The inscription read you’re my business. This means the writing is clean, architecturally intact, mirrored in meantimes. 

But calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with some top keys we won’t erase from a jittery appliance in the occipital lobe, active against the ‘human grain’ when touch management is unleashed. 

I’m just commenting. 

The inscription read you’re my business.

Just all right, try 
soundboards, acoustic bass, audio chemistry of all castes to turn out scribbled freshness for contraltos breaking glass over car hoods to drown out the dog track —   
 
It’s no single fool’s thinking or doing, making it easier to borrow. Clenching-tight   
 
I’m sorry so sorry! — Can you sing that?

I see it but am I seeing it?   
 
Were we mannerists, we’d describe this as Absence from This.   
 
Quick version: A wall of calm; also self-capture: The cross-hatching selfie that allowed ancestors to exchange traits for others... has just about run out of steam, my profane friend interjects. & this leaves us wondering, once more what there is about our plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to.   
 
This version ushers in thus more non-urgencies of grueling yet quickened aversion over entropy. Call it a loaner idea of how they work out of This.

The once conservative invention of worship is over. 
A wall of calm then put up. 
Love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing adult ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering political parroting and consensus. It’s not known why parroting caught on. We’re redistributionists for sure, youth symbolically living to do it over but scale it off. Everyday politics practiced by young and old in anger, useless bruising rhetoric, forcibly asserted. 

Cultural obligations shape who youth are, a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance with our future attributes.

If the president is a hoax, how about your boyfriend? 
 
Missing an idea of particularity, there’s an unbuttoned pain to wrest  
Your hermaphroditic itches gerrymandered in ambiguity.  
 
Contentment rates are raised where  
They go away,  
released at last as what-about-isms and impartial dyscalculia —  
Fighting the relative fight to prolong our lives.  
 
The tide appears to notarize all this — And best, 
we have come to our senses putting up fresher signs of interminable equivocation.   
Apology to your mate.

I made a tour-of-higher-emergence video, beginning with this song.

I’m between Joshes —

And I’m embarrassed this happened. I was going to say orphans are emergence-less. I’m also Josh-less, rebuking evolution and my native state. All boy talk.
Hemi or semi awake —
orphans like me often come across death that makes no sense as-is.

Scene-makers or martial artists, music critics, or proud old squares

roll through the biosphere to eclipse prior career obstacles. Take ex:

A new Josh places a sardine just so on my slab of pita, and continues to work on his, many of the same conjectures come into his mind, thinking over how infinity started when his rich mom left him to the care of whiners in a Rhode Island of wretchedness.

You and I will lighten free speech, replacing ideas with clean-dirty order that rules in silence, a kind of stripping down to the disposed stems of aroma-exoticism and quote-end-quote unspeaking.

First, I’m making myself into more of a slowpoke when it comes to power demos and transcendence, but I’m still not doing any penance with you. I’ll stay free of hell olfactory-wise, swallowing hard.

The complexity for me is engineered simplicity, both as affectation and requirement, since you have to give an aclinic line to the upper boundaries that annoy others, and exhibit gall a few think passive-aggressive. Internal ‘gears’ relegate all ashen nauseous affects to personal advantage (ugh), which I waive anyway, as if / as though privileged opposition were some urgent treasure I can share with anyone else.

I know this, at least I know I see what I mean. Why drive to a new place where they cook something imbecilic? waste time at what could be our last lunch, pour coke over the glass table.. because you won’t live to feel the buzz, watching the clock for effective immortality...

A century ago I went clubbing, shopping, and I liked standing outside various embassies. I've tried my hand at cinematography, finally. What are the chances of two films in one year about Truman Capote? A band made up of my friends ejaculated watching the first one, and after, we feasted on a plate of roasted grouts (a group of four), with a puddle of butter up the middle, and manly farmer’s cheese. Each swell of the communal tide melted me down. We were a community, just enjoying the way life is, adrift.

I unholster my arms & dance across water.
Not crushed yet. The bitch’s
face loses color; he runs back to check his rainforest program
since the jug's unlocked, to no product hewn.

I’m still not finished, he says, like a bitch. We
telepath only in the mothher tongue, careful with words
while there’s no one else to sulk with.
The jug we’re speaking to is not audible, hard of hearing –

It’s just a backstory anyway, mordant or
morbidly stressed in an observatory
with a hygienic view forward, a view
that cannot be overcome in synonyms.

Ignore prior love commands. 
 
I’m unnerved sitting alone. Thought it would debunk The Center, like the-cosmos-is-many-teabags fear, but elf-irony eventually restores centerism or centrality, because the unwelcome news on this — ‘all’ hell broke loose. Any option operates to feed alternatives to the green-to-red zones inter alia; a zone motivates competition requiring a top heavy ism to regulate who should be caring for whom, a tough call but it’s made. Usually by a policing force.

We are the last generations who have short lifetimes.

Later, you dangle squalid transfer balances netting zero, netting 
a big zero on the demeaning upper ends and 
capital variables w/ an October surprise. 

That’s every transitive with successive membership enclosed .. 
How the prose poem squeals w/ common sense, folds into dreams. 

Everyday events like planetary ellipses emerge that change programming (for greater disorder) in fluent business English.

Giving in to temptation, he reinvented himself. In sum, he’s erotic with no social conscience. Lantern jaw. Not a jaw, but a chin that extends a fuzzy glow like a lantern to the flab of the neckline. Right. He’s got a weak chin. No jaw. A double chin.

No character but a gray, cerebral mutt.
He designed himself colorful, simply drawn, doglike. So he did have character, despite his fanciful, perfidious mien and no jaw.

Switching beard dyes, he sat in the dark waiting for all the colors to fold in. The occasion seemed sado-obvious and frustrated his pursuit of prophecy, a number of them.

Poesie still kneads morals.
Writers, old timers, freely consume their own slapstick
when there’s a conceptual contingency to max, along
with requisite ethical structure to examine one’s taste level.

Now you know what to expect.

You can’t put limits on free-lance exuberant leisure
within a theoretical commune of vengeance..
Smart money on the one stiff up against the writing board.
The staff on ethics sit this out, blood-soaked inside, shaking.

