Experiment 13: Touch television —

the mercury-brimmed scree

insubstantial in its unexpectedness,

               a dangerous, frisky slither

on the now-clear train to a continuum —
tv retaliates against falling / falling out
in daytime, programming on a sheer precipice.

Experiment 12: Declutter, depersonalize,
let’s snorkel down. Terrific view.
I saw you on ghost tv from across a dance flotilla

moving your future hands

like tracks on time, no touching...

you be a woman I'll be a man.

The simple complex of entire atonement —

touch television — now proceeding normal —

I’m thinking of a most awkward color.
The masked ballroom looks glowing
& tiled back & forth mistily
Across immense miasma.
Half of it waxing along with the bride
Adorned along varietal circumstance.
She once kissed a cat.
She made an inappropriate shoe choice.

Identity theft occurred when the sky was an idea
Of seeming permanent as a child
Utterly absorbed by stars.

Piano strings! precise and going no-

  
                                             where


 floating up nervous laughter

.. an octopus taken no more than once a day.
Minutes after your work can be filed ..
‘work’ to ‘file.’
Or will we be going anywhere?

It seems like anywhere unless you knew where you were ..

The invention of worship is over.
A wall of calm is put up.
“A week of such weather” an authentic first language, dance, charades get raised and natural quests are forcibly asserted.

Cultural obligations shape who we are during a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance for future attributes.

Who dealt this mess?

Lunar cycles are no analysis. The Sunbathing Council is countertherapy.

Love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing their ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering consensus and political distance. We’re all redistributionists, symbolically living to do it over. Politics is anger, useless bruising rhetoric. And capital is conceptually gross, always.
We cross the road tonight.. Join the revolution of the ex-well-to-do slicing icons up for our very first media shower free for the asking for those visual enough to tell us about their recent postal experience.

Her bourgeois red hair, his gainsaying oomph, we're cruising at altitudes of theorem. Quack probabilities dim until we restructure our credit history, nail it in clear plastic. Where does the political economy have us put it? His and her terrain — also yours and mine, since we’re all for one as subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy..
Let her go, let him do want he was elected to do..

Sorry, not tonight...

Passion has its instigators, followers, onlookers. Which is which? How about going bonkers as an emergent lyrical property rather than following algorithms? What if, when a strange poem and appreciation of it turn up together, blanket antagonism and doubt about a future of poetry nosedive? Underscore a future, not the only one. As with any doubling of force everything seems to follow a silent samurai-like strategy: poem and commentary cohere wickedly, coolly, and it all seems thoroughly justified according to a new order.

Signed,

Your kid sister

Doomsday Door A or B? Let’s start with an idea that makes us think differently about its components. If you or I have an idea to process a text or, broader, an artifact of value — a central concern, subject to critical and conceptual analysis is, how does the processed result change ways of thinking about the process? In other words, does the artifact generate inquiry into both (a) the who, how, when, why it came about and (b) the utility of its replication or adaptation into the future new year?

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

playing inside, giving away what we’re good at
— the struggle, not your tears.

Reed replied fiber. I thought about it.

When I came in I shied away from giving out the room temperature. What the hell, I pledged you abstracts, a wholly hidden idiom of stagings and renderings, the creamy highlighting of passages and lucid systems out-of-focus, a lovely coffee table-sized read.

The cracks should be bridged with glass fiber.

“Absolutely,” Continuity Design Adjunct Reed repeated.

Rationed compliments ensue secretly,
Honest accounting disappears like functions of context (text frame procedures) —
Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to amoral schemes
— Travel well.

My cohort flock to benefits. It’s in the evolution of avarice, loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer the opportunity. Looseness keeps younger bodies moving forward. And that goes for the sun shining with its belle-lettrist metamorphosis in the street, damning grown-ups.

A winning session for crude —
I left you off unleashed, extricated in time.
One says. You moved on impulsively. No,
You’re still in danger within all the same venues,
Pshaw, smooth talk hidden, never to disappear.
Like my brothers agog before a generic mime
You look transparent and pink and good at sports.. not that good.

Your kissing me into the future, leaving
Circle-K muzak across the battered carapace..

Really, we get down to heaven
In that bucket? I can’t see the bridge

Nor the smoking outline that subdues us
For your birthday.
’Recursive perception‘ —
For your birthday (and mine, too) I came straight from the agency, this text’s agility welded to the dirty space in which I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception and Action,” ambiguously, in pastels.

You’re too preppy to do anything more remarkable. You can’t take on Schubert who had blond thinning hair and wore rimless glasses. He looked
Russo-Siberian, no concupiscence nor comeuppance. Optometrists emanate this consensus, mistaking eye fluid for calm. Yup, a few drink it up.

These gender issues aside are not a specific program.

How can one I love reunite you.
(Hand-me-down color had risen to your cheeks.)

“I want us to be in use.” I was,
Having at such big, elusive ideas
calls for spectral imaging. I stared at the door. Oo...

Seconds later we were unsure where you and I ‘stood’ vis a vis
tastes charged, an invisible metal...
Ok an explosion directed five, six shots down my throat, you in back..

80: ...cross-pollination of English and psychology is providing a revitalizing lift. I’ll assume you suspect I faint when I write this. Empiricists use it and map it in the literature. When I write of you, I’m in worthless sympathy, humbled, made tongue tied while I try a couple of poses — ha there are great, pure benefits spent by proud, broad-shouldered helpers afloat, grasping for governance, ocean wide! Wouldn’t you know they’re in an infinite series within the history of fame and gossip. (Or from another angle they are the series, wracked by history.) You who.

“The float is radiant, jammed with radiant things,” had
Simon Schama anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I been
eloquent on the spot we’d need no caption.

What does there’s still a move to go do?
It’s just a feeling, the only unmoving part.”

My book is staring out the window, saved-up.
So, with regard to static and its ovoid, stasis
(in a compulsive battle over an ultimate smiley face)
— it’s not who grinned first that counts, but also where
and forever. That’s my middle point for the interim
realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”

A great sunrise centers on net worth while scorekeepers ground level are holding data that prospect on appearances, looking up. This defines a square block with a pinch of stairs. Nice stairs. Nice worth. Everything we note here is integrated, also resonating up to a net where you can charge fees along any horizon that’s magnified until it’s askew. 5:02.

121: A friend writes, assurance from dharma augments being & extends altercations to reproach non absence : I am & all men are not so bad not to be bad
if

working against deadline we accelerate just pleasures, and ok —
my unfeeling mind has a point & I see it.
I think good.

Many of us walk to Central Square w/ thoughts
Of Marxist base alignments and bike gear.
Our peers make films and fast food.

Thinking like this I can’t tell anyone from anyone else except you.
(Thinking of democracy is in season.)

Depends — an authentic adult language first and best, including dance, charades,
Mores are raised —
Bullets and lists shape one critical phase, a significant influence, last,
A look back over who we are after we agree — not that I care.

A head-on view looks toward emptiness by the book, embraces it —

In a gridded department one understands this may be an error.

These are centers of wishing beyond closed doors.


All batteries are charged (that’s the feeling). I’m pouring molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with microfiber — I’m about to walk the spiral and more! Ladytron is carrying this note of irony back to my pals.

