Woe is paralytic. I also detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of it, even when love centers on the numbed one with a body of rare happiness like popsicle rose gold in outer space —

all of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest to be stupid Dionysian.

Dionysian = garish brocade with puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.
Space in theory.

Sonnet 94:

If I had the foreground I’d subside in attrition as it were,
heaven’s grace to weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken fewer notes I’d have less power to hurt
thinking of “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings

we had composing our very own subjectivities
that we can’t pinpoint or supplicate, my lord, my husband...

May I live and die if fairest turns sourest ever
in these our summer to summer’s pitched provisos
and integers-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none.

Adaptability in circumstances
is hardly effortless:
I add, Ellipses.

Since when is / are government
cliffside?

Swimmer:
Our models are you & everything I can live by w/out being
sequestered or bitterly charged for my shortcomings
ballooning in harmony around some parts of sky

I understand as profuse clouds. Understand like take in.
Huh? Is it fire? Up in ideal sparks’ glow

the moon made indispensable for smearing light
that travels down in a tiered border-like scrawl?

Matins: I can be her face standing there ‘on’ the phone, ‘dialing’ a number.
A growing explosion takes up time — like cheating in cards —
the accident, not the facticity, of while
switching impetus (rapidities of prosperity).

Faith deals in opinions on redeeming enterprises and, that’s if I’ll

wear her original eyewear.

Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — I don’t care.
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you what we’re doing.
There’s a piece of karate, fragile backs we erase, how
there’s turbulence... something else active, piquant. Your
push reaches a point where time management is unleashed.
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting a brow.

The ideal Cupid fell out of place in a man’s body

but staying in the picture. Voice changes and all.
I’m happiest when stairwells mesh to go nowhere, our bodies gesturing, with diagrams.

We’re going to finish them. Turn here.

Like no premium withholding option holders, we Americans can relax, go cloud up other ideas!

Lao Tsu (Lao Zi): The flower’s name is hooded, part doodle, part we’re not sure his swag is clean.

We’re in the hallway leading to stairs cut in two, fronted with don’t-know plaques, waking in hazy brightness — no clue how we got there.
Get used to it or go home to switch landmass.
For setting up a phrase targeting the other

if he can or if he wants,
what you said is partner to it. And how his confusion is proof to diffuse.

Monotone is no longer that severe or cool. Cool isn’t cool.
Got it, the animal brain’s a little stiff but I feel what I think.
Words are our feel-
Ers. The river purrs, purls — not its sound
But ours, so I read this
By me and not me, us.

Having only a sec, you never know there’s an animal that needs you.
Someday tho the fragile male coloration returns as a feminine force with tinctures and inaudible signs from a long history of decision making, preparing us for more retrospective behavior, more implicative speech and extra sensory anger management.

It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and

Time’s up.

Are you thinking of me?
I used to believe so, along w/ all the grossular and pine boxes keeping us apart opening to our former lives, a win-loss for comic, breezy violinists in quartets w/ silver hats — Superangels w/ their instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge.

No pleasure from coercion, not where I was at.

The show was called; the rain spat.

(I'm sorry it was really hard for us back then.)
Yes. And my voice tended towards stridency, an unfortunate strain.
The music took off about here, 1st looked feminine along the quays with carvings
For viewing before the repast, thinning out in the high brutalism of dining (Otto Dix).
A violinist, hesitant but playing better, starts our red engines mid-grin.

Evasion foregrounds minimalist motives. So they sink in more.

I may have torn up the text (though torn only from my mind — you backstroke, swim and still float around in my semen.)

Skepticism is blacklisted by metonyms. Time to respect poets.

There’s nothing left of an emergent zone for lack of despair.
Nothing.. even huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy in immaculate fictive symbols.

You can’t predict what we’ll do in light flows and hard winds, and there aren’t enough white flags going around to encapsulate your suspicions.

I’m the skinny kid in slapstick, except
it wasn’t slapstick it was acrylic spray.

Mortality can’t be beat.
No amnesty? A ship is on the way

from mare nostrum
or / & like crustaceans we give in, to forgetfulness for now.

Blinds drawn, our preachy, scavenged opacity fills w/ sang-froid riches of dark matter, soaking the globe w/ its bible pedigree.

Before that yoga is fantastic, a civilizing coterie added to sempiternal space & entered into w/ a worldview w/out speaking achieving access to felt qualities.

There were deleted utterances filling balloons
with conceptual enormity but it was hooded — a dirge of a term
that cannot be considered in terms
of checking cost averages
since one’s intellect seeks damages
going to a concert or even sooner.

The Japanese are fascinated by pottery.

Any dark ceramic with asymmetrical tenets is tacit
but could be looking up at a light source, feeling talkative..
maintaining maximum restraint to engage another psyche.

88: Patriarchy expands fraternal allegiance. I so belong.

We’re well acquainted with our own weakness. Well, I really enjoy it. 9 out of 10, then some.
What do you look like now? It’s ok to ask? With all my loving thoughts
I can set down a story. Snaps of sharpened anomalies.

An etude like celebrity. We both gain an advantage (all wrong)

ancestors understood in resistance, creating busy, making-chaos “work”
enacting a more cautionary life, absent trifles and the other’s intuitive psychiatry.

Student conviction was a sorry concentrate — Vincent Price, that name again.
Until we went broke we were indebted.

There’s an international side to unbuttoned, squeegeed strain —
That guy was the first to get a grip and hold on. He was witless after a while, undead.

Mainly specific
pieces of pieces —
M ost out in space is dull in impact. Often this is how the latter day sing
as we come to our senses

with an hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity.
W e’re pushing in genetic material prompted by the assembly.

A warm nearly winter day.

Solved for the resplendent spelling, but not remorse.
Now it’s a year later, a fine day emanating will go,
good news tho.

Typo, I’m late; it’s fitting, weeping inside before you go away.

Not at rest, circumspect. (I’m just beginning...)
Well, most every worry or mistake is literal, based on trying to rewrite
Hellish varieties of you getting fingerprinted in eight
Perspectives, from the xvith-century Italian drawings..

..The stars are out and out of their miseries
One boomerang day after another. Every day’s
Important, I see. I remember your aroma, surnamed olive della
luminari.

If you swallow your ego luxury is great. I say no
with my eyes shut.
No meditation spanning the surface of the woods, no
massage. No smell of wood. So there’s nothing to resent.

How does it resume?

A petting zoo cannot stand for practice?

As a curator of sorts, I have to ask. A lot.

Your space calls for more.
Defy self interest.
It’s alpine only in one direction,
but metabolism will live trailing off anyhow, along
with clumsy fearless tempos,
a framework for rants surrounded by cool ceramic
wallboard, balmy figures.. worth conserving or not?

107: Even though you can’t concentrate, you’re in a place, well
A place I’ve never been before. Your dreaming on things to come.
You look fresh. You have on your eyeliner from long ago.
I like what you said to the speechless that time.

Down with tyrants, their crests and tombs.
No sad augurs, no uncertainties.

Suppose forfeiting doom, suppose
Peace with no death, of endless age.

49: Let me hold you in the dark... It’s a future defect in law against this time
if ever as your strong body keeps
moving, clouds part, the aerodrome rushes to advise me,
snug, sotted with the urge to fit nothing in...
                          No cause is alleged.
You scarcely greet me when we pass.
That’s how being with you works in sleep.

41: An abstract, pretty temptation below gentle laughter: Ay,
Your beauty for your years .. Ay me.

Ah blizzard.

Together, you and I follow a twofold point of wooing and forced absence, but not that far from following your lead and therefore assailed. Youth is tantamount to
Body snatching, a 2nd point. Tempting but false equivalence even there
we chide the other’s choice — where it follows I cannot lead, leaving me in a riot of liberty where you are.

Athens is the cradle of alpha reality
Hip, cool, ordered smooth, unruffled for the taking.
The light darkens. I hate Greece.
It’s official, we’re its colony.
Yah, #36, all time subservience.
(It’s not easy being special.)