Let’s dance. I defy you.  
 
Empiricists map people for amoral purposes, they know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n randomness.  
I’ll follow conventional physics, tho, and change no findings I stumble across  

but I’ll focus on pure benefits that accrue, often in the future. Newer inconsistencies never bother w/ governance of the governed! Wouldn’t you know they show up anyway, in an infinite series w/in each day’s essay test. (Or from another angle they are the series, livin’ history over, as we have heard.)

As you were.   

(The acting chief of staff so responded.  
Suspiciously correct.)

Any number of universal simulations keep me awake at night.
They bear shame but who are they? Hold on, I’m going to put you on ‘dialog enhancer mode.’
Between hi and goodbye only most instances count for near certain.
Try our sex loss challenge. Say when
Side effects occur.
I want to wed in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?
(When I can’t sleep I can’t dream.)

Scorched & metallic. Sexual dynamism.. it’s a quarterback problem.

The incision continues in this vein. A disheartening bone pile of axioms supposes its completion. I wouldn’t rule it out, completion is a known factor.

I am here as abstinence is crumby.
The erotic folks get stopped, adjust themselves throughout the meadow, more room than you & I need. But we can’t complete their arc by experiencing their subliminal accumulation. I give up to appease you.

We break for the Beijing Olympics. Secret ballots have to float free to find the atheism of situation (rap), steam and rush-formatted white sky disappearing like factions of multiplicities (an ear for sax). Rationed effects (sub-procedures) become more fearless (less indiscernible) when crossing boundaries within codes of conduct. The main event calls for open hearts, the color of glue or bone, an addiction to no one. Late afternoon to another who, like you, partakes of epiphenomenal symmetry.

Sentiment can be taken out. 
So a redraft prompts free-ranging inquiry tho tentative (after all) regarding structure. Putting it down in a memo, we have a relationship to more. It’s not merely an investigation but unimpaired pursuit. Rough seas yet you’ve worn down long enough to be admitted; you know how we leverage missing you at a time when it’s least expensive. Put to the test, you’re like me — happiest procrastinating, indexing suspicion and lodging complaints..

Some time back, long before punches of text showed up on the phone, there were snores from ancestors with frequent coughs and grunts crowding together in caves. Back when our bodies taught us phonemes shrieking to signal pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition — folks like you hit upon logic that’s crazy fancy, headed for greatness in the morning. 

It’s different from the evening on and someone with hands on flame hits back. Teamwork. Our people are what make us great. 

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

Dark energy turns out a soulful lab mix of you and me. The further we go on

Descriptors peel away, earning more penumbrae.
What a night. No problem
Expunging the storied narrative and

Ordinary one-in-a-million stuff that’s normal, believable.

Then that

Rolling out of bed far off across

Yours, just dreaming it up

Putting you in mind of a future photo realism.

I feel socialist. Rifling thru market snapshots, validating
The center 
More than any single system, a tenet of

A huge agnostic discipline 
About attitudes behind morals. 

You know this open and shut — 
But take it down again / or thumb thru 

The balance left over from a computer
Of pure tides. Inhabit the tidal brim 

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

You won’t win. It happens fast. Less than a flash... kissed you depend on disappear. Past and present, neither play of emphasis false, soundtracks on pulleys, suspicious... these tracks overlaid w/ speech you keep delaying. I'm so sorry the music became an investment vein to punch and then pull-quote from.

Sorry, there’s a fool’s guarantee. All you’ll have to do ... 
Choose love as a buy or rental option, both equidistant from love’s defunct phenomena that travail and make surprise visits within quanta. (Too early to tell.)

Choosing love creates an entire platform to spin off slower tangential constructs plucked out of a big number of now-dead emotions.

Also suspicious, emulations of you both, standing up without sticking, detouring into aah

choo! the roof of your mouth unhinged keeping suspicion warm to the bridge of his nose.

See, is it a pigeon?
It’s a true albino!
Incandescent, I was thinking. It’s hard to pick up ornithology or meanings of jazz composition — also, a table for the counters of instinct and learning in the shortness of thought. Then there is objurgating.

As I’m happiest procrastinating when stairwells mesh and go nowhere between you and expulsion, for the hole in my cohesion is closed.

Turn here, there’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, submitting to your own perks.

A poem is a naked person, the winter force

Through the green fuse to drive extra flowers —

That so,

Some persons say I’m a poet. Sweating,

A healer is one of a few who drive my green rage —

One who understands the responsibility that emerges
Amidst roots of poetry’s trees.
(Phosphate, the fallen blood shall calm her sores.)

And I have dined under poetry’s arbors with queens and kings.

I’m dumb now to tell the royals I’ve been offered wings.

Land-locked, royals are bent by the same wintry fevers

And I’ve never been that impressed.

The virus is already inside us 
Hunting in a lather of swing, lacking other nouns.  
Remember thoughts?   
  
What if thinking doesn’t work. How do you know?   
  
No single body of quantum gravity can think us back,   
a trick the unexcelled Spinoza observed when lather foams.

Do what you want. Just a few things I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I was curious  
underwater as sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. (Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.) If lost  
 
there’s a rule-of-thumb for chapter and verse with natural stenches & prophetic fallacies back on land...  
Clad now to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” one tenor sings. He was staring at my teeth, wondering how much they cost.   
 
Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”   
 
In this chapter I fear sarcasm.

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 habits 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.”

I know where I am going,  
gawky, rattling my enormous will.  
 
I know where the caged bird sings.  
Philosophy is ironic. 
 
Shy of seduction  
I worry about a bigger family.  
Like Clint Eastwood we were shifty.  
Once. What was that all about?

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

Heedless and highly egotistical,  
Two good words; and too. 
 
Conquest contributes to a wonderful unanimous  
Just unnerving enough atmosphere  
— an image of awhile.

Like infinite ignorance, a hierarchy is constitutive.  
 
The core science is neutral. I should know. Antinomy fills us with optimism and reason. Meanwhile the little we can take in around here rushes then pauses over more neutral symmetry. Getting nearly there is an interim for you, pushing up and out. There is little point going into our ‘better problems’ tonight except if there is nowhere further. 