Cocktails, 4:00 pm.

Dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflecting gritty, highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence.

Are you healthy enough for this perfection?


A little off, ok — speaking the usual way subverts expectations.
A stencil of this dialog frames many others
As a thought pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.

50 years or so to the date
Rainer Fassbinder had an eye & a golden beak.
Predictive dialectic is not strong enough. I repeat,
His miming the berserk,

Mining homilies & off-color copy
Comprise exploration in Audubon-ship.

Does any bird genus follower know more than he forgot?

Pardon me. Emergency! Excuse me. “...my
Kiss is not avian. It’s just atheist exuberance.”

I’m craziest when I cannot be saved. Who isn’t? Pre-existence does not pertain. Nonexistence is leftover, raw as theism.

Inexistent secrets of satire go free of situation and structured sky, complicities (sex for ears).

The you-effects (more secrets) become less fearless (less and less) when innocence, dance then acrobatics cross lines and context. Codes of boundaries. Certain crossed lines score from beneath; a hobby becomes a color of late addiction to you.

One never wears a watch.
Random time checks predict behavior.
(Innocence concerns pyrotechnics, not intent.)

Clinical algorithms infuse ideology, organize perception.
Play along or sue the little ones. I’m going hence to take my inside voice ... go

... over here I pledge you a wholly hidden solution in renderings, leftovers to
twist in hot leafy acreage ...

Pears and Fuji oak, null passages in fog. (Any wisecracks should be bridged by high purpose.) And come here / get out of here to prolong your appeal.

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

The groom was in the vicinity of your fingers being led away...

Here’s the stumper.

Whatever base of ism, the urge to love is put down to error and wanton anthropology.

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

“We played with her cat and it fell asleep.”
Like crustaceans we cats cave to forgetfulness.
Blinds drawn, our under-scavenged opacity overflows as we are cats from the deep state, you might say, screening off our comic pedigree.

Before that, looking far ahead was fantastic, a civilizing process added to diurnal space filling our eyes with unmeasured disassociation.

A leaf pushed against a streetlight from the past,
We’re thinking you heard its once-failing poet
Who cradled the face sorrow brings to bed,
Someone who could listen to bluegrass and lose it.

My kid sister muse sings,
Everyone can take this personally,
including intemperate me.

A tree in the wind. A music to lips.
How is it lit?
Tall with liquid arms; tongued for a ride,
another hit and run.

They’re plants from one Homeric deity that lets us in.
That’s what led to church shifting

toward showdowns at the riverbed,
beauties of variable weights, Jesus, everyone to lead us on..

It’s looking like this is the rag century, after all; with a few beats,
we made mandalas to settle lawsuits over the last one. Then
I found you contesting the following.

“Gogol, Nikolay Gogol, with an M.A. in these matters, says gut feeling, sane
behavior and noncriminal discourse teeter on the grotesque.” I still can’t turn that
down. But can you mean only what his language means?

I looked you over and asked again.
It felt unwise.

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

We are under arrest but you’ve lost nothing. You’re mine.
Ten to one, better parts of our street rep show up in literature and data tracking. Faint Milano 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 & any remains have no life to leap to, no death, either — carried away then having some interest in what’s going down on this wretched yet contented earth, all it contains, even this line.

Concision or hue in healing of method.. means
can be objective and lack bluegrass. A few mornings
music comes unveiled as aspiration.
It’s in the eye
..a catamaran of process.. this is while I’m doing only one thing
at a time on a crazed errand-stream to a bachelor of arts.

I shouldn’t but I will. I’d like to sign up for a language freed from its instincts and nodules.
For I’m agnostic about anything important, Transzendenz und Wörtlich or shaded for that,
and my voice is flat coming to terms with memory, musical structure, being filmed in your
presence. Back to you.

Prayer: I can steel myself to make something up and call it mine...
Seems asinine, puzzling. Renascent:

I might also mean textually modern as respectable Eurocentrics undress for survival, avoiding careers, soaking up the city among savages of their own design.

I ’m my own boss.

May a zealous counterculture dart sweetly to life! May it help us solve you and me for X!
when we let them.

Own a tuxedo.

And

they’re off —

and since they are impacted by harrowed tomograms
50% off.
*

What happened, you look so radiant?

Dear Politico,

I promised you a ham for quilting bombast.
Now, the ham’s faction’s hatched..
Have yourself a good time. We’ll have you over when the rest of poli sci gets to better thinking, Aldous Huxley, say, augmented with a good bouquet, plus a full deck of historical raiment dealt to the underemployed in hyper décor (like object placement) decoding automation... (so they’re subject-objects as well as objects).

After that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous, for now, good talk! we’re fine, we’re down with “no real choice.”

Squandering the opportunity —
I didn’t have to what the hell?
Living requires
alternative means for the puzzled trot,
the smell of being in a movie from every progressive angle.

I'm winding into a reliance on hardworking pleasures, broccoli, dance
and rumbles, open plans, open lots,
and this most generalized, I guess,
burning, turning back.

59: Sonnets are ok, nothing new here — it’s a revolution just the same—

whether better or worse, let’s
labor for invention, admire images composed of your frame.

As for me, there’ll be no wonder but you.

And if nothing else, let’s
record what had been before —

O sure we’re freaked by antique words —
whether looking backwards —We praise the old world
seeing you first in character and wit, the same as you.

A horror film I hate turns a wall of calm over to science for good, then greed, forgiveness & clumps of renaissance & their round robin prototypes that sell the smear to the visual cortex.

The plot is motivated by small sums of justice. We’ve still not captured how justice is crammed with underdeveloped moral emotions & pillow talk, luxuries that bind, ushering in more non urgencies of a grueling yet quickened mind (composition) over entropy?

Info-tainments advance by themselves, lovely distractions, shooting the steepest mountains w/ slime. Thinking back, they segue to riveting motions in our self interrogation — commuting to work where we share high fives & broker a plan!

The cross-hatching allowing ancestors to exchange a few xenogenetic traits for others, has just about run out of steam. We’re left wondering, once more what there is about this plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to.

35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.


A scent of acacia, soft frangipani, but not a trespass.


You are a triumph.

Don’t worry about past comparisons. Done.
I’ll bring up you love skiing and even play chess against yourself, may I?
It makes sense at that, loving you is civil war — sensual to a fault —

Roses, grieve no more.. silver fountain, clouds and eclipses!

Good-bye everything.

There are subtitles — I’m glad I’m jealous! — various languages. You dream

while staying awake and translate the exposed back of someone else dreaming.

Someone else’s father lying about his living.
Nothing accrues but a lifetime of waking lies. A whole life.
Sleep has some fleeting time with it.

97: Before apologizing, winter is fantastic, like summer for wanton beginners,
a civilizing pleasure messing up eternal categories, removed by you.
Your absence offers waiting rooms, libations & supports how I feel from within
& speaking of the pure land, I’m freezing. Barely recognize the place.

To a lark,
Like torsion in third-level calc,
your obliqueness shows up around access
to authority. It’s far off if you can’t say why.

