet Christ demoted you for shame. One spots your sins, pieces of nonsense, beauty’s manly tongue negated, verbs rounded off randomly, veiled, choosing you out..

20: Like voices and solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.) — amazing particles sleep it off in traffic, affecting hands up to the bridge lattice.
Inside nature’s face you’ll find warm things. All hues, charged, painted brilliant to the eye. Passion that’s stuffed-ish.

Antic intellectualism invades the host work. The work less false & the life, almost like master and mistress glimpsing it as it flew.

I like art. I know nothing about it.

A while back, long before punches of text looked great on the phone, there were many snores from ancestors with frequent coughs and grunts crowding in together in caves. Back when our bodies taught themselves phonemes thru shrieks and groans to signal pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition — folks like you hit upon logic I feel crazy fancy, headed for greatness in the morning.

It’s different from the evening on and someone with hands on fire hits back.

Teamwork. Our people are what make us great.

The then thick grasses went out on a date, back dabbling in craftwork while we roll thru them. All this acreage owned by the production-geared and prosaic at base, that is, a-theoretical, factual. Broke, misunderstood.

55: A period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity where we are with this.
Not marble nor rhyme will do. Our fun workout once was of a soul, a tone cucumber if I were a sluttish colorist.
So why am I dwelling on posterity like a warrior groom
who’s decided to blab about all the wealth coming.

The prospect before was unswept stone. It’s inconsonant. I..

The so-called lode is a fabulous glossary. Interesting definitions for outliving velocity (rapidities). Why is posterity at rest?

118: Kissing is poison. It makes our appetites cloying. It’s bad for you

but I wasn’t. Then came the anticipating of imitation .. goodness, a sort of I-actually-miss-you ..

Diseased, sick of you kissing where you are so blatantly filled with what it spreads everywhere completely negating its purpose, needing starlight on the edge of freakonomics in a Flemish-like world, a healthful state of driving the bitter departure from what is present in the original experience. Even so, thanks.

Colder rain or snow has a profile that can only be screwy beyond logic in dry spells.
Either is widely construed as partially audible, plundering suspicion within either’s asymmetry.

Rain or snow, the great work cuts straight through restructure, roughing up more remakes and models they can abandon.

Either or they. Precipitation becomes a shadow soundtrack. Tattooing in air — epic sums up the walkway and the instrumentation if you have it.

117: What’s virtue? We need to work on a new punishment and hoisted platform. I recommend blending in day by day with ex-writers, video vignette makers, tinkerers and others indistinguishable from applied scientists.

After work we are ourselves, human illuminated octane, Ray Bans and thong-white sleeves. Or maybe our gusto is brought to your level.

Solitude, confidences, we’ll learn transport in the day, the plays and the jungle farthest from your sight.

I go for the moody and unexpected.

The color of one’s spine goes ultimate, high to low, unlikely yet foreseeable.
So I put your name on and I put it in. Am I fit for the scenario? Are you and I? I ran out of balls rating you.

(I found so much of what you say emancipating, but the balls are hardly unadulterated.)

You’re driving me nuts.

Since you brought a pizza —
What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us and sociopaths to raise your stature, fabulously?

That aside —

Mobs and their terms of justice, um, I’m ..
Am thinking of some upgrade. For anything more cautionary and uncool we’ll have to shop politics further, some interpretive search worked up into a deep steam of entrepreneurship; we’ll get back to you all —

I really don’t know what I’m buying.

I was sideswiping with you, among maples and acer pines, no contrivance or Schubertian opposition. It felt like what heats up under pressure if a chance; our roles were to fill this in, lengthening its insipid menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus attrition.

So I have put back late footage of infectious provisos and integers-to-be, no parts to fix. Schubert had blond hair and rimless spectacles, no concupiscence and no comeuppance.

115: I love you best, babe. A certain aspect of our fiction holds. (I could not love you more.) We have no clear incentive to write mindless of taking chances, since we have already changed through blunt talk, too much and too often we have raised a toast to sharp minds and the madness of it’s desperately over the course of millions of accidents, doubting the rest (and how angry altering things gets afterward) and how it makes us enflamed for the late poetry of Rene Ricard.

A headboard with no utility other than book nooks.
Can we cut to the scary part?
Materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo that’s 4 ever, sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness, unraveling optics in dissolved attitudes behind all the good times 4-ward.

83: Show or tell. How impossible to set apart understatement from painting. Both poets are adolescent, speaking of worth, their pitch. A pitch that grows — what the cave and landscape felt. I found or thought I found I came up too short, a debt-tendering sin. For I live on mutely to meet death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing beauty is contingent. Partly in praise, partly not.

Living somewhat left of Unitarian
(Japanese cranes)

82: Sing:

Affidavit.

I’ll say it again, there’s a gross method to overlook, a high-five as you whisper this is the second point, both natural and secular.

Adorno says strained rhetoric is fair game starting over (in the middle) but its but doesn’t count. (It’s always been technical.)
And therefore there’s no foundering beneath the social parasail of violence. Plain speech commits us. Our card is activated.