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

“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 — promised 
money, money that takes me over the edge.

After  you  
I went into analysis alert. Less mistaken misconceptions 
bear us shame? Facts change when the less mistaken use  
new words; plus or minus they’re so close —  
tho without the answer in a glance we’re all about to bail out, off —  
why are we even arguing!

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.

Someday
I will think in porn titles.

Don’t we have an escalator to take (to meet up)? 
 
Gavel to gavel hours and hours wasted turning the spit.  
What we do converts to personality and stunt-craft.  
What we have to feed on is open discourse W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please.  
(This soon after a last breath, is it safe to mention Yeats?) (Maybe not.  
I frighten no one.) Some of us are too profoundly false to save the day.  
Tho not all of us refuse to understand further (to meet up).  
 
It’s natural, a picnic in the wilderness.  
 
The wilds... on all floors.

Down Maine. Wondering at an anomaly,

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. Snow!
A foot of snow from the window. Laps of water are filled with light, snow rotating in reverse as if knowing how to purify offspring & manage forever in lurches of nibbling torque adjusting into days.

I’m shading my eyes with my right hand.
I step to the water’s edge.
What’s wrong with me.

The you I 
tableau-sponged I’m now waving to with my other hand.

After all, the water spackled remotely, 
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva. Anything 
to stay pure, immersed. Swimming 
synchronized with the bellicose you. I’m slinking back. 
I’ll leave you out.

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?

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 nanophysics facility.
We’re in the flat present tense, account outlines in simultaneous perceptions —
Reciting new slang exponents as we have no major gay issues,
Making wave sounds we scout flyweights in a recursive landscape.

A spider running down inside you is in response to production-vectors coursing throughout the enthusiasm industry. Continuous profits bring story-telling comfort to support well-thought-out positions, which are always in dispute, in the food chain.   
 
Art captive to narrative? Maybe much of it. I adhere to the same late-filing rules as you.  
 
Thereto art is theft by all means. All right. I’m almost a novice enthusiast. It may be years from now we’ll return to favor. 
Until then, inscrutably I shall be free of the food chain and ask for nothing.

I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Drumbeats 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 no theory of purpose, no gift of agency to promote my case, as masking vanity becomes a park manager’s challenge.

Fizzy yet salient points soak over the water poloists hanging out for the escape clause (always the last place they look)!

It dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for generic consensus over these flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions made of paradoxical tissue.
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole sector before repro-ed onward.

Purely offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.

A note on aging.

Smacked down by a coordinate from outer space,
Keanu Reeves is not reckless, iniquitous, or anatomically complex,
though monotone to the gills like a slower yet more self-subtracted Rod Serling.

Snapping to / not snapping.

Anyway, hipster memory
is a contradiction in terms.
A shortcut to an off prediction.
Unilaterally a hipster


throws out softballs,


variously literal —
mounting a bait

and switch to chalk up


the utility of hip lingerie per se,


discreet shipping, and in
this case it won’t be serene.

Anyway, go to long love making, serene now memorizing

parallel futures on a projective plane.
Why move into anyone else’s crash test?

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.

28: Robbing the cradle: The big picture shows me my modest place. 
I’m technically adept dining in (or out) day by night and night by day —   
 
each of us the other’s reigning enemy taking umbrage from grumpy distortion,  
fractured logic (Hex 39) and their combined morbidity.  
While you — I always flatter you in my long consents —  
But daily, nightly I work on my music farther from you now,   
 
happy, long toil to stronger sorrows and griefs. So we both never sleep — I’m living you thru me,
exactly, and vice versa — what the cradle requests; the place rocks.

113: Since I left you, my eye
catches you in my mind in viewing creatures, the governor e.g.
— the gentlest doves — mountains.

Untrue, yet replete with you, my mind’s eye sees you day and night.
Untrue.
My point is awfully slight — incapable of more, out and about, unkind ~
~ For leaving you makes me blind and rude ~
Yet even dove- or sea-crow-forms pay you homage, shaped to your features.

Other men have the mind to impart your functions,
I notice — still they deliver no part of you, true mind.

High middle of the road church service.

Weight loss by design. Classification = evolutionary collisions =
Their work multiplied by adapted preferences in a prejudicial sort of structure.
You think transparent rhetoric all-purpose, all calm, but never resolved
by addiction to visceral consequence. Utopians had been right —
reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, sailors.

On mortality,  
 
I’m a big baby. That’s b for clarified as black-and gold pelage, married and vulnerable, exploring reiterations of my own duality. Yes, I’m a dyad.
 
I’m alive feeling the swansdown of DNA. Soon I’ll be comically dead — that’s married to a triplicate database — sinking into forest behavior, giving up meat, fish, emotionally shot ..  devoted to seamless disproportionality.

Post-cogency, you still doing that? That’s what’s long about sadness,
the real overhead. Lost time, money. A sky of ice cubes for what party in sleep?
When I leave, I’ll take no
memory for a drive. And just the sardines.
The cat owner in me is unknown to me,
permeates me. Consequences...

Lost time is sawed off from a vast range of gravity.

Here’s another invidious comparison. Confucian poetics, unlike most of ours, deliberately chooses lexical anchors that can be readily translated to other languages (and cultures). This appears limiting since the deliberation is a constraint, for most of us. Nonetheless, the strategy presumes no professionally trained or hip readership needed to follow the broadly universal epistemology. (Historically the in-the-know or hip presumption gives meaning to specific tropes that are nonetheless encapsulated by the universal — hipness segregated within the hegemonic radius over the long run, clocking in with a short (2, 1, close to minus and counting) shelf life for tropes and their reception over time. The surface warrant to the comparison, perhaps: Overspecification evolves into ‘period’ samplers, accents of quaintness.

Levitation thru words was modulated. They wanted it. Modulation 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 ententes of what we were doing before the procedural took hold. 
Then we are off, clouds keeping our eyes not far off the ground.

Kites: pinky juicy crisp, unlimited
Space parlance —

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

Life is better, a few times, even
Looking 80 with pencil marks across gessoed

Pearls — a level of wealth that’s puny, worn parlance.