Your prefixed, scavenged opacity
fills with sangfroid riches of dark matter,
cloaking them with lark pedigrees.

It was incredible video but fine.
Involuntary ideas of thin dots and stripes, that’s a guess.
For Christ’s sake I saw you in documentaries.
I saw your name written on walls

— The deep state (at play), foam under rush-formatted steam
disappearing like figure / ground battalions,
your pretexts (w/ no sound) — more
appreciable fear a cappella —

There’s product on the loose
faintly reeling into moaning
nonentities..

Solitary headline :
Fruitful, aggressive commend submissive.

I do my best and worst work north of you and still get picked on — now in a major way.
Business proceeds — I stick in a little yoga. Then I run after you
thinking what a complete idiot. I am. My hair’s havoc, I’ll have restructured specs.

The contextual self, yourself, is fascinating, perhaps to squelch a tautology of pleasure smelling of specs.

Learning about how to learn can be neat (also fatuous) even if your power won’t
                count
                               when we go away.
We have to trust you on these matters. One apiece.

Nice, brushed off the immense highway.
A moth / its rule for flight is mostly uniform

That is mostly a bolt out of cloth.
Never defined by dressage (practice)

Wind angles down, shaken nice.
It was nice
That changed a lot.

The questions are mostly the same,

Em, I’ve misplaced em.

Under your influence I stay fallible, forgetting other players and divas
lining up on the broken mosaic — brave their hearts of nightie kerosene!
Silly rubbernecks.

We forget farewells.

A flood of calls offers relationships. It’s simple enough. This isn’t the time for that.

A life is charged by the menu.
Occasionally you eat asleep, given immunity. You can’t postpone it.

A few words on process: Counterfeiting
Is luckier than reading everything before it’s rooted in or out.

No sweat on attainment comes now, available in this new version of Recently Used English to wish you any and all the full pleasure I withheld. Damn!

Hanging on contains the universe. Imagine the hurt.

Sonnet to hope:

Hoping nothing won’t happen, I cover my throat. Duly of course sounded. A few facts crowd around figures that are un-garbled when least derivative; ephemeral objective content triumphs. It’s kind of a snob racket. (C Bukowski)

We weren’t exiled or orphaned, we decided to pursue other interests. Plus, it started again, as theory, pleasure is to ethics as the roundup waiting in any landscape, waiting for mistakes (1) and (2) jounce.

Spontaneity backs up position vectors.

Woe is paralytic. I don’t detect a drop of broad mindedness toward any arched dynamic or versions of it — better when and how you love or even when you nibblingly slobber over a numbed one’s body of rare happiness, feeling better. Hope of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest Dionysian.
Dionysian = could pull off brocade, puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.

I am a visual person.

Dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs as the wagon sways
with fellowship. Love in the future, a handshake spreads the rain,

flowers, rain,
flowers.
(That’s it!

The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we
can walk off with. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our widows.

This is spring history.)

All your life as if a mercurial quantum.. floating in erotic lurches and nibbling torque measured across dotted lines..

On and off I discern your underwear, a denomination marked by intimacy. They pill.

Yeah, that’s funny.

Take all of mine.

Meanwhile I go thru assembly to give in to take you out, shake you tamed,
Dart —

Time runs out, I’m tired of taxonomies
still unexplained as weather permits. Black
ops at certain altitudes, shot facts. I
or you and I feared pro-humanists w/ covert specialties
riding on the bus — just the tip of the cock.

I also squandered the.. ellipses that add up
and forgot I just stood there with nothing to give
back.

Dirge for D.A. Levy:
Our leaders and propagandists know very well that liberal capitalism is an inegalitarian
regime, unjust, and unacceptable for the vast majority of humanity.

Grandeur is a luxurious quest and metaphysical evil.

We’re the only nation that flies into hurricanes.

Attraction ignites thru deep compatibility,
a nonaristocratic game played for low stakes.

I’m not a prose-poet, this is reportage
and what I think I believe. A good guess is a hypothesis.

A good education leads to the Grand Hotel
above the empty lot cleared by Balthus.

Just call before you go.

de Staël turmoil, a title for the ‘rhetorical’ surface.
Text sections like omissions presorted.
In one omission, we’ll set up a non-profit addendum,
the equivalent of an education cafeteria menu.

Unknown to you, I’ll be chancellor of the swelling enterprise
dividing my feelings like vendettas.

ii.
We can remember when wisdom lay in de Staël turmoil, a title for the ‘rhetorical’ surface where middlemen / women are loathed today. Owning our words makes everything phenomenal.

(Our addendum is in the mouth.)

The French Suites in the mean get lighter, immune to desire & intimacy in the grips of mistaken identity. I’ll lead you to the border. Just call before you go.

Follow instructions.

We got in surrendering our fingerprints

humming to each making a windfall. We

toast anyone else entering first grade


w/in one’s center, letting a fortnight slide.

We meet in this version north of the town offices


shaking tidal vapor thru no wait, no


fewer than ten seconds off the slopes



meaning above the steps coincided with the light



clipped to the powder base patching this thaw



— spirals discharged, wind heats the ground and trees open.

111: Before I turn into another cure of yours, you for my sake, i.e., I assure you a bitter hand or bad toss took away anything too crafty in my nature... I am more receptive to work now and long subdued from harm, at last this far and away. It all goes ah! nothing bitter, I’m your willing patient. Fortunes, manners, means, everything doubly correct is subdued, tho. Pity in that sense our infection, bad deeds, guilt, nothing else — (almost) — the die cast.

In a mean perspective Bartok reached for
the moon. How is that helpful?
With your brand one constant.. you cut the rest off...
remembering you forgot a killer monologue.



Having curtain and staff, you hobble

Away like a name dropper.

Emotions were something else, they don’t belong.

Follow instructions — slippers, noodles make us warm
‘As rouged scholars of what’s next to us’ repair to an adjoining display.

Dear foundationalist,

You’re expelled for a month, next week.. experimenting with yourself..
leaving a sneezing grid with rectangular doors opening to violent sprinkles & irresolution...
..in passing, I would like to see or set up dozens of availabilities to pick up the dissolved thread to ‘our systems metaphysics’ and to pick up that needle of yours & your as it were point.

From here, we drive thru parched hills seen in films.

Another hay fever phase of experiment.

Errant is not mistaken for arbitrary. Form follows structure.
In a way paisley just feels like games.. Nothing for keeps.
2 spiral arrays for time & harmony within a philosophy (moving spatial dimensions)
a few hours forward.

Paisley’s inference, compressed form, a ‘crown’ of contradictions
veer dimensional rhetoric —

Can waving time like a moony branch
supersede nature,

a piece of research asks. Why open
atoms under quivers at the edge to sleep?

First question, true or false. It’s the one I ask myself. Technology keeps humming to a manageable stretch to when you left, even while I ruled you out. Out on the sidewalk you hadn’t left a name, either. And yet, I stood close to you, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. To understand.

Fricative efforts add a bunch of O’s
— language & body mania, aqua ions show their molecules in bulk, imitating an obsessive personality. The rapid strength of bonds between metal & water molecules is their primary dissolution.

What can I declaim? Repeating prose clips transit through a few (of those) loopholes to confront loopholes’ necessities, maybe.