How or why don’t we know LA language, our language, can shrink WS Burroughs to one of those diamondback cardigan bargain seekers around Best Buy canyons away? trampling security to save on a featherweight flat v, angling and protesting airily ‘to cheat Peggy and the Fates’ alongside the perfumed Gorgons hidden from passersby until it was too late for them? In this I wrote a “constant feeding” of androgyny fortifies the muscular constrictors as well as our big sister, Peggy. Astonishing, a cornet!

A re-edit seeking more bliss starts out as a trick before we put it down in a book.

Next we make an alphabet with a dirty grid of circles.
It’s an alphabet of symbol systems within other alphabets
helping us to speak from books about grids and fool notions

as well as upgrades with fresh alphabets for newer physics.
A steel door stays open. Here are the last letters of bliss.
We best defer to the models to differentiate ourselves.
Deep blues and silvers with biological shades to form vowels;

consonants have already taken shape from older models,
losing what is always present.

Can waving time like a moony branch
supersede nature,
a piece of research asks, Why open
atoms under quiver at the edge to sleep?

139: A poem fires up photoshop. Excuse me.

A poem is a picture as my love well knows.

That your unkindness lays upon my heart...

Drown me out, kitten, dear heart, but don’t wound me, not

at this time, and never call me to justify what’s wrong.
Your good looks attract my enemies — your eyes,
glances aside — elsewhere but in my sight you overpower with your tongue

to kill me outright yet not by art. I’m defenseless.

I’m kidding. No pictures, please.

I fell in love and enjoyed it when the vertex saw you off. Later we got dressed for golf, and congregated in the face with peers.

Better now if we didn’t digress but file out a shade apart to trail the copycats who champion democracy.
Heaven is in the heart with its egg drop of credos and documents, from which large scale dull instruments are tossed over the frieze.

Some of these species are both dead and alive. Chew on that, Hobbes.
(I give up to appease you.)

Back when we’re on our own
as our only bard put it, a face

Boiling sad together.
Not pretty but there in print & around
A back to romance pile up. Rhythms about envy, fugue-sonata
moods for all time rigged

To full practice in one truce or august matter; lone
autumns & springs mutating in dark

Chez nobody who stayed home
tho slowed down to furnish the pace,

Prelude to singing along alone
as part of the original anger to confuse.

Retour lorsque nous sommes sur notre propre,
comme le seul barde de notre époque, il l’a dit, un visage

.. ébullition triste tout ensemble.
Pas très joli mais il est en version imprimée et autour

Un retour à romance jusqu’au tas. Rythmes environ envie, la fugue-sonate
avec humeurs de tous les temps truquées

A une pratique complète au sein d’une trêve ou une question énorme.. où
les saisons d’automne, aux printemps, tous solitaires, sont en mutation dans l’obscurité.

— absolument personne — personne ne reste à la maison
on est ralenti, à fournir le rythme —

Un prélude à chanter seul
dans le cadre de la colère d’origine afin de confondre tout.

In order to take on a galactic stare,
Occasional intoxicants
Every 10 yrs —
                                                  A decade goes and still you are unattainable!

Say you’ll be back. A blast of cold air
Stoked by an invasion of intimacy.

To want as well as have nothing
I shouldn’t ask did I live like that fly on the wall?
Surface depth. You shouldn’t expect to rework this at all.
Self restraint & perverse incentives, an unknown future’s cart before

New teachers, new stratagems, even newer phenomena
To run over, any & all mayhem will be unannounced (achieved)

Or they won’t be since we talk thru flexible models &
Already what you say takes us off the jet trail! quelling fear of pain.

You never can tell. I won’t.

If we’re lucky, Euro notes will rule our major commitments, puns of data solutions on the punishing ground looking up. They’re bearing full dark 18th- and 19th-century ideas.

(I don’t mean that as deeply before we hand it over.)


Finish a stretch and the clouds get confused. Confused the way

A rusted barge dries in the sun painted orange.


Danzig is the Wallace Stevens of evil urban clusters..

Ok, this is not Danzig. Clinically proven.
But theory is something else.

We can’t compress enough or too much. We were one people at one time. We also = I. This is how the toy psyche writes more conscientiously touching on a couple of endearing dual roles in an algorithmic translation; deviating of us to read and reread pain extending to your one body and infinite ceilings, howling for the first time.

Next, a glistening database is advanced by textuality. The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity tracing out how to refine / displace our contempt.

[...]

137: Love is a fool. A blind fool. Living that music is offensive. You’re wide awake thinking it through until a subfocus gets lost. You don’t see what they see. You grow accustomed, so to speak, directly oblique : but pointedly no name is escalated or united w/ the width of what beauty is!

Bon équilibre, someone else will choke and in a non asphyxiating language at that, one a 2nd person, the “someone else,” comprehends. What do you say? Speak to the world where all are over-partial to falsehood. Why should my heart do anything?

We give up weak words that commonly never happen, hack at reasons to try with the grit of understatement, fairer and fouler, neither the worst or best.

And you thought, that’s what’s wrong then. Hey hey my.

Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping in net neutrality w/in the gloom of purgatorio as perceptions of different possibilities blow town including the best halo effects and feelings. They’ll come back.

It’s nice finally to put a class of face to the humiliating covered breathing.
Today, every day open censorship is going to be there,
filtered, unfiltered as long as it takes.

It’s back! A bright spot on the game horizon, we’re beginning to see a need for a brown or grey blanket authority or foundation to issue antinomian licenses. A nondemocratic institution that constitutes only one of a set to which no democratic or parliamentarian voice matters, no second thoughts, no heuristics, and in which nothing un-elfin or hurtful belongs or stays put, holding itself to the test doctrine of multiple shots at Todd’s Miniature Golf.

Refrain: Eurozone class struggle is more and more slippery. Or peach-dreamy. I’m not sure
discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income distribution,
honing you / shaving one into two dimensions on the surface.

I’m socialist by nature, maintaining perspective (the tatemae policy), I pray
while cashing in analytics but I’m alive
(lifting data off) to mine parallelisms (partisan gold), no one strain.


Atheism is otherwise the main event at the Hague. Secrets of satire float
free to find an informatics of doors opening (bassoon music) and structured
multiplicities (an ear for sex).

The glue is my heart “Token Austerity.”

If there were a don’t fuck it over manifesto it would be
Why make so much of leftist political origin.
Start for free. Let’s call this the time left.. the end of the beginning.
The front gate won’t front.

How do parallels threaten a referent? Which fox drug is best?
Visuals today are overproduced.
Spot the dog.. or now his surrogate intruding a moment before he’s emptied.
Intrusions entail teamwork, coincidentally.

Dinner in precision blizzard-words, drifting
Reversed decisions rotating cavernous surf a mercurial quantum
Shift, soft, whispered — this could occur. You’ll want circles digging deep, redressing
The boat’s cortex holding out to
Say when. Pulse, how did we say when?
There’s a written form, a cool word speckling
Clamber feeling its way..

Well, I knew m’lord was a prevaricating, bloodlust child — the writs of Rolfe d’Hampole had warned — unceasing sycophant, his incarnadine shadow spilt down dim stairwells to redden more, divagating before olive branches in nightfall, exhorter of few changes, hardly any.

We impart numeric dicta slathered with platitudes — century-old middle ground (the themeless module) where we sleep (wavy fields of inaction) and continue playing around vulgar innuendo to stay kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating me to feel obliged to receive you generously.
Headwinds within and, as it were, without manners. Good manners can scar others but they also let us peons act like participants in marking time as though subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy. Either way, I know so little about the state and the state so much less, so here are the details.

85: Takes substance and breadth; the going price reacts to audacious desire

(a rare cigarette case, may I?) looked after in polished forms and

No thanks. Just piano and voice. Piano and your voice. Words come last.

Practice. The big meal. Inductions to your other habits; hearing your breath

I think good thoughts, speaking in effect, externalizing able ideas.