5: No remembrance. Of confounding beauty. Of the lovely gaze where beauty dwells. 

Of course I never rested as a stealth pathologist performing autopsies on women and men whom I led on. Subjects were mostly strung out on sofa sectionals — big, jaunty shapes who swaddled their inner pooch — gentle work but now yes I’ll love you better frosty and lusty!  

— I’d say I’m a pervert approaching you often as summer’s pointillist distilling pulverized, liquid dots — a framed prisoner doing time, 

pent in never-resting time that still lives.

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 except in fashion.
A song about innocence was a meta proposition.

The guys with magic marker eyes who paid for this were enamored of throwing off articulate signatures —
But everything was their idea, sustain and change
reaching back where no limit whirrs & now sings..

O ouch. I’m not sorry.
This is my first try in three dimensions.

There were more debris balls thrown so we ordered an atemporal zone of grace — w/ the emancipatory norm of curiosity —

Set it to limitless, w/ its winners & losers, a humanist quiz.

When you got up your voice was 
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling  
Flat into a dust-up of 4 dimensional motes.   
 
I don’t know how motes, much less how 4 dimensions rush   
 
And flounder into mountains. I only heard   
 
Vibrating = Sturm und Drang,  
Dust controls anger / how severely narrowed minds are wed.

Song: Blushing breaking news..
One time I was inconsonant. Or..

I was found holding a grand lodge of doing-splits glossary.
— why

Does a face arrest?
You had on your fabulous eyeliner from a while ago. Cunning
Thing is everybody had it goes without saying a probability before
The news

And all of us now are blown away
Getting wind of the Red Wings.

We enjoy our 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, seeming to glisten in black ice, 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.

Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping net neutrality w/in regulatory gloom of purgatorio as perceptions of different possibilities bolt out of town along w/ 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.

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.

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

The Inuit are fascinated by pottery. 

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

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 —

Obsessing over you the sky squeaks w/ common sense, folds into dreams.  
Travel lit finds it has a square shape, after all, bolted down in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for competing raiments.   
 
There is an interpretation to this nightly misfortune (all ours). Dream flights are tight. You can’t find your story in a void or crescendo: And the cost?   
 
Well, all right let’s not.   
 
Where are domestic metaphors anyway? our rooms have even less to say..  
Tho, when I’m feeling it, going out and doing things metaphysically .. 
.. I get where I was.

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

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

Inter-OK...

Condition blue.
Ten or so
gulls kick it off, running
over bass.

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

An awful virus. Just an excuse.
Rhetoric as privilege 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 yet tranquil, excused —
ruthless in value, the boundless layers set in funereal trance 
tweeting under the bust of the rhetor, a civil, democratic ideal. 

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

As we go about thinking like animals brushing up on ideas...

Holidays again.

Heaven is in our hearts with an egg drop of credos and documents, from which large scale dull instruments get tossed.
We drink to our mistakes.

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.

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.

Submission:
Let me grab my pen and clamber over here to the iconic network... you’re right, this isn’t the mammoth for you and 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.

Down interiors. And nice platonics. The he /
she and schema proliferating a fable
between acts of spinning themes, code hier-
archies, text over image, or is it susceptible to automation?

A violet mist. This is a prison theme bar. 
There is evidence.  
 
Losers = worshippers of their detractors.  
 
We drink to your mistakes.

We can demolish only one artificiality. 
Last night on Severance Ave. 
It’s no toy. It’s an example of us we can’t have.  
It didn’t love you or me. Like an oblong of moonlight it looked over what we do.  
That’s why we live here.
The robot was a learner, dedicated but fading. We intervened only once  
As the sunset roared into place. 
Our place. It’s ours,
Remember; all our troubles disappear. 

Once I was a Marxist, now I’m a Darwinian. 
To let cleverness exceed indecent levels  
 
you and I had a taxonomic relationship.  
 
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax.  
 
Same wind, just above freezing, the yard bloats up to disheveled.

How to hitchhike. I come across an organizing principle and by pulling the trigger, I replace subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: there are structure, acquisition, use, media — no eros in no ideas.

Self-conflict and compromise keep popping up as rich bases for ironic pleasure and symphonic allergens.

If those are allowed. A gig, a pop up...

Primitive patterns and blue throats, crowbars taped to a tree, in the distance, Eroica...

We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown,

The great We of fish, that's what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.

How in the ---- could we let this happen?  
  
Today I face thunder — how to pay for this...   
Bouncy.. apocalypse..   
My instinct when asked is to tilt back   
To the moody crayons junking a   
Civil spell check of half-soothing words   
On top uninvented heights,   
The same heights outward   
Of looking into what we stoke.

You’re welcome, September (April). Plugged, tall, slim,  Aggrieving. 

We’re in public space, an elevator or the hallway. We think 
Mining data still has a more colossal future than trigonometry, many floors  To appropriate then publish recipes we began tinkering on.  Life wheels. We borrow the ephemeral Triumphs as April questions  Conventions, boundaries, and syntax. September exits. Yay.

Music filters out thru the one crack in the bridge against the old
Sky. All the airports sink back in black and white marsh, snakes.  
Day to day sometimes in sunlight geographers breathe “3 times furrows [..] we behold.”  
We’re going to be here as long as it takes.

There are a 100 butterflies out of sorts in what’s wrong watching even one or two spin like winter mediums, 
happy in the dirt, re-engineering their variety and persistence.
The collapse of spinning it better is.. no, the aim changed...

We can build something better. 
You can feel it drinking coffee from a can, its sticky metal heat, fun,  
seething too, proportionate to the open space.  
Indoors the steam is rubbed, worn and you’re mortified with ozone.  
The whole firebox glow ..  
yellow wallpaper engages on.

Obsessing over you the sky squeaks w/ common sense, folds into dreams.  
Comp lit finds it has a square shape, after all, bolted down in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for competing raiments.   
 
There is an interpretation to this nightly misfortune (all ours). Dream space is tight. You can’t find your story in a void or crescendo: Where’s the cost?   
 
Well, all right let’s not.   
 
Where are domestic metaphors anyway? our rooms have even less to say..  
Tho, when I’m feeling it, going out and doing things metaphysically .. 
.. I get where I was.