Dear, She lost the election. We can’t know what she’s thinking. It’s crazed.

Keep tact abstract.
Keep it to oneself
Healing a voice split to a pulp, gnawed —
Feeling a salt chill unexpectedly going up the swirling lines
Of humorists, ideologues, ragged modernists, including this one.

Holding to their path, rescuing none.
Yours, & ‘even more in mayhem,’

A true celeb shows us the assassin is uninvolved on every emotional level — even the one one holds oneself and acts on by serving others, one bosses & ‘ritual’ overvalue.

Technology’s refined flux appears noncontroversial.
At sundown my leftist French brain speaks, confined to a balloon:
“If you’re anamorphic, the flux within measures of comprehension too often adopts overheated lingo or low-to-overheated if you like.”

The remaining balloons shrugged to themselves in the embers; not really, they said.

Of all the varied and fabulous pieces by new pianists I wager many are bursting with personae — because of what theyrock to, also because many exuding confidence have gotten past graduate school, the corporation, a breakthru investment in the company.

One of the donor’s places resembles a Marine outpost with sweeps of property edging a subdued headquarters.

122 (ii)

Lament: due to Quicken divorce feels precollege. Adjunct modalities, dear love.

Chafed lips, with you or not, one emphasis is how faculty by nature love to score.
Trust those lasting timetables.

Your poor retention gives me the butterflies and more butterflies chasing more —
as 10 to the 10th more prefer polygamists barnstorming thru
a more ad hoc hemisphere where I can never forget you.

122: The longer I live it’s in front of me, beyond all, your gift within my brain.

There’s a glow in seconds before razed oblivion, fun ..and explosive. Wow.

Or much like staying right in no now. Your love in me.

A chosen life has been abandoned. I’m forgetting about it.
You and I’ll be heading out soon. Moving thru my leftist heart and brain. I won’t be funny or make a stab, score or specify...
We’ll subsist in the new geography.. Again.

We’re in business —
go online.
(Leave us alone.)

We come to the marketplace in ease, partial self enhancement.
When we wake up I’ve moved to your city. Ka-cha!
I owe you so far for not murdering me O hand,

I’ll calm down, we’re almost rich and supposed to destroy ideas ..
I have to underestimate furthering research,
Solving the perfection problem, but not remorse.

Next, different morning odors, coffee, other pots, taste sets, sweet to complex, some devolving into a brawling randomness.. ..can’t make it out, call it leftovers, a Caramel Apple Ranch Cobbler fabricked in aromas of surfboard variations .. ..

A poem is..
Does it matter a few minutes ago I learnt to write, if not well,
To tap on the keys and wander out above our welcome in a retrospective..

Again there’s no title because nowhere
Are my thoughts so hidden in use.

It’s a contraption. But that’s good.

It’s about time for the moody and unexpected.

We mosey back to right about where we want clarity about motives.

We’re in no hurry.
Snow and sun? We’re expecting something.
Ice or melt go missing.

The reader note went on, One afternoon while napping one poured over a confusional book. We are at the dawn of epistemology raising consciousness one can’t get from study alone. It continued, the mood wobbles. It does. It vibrates. But nothing’s lost. It’s about time.

We have 9 pm poems and 4 am. Kind of noticed?
I’m keeping tabs on it like a Javanese statistician.
When information is relevant to sanctioned policy, communication goes private, all decisions should be centralized within a single metaphor for the most caffeine.

Sonnet 94:

If I had had the foreground I’d have subsided in attrition as it were,
I’d have 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 moving into our very own subjectivities
that we can’t pinpoint or supplicate, my lord, my husband...

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

I want to remarry in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?
Marriage makes me horror-struck either way —
Aghast in wake of our previous melancholy.

I owe a debt to Christmas.
Blindfolded angels of thinking in the past —
All mute waving back


Protecting us from our known predicates,


Taking on more substantial pain, taking more onboard, putting them


In mind of us affiliates, at last.

Greyhound hurling on seesaw feels fine,
Any footage balances when pushed, so it’s
Not so entertaining or serene. A maelstrom lights
Up the foreground, no questions asked.
Pit Bull sits tangled in tree w/leash & kites.
Corgi spinning in washing machine, a hairy fox.

55: As living record a period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity — nor can we outlive this, against death, advancing slowly.
Not marble nor rhyme so move. Dropping the nor verb mood... the fun workout once was of a soul, a tone cucumber if I were a colorist in Lyon.
So why am I dwelling on posterity like a warrior groom?
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than all the wealth coming into the poem...

You and I lived in this prospect — oblivious, uninvited, I brought guests — death and memory, statues overturned. I...

Even in death’s eyes, we find quick fire for wearing out memory’s velocity — ask (or shall I ask) shall I?

Nor is posterity at rest.

Why do varsity wear outfits that tame their tribute?
This café helps me keep that question from getting lost.

Reminding me of just where I was writing.


Finish a stretch, lines get confused. Fuse the way they

Continue. / I did have
A tattoo for a purpose, sure. You can promote your event.


Mine or ours?
Who? About why? And what was that about?

In the background: you hear the sizzle to rock climbing in mist, pointing to autosuggestion welling up from your placing bets, since you bring humor to the relationship. The climb is all pantomime about our ties looking wild in the frieze.

(I wagered my face the minute I handed it to you.)

To a nudist,
It’s contradictory to insist on any spoils from letting ourselves go ... over that money issue. I had a piece in there as well. My prose seemed resonant with your “rainwear fetish,” which I almost forgot I shared. (But not with you.)

It’s come to our attention a proposition processes science or it does not.
It was amazing to meet you and your idea.


It was amazing to meet your funky penumbra, to be influenced by street life needlepoint 
and other class resentments.


 
I was amazed to communicate with inky musculature evoking nighttime.


 
Oceans then deserts.


 
I can’t stop. It’s my job.

Not dying is not not wanting to die, a unique semantic potential assigned an inventory.

There’s señor that needs you. He has no interest in poetry... I wonder if that’s true — His thoughts knitted together like mica piling up, shouts ricocheting through a voicetrack from the underbrush holding our breath, bounced, kicked and gloved by catalysts.

We were wondering about the invention of petty planets, sympathizing
With a numbers guy who is also the maître d’.
Often there’s a husky and determinative tenor to sing that section.
Swimming to there if you think about it uproots our own sun’s bright series — a disbursement of planets once exalted and stiffened into tantalizing cosmic parody..

An icon within a cemetery could be
Ambition or love?
Who dealt this mess?

Rant:
If I hand it back — it’s about letting you go bold,
taking cannibalism out of context,
giving you back your Sprite.

Let’s drink to downsized colors
off atmospheres of displeasure
then falling back, breathing while your
rescuers get authenticated.
“Great I’ll hold...”
2 out of 2 observers were cut off. Pretty please on wet
highways, casually substituted.

And during the break they reached an agreement.

It’s forbidden to talk now. It could be another’s
call, since poetry never acts against self interest.
Claymation teeth marks v. a gorgeous intent.