Love, that’s the worst case — let me give you a hand. Finding words writers puts us on a riddle gauge, part of the solution on the punishing ground looking up.

I promised you a ham for quilting bombast.

You live within politics and practice warfare
to engage another’s psyche
& you’re always wrong to prolong your appeal.

101: It gave me hiccups when our best senses re-cooled — mindful silence long overdue.
The senses I reference are in primary season.

And I’m back teaching, reading and lifting texts, you in the foreground with outlived memories. (The conductor knows everything because he needs nothing.)

We grabbed the narrator (we couldn’t rule him out), staying blithe in the twin columns.

Full employment.
We like newness in a way when both leave imprints. Like
how I graduated from this shame of yours and mine, this pride

in the battle between the sexes? (The rich won.)

Can you place our names? I have a canoe for the alter-ego, asides and decorative indeterminacy. With hat, I got to anticipating mind control as disingenuous.

Tarantulas of steel squeeze under the door, isolated by
an obsession with coming right in. There we go, holist.
Theory-and-forth..
Theory is the place you and I may detect the language driver, untidy and young, loathed despite a foundational rule of no counterpoint speaking up without permission.

Our tarantulas grow mute in dim light over and over —
burbling with a kill-agenda tickled into decisions, aching to blather.

Sonnet 100:

Muse.
We have tangibility subtracting song
— work converted to industry
with little or no honor in order. Worthless

But it adds up. That numbers spoil everywhere, times
We don’t have to see you,
get the job done. Surveyed

we forget that’s why esteemed actuaries went
unmoored. Affection is idly vicarious what’s what. Vicarious isn’t long
enough. Thinner, stouter merge within what accounts spent,
a despised lost cause like a belief system, if any, the survey said.

Achievement.
There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.
Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for a lifetime.
I lower your voice to closest approximate parity.
Somewhere, who’s a sociopath?

Finalists have quit general practice.

Brain damage is in the eyes.

Compassion.
I can talk to your teachers. I can reason with them.
I can’t reason with you. I can’t even talk to you. Why?

I’m slaphappy-proof to diffuse your feeling me up. What you say is the whole body of it.
Rethought transactionally.. parsers in their teens put on rheumier shows,
it’s simple enough. I think I said that, and made it a quote: a dream

of immense sadness peering exclusively through me promising not to point.
Of course there’s a way or two out.
Say a bird in flight.

Just before Halloween this comes in.
Your first lover could not heal your mind through his skin.
Then we happened to answer you, seeing the wind is fixed in the dirt
and circles midair. We see your subtle flight.

Buried for dead but still in our view:
If I put my hands on..
you can’t hear me you’re going too fast (bicyclist to bicyclist).

It’s a mistake in the tradition but it gets you to sleepwalk with one shoe in hand.

I will find you.

My peers make films and fast food.

Here’s a thought. Stiles of cash stuffed inside passions, stacking up with such speed our nation reflects the world as it is, advancing toward convenience stops and arbitrary stretches we don’t care about.

Well, most of these “pieces” are literal, based on trying to sit down and sing [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still wearing your headset.”

An air of inevitability around advanced codes has been shattered. It seems inauthentic in the first heavy mustache sense. I am more than at war. Your holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. This.

To commune sounds handsome, also calm, also bendy. In the same call he reverses prerogatives — that is, his voice does. (I’ll table the difference. Each.)
“Cloven, we are incorporate…”
His message is mixed but never better aligned. Together, all across the call center that serves as the hideout, learning the ropes, perusing scraps and parts of hope.

No fins of infinity. Nope.

Halloween patterns the exponents where detachment is trimmed.

We have no major issues.

No shady aftermath inter-scope.

And to think a way out, we can blur the ground and yield authority to a bowl that’s really a vase. Sit and watch dogs turn smoky brown tracking vans in drizzle, tarnished from sight, playing against a stack of storm windows, within a composure for light a translator can’t reach.

The School of Nobody takes 8 lives
rising to any occasion w/ pretty good yoga probabilities
tho troubleshooting is more shaped by time while taking
steps w/in unruly aplomb (to parse diacritically)...

There are no stages

for incorrigible voice matter is always interesting:
& moving
while Nobody wins in a debate over no and not distinctions.

Back I said, a piece of non-advice.

Innocence wrongly revealed concerns ethics, not intent. Spinoza acts against his own young interests.

Adoration had a poetic scent. Still has.

Reputations get worse preceding character, even when an act of apprehension remains deferentially. Creature masks are conditions in unreasoning reprieve.
Who will advocate toward peace, for the tranquil
to empower mergers & exchange?

Lilac is a devoted zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.
*

Teaching. Where stairways mesh
There’re double credits working 5 fewer days than allowed. Ten hut. What service were you in?

Teaching can’t be taught. Ahem.

I remember looking up at you at Ahem feeling an urgency in ideas. Women’s to men’s:
We live in a debt growing country. Maximum restraint = get it done don’t balk me.