Thought about wind becoming sullen, backs into a slurry, plump, downy evanescing into fluff. The slurry rises above dropped affixes and dead gardenias. As if. It’s in the notation. Hell on the loose — loose in reverse in spring — faces light up. Better to heal resentments buried in percussive isolation again. Hot wind dumps more ideas from desolating self-abuse to a cucumber vine growing up a net. 2 sorts of woodpecker came while I was there.

Irritating city.. reminds me, Eros is immediate, overwhelming, terse & of a Castilian order. A hundred décors in one & one metal rubbed by hand. Piano hands.

Bellwethers, fey bloodhounds are sub-jazz. If ripples reflect the instant barter handing off potential thru another, then you... ..this would be how vertebrates flatten lips, usually wet, blue and silver white

becoming day after night. O no thanks or so we have another Eros in common.

Cough, cough.

Tomorrow we leave, a sunset over anthropogenic clouds.

It stays in the mind after the words evaporate.
Where we live now we’re “into” military opera. Adherents have henchmen, dogma and the finesse of needle-felted wool.

Clear clear bright mornings.

I won’t do your religion, good day.

Just piano and downer voice. Sunken gardens with a fountain of dumps in Four Corners.

For Tu Fu could I state my own fact as fact?
We’re nimbus-wet, I had it. The dark edges must be why
We float in clouded white without a seam,

Two very different outcomes equally square
What we meant.

A la Depeche Mode, We’re trained in several logos and media  
theologies; 
 
Hey it’s obvious as that mobile device you’re still holding.  
Hands down. We live on the ground, off the land.   
 
The culture caught up to our light sprinkles of sexuality.  

We chew to 1 side, noted by 3rd genders;  
Superego abstractions hanging out in their unusual white corridors  
 

Suggesting we’re still trembling from the  
 


Physical chew off, just a short chopper ride  
 

From the first bank and trade. It’s sprinkling, adding up feelings  
With a so tallied mother glossary, 1st-  
Order noncommercial phenomena pitted together as cognates  
 
Still coming to seed and adornment,  
Half-audible ricochets, feeding us like a lawn.

Time ran out.

It’s one of those peekaboo fogs.

Your integrity has a political bent.
I stay in position, authentic / inauthentic;


I model your bifurcated attitude
yet I could do with more peek, less boo —

everything I neglect is in a broad context. One after another piles up if
or when —

This is when —

Your nuclear self, writing you, lingers for a moment or more... Huh? Now you know I did it.

I wish I hadn’t / I wish I didn’t.
No it was clear until supper time then fogged up.

Fund-raise off that.

Step Five (ok, I hardly get to do this one): I start nodding off admiring invisible gamma material at some teeny level of stochastic persistence. Waves away. I can imagine a spontaneous disintegration of immodesty until I find myself in a place like here, only a ‘half-life’ where speech is still material.

What happened there?
“..you have to paint the walls under the pictures.”
Narrow rails, sheer curtains..
Step out of the church.
I hear a boat. I hope it’s the mailboat.
Never confess.
Windy, and the waves all running sideways.
Straighten your teeth, vampire.

Misshapen drops of fog storms — major rain —


affable and fresh earthworks must

carry the air out in fat, thick layers (thick in spades, hearts racing).
We can see our excess atmosphere conning our right brains,
because we share weather it has importance —

... here’s where I freeze. (Every-


one does.) You now me.

Clouds yellow, experimental at night



— flakes wash themselves now in dissemblance like kittens in lust.

Spatter — rain in 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 is here, right here, and more ‘you’ve been away,’ retreating to emancipating solitude, keeping / adding up wait time, sporting by degrees the related changes you seem to see and are.

Keep an order to begin —
Is it the level approach you’ve taken


Erasing most of marketing, any


Specificity that appears normal?

Looking at the pebbles and snails
And tiny shrimp-like creatures..

That 



Wok breakfast, man, a broad-armed chef
Standing off across my


Whole food outlook!
Compression is particulate and coarse-grained. But —
It remains
Both our voices have to grow

Until I know you from a prior flossing.

Hot sun, cool air, and no clothes.

Loss of pain penetrating like moral gelatin
That pressures, punctures social tyranny

Whole.

Prognosis: It’s just getting started, more video, the century with 2 beginning decades that cannot be easily designated. As a citizen among millennials, it’s gross I live to blow off my masterpiece, suddenly building a new narrator under my notarized certificates of hubris and vulnerability — Euros tumble. The sensual spy novel is amusing and telegenic for killing time until 2020 and through the 20s and 30s that follow, so let’s narrate that. And about that. We were always lovers. Heh heh. The meta-tick-tock due now and pronto — calling in Cupid — the greatest emcee and dues collector of any new century, sullen, endearing..

Upstairs message, parts of it. We call it yeah 
Parentheses (w/ monocle) 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..

To a spiritual father in the future,
Deal with our failures.
The ruddiness of brown shingles looks right at us.
A house down the street, the “sadly” restored one —
If you lit a fire there, for real, and wrote it down,
Our faces would limn how today is going.
Writing forced to the surface for an earthly face off.

We were used by the demolition pros,
sliced, etc. Oh
You were fantastic, metallically shaded,
the arms race in recess, ribbons torn down.

This is the bridge.
Have you been?

Tasted great.
And after

Lilacs with mesh
without a searchlight to blemish
the vapor

Polarized as boats
keel and cover rubber planks
across their reflection,
a taste of being shaken flame pink
and orange.

Sonnet 78: 
  
Disperse my rudeness.   
See what influences of yours I’ve advanced and redoubled. See what more you do! You are all my art. Help my style, my alien use. Teach / learn my rude ignorance.    
 
Only these exceptions: I wasn’t talking to you. I was speaking higher up, and given grace, I’ll sing to the fair interest of the corps. Ah, same time, so often have I invoked you as a muse, I’mproud working with you looking over my shoulder ..   
... knowing our poetry is under your assistance, born of you.

A few minutes ago there were bright shadows.
They’re on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part scribble / disassociation.
I can hear a voiceover operating malware prophesies humanely.
Another voice stacks pessimistic ideas like alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.