A sparrow close by, a dedicated follower, packing a double voice range, love trouble, last blinded by Alfred Brendel:

Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions

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

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

Pierre Bourdieu threw a projectile that applies this new year while the top donor ‘families’ are in control — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of capital distribution are stopgaps like assembled heterodoxology while subdominant esthetic fields balloon and get consumed by baggier ideas.”

Speaking of baggage as distraction, Bourdieu got home to his Cajun kitchen and added, “We gain as much knowledge from our shortcomings as insights.”

The shortcoming between having things to say back then, only a few years ago — and now — Republicans circling the wagons while checks and balances are nasally inspissated thru fear.

To break this down, I’m always explaining the place where I work.
Gateau what’s his name is done (i.e., delivered) in a tangle of foxglove as you and I de-meadow.

A company like ours takes it into the physics facility.
We’re in the flat present tense, account outlines in simultaneous perceptions —
Reciting new slang exponents, since we have no major gay issues,
Making wave sounds while we scout flyweights in a recursive landscape.

Crime: The big picture shows me my modest place.
I’m technically adept dining in (or out).

From childhood, a few took umbrage from grumpy distortion,
fractured logic (Hex 39) and their own morbidity. While you party —

You picked up the check. That enlightened instant swells, we’re looting prestige,
the nether handle to misapplied figures, images,
exactly what the cradle requests; the place rocks.

Blimey. (There’s a new policy to block deletions.)
I’m sipping Tropicana on curiosity’s behalf,
It’s close to a curio.. writing in sheer Lucida Sans
All the time, staggering!
Tomorrow a friendly caveat for the melder up there,
Pal,
your ‘work-arounds’ bully sarcasm to un-wit ways and means to spiraling.

“My regrets,” switching phones.

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

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

The guys with magic marker eyes who paid for this were enamored of throwing off articulate signatures —
But everything was your idea
reaching back where it whirrs & now sings..

Dante nibbled, in mumbled tones... under a huge, ampersand-shade of grace.
There was a terrific wine list — and that made for light
cocktail perfusions. He had at strangers shedding their catwalk ambiguity.

And we’re moving back to then, minus grace, wearing raiment emotions, passing drinks around —
The current is baroque, making up the news with — and about — excess freedoms of democracy.

Here’s another invidious comparison. Confucian poetry, unlike most of ours, deliberately chooses lexical anchors that can be rapidly translated to other languages (and cultures). This appears limiting since the deliberation is a constraint, for most of us. Nonetheless, the strategy presumes no hip readership needed to follow the broadly universal meanings. (Historically the cool or hip presumption behind a specifically cultural trope is encapsulated by the universal — coolness segregated within the hegemonic radius over the long run, clocking in with a short (2, 1, close to minus and counting) shelf life for the art product and reception over time. The surface warrant to the comparison, perhaps: Overspecification evolves into ‘period’ quaintness.

Back in the day when the fair-minded had complex appetites,
when pragma-morphism brainstormed about innocence

— in the larger context there was no recidivism to retro fashion.
A song about innocence was a meta proposition.

1/2 a crumpet
charges the batch. No I’m kidding.

The cuisine and silver service you’re acquiring fakes you out big time —
large stairwells mesh yet go nowhere —
between you and expulsion, a gaping hole. A ‘nervous’ tic.

— one enzyme waking up quite agitated, it seems
slinky. I watched it and it spayed you.

Kites: pinky juicy crisp
Space parlance —

The language predates motto handicraft and canned vibration
Slithery, waxed down toward our bumbled abstentions.

Life is better, a few times
Looking broke with pencil marks across gessoed

Pearls — trance police, a hex video
On top various un-invented heights.

Po st-cogency, you still doing that? That’s what’s oblong about sadness,
the real overhead. Lost time, money. A sky of ice cubes for what party in sleep? I'll take sherry Pepsi. And just the sardines.
The cat owner in me is unknown to me,
permeates me. Consequences...

Lost time is sawed off and doing better.

Weight loss by design. Classification = evolutionary collisions =
Their work multiplied by adapted preferences in a prejudicial vapor.
You think transparent rhetoric all-purpose, all calm, never resolved,
Because you’re only one sailor, one swab

In a climate of drumming opinions and best practices —
Your bacchanalia talked up while slotted in —

Sailor tattooed with an addiction to visceral consequence — swab
Reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, sailor.

In vain a head transplant brings on the knowledge affect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower.

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

At Maybelline you wear wet marks under your shirt — there you go — sent,
Slotted for long scream divisions raising heads and
Lines of argument stampede out bourn in heartbeats .. bright debate
Drawing boundaries along dark areas of youthful propaganda. And ..
.. owing to your interest, this won’t constitute a date.
Or only one of many as noted by spreading the plan.

My winning Lotto ticket.

The carbon steel of all day dimmed
Second after blasted second.
If you don’t look directly my way, into my face —
I can’t give it to you

Hooray.. There’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. Here’s the last place you look. Stay with me. This is the islet I was going to take you to; it lifts, lukewarm, tender. Splash, preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.

I might happily have lived in another state
Standing in neoplatonic darkness. A white bike
To follow any path out /

/ still I have a green thumb trying to cover
Dabs of marine titanium that oscillate
Blurring my root views for up to an hour —

Inky smoke releasing a genocidal collage of screens, like
Thinking in waves easily agitated, reproached, disappeared
In drumming opinions and worst practices —

So that services requested go off the board.
A white bike, please.

Really, we get down to petroleum
In a bucket? Filled with cash bags! I can see some pulleys ..

A smoking outline that subdues us
edging our blond manes that distract scoutmasters.

Everyone has to wipe off while, boo, you’re impersonating a folk guitarist I outgrew,

So now you want to spend it all while you can,
floating to eke out an ornate living
In a snow globe, thankful for one small chest-hair.
And there I’ll leave it top of the scout manual ..

I cannot stress enough
we’re suspicious of wormholes, tho

I get off my resonance to give joy.
The boat’s cortex held out. Together.

For what party in sleep?

Erasing the storied narrative,
Baseline coherence that were normal, believable

Then that,

Waking up, hay-feverish, stuffed-up spirit
Standing far off across
Yours, just considering you

In the era or epoch of fake announcement..
That’s what I would be making — if I were to talk to you
Even a mote so that waking can go away

To keep from you forever
Nothing, seen forever.

34: I have a base 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 worked out 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. I have your brave face but it’s shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.

We met at a fashion party, Homeric possibilities in extremes.
A couple of days reveling in delirium, haunting. Breaking the ice when it dawned on me
That driveway could be the fucking beachhead steaming for real, along with amalgamated events summarized best, perhaps, in this question I’ve been asking myself?

Been reading about accelerating destruction in the Amazon. A chunk the size of Rhode Island burns down each year. This buckaroo practice results in rich farmland that’s productive for about four or five years. After that, the soil turns into dust and sand.
Carports for the farmers, then, are an interim step. Dust when it rains becomes haze and steam the color of moist bubble-like illusion.

There’s nothing linear going on. Everyone knows that.
Unless you want to.

52: I’m in lock-up because of you.

Therefore you and I are both the scorekeepers. Ours.