The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of needle-felted wool

Like praise warmed over by spinning in freezing wind. “Amen”
To every hymn the human spirit I say affords. Piano
Stuff. I cannot phrase the scent of snow and sunlight, your utter loss

— my tongue tied holding you in my thoughts.

60: On a human ~ ant landscape, god feeds on us ants.
It’s unparalleled to the end.

Sing: this changing place, this pebbled
shore is in the repair shop because
it is the repair shop — as miles streak by...

We’ll do what we can — crawling to maturity
set on the rarity of natural youth and beauty.
Slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless to times in hope
Yet guardians that follow grow tired of interruptions and self-
reflective outreach; herein the corporation is late
and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.

When? as soon as today.

Self determination for all in distress —

Dissonant sports metaphors seem prepared for a gullible ally, mac.
Like preparing the red matter.
(There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.)
Dr Who gadgetry from the future,
How can this be put?
Hey I love you naked —
They went from one thing to another, came back.

Buds to blossoms, not moving out.

At midnight — schtick is a tactical concept.
And today’s laughter protocols could not be ‘more serious.’
It’s been remarkable to gauge how sneering, vaporous, obtruding personalities —
A loose term — proceed unamusingly
Or even uncivilly in opening salvos. Seems a rehearsed practice, perhaps.

By salvo — the first three or four minutes of monotone in character, in talk and in writing.
You can’t have that for this film.
So much slobber invested from the start, forced discourse, along with any oomph, runs dry.

Not a koan
(how could

it
be impaled?)

— religious type, agnostic,
both listened to reason while a temple friend sliced
off a nipple. It was the middle way,
enlightenment simplified, spelling it out.
Lightning over fog. Over ravines. Knower and the known, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

A sweet industrial morsel went for all 3 doors assuming no threshold ahead where materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no interruption.

These could be so

as Buddha and Buddhists are different things.

A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a stream of gasses embossing conjoined tattoos. Outside the again-feel of an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brightened ways from air conditioning.

You, all our neighbors are mirror bees. Music up. Am I not one?

11: After you, a burst of fresh blood substitutes for wisdom and increase. 

Look who’s being rude! Wait. There’s nothing.  

I lower your voice to closest featureless parity  
and we have folly subtracted..  
Yet nothing is converted.  
Finalists like you are better endowed so quit Buddhist practice — their appeal, yours too, cherished by private industry  

with little or no honor system. Cold nature will age, decay.  
And yet not you, your honor.. After you.

I picked up in a flier my soul is a hypothesis. A fish out of water surfing coastal states to destroy his wiggly self. Since we live in new enterprises and ecologies, we begged him to learn to swim further and stick with a nearly sublime topic, to rally for more than this textual ceramic holding a spray of looking glass.

Writers are still proletarian at the start; each a lone entity in a world dominated by luxury groups.

Conflicted about big money, I’ll pick up anything. I read corporate art management aims to commandeer the pipeline, production to sales. As is fairly obvious when you look at other creative industries, video production, digital media, music, as marketing small press poetics, art books integrates with managerial acumen, a chunk of creative taste and decision making stands ready to fall under the control of entrepreneurial influence, NEA, Poetry, Poetry Foundation, down to slick body copy.

Some standards.
Shined asides.

We pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,
Really a vase,

Set it, let sunset pitch in its foam, declare
Poetry goes thru many drafts.

When you got up your voice was
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling
Flat into dust in 4 dimensional motes.

I don’t know how motes, much less how 4 dimensionals rush

And flounder into mountains. I only hear

Vibrating = Sturm und Drang,
Dust controls anger / how severely narrowed minds are wed.

Sonnet 78:

Lick my rush.
Captain scientist, see what we’ve doubled? See what you can do! your eyes throw us in a hole and keep me there, cover me up. Only these exceptions: I wasn’t talking to you. I was speaking on high to sing to the best interest of the corps. Eh, same time, so often have I invoked you as my muse, I’m afraid I can’t keep working with you looking over my shoulder.
I hope I’ve been clear.

Credo: You’re good doing this.
Just
Report to command centers for the new pricing, lest
Misery looks a lot better. Go. Fees balanced. Get out!

After.. there are vector
Utilities (direct flares) for expressing enzymes with lips. I believe we never saw you before.

Burn, turn, run away
Suffering coincidence in time leaning into wailer muscle, undressed
To hit the meaning of just whose future is come..

To admire yourself, your distinction,
There’s a lot ahead.

I wrote this 15 minutes ago.
That hasn’t stopped me from modeling.

Upstairs message, parts of it. We call that yeah
Parentheses to explore;
The 4-D printer’s, they have many followers, you on it?
As one’s eyes reset.
Focus time to question more.
                                             Anything to take from the a-argument
For missing stairs..

Standing — rain and others’ happiness that neutrinos can’t stand scattering. Next the sun we say shines, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of our meaning it and not tempted. It’s still my life, we say.
Some of you and me was here, and more ‘you’ve been away,’ retreating to emancipating solitude, keeping / adding up the wait time, sporting by degrees the related changes you seem to see and are.

A fop sur la route is a Parisian invention, an essentialist’s incarnation.

Steer clearly. Highway safety — bow, I love what we do together


Like switching work bags, mixing it up then. We should be mortified but impressed.
                  (This siegecraft apparently works.
For my driving, I’ve hired a fop strategist.)

84: Partnerships were counterparts, 1st a little lunatic,
               Sometimes febrilly culled.
There is a nothing. Yet nothing forbidden.
Let me copy what is written in you, love, substituting praise
              Admired everywhere, making clear
I lower your voice to approximate parity.

Which example, who can say more? You alone
              As the story goes. And let it.
We have reality subtracting poetry.

It’s only words, stars all out, to quote you.
They are real actors, not people.

We defied the polls and voted against our interests.
Later we’re taught the integral self can level with others
While sadness is a public health problem.
So protesters are hired to raise contentment ratings.
To deconflict our strategy from human loss
In no time we put six 27-to-46 under water
Then we ate cupcakes. Impression seems

Today one can eat excellently here and tempered bluegrass friends visit,
Repeaters in forbearance of lasting appearances.

To remain disciplined for our new celestial motion weekend
Calls on comfort and drill, “...habits of empire.”
Start over.
Cocktail wieners.
Kids love them!

Peel’em back and throw your knives.
A (s)he-mind’s pill for song and dance is so! long overdue.

Our partners are shiny then fallen, with grey streaks.
Disciplined to start over.

103: You’re showing up more. I got wind of it, put you in
Just to make you list. I’m from and form the periphery;

My muse makes it so. Don’t blame me.
Say I’ll be back. We’ll look into it. You never can tell.
Poverty is all right but not extreme poverty, I’m barely striving

“How do I love you and have the scope,
And expect no help?”

Some things you need to whisper again, and more, much more ..
(I forget now what you sound like.)

106: In love, the practice of counterclockwise is nothing at all, only sustained focus, innovation of hand, foot, lip, of eye, of brow, in nowhere equivalent to expressing your beauty making beauty today...

Nah
all right, I lose. I’ll start the open air in complete command of nothing, no skill to praise you.
From the outside the sky hints of hinges, bolted prophesies you master now —
I’ll not waste time — we’re tethered here for the best.

In love we’ll ingest all of you prefiguring up to present day
blind tessellation, inflating while we data dive, I guess

exhaling the description / description-less problem
w/ eyes to wonder on your worth to sing of this our time.

The focal point of early versions is the entity with many focuses gets to further loci.
Isn’t that a calling?
*
It was at the rational start. I know that. Taking chances put us in a lissome interpretive state (lissome as a turbine at birth). Function varies widely. Lilac is the geyser of zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.

We’re trained in several logos and theologies;

Hey it’s obvious as that degree you’re holding.
Hands down. Take a verse.

The culture caught up to our light vegan sexuality.

We chew to 1 side, noted by 3rd parties


Hanging out in their unusual white corridors

Suggesting you’re still trembling from the



Chew off, just a short chopper ride

From the bank and trade. It’s vegan
With a so called mother gloss, 1st-
Order phenomena pitted together as cognates

Still coming to seed and adornment,
Half-audible ricochets feeding us like a lawn.