Then let me pull an invisible to the eye hair off your blouse, have you over when practice and teaching are what they should be, augmented with Pablo Tac bouquet, seeming for no end.

Realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio”
I am touched by everyone now alive,
softest jazz, lower right, someone’s lips moving up, down,
talking design shit. Someone’s naive mirror for sale, for example.
X has everything he knows. How can a bantam weight =
feigner? his son asked over the phone.

X’s book is staring out the window, saved-up.
Amusing I suppose. With regard to static and its ovoid, stasis
in a compulsive battle over the ultimate smiley face,
it’s not who grinned first that counts, but also where
and how. That’s my finger giving us the interim
realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”

Your mellowness operates transferrable accounts.

As it were. Yet it’s shameful to work for the state. How did Paulo Freire alone stand, pause and brush back his hair? others like him looking up like flight risks? To keep going we find little or no compromise.

The music seems headstrong but we’ll give you a call.

“Great ... I’ll just hold...”

It’s a classic knife-in-sui-generis.

Parts of the world face the street whooshed by ornamenting impurities of state.
The carport reflected in this is perched high above subatomic attitudes with which one also uses photographs for subject matter, like us.

Here’s a garland arched over people who are sweating their attitude.

One polishes the text and hands it in.

Inside it’s gray. Divided & confused, I signed
up. The acoustics are here, also
a container for every dataset on loud
so the workspace will hear it,
feel it in stages taller, striking overnight.

It feels like a great new building
while I’m always wrong to prolong my appeal.

So a redraft prompts special inquiry tho tentative after all meaning of structure. Putting it in a memo, we sleep with a relationship. It’s not an investigation but inquiry. Rough seas but you’ve been in the seas long enough, you know how we leverage missing you at a time when it’s least expensive. I’m happiest procrastinating, indexing suspicion and objurgating..

Poetry finalists quit general practice — work converted to cottage industries  
with little or no honor system. That’s when actuaries  
unmoor. Affection is vicarious info. Vicarious isn’t strong  
enough. Inner, outer traditions merge in our skulls, a culture that can be broken  
down, yet a lost cause. I’m driven to reach my market.  
 
And here gear management inserted a bonus to exchange and it’s not so bad — 
a physical act of fondness that can only end in a draw sustained one by one  
getting up, stretching for an hour.  
 
I’m driven to sketch sweet totems that “look pretty close” with my eyes  
now closed. And with that, I’ll use your language with no lexicon,  
without conforming to a belief system to get forgotten.

130: If my love is rare, modesty is unimpressive.
I’m a neo-accepter of coral red lips, reeking of objectivity and eating and breathing them, too, as my ideology-clean rhetoric vibrates into music and misnomers. No such comparisons come to mind, then, nothing like the sun. Ergo rising, the evolution of delight, cutthroat, a huge family of junk affixes to hear you speak to our addiction to pleasing sounds.

And yet I never understood or misapplied all those perfumes I love on your head, my vade mecum. After this, there are false equivalents prospering on the ground, yet well I know the seasons float in willpower.

There’s a term for attrition of affects, eyesore.

And there’s a hypertonic struggle to housesit too much information. You know it exists. Human body fat is worth $100,000 a gallon.
This is the good gold.

A life is charged for care. I’m otherwise a coffee head! But let’s pare it down.

Have we ever done anything but tamper with the weather? Oh, who knows? Oh, Ladytron. You seem so fake-excited in the sprayed periphery, staying in balance inside a soft radical vapor of bigness, loosely demolished.

You called me what?

Paul Broadnax & sidemen
adapt what’s spindly

talking to each other.

It dawns on me
this is taken up as a whole
before it’s moved onward

— it’s not utterly offhand.. rather:

We’re ordinarily against..
what’s called a change of heart.

Began far ahead,
we liberate ourselves to oppose counter basses.

57:

Being your flute, your slave, what should I do?
A true fool, I wasn’t just orphaned, I pursued anything, ‘other interests.’
Now I have no precious time
save, I clock our absence of movement from the sour inside ...
While I dare question my jealousy —
It’s taken this long to read the gospel of wealth and service in your will.
Though we’re describing opéra where you could be moaning about diffusion at any cost to render your mouth a sobbing mess that goes on. Happy you. Maybe, this is adieu, love, no ill.

Wait time takes full effect per a week ago.
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.

Undressed — except for slacks — anonymous like Updike but I turn up as Camus. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back) . .

I’d heard a heart beats by your putting it to rest. Wait time takes ‘full effect’ without attachment to addictive capital, arresting back.

This is an edit. That’s as close as I have to lush, less certain, too-ennobling a pulse.

It’s what’s read back.

Love, A cool looking Japanese acrobat slow-motioned to me to go for the moody and unexpected.
Doesn’t it freak you when categories are givens you don’t need to work out? Some of you has given in — there you go, retreating, emancipating solitude, more sound-oriented than dance.

But that reminds me, your draw is immediate, overwhelming, terse and of a Castilian order. A hundred decors contained in one = you at the piano. The endive bloat for George Balanchine.