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

Until then, being had was worth it as it were

Like euphoria, an instant in doubt hiding finer points.
Speaking of solemn upper-lower class triumph and treasure,
We find others also keep to the survey, chest to chest, mine to yours.

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


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

This is my deciding moment. As a consequence doors open. I’m auto-electrocuted.

And that’s good, because I snuck across the catalysts. (It’s what I’m good at, wearing pajamas as weapons.)
My plan thus converts meantime. So you detect I’m pretending to be a spontaneous asshole, intimidating death.

Can we straddle the divide between convention, unattenuated sense-making & sorting through out-of-brainier experiment?
Every Harvey Keitel film substantiates you may have a gun, you could be reaching to get a gun, or you could just be, in essence, fronting.

My boss sucks.
That’s because she has to. Some job titles are, as the expression goes, anathemas. Disquiet raising the roof. Boss, leader, principal, chair, honcho, prexy, director, officer in charge, master chef, head of the shift, muse. What does it take to earn and maintain these titles? Ideology.

Casting spells. Constantly interviewing me as I do with every other employee, affiliate, colleague, member, collaborator, associate sans souci. Muse first!

Perfect color is an egg-hatching moment, kairos, and from there we can move forward back to detect undertones that encompass our naïve expertise.

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

Switching phones, I look up to the crazy dental intern waiting to take me out.
Silence is oversexed-enormous but I practice it.

I’m sick of guy’s things.

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

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

The prospect ices.

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

Encore... A poem is a picture. Have a Shrek glass of water after sunset, a big help defining bird properties degrading, shaken to a brink ..oops.. It’s a picture like hydrangea in labor (staging nightmares) ..in this one I’m emotionally shot with depth as a thespian-rapper rounding off contrasting demands of flimsy seriality and sequence. We never meet on a Ferris wheel.

Clouds are in slacks by the fridge.

Eden. It’s drizzling in one panel. I’m a folk musician brokering low interest loans. I talk thus in a low register. To effect a good commission my face sports two layers of sleep relief. In one direction the focus is lost. I grow accustomed, so to speak. In the other I’ll let the snakes speak with English subtitles. Assembly required.

Song: If every frontal-ist were interrupted, we’d never get back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

118: Kissing is poison. It makes appetites cloying. It’s bad for you but I wasn’t. Then came anticipating imitation .. goodness, a sort of I-actually-miss-you .. Diseased, sick of you kissing where you are so blatantly filled with my anticipating your love spreading everywhere completely negating its purpose — needing starlight at the edge of freakonomics in a Flemish-like world, a healthful state of illuminating my bitter departure from what is present in our original experience. Even so, actually thanks.

We need a clearer message. There is nothing swift
in discretion. West winds in grasses previously made us sick.

The flower’s name is hooded.

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

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

Time’s up.

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

Over & over. This again.

Where’s the doctorate for driving off
in getaway hybrids?

It could be that lunatic yarn to move your thought around
modulating what the self comprises, a prime membership,
renewable once according to replicas. While ..
I’m neutral re: driving recklessly, sequences w/out words —
both types of daring and highway protection w/ outreach.

They say med school if you ever go is mostly laid out.
That means you partake in indecision (ever cool).

Truncation covers about half of winners and victims in crossfire. How you answer — anything you come up with will stomach fair use doctrine — what the young play by, but the next resurgence is an elaborate gerrymander where ambiguity vanishes for a seeming long time.
History is old as mutt.

As the past tense broke, mutts of infancy regenerated, feeling there’re future ticket holders rising to the occasion with pretty good probabilities, because they won at the beginning.

Song: This isn’t a black or white issue.
Someday I will have a pomegranate thermostat.
It won’t be torture unless it causes organ failure.
I still think in porn titles.

It looks generic, anywhere.

Paradoxical tissue is still not perfect, having that living unlocked, scrunched for breakfast body purity up to a point.
Conversely it dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for consensus over these flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions.

They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole sector before repro-ed onward..

offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.

I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Resentment buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous,
drumbeats through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right, clinging to my male sexuality

without a theory of purpose or the gift of agency to promote my case, as masking vanity becomes a fund raiser’s challenge.

Fizzy yet salient points soak into the beach hanging out for the escape clause (always the last place you look)!

There are no thresholds as if

monkish materiality does not exist. There are
appearances, such as a vantage baseline holding apple trees’ leafy
incentives.

To be chaste is on the house.

In the States yoga is really charming..

First done wrong, quaint, then drenched though slackened
— Janus was proud to sponsor Janus.
Book-worthy twists. Cross brandings. Contracts.

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

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

Our music brokerage remains in aerospace

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

The more he says it the pushier he gets.

Favorite restraint = get it done / don’t talk to me.
I wouldn’t say “favorite.”

Bliss. We were looking it up.
A battle between two distinctions
among few rules bringing up few others,
times no more of those brain-states from Asia.

A marsh is now interesting
(as well as vitae) for the sea. For the eye, nothing but applesauce then shellac
the sea brought in without consent, leader of the pack of rule breakers.

It’s impossible to separate understatement from performance; both are adolescent in a good sense, pitch. So that’s how cave and landscape can be felt. Next, a cool minimal database advanced to burn out your swing — try living on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent.

The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity or trance. What matters is how to find and / or emplace each close to noble attempt to be you.

I bet in the future we have no mail from the here
and now. We’ll be on site.

I was game for coming back, a cult classic
giving less weight to fantasy —
less to breathy folk components,
listening and showing we both are here, one part
synergetic

another I guess is where we part ways.

Holy shit.

Bye, Weltliteratur...
At least I have my rectitude and pancake mixes...

To Caspar,

Simple imagery and endowment like yours in the twenty-first century are glazed over fast.
So you get it now, assigning you to our planet to feel cathartic
is dimensionally impossible. You’re dull, slow. Rather uneducated.
Shine and global velocity are notarized now for all the living!
The best sap is flowing top speed.

We got a grip on.
Times are an outrage. Good times, bad, treason’s treason.
We’re tracking themes thru anxiety —
for prejudice damn well plays a formalist bias,
a tradition of selfishness I’m loosely not interested in.

Tax breaks for the wealthiest keep it humming.
Due process is to look, also

(we note now at the end to physics-oblivion)
to be seen.

Everything I note here is integrated, resonating
within symbolic thought that’s both magnified and askew.

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

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

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

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

At some tiny level there’s spontaneous disintegration of what’s on my mind until I find myself in a “half-life” where speech still matters.
By way of a PS on bohemians, Schuyler (ravaged of course) was more of one than Ginsberg, unravaged. And Brainard (ravaged then unravaged and then ravaged) was a big boho. Auden? Think so. Jim Brodey, a boho. Less narrowly, Harry Matthews.

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

To protect yourself from a wrong-headed (naïve) build-up and still call your portrait “transactional,” limit data to phenomena that are easily observed and stick with expedient production from self-contrived ideology and history.

The skinny review from last night avoids defining any parts obscure or complex.
Yet I admire a text assemblage of contradictions. Neander
-thals constructed runes in two rings of deliberately broken stalagmites, 400 per ring.

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

Song:
Let fish cool before kissing.
Discover why fish have made Puntacana Resort their 2nd home.