Blackened windows:
We know we don’t know
Reeling over facts in a marketplace,
A rendezvous to encapsulate sleights of tongue.

Let me grab my pen and clamber over here to the iconic network... you’re right, this isn’t the mammoth for you or me. Before the heat dies we’ll try praying in all directions and improve our math skills for our partners’ sexual satisfaction as they pivot from high table to a ringing mountain of attention-grabbing hysteria.

Thanksgiving poem —
Chestnuts stand around in jobbed hoards.
This is a country with open arms.
Click opioids
Close up.. Let’s agree you agree
Scrub jouissance good (character, bad) — improving, reformulating innocence
Getting good out of recoveries, re-do’s, re-applications,

Clenching-tight, we’re a team.

143: Kiss me, skull.
Paying attention is the field call haunting the future,
Be kind, turn back —
More bounce for the retina to unscrew internal hysteria pouring up then breaking away, embarrassing,

Losing both death and life in pursuit of other business.

You look how I feel.
No plan is perfect.

To tyranny,
I was thinking of god, shoplift energy ..
Hold on, I was handed this bag of sentences.

And this is what I did not want to say.

We marry. There are mantras on rustic tolerance, manners but no one has more than the allotted answers for the stumper final (newer solutions are nothing less than what we have in mind!) :
Did I mention Wittgenstein helped set our algebraic terms? This is a dynamic factor everywhere the living supersede manners and physicality itself, where there is no privacy. Not now. Started before Béla Tarr’s close ups, his editing, the ‘border violations’ and the runtime of his films transcended precise location and presence, running forward and back.

This is a.m. color I propose: Q-tips & smoke. I can pick you up, take a day off
                          from everyone standing
physical & prime for the stress of relays between a rat race
                          & security IF

my 3-D models are you & everything else I can be w/ w/out you

136: I am nothing. What’s my business? Aperture systems led me to one holding

These volatility models from tv, vocalism in a sense, among a number.
Hidden risks lift weights (merge accounts request)

— whereas my epistemology scampers in sweet secrecy, the password untold...
W/ several ideas to leverage one in the pluperfect, your love makes my name.

Therein, a civilizing process to staying purposely
dull, entered into too by spotting it first. It’s
a clear refinement where character offers liberation, my love-suit
supports your tarantulas from underneath. You, anyone can go right in.
Instructions are errands; I’m my own boss.

Long day, maestro. I’ll butt dial you
egressing. We’ve achieved very little even with the argument intact,
noting pride — I didn’t take it — pride in our measure to
— section our mountainous itches and engagements
— go over, mix more with some census guys,
cashiers — it’s called freedom of worship.

You’re exempted from outdoors, Psyche,
Exempted from showing up to enchain, knife, subdue..
That’s before I reverse your fragrance —

The calm never resolved —
because we’re only one muppet and one marine
reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, etc.

“‘In a way’,” he said, “‘nothing saved me until we ran the gauntlet —’”

99: Sing: A civil union is the Oxfam of self-doubt. Roses
stand in fear on thorns.

Drive-me-crazy men are thorns to roses not meant for union.

We took notes
that dwell on your good looks.
You’re supposed to breathe in and out.
You charge everything I got.
The lily — your hand, not red, not white, your hair
does the honors in a climate of violets with few opinions.

I look forward to annexing your best practices / in flux
— your soft cheek blushing between the lines, like here,
snaking around on your heels in gay pride of my despair —

Unfinished sculpture.

I am is still here, the body’s heroic purring could not be put off. (One dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).

Fact: eye contact is more defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making a pattern to and from alterations sited within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.
At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)

                      Urban attitudes from La-Z-Boy.
*

Rhetoric dies.
Came from outer space; was well radicalized before it got here.

Freer speech in every direction — your known inclination
for walking strong will accelerate, wild and tranquil,
ruthless in a sense, the boundless layers set in funereal trance
tweeting under the bust of the rhetor, a civil, democratic ideal.

No one tweeting wants to get ‘under..an ideal.’ Freedom is personal.

And we think we like animals.

Corporate design is a full-length mink coat, Mr Pence. What a pain to illustrate this, a trope from mid-century, the last century to put in an appearance confining this one, more of the opposite.

Do you like spiral staircases?

Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off economy was to result. You like it, Mike. Native fluency may be floatable within, once regarded in its wholeness, its contours beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough though meaner beyond its whereabouts. There’s a kiss whereabouts.

Where o where did we hide the donor workspace, the top percents of it who kept you from living freely.

I can put exquisite prayer this way.
We need to work on a new trial and platform. I recommend blending in with non poets and non music industry.
So I put your name on and in. Am I fit for the scenario? Are you and I?
The color of the spine goes ultimate, high and low, austere yet foreseeable.
And the evaluations are in.
You are part of what we hold.
It’s an argosy of what’s evolutionary before it’s more uplifted.

Anything Apollonian looks terrible.
Capacious anxiety, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... I’m done.
You can break the law to shoulder perfection or save a life, once. Either way is a fractional infinite in the context / e.r. Something is definitely going on.

Lefties are feeling cornered (not to say conned) but
it’s breathtaking administering the right thing to do to you.

Inter-OK...

17: We don’t want to be a second late — I’m hellbent if I could, to write the beauty of your eyes where numbers number (poets rage) — filled with only half the story in time to come.
That and your grace. Who will believe these touches are fresh, living parts of you without touching, without your offspring stretching into the night, keenly inanimate tho alive that time.

You said no way, I don’t like it, blah! / This poet lies
tho. Yet we are parallel..

(Someone asked me to float ridicule of the phonemic state of old style edits.)

That’s how near-shitty thinks while our so-named public face makes a living, almost kidding and choosing your chest, shoulders and hands to gunfire. What kind of prose government overthrow takes dabbling more lightly?

29: I am deaf, “bootless” you say, never hearing I’m scorned, despised, all alone for desiring you...

Yet I make a fortune wishing, thinking of you when? when disgraced

Remembering hymns for love rich in hope, wealth, art, a man’s scope.
How all men’s eyes rise at dawn from birth, this outcast state, when..
Almost enjoined as to the sullen lark least contented, almost cursed —

Looking for, singing from earth, thinking of you through break of day.

I remember looking up at at the music itself, feeling an urgency in ideas. Menu:
We live in a debt growing country. Maximum restraint = knitting your own brow.

Then let me pull an invisible to the eye hair off your blouse.
Blouse and sex belong in a pile.
It’s a seeming nice place except for the plastic :
containers hanging along the branch bow: the cowslip
and top limbs maximized along blood on my chest ::

When stairwells mesh and go nowhere either side
between you and your affection, let’s hang in for a while.
Hang our names in roots.

25: No dying here, let those in favor never be removed.
A few words travel, ‘unlooked for,’ calibrated by our ruckus / favorite doing-the-honors spoken (rather than speaking) in a larger-scale dialectic —

an epistemic war / outreach where all the jazz wears off. It’s triumph!

After, for a frown, a thousand victories once buried pride / seduction technology, the sun’s eye.

We’re happy we can boast love in favor of love fresh from the book

whose fortune spread joy we honor most.

...pleasure before Hey, that your vox?
For the poet art administrator, hissy fits of modesty are unimpressive, swept up and vacuumed off each floor.

A year in taxes and you’re a neo-accepter of excess, making, being particles since and before the temporal.

Fits of pique are objective misnomers, eating and breathing them, too, as our ideology-swept rhetoric of double quotes administrating burgeons. Omniscience is officially sanctioned conjecture. Modesty goes as the evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family of arrivistes and custodians.

[w John W]

34: I have a feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in my way —
Together, you and I defined arcs of ironic repentance but in a series of affable disputes. Just so, we’re still at a loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal, yet not wind smudging our wounds into rotten smoke. Why?