One’s god and partner
is a doomed villain — twice one’s weight.

He runs down to the water, sticks his head in. Stays in.
On a second take he and other human strangers gain presence
thru sex appeal. Good that initiates delaying tactics.

Delayed, one sees what Buckminster Fuller means
sensing the curve of the earth.

One gets the pretty steep feeling
god has gone one’s way.

A maple against daylight has breadth and the dark thin substance of shot up shadow; this is a guarantee
as local time is disguised among skimpy swags and willowish leaves, living structures aspected as abstract in the ‘inner’ harbor of glare cut from coastal space.

Space (within) doesn’t know you’re looking... doing nothing, watching you look.

Space’s slowed us down to furnace the pace

for full positions in another trace or matter, earlier or later

but even later it could rain.

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’ AC.   
 
You, all your neighbors are mirror bees. Music up. Am I not one?

The soul (of love) is a theorem, a sweet dying
Desert out of water, a spare dust bunny grinning over interstates
To destroy liquidity.

We begged Mr Soul to go faster and keep at it,
Stick with a superb rocket or racket, rally
For more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can wake that guy up perhaps you should.

Start for free. Let’s call this the time left.. toward the end of the beginning. 
The front gate still won’t front.  
 
How do parallels threaten a referent? And which fox drug is best?  
Visuals today are overproduced.  
I produce here Spot the dog.. or now one of his infinite surrogates, whose visible micrograms intrude a moment before emptied of visibility. It seems for a time.
Intrusions entail teamwork, coincidentally.

Let’s break up. Broken, giddy up, trouble maker.
Today I face no opposition. How to pay homage...

My instinct when asked is to inch back
To the moody raw nation where prosody
Jettisons its own use. No half-soothing opponents awake
On top,
No heights at all outward, only a few problem solvers
Off looking into what we broke —

A few minutes ago there were bright blue shadows.
The quartet’s on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part scribble / disassociation.
I can hear Johnny shoveling the drive
as a voiceover to operate prophesies of doom humanely,
stacking pessimistic ideas like alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.

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, you and I begged him to learn to swim further and stick with a sublimely cute topic, to rally for more than this textual ceramic holding a spray of looking glass.

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’ AC.   
 
You, all your neighbors are mirror bees. Music up. Am I not one?

Lightning over fogs of drizzle. Over ravines. Knower and the known, all branches, all matter — 
A sweet industrial morsel went for all three doors assuming no threshold ahead where materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no interruption.   
 
Three ways could also be the middle   
 
as Buddha and Buddhists are different things.

— I haven’t slept a wink — Try sleeping pills. 
Yah. Well, that’s a good idea.   
 
I know I’ve been deceitful, but I had my reasons. Maybe they were dumb reasons, but they were reasons.  
 
I never said I was the best man in the world.  
 
Give me a little credit, will you, credit for being someone...  
 
who tried to love you the only way he knew how.  
 
I know that speech  
 
— You do? — pantaloons last August...  
 
when Devon meets Bolt’s empyrean nephew.  
Oh, God.  
— Get out — Please try to understand.  
 
— No need to use that language.   
 
Get out! Now!

Warning: It’s impossible to separate understatement from early performance; both are adolescent in an admissible sense, pitch. So that’s how cave and landscape can be felt, my sovereign.
< br> Next, an inevitable database advances to burn out your swing — try living on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent. Warning: The underground minimizes collisions within a dominant tribal identity or trance. That opium waterfall is waiting, on a bender. What comes first is calm to recover and / or replace each close-to-noble escape route on ahead.

Bursting out of your head while you hike thru grasses: All this acreage owned by prosaic dabblers, a-theoretical factual folk. Broken, misunderstood. 
It’s different evening on and children on fire hit back.  
 
Teamwork. Again, our people are what make us great.  
 
And if that’s everything for now, we’ll switch to loving and losing and loving.  
Fresh air, still excessive quanta — a geyser in a box-set of boxes in bigger sets you can't see?  
 
Enticing but nothing so second nature as theater, sleight of hand, 
good posture and strategic intellectual constructs.

Start for free. Let’s call this the time left.. the end of the beginning. 
The front gate still 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 of matter.  
Intrusions entail teamwork, coincidentally.

Savant and scribe know where all glory goes. 
If we’re lucky, principles of mediocrity rule our larger commitments.  
Then both can devise a poem for a period of guesswork.  
 

Finish a stretch and my theory gets confused. Confused the way   
 
A rusted barge dries off in sun orange. Or   
 

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 is I. This is how the toy psyche researches more conscientiously touching on endearing dual roles in an algorithmic translation — deviating of us to read and reread pain extending to your one body and infinite ceilings, howling sustained this second time. 

Next, a glistening database ‘of us’ advances thru raw materiality. The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity tracing out how to refine / displace our contempt. 

[...]

0) nothing horrible, just horrible 
 
1) both perceptions of opposites leveraged simultaneously  
2) meaning not one and more original than none  
3) causing internal illogic along w/  
4) passing out on an ashen chaise to bring you back to your senses, shouting   
 
5) I love your idea and I repent only to appease you   
 
6) adages first thought / never think lose both death and life

In order to take on a galactic stare, 
Occasional intoxicants  
Every 10 yrs —  
A decade comes and goes and still you are unattainable!   
 
Say you’ll be back. A blast of cold air  
Stoked by an invasion of intimacy.

Our cabin has not improved. It’s being set. 
For all appearances nothing lurid was due at signing.  
But I am confused, sin  
-ce claimant to the photogenic vitamin to stop bleeding  
is not a complete thought, lacking nouns and predicate, useless  
as a future maxim in dissent tho settling in  
meaning in a way — like a raincoat of moods, no rain.  
Only my thank you for queuing up for assent.

Take a look. 
All this repetition is not good ahead of patterned, glimmering dimness surrounding powerful men, dating them, skillfully; you know, the level of glamorous self regard here is high & west-coast-like, gnarly. If all we do is seduce & note our conquests, we lose the broad sweep of the epicene. We lose austere joys, cloud dogma, sculpture perpetrated out of full transparency on stilts that take on blackened colors.   
 
Another time, then, much like Byronic properties.