10 unique destinies sharing an ideal spanning decades, elegance without pretense, embracing and enhancing fish.

A chance to remember for a moment a fish held with the lamp switched off.

A little.

Life is death if you don’t have a little fish now and then.

Like that exotic-looking new fish who showed up at class one day, Ed, a reader-responder, a bit of a dichotomy wrapped in newspaper. Ed dressed in black. Thinking it legal, he wrote once upon a fish.

Because I’m a particle animal I can do it all day.
Rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl
A sparkle to figure life altogether, no vision...
There is tho nothing like no despair.

So shall we live.

Physicality on the ground dwells in our thoughts even as
Ghosts roam with panicked ants. You can throw them out. It’s like a dance to respect what we were doing — we were working on it.

There’s body hustle, along with rips in the cargo of space~time where your thoughts burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth from sweet love, accompanied by addiction to risk.

Come here often?

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

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


yet whose estheticism enlarges.


Diagnosis is a mystery.

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

No such experience predictable for a pay grade gaining access to weather bombs in a manifold vacuum. Algorithms

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

Algorithms are vicarious. Is there a tear trumpet? We thought no way, no ultimatums to rephrase, immoral aspirations — nothing but work slathered with work!

Riddle: Struggling between comparative and (purely) descriptive vulnerability to vie for solitude, taking your hand to suspend my paradigm... I killed for you. Why’d you bother (“looked pretty close” — )?

I am a smoker :

I blow black smoke in your eyes when you want.

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

The way you move for me tonight is a fair shake at fame.

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

Avoidance with a message sounds handsome, calm, also nervous. In the same robot call he reverses prerogatives, tha is, the voice does. I’ll table the difference — a mixed result but with swift powers that have never been better aligned. I’m altogether devoted to the happiness of the robot and others in the call center. It gives me focus, serves as my hideout, while I search for a motive, learning the ropes.

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

I know this sounds lame — you and I annulled our thingness with a few hand-waves and it felt major, the way I inspired your open, emotional austerity, rubbing eye cream in, admiring buzzwords but no ideas. No fins of infinity. Nope. You and I have no controlling issues!

Targeting methods
To appear transparent
After a button is pushed
— I’ve heard that scream.

Kittens 1st

— you translators are a close second.

The end divvies up the ethnic accordion out of haze, round wedges shooting blanks!
A brick housewarming and your point?
You appear ordinary. This is about barricades and perhaps something else.

Horizons w/ no rooms.

Sculpture:

The ‘universal’ that is so un-square and new and obvious in Joan Miró is less so

here — here is 21st century America. (I’m just making up excuses.)

For design resolution toward

— unless you already live there, take roads by a shore in bad translation
blues, stock blacks pitched through numbers-to-be, numbers in conceptual realism, contradicting formal transport to where you thought.

My statement is enclosed.
I’ve highlighted failures in the Xbox where you select the sorrow you have, reaching outside, tall, athletic-like aromas.

Speaking of like, make your counter statement gripping in a raining birdscape.

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

Soon we relaxed our balance to parry sums (or perhaps more than sums) that once seemed clear enough, but not now, here we are...

like two radical vapors, untitled moods.

Yes chaos no.
Yes. Tomorrow can mete out facts to impel comfortable indeterminacy —
as if we could rush ourselves thru election to our next decimal of the property.

When it comes to half-dog leitmotifs
no manners of men pick up during voter fraud registration.

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

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


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

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


Last night or the last few nights taking the wrong bus.
Dropped off in a maze.
‘No normal’ locals with misleading directions for the way out.

One rooming house. Inside, every room named canonically after a poetics. Defence of Rhyme, Habits of Empire, Preface to Sordello, Being and E-vent, Thick Field, Prepositions, Camera Lucida … the kitchen Untitled.

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

Sonnet 120:

En route to password assistance, astronomical infinitesimal amounts are rounded off as unsolved,
unkind problems, compelling work that front-load knowledge construction — like your
finding a bowl of light to explain & reform a ransom bow of times-spaces. 
 
Sure or no, my deepest sense certainly. Nerves of steel. 
Yes, attempts to throw your voice are dumb & of a special force   
 
— I suffered in the same crime — 
From the unknown risks. As first-time infringers we don’t mushroom,  
Ignored. But we seem hellbent when two or more reach assistance,  
So we need oversight. 

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

That was the life of the party speaking. Highly attentive,
morally camouflaged. A gun is fired.

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

I threw together more self portraits today.

Some have kind eyeholes,
a measure of gamblers’ intelligence, along w/ the eyes
of course, pieces of the foreground puzzle

in the background — and to sweeten the brew (attention)
young bodies keep replacing bets on everything.

My position is rebirth roughs it, because it’s not safe to lounge at home without saying oh, wait it’s been done ..

I refuse if I don’t want to ...

My position is to add design to physical combat.

I’m spry in my motives while the open field fills with sumo shapes fighting the relative fight to operate on one another.

73: One who will die isn’t perverse; it’s that time of year it must expire.
I’m leaving disjunction behind. T o work with you (the plan) is one way to avoid subjectivity tho over here there are yellow leaves that shake against the cold ashes of youth, nourished by seeming content, consumed with what must expire.

Content is a nominal fallacy like twilight each day. I understand I don’t understand the glowing of such fire, where the sweet birds sing, sang, etc. 

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

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

Massively cool but no gracias. This is tomorrow.

Rescinding our directive, we constitute the Non-
Group taking part in I-hate-new-calculus speech acts ..

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

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

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

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

12: This is a fugue in your name
talk talk future talk..

We do not count the clock telling time
..we’re spry in our motives, underhanded
getting back to catch the slapdash in how it works.

You may have noticed we’re behind open doors, past

abhorring a vacuum when it doesn’t matter —
vibrato and sunlight close their distance.
The wastes of time are subject to change
— never saw them coming, old and new to some usual ends
but not here — we’re braving talk of your beauty telling the future..

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

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

That said, show’s over. You go ahead.

A ruse can be your generic object that looks transparent, emerging as sleep.
So you’re still in danger within the same maize corridors

— How do bricks
hang through the duration? (How is the easy-hard part.)
Ruses write themselves.

The one state is jaw dropping, turning away from independent public scrutiny.
The argument, from a Darwinian datum, eye contact reinforces civility that lowers game energy controlling sciences coming up with goon armor.
Today’s game harnesses breathless slurs to insert alterations within argument’s force and structure, redoubled in ear bending silence.

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

Scruples? It’s advantageous to poetry in English being excommunicated
as we’re British by nature; more, it’s not in our nature to boast. Fortunately, we don’t have to.
We’re British.
*
Then King James proved some others saw an arrow has feathers, flying as it works the crowd.

Later something came up. The fuzz of taking on a set matter ..

Each distraction raising uncomfortable indeterminacy.

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

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 scent of wood. So there’s nothing to resent.

How does it resume?

You have kind eyeholes.

Voice operated judgments — Two very different outcomes will equally square —

I could think about a tight fragrance, watching my breath. But let’s try it again with no commas between the whereness of the tongue receding on the palate.
One, two. Together, our inside voices take a few bites then punch it out waving not perfunctorily, no toe moves, no steps at all — freaky in bed we’re testifying for tangled waves of standard-bearers. Waves and something else.