It’s not enough I lose, I’m scared; ah, no relief as such. I won’t travel well, off through clouds. I have your brave face but shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.

This is what then? ‘“One’ piece of empty solidity.” Not for those who have more.

Rhapsodic justice is made to look calculated. It’s easier to have a set of spring-summer consonants in your throat than break our rules and brag too much, too enormous a bliss.

By caution as usual we mean caution to the core.
Discourse in a hammock, wanting to be nearer. Caution preserves constructs protecting access to the core. The equation reduces to healing power = unhealthy options = smoking hot.

My quandary repeats aromas from hydrangea in labor (staging nightmares) — once in labor we chose our birth parents; this is a tenet of some.

Yet it’s with Bonnard visuals of pleasure I’d be holding you for conniving to carpet silence. O Amerigo —
Another wish never fulfilled, you and I round off contrasting demands of flimsy seriality and sequence, conquering death with abundance.

Breathtaking.

Auto-electrocuted. But calmed down. No more tv, sore thumb. There’s a dual nature of justice going around in “resentment and forgiveness” with high notes we won’t erase. A muggy, fantastic soprano, jittery, active against the grain. She reaches a point at which touch management is unleashed.
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.

The future in tatters weighs in as a shortcut, “I need me.” It’s a lovely tirade. (Jack Spicer)
All thus was mirrored in meantimes. Staring into light wrongly revealed I’m pretending to be yours at your asinine behest. Remember it’s wrong — I am not pet swapped, I never intimidate a party in conflict. As a consequence doors open & I’m auto-electrocuted.

You all right?

There’s a title for most any time lapse. Stick around.
The sentence: ‘Jets, Giants, even the Broncos lost squawking about losing’ 
Diagrams the opportunity 


‘But should we use quotation marks?’ 
Came up as a refrain. 
By then our thought freezes, 


Just why we reserve dopey incongruence for fill-ins.
‘When you put it that way I can’t complain.’
Dodge this bullet, I’m only fucking with you, you all right?

Draft to you, easier to speak for me.

Your snobbishness killed me.
No monks wrote the inscription for our ashes. It reads: Just because you’re not there to attribute what we know to swimming exhausted doesn’t mean these two weren’t Bodhis / each physique w/ a hammer in hand. Nailing our souls together takes a moment of their lives that we don’t love or hate.

Whatever takes substance and breadth, we’re not doing it!

Seems ok according to Ra looking up and at me.

Learning, teaching he’s drunk on bounce. It’s amusing.

Really I’m a fan of modernism estimating how much flow back in time from prior polemic might kill.
(I mean people. You find particulars up more often living with spoils like English drapery, which, while you’re watching, completes these sorts of passive sentiments. Yet drapery never over stays.)

What’s next? I am a crescent metal, easy to pick up, feed and embrace after the climate changes.

A blue feeling about beginning to feel it in your heart is breaking over the lazy and soon dead. I’m still not awake, a bad idea. An idea with particularity, again. A feeling for the bread before it rises stuffed with controversy that lasts already waiting in space that is our best way out.

141: Heart to heart
I’m dating other members while we go thru systems — in faith I love you
in your own speech acts and in my eyes.

And errors aside, in spite of foolish tunes, no smell, no pain nor taste, there’s always
desire.. it’s self-invited. It’s in you, my sin. We’ve gone
over this. But I dote on tender feelings of a man with you alone.

And your views look great in text, available where I promise all my 5 senses serve you ..
Thus far I am yours, unswayed by slaphappy-proof likenesses to-be, I love you
pleased, delighted, you only.

What do we shop at times? I deal in opinions on redeeming encores or unguided enterprises. We’re not so interested in dreams. But this morning I woke from a flash of such gruesome practicality I became distressed talking to lingerie and mere vapor in a sports-transition store. There was no deeper pretext or tortured prelude. I walked into this pleasant, really dark place decimated in distorted light. Dim lights. But I was in there casually shopping with others. It was a showroom like the first Under Armors where mannequins, staff, and customers matched up in comfortable, form-fitting shirts and sweats and some in jackets pulled an inch or two back, almost off their collarbone, not to flex but to suggest upper body development. There are steadfast outlines but nothing shows. We have eyes and the mannequins won’t move. That kind of carefully lunatic geopolitical emoji stow and store. That’s what I was thinking as I picked out five pairs of socks. A pointillist grey pair, two in enlarged, graduated chocolate pixels, and a couple of pairs in ink, one with a hint of an inkier poetic plaid-esque under. Everything was going to blend well with natural stuff. (Making new money hard to follow. The total came to under $300.) The wind always kicks back allowing us to translate sleep into discrete transparent overlays of desire, textured fantasy, aimless expectation. Shopping.

Gyoza, tofu tempura, veggie soup, fried cricket. Democracy progresses on almost everything, available now.

$1.5 trillion added to our deficits. A structuralist’s dreams centralize.
Federalism & the dignity of work slide down between national gratitude and liens. (The financial pacs industry isn’t just kidding.) Nothing personal, this is the sustained concussion version of indebted citizenship... I also give a lily for what’s unavailable, a cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments, for the boink of whinnying for pleasure.

Or I cry when I know you love me. Same thing.

When I get to work I credit everything from the atmosphere, the engine without a message.

19: Innocence evokes nighttime devouring time and built like a lion’s hummingbird — Plucking keen teeth from a tiger’s jaw, if you allow. Taping together both hands. And grease-pencil trompe l’oeil anywhere. Please.
Innocence is guilt in a group. All on earth devouring their own brood, against beauty’s pattern but much success.

Young, untainted and long lived, you’ve gone wrong. I forbid but I hope you’re happy.

16: It’s hard to do a mock-up & care. One idea, to give yourself away.

You have nothing better to do than pump out to my grasp and rhyme.

No skill in-between. Men’s eyes have nothing like you to hold so to speak,
Many maidens, gardens, “outward fair,” no less!
No less and now you’re standing above us, but I can’t make you live ..

I can’t tell you I don’t care.

Sonnet 86:

The future gives full sail bound for intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to write, grow great verse.
I thought of you
giving us cohorts aid.. No, we see your pride flies as it works a crowd of familiar ghosts.

Once our brain ripens, we have neither victory nor fear — I by night lack a precious affable spirit beyond mortality. Or morality. Both strike me all too precious matters, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling up this line.

There’s no one way to degrade-ultimately-destroy capital.
Try feeling polyphonic with an uncapped fortune, reflecting what you did when your adolescent backbone iced up, raising all boats, all social levels.

Our greatest fear is going deeper—

That would kill our real parents.

They’re dead already.

Hence the family corporation is casually hidden

and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.
Solitude, confidences, you’ll earn times in the day,
the plays and jungle, many in a series —

133: My strategy is sweet sleep until we wake.
Who is calling?
Your friend is coming. Must I abandon myself? then my next self? both appear wounded players, both slaves, both to slavery?

Who can say? Twice, thrice double crossed and, again, — whoever, it’s not enough to torture me alone —
Engrossed, I can hear my friend’s heart groan in jail tormenting me — pent up cruelty that’s iterative, baroque:

As if out of time Couperin sprawled with the naked around Antoinette.

But let’s be rigorous now and agree in prison I am in you. I am yours by force.

And I keep you in my heart on guard of you and all that is in me.

The heart is sore as
Whitman precedes Aimé Césaire. Salut.

Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam (a love poem)
— Accounting disappears like functions of context (difficult relationship procedures) —
Love not being is taught
But fought for in reverse. Freezing the difference.

Physicalism (neural meditation) — here we wade slowly adapting to amoral schemes
More fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Travel well.

Angels, let’s run some #’s.
To pass over when we wake is ample. Waking’s crap;

scrunching up everything for breakfast —



a perfect station then reads Baudelaire for a big kettle of urgency,
searing, puffy, relaxed, and succinct. Like fury.

In this moon diagram a fragrance was my last fill of politic hope. Oh you know, unhappy

We supplemented photographs for subject matter, I recall,
a garland fungus, students in foreground (by an arch to the abandoned parks).