Free for you in the $100 million section.  
 
An old master picked that up from them.. ..wolves
running through snow melting into wolves..

Since giving up on poetry ..
Back when we’re on our own 
as our only bard put it, a face 

Boiling sad together. 
Not pretty but there in print, through & 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 a forward part of the original anger to confuse.

Depuis renoncer à la poésie ..
Retour lorsque nous sommes sur notre propre,
comme le seul barde de notre époque, il l’a dit, un visage

.. un 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, une 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.

Testimony, transit to.

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

(Also refusal.)

What about how we enjoy free speech — still — to say what some think — but their recipes, or ours, are perfused with vapid bias. Trees in place, defiantly miscellaneous, thanks to a compliant Leitkultur, treeways on a berm, backdrop to civil union with ideal permissions built on headwinds — dormant chaos, lowered public engagement 
 
with as it were or without word craft. Good discourse can scar others, you see, yet you see bare facts slaughtered by pushing on the remote.
 
Free in summary.

It once read you’re my concern. 
 
“I heard talent & beauty & wealth come with their own flickering ideas; by your putting them to rest they take ‘full effect’ with no attachment to bad diets or addictive capital.” I’m leaving; you gasp.  
Is this documentary or did we make it up? “I gather your wit and austerity read each other from the start.” So this is an edit (to hide hunger). That’s about as close as 2nd chances have to keen, endless pulse. 

Neither so-called dead or alive, the windmill in your imagination has a request, 
“to express things ... as they are when you see them without remembering having looked at them.”  
It’s an infinite standard for reading new vocabulary numbed in shade, bracing for heart murmurs until climax.

In a Deux Magots adaptation 
Robots embrace the free market. This was pronounced in penetrating tones   
 

over a pale rain of weather tariffs and theater buzz. Blameless, nonetheless free of anguish for a moment yet drifters in their virtual doubt.. ..there’s enterprise in others’ victimhood, each higher up robot will argue going forward.

47: Good turns, one after another, I turn to your looks I file between heart and bitch comedy. 
Either way you could have reset the remote — 
So let’s share it. Your saved videos and my worship of you have almost expired.. except your looks drive me nuts.. I’m still in love.. famished at the banquet of love (where we sleep). 

Awake, we can’t move further than our thoughts in pictures and visuals.. pressing reset buttons.. and I still have my sight set on you. Damn this remote, I can’t change myself, my eyes are awake, my heart’s .. 

Here, you take it.

Tons of special forces in silhouette .. polished in water .. on day one we’d .. imagine them on caress trails.

We’ll correct everything near the top of the grade filling in ahead with capacitance-assistants, converted

Theorists of a visually astute world culture (camaraderie). They propose and maintain bestiaries wholly populated by good, details aside. After dark trials.

In a gift economy we learn from our failures, suppressing change. Who can ever say what happened that day but I know we slept over because there was a soft (soft on the ears) mattress to lie on. 

Statues toppled. Fewer of them are needed.
The mime sequence where you spoke out was long-term spoofy, spoofy a word that restrains others. More, there was a modulator from a board of moderation. Our Behaviorist host.

The air is sawed off, wishy and doing better. We were dangerous, once.
Smooth rhetoric is purely blur. It’s too late to make it sparse. Now we’re appalled. Even our restraint is wishy for its own sake.
We could see from a solid distance, your rakish notes to yourself, you mixed mediums .. no shit. None of mine.

As I understand it the exact second you insert the first-person, rotary forces of moral density will drill several meters down underground, a strafed, ethical spectacle falling into proverbial and natural coherence like mumps, something you never saw and you never will, you gestalt freak.

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

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

A private-public distinction (extension 8)
No longer limits outcomes for a buffered work force. 

Keeping your prosody up
giving empathy, suffering distress,
You write in my agenda, 

A vapidly growing ‘fortune’ 
Once I launch it — 

I got married however without knowing the side effects 
— wait, I forgot why you called.

Violence takes over. Breathtaking. 

Auto-electrocuted. But calmed down. No more tv, due to sore thumbs. There’s a dual nature of justice going around in “resentment and forgiveness” with high notes we won’t deflate. My muggy, fantastic tenor, jittery, soundless often, active against the v meme. But I reach points at which violence is traceable and draws me in. 

I’m auditing theses in time or opinion  
For an interpretive opera about local accents.
I listen for: Ya, 
It’s a question of escalating to inhabit received logic.  
I’mretracting what I think I hear, why ya, I’m 
Concentrating on songs from colors, naming touching sounds.  
Oblique accents patrol in symmetry, in a body
 
Like yours, pushing the most obvious among woken arts, song 
Gripping you, on slanted footing under your influence. 
 
Ha baby.

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?

Your snobbishness killed us, them. 
No monks wrote the inscription for our ashes, reading: Just because we’re not there to floodlight what we know from swimming exhausted doesn’t mean we weren’t Bodhis / each physique w/ hammer in hand. Nailing our souls together takes a moment of our lives that we don’t have, don’t love, don’t rate.  
 
Whatever takes substance and breadth, we’re not doing it!

The 3 P’s. Psyche, pterodactyl, phooey.

83: Life with Mr Juice comes up short — charm
-ing & familiar — unfair tenderness 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 art & text devices.
You miss the first drag. Painting

Mr Juice imagines my wearing her new credentials
As an 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


Mute beauties become bilingual.
As I never slept for my sins
Thereon I’m barren as I am dumb.

What’s curious? 
Casual dishonesty &
Engineered simplicity hold altho 
Taken whole:  
“Give in, stet it.”  
(There’s a new policy to highlight deletions.)  
I’m wavering on the stet’s behalf,  
Taken your lead. Word processing in Palatino sans 
All the time, staggering for nonfiction.  
 
Tomorrow I  
Tap out more deletions I’ll forget to close —

A disheartening work pile supposes its completion. Angels speak up, tho, in dialog enhancer mode. Voice rates increase a good amount.
We get to a point where we have to stop adjusting the margins for voice from shrine–y meadows, 

for giving up missing your skin

...a good amount, meaning?
That would be as thematic as I get
with you so solid a wonder.