Zephyros, a sex addict shoots thru the property’s high impact surfaces, speeding in cones rejoined with strings of baleful, tempered banality, burning talent with a see-thru suspension over the ozone.

My position is reincarnation roughs it, because it’s not safe to lounge at home without saying oh, wait it’s been done ..

I refuse if I don’t want to ...

My position is to add design to physical combat.

I’m spry in my motives while the open field fills with sumo shapes fighting the relative fight to operate on one another.

The quartet could be on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part doodle / part disassociation
as a voiceover to operate humanely,
stacking ideas like alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.

You seem spacey in snow

When you make angels.

Hiding for two hours snowing



Against the snow you’re really spaced out...

It was great being with you.

Or was it just me?
Like manners of ambiguity?
To buy her lipstick.

Sing:

“Stages of violence yearn for a whereabouts.
Conditions look dispersed — beeping you (did I?),
not out of calculation; it began how far vast

signals liberate you to oppose facts,” you sing.
Or writing et al. change.
A frayed honeymoon was a pleasure, felt normative.
Pleasure gets exaggerated but there are three pleasure substitutes. Here’s one, an itch to borrow sentences to raise one’s consciousness.

Another is coming up with filaments like attrition of affects = eyesore.

Third, after a honeymoon deflections accrue.

Lake Drastic.
*
On second thought I am gay.

I touched it and it rayed me.
3-in-1 (the herd rushed but not to the rescue) ..there’s a deadline, a tumble of conventions, an ambush

— a boring excitement nuances the innocents —

Yes, you sick intern — gallery bobbing,
Learning how to learn are cool (& fatuous), else officialdom won’t count
when we begin stepping out.

We have to trust you on these matters. One apiece

                                                            to the tenth.

Post-Film-Vinyl Stairwell Math

                                                            Express

everything.

From time to time snow


sees its bodyweight in snow,

a liter of snow pounds sticking to her diet —

Snow packing new snows bound thronged into blue purple columns..

moving like a herd and suddenly forcing exposures within

creeping fast, loosening and nettling snows to toss and flake

overboard, self-torquing until each part drowns ahead of snow
as quadrapeds pace on fresh snow.


Straddling an hour snowing, flapping in snow

now into cold slush and melted snow,

clouds connecting to wet hooves in snow.
The cicadas are in their rooms.

For all appearances nothing lurid is due at signing
It’s privileged out there..

I was saying endless tunnels, gadgets, after effect impulses — Come,
join us here as Jerusalem waits.

Here are my fingers dealing an immersive element, some of it; it’s on cleats
in an infinite series as the glow that’s breathing and regular

— maybe 18,000 years ago

Next time I live in the swansdown of DNA. I’ll be comically dead — married and twice committed to a duplicate database — a seamless reiteration of Mr Picklepants with a flat floppy build. He determines forests and wilderness and my movement and behavior, charming, polished, emotionally shot with depth as a thespian-prole rounding off elaborately flimsy seriality and sequence.

Some had swing,
You saw that? Haphazardly

the scandal passed, hardly worth the coverage,
otherwise excellent.
Newly a couple, we got back into the van.
May we trespass? It seems relevant
if her jaw trembled.

You need to review hedonism before it’s retouched ...
& there’s nothing wrong with my commitment. I am massively committed. In national interviews, if I have to give others the finger, even faction members, I’m committed. They get it. You’re the problem.

Don’t argue with the shipment.

Friendship is a job (like sloganeering) and, more elevated, craft (sign). To illustrate, job is to craft as practica to theory or open animosity (a sign). Free speech is cool for sure and I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend. What’s it? There’s no work-around to the observer influencing the observed except later — for now rolling in multi-era fears and heroic fields — much later.

Mind and body worship is vicarious before conforming to system leaks.
I’m too ugly to be molested. It’s true.

I kissed a cat. Once.

Once out of what? out of dying belief
I wrote on otherness when down (“I’ve stopped looking”) otherness came.

A sober-garish run on sentence about beach sculpture
Lay before my head cold rumbling..

My body in the language of dunes
— soba colors with melons and blues.

I’m sorry for shoddy reasoning and growth. Sorry as pieces


Of aqua and orange foam and plexiglas. A sober-garish run on sentence about beach sculpture
Lay before my head cold rumbling..

My body in the language of dunes
— soba colors with melons and blues.

I’m sorry for shoddy reasoning and growth. Sorry as pieces


Of aqua and orange foam and plexiglas.

Male muses

— the vulnerable and maligned muses were not held enough as children on a moonscape of beaks. Ever notice? Certainly I wasn't. Now I have to make excuses for friends of mine buried below their own animation with no heirs. They’re donning synthetics, and only half familiar, and just too intense, plundering the transport of their ambience.

And I was musing, simple stuff picking up a pen.

Blue Apron poem.

For fast delivery: A tormented lab mix of appliance and beast, user-taxed slabs of pork tortilla, melon and sausage sorbet on a woodenesque platter, all wrapped up for you to tear open, putting me in mind of a future photo realism, a live feed from the Fed Ex of poetics. Yes.
It’s tricky coming up with good examples of authored conceptual poetics.

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

How the fuck could we let this happen?

Broken, giddy up, dead.
Today I face thunder — how to pay homage...
Bouncy.. apocalypse..
My instinct when asked is to inch back
To the moody raw nation jettisoning any
Civil use of half-soothing words
On top various uninvented heights,
The same heights outward
Of looking into what we broke.

Open the mic. Didn’t I tell you?
Squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one off color
Of a deceptive simplicity
in love as well as pride, duplicity.

Thing is, a boyfriend keeps faith
better than others, believing neither.

Separated from a source of meditation, let’s call it, you’d be sad.
The source is not sad. One separated from the source is.

Or it is obvious.
Sadness is not itself...

Playing with tonalities, how funny you are..
There are chords you kept inside.
Between description, silence, a periphery.

There’s no description I can give,

No way to rhyme turning away, hiding on the loose.

Chords have their way in the air wondering how high an apartment we can get.

We repeat there are rules to doing morning:
Sleep in without a stratagem,
Coax hues backward.

How can anybody care modernism, a despoiled inheritance for poetry, beguiled, diverted, is flatly unlike architecture’s connections to the past. Apparently tomorrow is more appealing even if we know where architecture takes us. Poetry?

You’re a world-famous trance inducer. That’s it.

I like it.
Clymnestra’s seen things in Europe. European things. Sophisticated things. Things of the world. And things beyond. Beyond beyond.

Thing is, tho, I got this idea for a Henry IV one-pager. Understand, I need time to develop it.

Come into my poem, and we’ll make the time. We’ll get a plagiarist from a little ivy, spin your look doggy hip, inject you with queer theory, you’ll be composing down on your knees, fizzy.

It’s all happening in Henry’s head?
So we need just one poet! You, you tracer ... Am I crazy?
No. That actually clears up free verse for me.

This is one way to point.

I live next to a place with water views. I continue feeling deprived sometimes.
But ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home, high tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for anyone’s look-see, another beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!