It’s up to pond structure to model our passivity learning the moon’s mother tongue, new vowels
discharged by shore conditions, birds in flight. Protecting the hang of dignity threatens it. Everyone
knows that. Everyone alive. A little sick, even unwell, a man’s voice is handsome, calm, but also scrappy.

Further down the pillar, a kimono has been entered, explaining prehension without perfecting
tongue in cheek.

85: Remember about now we compile on motives, in effect, softer flickers, rather than comments — good hind thoughts spidered into leg & arm pins, something more. Get to resolute joy nodes, a punching bag of well refined tricks, compressed — holding you in my thoughts.
Check the seams glowing with our golden character. In other manners hold your breath.
(Though hearing a tongue tied Amen respects the system.) In polished form:

Let’s dance.

Of course the Lord wait lists the system.

Can’t be sure there’s larger yield.
Literary digests death of a nation.

Notebook open, the un-recaptionable



Never multiplied. Voices, no fire. Irony-sincerity voted in
Thomas Eliot, a flashy

Society writer, a modernist.



I say Oh, fine, thanks.

And yourself? Today


That chintz is lost

And chintzy terrible’s in play.



Post neurotic coherence
Something of emptiness accrues.

A lot misunderstood to dote on.

Gastronomy is to breaking the ice as ‘fucking / sponginess’ is to bacchanals.

The jungle again is quiet... too quiet. (Theseus)

Despairing of dead ended self regard, “the self-valuable word” embedded in instrumental discourse, Bob Perlman maps, among other things, Quintilian’s rhetoric, noting key components, meaning, clarity and tasteful adornment or decoration (“Words Detached from the Old Song and Dance”).

Meaning and clarity are fair game for Rob Fitterman: “weeds we may not always / have emptied this meaning for / a top-growth peel-back of another.”


When it comes to weeding and adornment in poetry, which involve making sense of / sense in any alteration of literal expression (via figures, other prosodic devices), Fitterman is an advanced horticulturalist. With 1-800-Flowers, Fitterman smartly “updates” sources for Louis Zukofsky’s last completed poem, 80 Flowers, a construct that “takes to new extremes of density Zukofsky’s methods of composition by quotation, transliteration, and compression” (Mark Scroggins, Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge).

Fitterman replenishes the grounds with inventory of similarly conflated devices, writing in two sections “About” and “Through” Zukofsky’s work. Fitterman frames Zukofsky’s as “constrictive verse” that indeed gets “driven” by inventory, while Fitterman’s own lyric comprises mixed inventories within a discourse hybrid, an essay in verse, substantiation of his exemplary reading, that is, his generatively engaging Zukofsky (refer: ronsillman.blogspot.com [7/11/05]). More splendid, Fitterman fulfills the half audible invitation within Zukofsky’s poetry and poetics, joining Zukofsky & Son Inc whose décor ethos is “precise information... thinking with the things as they exist” inside a recontextualized (if not continuous) present in which Fitterman fixes “new meanings of word against word” (Prepositions).

[...]

—2014

83: Life with Mr Juice comes up short — charm
-ing & familiar — unfair tender shit in a paper sack.
Hostess Wheel Clacker, bike spinner & fake license & plate.
A poet’s debt.
I found (or again I thought in silence)
your eyes are nagging me for more .. admit you miss modern beauty.
You miss the first drag. Painting

Juice imagines my wearing his credentials
As inner being when others would give life.. I have nothing set.

Have you read, praise & worth get ten percent of their daily

Calories from soda & smoking — sleeping to excess


They become bilingual.
I never slept for my sins
Therefore I’m barren, being dumb.

Atom = the first turning of heads in which a detail is effective in several ways at once. 

Clockwise = second head turn two or more meanings re-solved into one.


Counterclockwise = third turn, in which there are two or more unconnected meanings.


A pulse of light of the right duration = fourth turn, alternative meanings clarifying a composer’s state of confusion.



Superposition = fifth, lucky confusion: the author is discovering her idea in the processes of writing. 



A row of 10 = sixth, contradictory or irrelevantly sweet new shades, the reader is forced to mint interpretations, make’em up. 



 Measure = seventh, it’s official. Unbending full contradiction, among minds in turning heads.

To float in Buddhist undercurrents from work by a mature avantist is not much of a surprise. We know Leslie Scalapino and others as bona fide avantists, demeanors of a calming, enlightened refusal has likely rubbed off during their intake of an illusory simultaneity in the social imagination. Or don’t know. (Also refusal.)

for Rene
Heedless and highly egotistical,
Two good words; and too,

The beautiful person deals in opinions on redeeming enterprises and I’ll —

Conquest contributes to a wonderful unanimous
Just unnerving enough atmosphere
— an image of while.

It once read architecturally, you’re my business.

“I heard talent & beauty, money come with their own flickering light; by your putting them to rest they take ‘full effect’ with no attachment to addictive capital, arresting.” Leaving you gasp.
Is this documentary or did I make it up? —“when you remember wit and austerity read each other from the start, after wit — seems mathematical to think about conceptual transmissions of all kinds favorably, tho programmers have a fiercely vandal like impression of appraisal under uncertainty.”

So this is an edit. “That’s as close as no personality has to keen, endless pulse.”

..bicycling no-hands is what it reads over the entrance. To put it together, anonymity makes what’s excess pain disappear along with poverty and sugar.

A signature concern is a reader’s experience. It’s peculiarly nepotistic, another point, that so many writers simultaneously figure out expectations within multiple, extra literary contexts, politics, cultural construction for personal (non)profit, corporate performance theory and the like.

for Rene
Heedless and highly egotistical,
Two good words; and too,

The beautiful person deals in opinions on redeeming enterprises and I’ll —

Conquest contributes to a wonderful unanimous
Just unnerving enough atmosphere
— an image of while.

Have yourself a good time. I’ll have you over when political science gets to better thinking, Aldous Huxley augmented with a good bouquet, plus a full deck of historical raiment among the aspirers decoding automation... After that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous to grab at, but for now, good talk!

Who is this? Nobody’s first choice.

We’re fine with “no real choice.”

67: Smarts don’t matter. You had a wealth of smarts. Advantage achieved?
I’m laying myself off. Shall I? Not that I’m smart. I’m imitating an evolutionist of avarice — loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer a bad infection — long since dead — of seeming false. For this is where looseness keeps young society on the gain side, an impious beauty and presence forward. And that goes for the sun shining with its indirect brightness on the street, bankrupting grownups.

Getting ahead of message. Gas, food, lodging.

Oil and vinegar mistakes, which in religion ..

There are different sapors, pots, odd sets, syrup-simple to complex, some devolving into a brawl, randomness, others, chaos, as well as a game of self-similarities... can't make it out, call them alloys of function routing. I’ve highlighted this one in an ivory box. A rolling bit of Apollonian male familiarity that will never feel safe, a Mainline ranch dressing refabricked in aromas of polycarbonate. Like a surfboard.

I’m a woman. Or you. We have all the training we need listening to Jim Carroll — chemistry, rage, this is my body. Almost the same as hopeless, the only oasis just passed. I was more at home with early stage fright than deconstraining tastes at war with passivity.

Then you and I a priori had an urge and we felt gorgeous wearing a hairnet over the situation.

At midnight Gogol, Nikolay Gogol, with a master’s degree in these matters, says the landmass of gut feeling, sane behavior, and noncriminal discourse —like mine —the mass teeters on the grotesque tattoo of a human skull. I can’t turn that down. I can’t mean only my language. It’s a tradeoff, my trade. In the din nihilism shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. A good thing. That door leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.

We all have squatter’s rights.

We never forget and we do not forgive. Even tho we’re too fat to have insurance, our moms have always been supportive. Viruses are like that. The wind too. Shivers of a sigh, glistening in black, I made messes all over the nestling ground to suit a creative purpose, balancing running around everywhere and getting lost and then explaining the gorilla mask as a prior condition.

Imposture-prone or — simpler — fictitious avant-garde strategies as well as their vulnerable practitioners and critics are celebrated in the released film, (Untitled), written by Jonathan Parker and Catherine di Napoli, directed by Parker. In just two columns of text NY Times critic Stephen Holden deploys a massive array of double-edged vocabulary that unsettles to the gut. (Untitled)’s protagonist, a conceptual composer with a perpetually furrowed brow, is said to be tormented with a teasingly paradoxical attitude... [a] hostile scowl. The anti-hero is so self-absorbed and ungenerous that when confronted with experimental work in other fields he is as rudely dismissive as any provincial philistine. Meanwhile, to highlight the acerbic entwinement of sexual performativity and aesthetic judgment, a cheating, gallery-owning and aesthetically ‘disingenuous’ girlfriend shines her popping eyes like a bright screwball. Holden notes other types, including a self-loathing conceptual artist whose works have self-explanatory titles like “Pushpin Stuck Into Wall.” (Untitled) goes for broadly obvious, easy targets, in other words, in a line of lampooning artist-fish in a barrel, a long satirical line that spoofs an avant-garde tradition that goes back at least as far as Marcel Duchamp’s urinal. Some would-be targets are employed for aesthetic as well as comedic affect. Avantist David Lang writes the goofy music for (Untitled) and film maker Kyle Ng constructs proto-conceptual pieces, among them, a taxidermist monkey sucking on a vacuum cleaner (Jeff Koons, no?). Holden’s review encapsulates a chapter on current aesthetic temperaments and fomented doubletalk that run for cover under the rubrics of satirical outrage and conceptual deflation.

— 2009

Guards used to stand tall. United parts and parcels. Now they tell you to take off your belt.
The impression building is that every move serves a purpose. Then. A higher purpose according to religionists, in a word, a metonym for dizziness everywhere according to boundless practitioners. Their approach, heading toward devastation, collapses under its own glare into supernumerary states of emotion and minor readjustments on an international scale of anxiety equal to the light of my body. Then. Every dancer stops for a moment, and I feel better.

Sing:

I’ve got goals. I’m an anthologist of agitprop. I think it’s colossal. It gives me a boost as a lifelong cold intellectual. Fun is fun, but not when friends are struggling then flattened intentionally. An observation from no claustrophobic yet grave, easily misrepresented. Both wrong.

Lately and I don’t like it, it’s out on the town looking for the perfect spot to brush up on the visual grammar of the assault on what’s deeply held.

74: I agree with / of / to your bail. Security should have conducted a more scholarly pat down.

We are under arrest but you’ve lost nothing.
Ten to one, better parts of our street rep shows up in literature and data tracking. Faint Italian opera on one receiver as a memorial.

When you have a chance to review, I think this is due you. Layers of my spirit are made yours & what remains leaps out of no life, no death, carried away having some interest in what’s going down on this wretched yet contented earth, all it contains, even this line.

Matins.

Sweaty in bed, aqueducts, fountains..
Above the clouds, would you like me to exhibit cruelty for the audition? Giving up is a gamble, a bet gone bad in your case.. finding my cause I can’t honk enough about the importance of your deception, glimmers of withheld affection two empire states high, taking on a dominatrix.

And leaving you still alive in many forms, all human.

(I’ll end this as an emigrant without you.)

Come midnight Frog had a big smile. When I teased him or cuddled him, his four appendages went as wiggly as sexual urges. He’s silly, a smile across his whole face, black button eyes on top of his head because the night is not over — all smile and eyes in front, green in the back. When I held him he was a jumble of cuddles and inertia. His legs flopped around until I stopped.

That was the way.

I am citizen physicist to an inner antecedent for shorthand deadpan. Drowsiness may be my great escape or I may walk it off, forgetting you’re allergic.

Your face, the trains I ride, it's all good. And staying casual definitely has legs.

(The above interlude both wanted.)

Why I don’t suck straight up. I’m on lockdown. Now near-great beliefs with old factoids, nothing much, attitudes struck, days of learning in spirals, an undulating façade. I walk into a bar, the old place, saw endless tunnels, gadgets and immortal lighting that interconnected music while I skipped over extra messes underfoot. My fingers boarded the apologetic apparatus, some of it; it was thumping on wall screens.. Every minute whenever I learned all this, eyes rolled, doors slammed. After worship, there’s little but great necks guided by the star beats. Yesterday was bright as today.

Don’t argue with the shipment.

I know where I am going
gawky, rattling my cage.

I know where the caged bird sings.
I shopped in Brooklyn.

Shy of seduction
I worry about the big family.
Like Clint Eastwood I was shifty.
Once. What was that all about?

Logging a spigot startles the system on and off.
Seems the past was swinging but stopped somewhere
to bear the fruit of the horizon. We got used to the beat.

Tying up reaching you by then to depart
smelling morsels jazzing a decimal of
butterflies who seem to have rabbit ears.

Striking the bell, lightening round..
Brightness gushes out, but collisions roughened by screaming take a fall. Living ballet is euphoria-through-turbulent-process and comprises your early morning critique. It’s so tight. What happened? Diagramming conditions of jitters and others’ sentences, I am anonymous either way.

Before the mist rolled in I felt your grace, holding with both hands.

Spent the weekend in Austin deeply depressed. I was charmed at first and then lulled into dissonance gazing at sheer limestone foothills with humid vistas and can-do vegetation softening a bustling politico academic subtopia awash in petrodollars. The petrodollar, we know, is the currency feckless leaders proffer, enlisting youth to leave home to fight terrorism abroad while depleting national coffers Stateside. Our leaders in turn subject to capitalist paymasters who pay no taxes and now lecture via GOP talking points against big federal deficits. But I digress.

— 2010

Update, 2017: Nothing about deficits for now. Wait a year.

Levitation in words got modulated. They wanted to be. Modulated is like coming out to play, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact beats and multiplying love of what we were doing before the procedural took hold.
Then we are off one way keeping our eyes shut.

The no-fantasies plan, weeks running
After the Geico announcer’s ecstasy — there are no dikes
Yet or a fleeting of civilized dichotomy.
Music filters out at the one crack in the bridge against the sky.
All the airports sink back, just fine.
Day to day sometimes in sunlight geographers breathe utterances.
We’re going to be here as long as it takes.

Un-sober, gestures are precise. Bright eyes, sparkling motions, a huge lollipop.
Climbing down the outside of pure hell there’s a new mainstream-underground that merits a visitor’s gaze — we — some of us — avoid it.

It’s hard to hard to plot let alone hatch a plan objectively, yet pressure is mounting full of smoke. Mm-hmm. Chestnut tones of political realignment are hemi-obscure now, at this hour of the fireball pyramid scheme that’s too out there — who owns anything? — to allow public squalor juxtapose obscene capitalist milieux.

So let’s start with our airplane’s rectangular coordinates, understand pleasures of the neck, chest, and eyes. That’s the first half.

Before a thrill, yoga is fantastic. I have been 12 years old for a long time.

52: I’m in lock-up because of you.

Therefore you and I are keepers. Ours.

Blasted, blessed moods in ‘key’ to configure my pleasure,
So I am rich I hope blunting for long years
The time it takes, seldom coming one day unfolding
a special instant so rare.

Being had was worth it as it were

Like euphoria, one thin instant hiding a fine point every hour.
Speaking of solemn upper-lower class sweets and treasure,
We find lovers also keeping to the survey, chest to chest, jewels of yours.

Social progress is in a pickle, a big abnormal mess, a product of our time. It wins all the half-eaten take-out on the table. 40% of obdurate hardly-ever voters like you and me. And how long can you live folding up conversation, shadows unused, perpetually minimalist verging on filth and circumstance? Who isn’t in one?

Alfred Starr Hamilton has been on poets’ short lists at the balcony edge for 40 or more years, but he’s undergoing “rediscovery.” A stack of Hamilton’s letters to the Montclair police is “the year’s least likely literary find.” The letter excerpted in The Times reads like poetry. For counters of endurable fame, it’s another 15 minutes.
— August, 2010

The Arnie Larry
tableau sponged, spackled remotely,
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva. Anything
going to stay pure, immersed. Swimming
synchronized. The bellicose slunk back.
I left you out.

22: Inside you

The mirror shows raiment of sorts — therefore
so long as your youth & your ... April
or not — praise & the opposite grow acrostic, seemly rife, stirred by beauty
for days. I grab my pen and clamber over to write down hearsay bearing your heart
(unrehearsed washes of shadows as you will)
where we’re coupling to eclipse soundtracks, fixed in air, true in love. Expiators.

After you
I went into analysis alert. The twins
bear shame? Faces change when they use
our words; plus or minus they’re so close —
in a glance we’re all about to bail out, off —
why are we even arguing!

Don’t we have a duty to criticize?

Gavel to gavel hours and hours turning the page.
What we do converts to personality and stunt-craft.
What we have to do and say are open discourse W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please,
have your way, fleets of stars, your options. Have your composite gods who do it.

(This soon after his last breath, is it safe to mention Yeats?) (Maybe not.
I’ll frighten no one to be temperate.) Some of us are too polite to save the day.
But not all of us will friend you now or any time.

It’s natural, all a picnic in the wilderness.

The wilds... on all floors.

I’m just a dick with variations.

Late November will have a preferred representational system. Floating too close, roofs blanketed in flyleaves. The styrofoam waterfall declares amnesty.

December is being booked. It just feels terrible.
One thing is that performance yesterday and the morning before that. After you wash off, you understand when to pause a long way and leave for your sake where you smell a rat. Its sensory predicates are pointless but tough, you and I selfishly care.

You’re not alone. You want in? Try eye accessing cues with your interlocutor looking to undress. A mindset carves out the rafters flute and my voice. What was seen trapped at top? A noun for emphasis extended from fire under your eyelids.

77: Society is like building blocks. When you’re on my mind I see cubism and social media touched or felt. Vacant, minutes wasted, overrated, I whisper to myself, falling for your acquaintance.

Upstate.

I write in my nature/head. Let’s hold a séance!
I snare us Joy to starve a fever. Is it raining?
Seven rooms (usually) with clay-toned physiques
fighting the relative fight waving, receding on one another

— everybody under an influence indoors, which is filthy.
A foot of snow from the window. Laps of water are filled with light, rotating in
reverse as if knowing how to purify their offspring & manage forever
in lurches of nibbling torque adjusting day into days.

Waiter, there’s a figment in my soup. The quartet’s on a mission; higher
                    up, the soup’s part doodle/part ambitious love we can void
to operate micro acts, stacking thought like fluorescent tubes that meet
                   over magnets. Tubes lit & disentanglements.
Mercury selenide?

                   ... I guess we can keep that ambiguous in pastels —
indulged through wisecracks, guitar & voice.

                                                                        Prayer in all directions.

A lover is great at knowing when.
A younger lover is vital, not recreational.
We’re addicted to sculpture, nothing else
leads us on. Here’s an apple

for the teacher. (Everybody
does it.) It’s an evening signal:
No response is cool. It’s the payoff
as long as time that never was and never knew
those who abdicate are left, nothing else.
The dizziest and best rise up one day out
before they are in.

for JW

The images are confused as of an understanding.
Cassius Clay. Premiere then curtains.

Time runs out, our taxonomies still
unexplained as permits.

We loved your altitude, your trafficked facts, but
we feared anti-humanists and divas
wound up in your senseless apartment at the nation’s tip —
just the tip
...you know what I mean standing, promoting popular acceptance there
with nothing to give back, not mad enough, feeling too little.

The sun is gray. Divided and confused.
The system is not perfect. It’s an everybody
movement with that living unlocked smell.
I set the controls; active ingredients are
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.

Noonish.

4: Unthrifty = extravagant; nothing = nothing.
To traffic in deception, film your writing, take notes.

Conditions look drugged — wanting you (I do),
not out of calculation.. and being frank beauty lent
you opposes given facts of pre-lent loveliness unused,
perplexed, taken outside why or what’s acceptable

to audit profit and thrift.
Is it largess or self?

So great an abuse of a different, denatured octagonal gloom
a sum of sums won’t leave us alone.

My capital is now redefined. I have a poem
in the money issue, since I’m into gambling
connections and catering to my clients.

My clients, also I’m wholly drunk.

“Dear Hightop,”

It saddens one to inform the boss

she’s not serious, never is. She makes
comparisons during sex and makes
love checking in — whilst I live
off the equity of a third faculty
where the future holds — the one promised
Hermes that took him over the edge.

There’s a container for every passion.
Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off
economy floatable within, once
regarded in wholeness, its contours
beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough
though meaner beyond its whereabouts..

I guess us.

111: Before I turn into another cure of yours, you for my sake, I assure you a crafty nature was taken down by the dyer’s hand, receptive to work and long subdued from harm, far away. It all goes ah! nothing better, you’re my willing patient. Breeding, manners, means, you and I are taking off, though. Pity in that sense your infection, guilt and bitterness, nothing else — thence — whilst — against enough! almost — I’m renewed.

Not running, walking rapidly, I cross the hall with the heat transfer ….
We DOLLY into a MEDIUM soft shapeless mass of subjects and no distance. No, forget it, that’s too risky. Not quite bigger than standard.

Scary Movie was a date flick. A private-public bond like Atchison and Topeka.

“My regrets.” Switching phones, I look up to the Great Plains waiting to take me somewhere. Thinking is enormous but I practice until my call went out.

I’m sick of nice things.

My friend’s snooty and sells antiques?
It’s about meeting people 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 really busy reaching across
the aisle — going there you and I earn points.

Rightist verse, M.R.I., not hot.

It’s meta-conscious. On the surface it projects text as selfie, “poking” materials, assemblers, audience. Selfies however adhere to reticent agendas.

Pedagogic systems schedule examination of dominant samples. Absorbing their data is high achievement that’s duplicable.

Rightist epistemology’s key reinforcements:

a) algorithmic methods underline skillsets bias.
b) calculable hierarchies, A.B.’s, Ivies, W.S.M.
c) satellites derive from a) and b).

It’s all about people acting this way.

Frank O’Hara rather not.

73: I take away what night takes away —

A bare choir looks over the east, sees, only you by and by behold this mortal acquisition drinking hot coffee from a can and sticking to its roots’ metallic gleam, seething too, proportionate to the open space. The smoke gets shiny and you’re mortified with ozone. Sunset. Twilight.
The whole firebox is aglow. The yellow wallpaper is engaging.
The ruin of saying it better is.. no, it’s a folding cliché. Whereon death expires. Youth seconds.

Ironic judgment.
There are a hundred butterflies in perilous art. What’s wrong with watching one or two spin like happy mediums, go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?

71: Like a surly, vile freeloader / poet I overhear captions in robot clauses to overshare. Fair warning it’s compounded if I think I may not be forgot-10 in your thoughts. After I’m gone ...I negotiate cash for rapprochement. Hey, don’t worry, my verse is not incompatible with yours, only I’m 10-loving for I love you.

There has to be someone in charge.

(Hold on, I was conspicuously woeful in life before I was handed this bag of sentences.) Perhaps.

70: I don’t blame you.
Alone in your ‘kingdom’ works backwards. You’re facing the street, passing it... A science fiction flushed hollow, cankers and buds looking prime outside and you’re still passing, unstained by the ambush adhering neatly to nothing, just passing, yet also suspects’ approval ornamenting impurities of state.

Who are they who envy? Slandering even wooed — and such charged discourse? Don’t hold it in. Talk to your doctor.

Sonnet 6:

We radicalize to what we know best.
Beauty is a 10 and like usury it’s a gamble.
My tongue in your ear refiguring 2 pair,
distillation, defacement. A fair hand, a treasure 10 for one.
Happy to pay or loan you the rest, and glad
you’re a willing fan, departing before

the winter leaves by the yard ..
And brush your hair? Brush it back down.