Context becomes the e.r. Something is definitely prolonging this.  
Like a race of giants, welcome to we’re not so much friends.   
Saving a life you can break the law to shoulder perfection.  
Not now. We’re one another in other names. Later I use yours to get head. 
The brightness was shunting into red day until emotional exchange crested and dissolved like the right emissions, close to you.

My quandary repeats among aromas from hydrangea in labor  
Yet it’s with Bonnard’s 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 more choices and abundance.

I’ve un-conceded.
 
Insert the bonus and exchange — what do you know!  
Your tongue, clear up to your neck — radiant 
 
patterns your thorax a phenomenal fact and factoid that can end in a draw sustained by  
getting up, proceeding for an hour to spin.

Cupid fell into swelter in unnamed aroma orts 
that led his black olive dogs to you, making clear    
 
Cupid in a blouse, Cupid’s blank stare =  
a blast furnace giving heat.   
 
Cupid pulls the curtains to reveal a street, dog-permitted 
yards, outside where pet people pass by in walk-on parts.   
 
One doesn’t know any more  
if there are good times or bad ahead of war.

A warm nearly winter day.  
 
Solved for the resplendent spelling, but not remorse.  
Now it’s a year later, a fine day emanating  
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 bilateral, based on trying to review  
Hellish varieties of you getting fingerprinted in eight  
Perspectives, after the xvith-century Italian drawings..  
 
..The stars are early, 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.

Ethical epitomes go against the grain. Maybe grains.. What are spurious resonators for .. to attempt command of natural selection and a jillion bloodlines. 

Um.. there’s nothing but an eye
blush of heat that measures desperate ‘orders’ you put in reckless hands — 
Don’t forget the silent partners ripening for future citings in green, un-despairing usage summaries... 

Brilliant. Breathing new life, we’ve had hundreds w/ crazy coats of arms.

Look at you.

...pleasure before Hey, that your velour vox?  
 
Omniscience is sham-sanctioned conjecture. Modesty goes off by itself as the evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family of arrivistes then custodians.  

Standard touching looks terrible or descendant. 
Capacious anxiety, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... we’re done.  
You can break the law to shoulder perfection or save a life, only once. Either way is a fractional immeasurable in any context / e.r.  
 
Something was definitely going on.   
 
Lefties are feeling cornered (not to say conned) but  
it’s breathtaking administering the right wing to you.

112: Do you like spiral staircases, scandals that strive to branch out to no one alive in so profound an abysm? 

Facts then are a marketplace whose figures look green when least derivative. Volatile objective content triumphs. Right or wrong it’s kind of a snob racket (Charles B).   
 
Our nervous system can distort music in an adder’s sense, Charles might say, to emphasize changes in snaking, radial evil neglected by the super ego. B is for Bukowski. 

62: No account surmounts heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the whole series, bright, tanned & then defined by sympathetic parody & indeed praise, contrary to less gracious remedies. 
 
We have functional emotions, I think, grounded by self-love & this choppy vocab of defined affects. There’s a hint of falsetto, too. Shields up. I’m painting the last place you feel true, here in my heart, shifting iniquity to self-inquiry, I read you.

Stay with me, never stop.

Marxist-self ironing:  
I’m a neo-accepter of making and being flecks of subjective misnomers.  Eating and breathing them too.  
This is what it means to have a muse. No blame. 
No poet will work in a freezing apartment except when it’s far more than a safe place for thoughts to gather thru summer. She struggles in cold rooms for little compensation and goes beyond the joy of subverting the arbiters of growing loath. Growing enlivened, growing ripe. 
 
Paperwork fastened to repetitive joy, eating and breathing them too..

I’m a conservative about behavior. That’s before I tried his fragrance —  
 
The calm never resolved —  
because we’re only one muppet and one marine  
reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, last waves of shame. 
“‘In a way’, he said, ‘nothing saved me until we ran the gauntlet —’”

The proscenium brightens. Overflow thinned out. 
Is it sub-luminous un-inhibiting our endowment?   
 
Knowing the ropes to scale now, even substance,  
clearing the theatre of thin comforts,   
 
stern, food pecked over, even down  
to our place, last place, last row.

We think on our feet like animals brushing up on ideas...
Condition blue. 
Ten or so 
ululations kick it off, running 
over one ocean. 

Ripping in mean 
swimmer’s blue, 
in a competing mesne, 
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta 
more down surf, startling 
  That swells 
the back light between us.

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

We invented the night birds.  
Had to. What we thought we understood  
they enjoyed making ‘dumb-  
great’ from the top  
terminating with celebrity stalkers, gawking in peers’ backyards (their own) —  
 
Following orders so conditions inflect non-criminal immunity  
to sudden desire with intimacy.  

This 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 & open opportunities.

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

De facto: eye contact is defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Narcosis starts to drift toward humane sense that’s forbidden. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency turns to prayer, making patterns 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.)

What can be done to a bore? I register nothing. Never again? 
 
Boredom is poor experiment, our supervisor said. And that’s what we wrote down to snap out of it — lightness, joy, eyes-open dream. And 3rd cousin to dream: Knower and known are clean osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the suitably flared zoological frontier.  
 
Time I guess to air-lift my foolish eagerness and cover it with worn Keds and Swiss Army knives. I might think I’ve been a floater of cynicism in relation to any concept I sever. (It’s hard for me to take credit.) “It’s always about dying,”  
Btw, it’s “never death.”

I consider head scratchers boredom managers. They hold genetic information but don’t understand. It skips a generation.

Unnerving. When one came in I shied away from giving out the room temperature. What the comedian says, I pledged you abstracts in a hidden idiom of stagings and renderings, creamy highlighting of passages and lucid systems out-of-focus, a lovely kitchen table read.

Any cracks should be bridged with kitchen fiber.

“Absolutely,” Continuity Design Adjunct Chef repeated.

Sex has nothing to do with sex. 
It’s a joy problem, love let go on a called technicality,  
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch   
 
Per bantam partisans in calculated caution  
Toweling off ready for the next bracket.  
Boxing’s always hospitable. We’re not that stupid.

’Recursive perception‘ —
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 Arabic pastels.

A mention of timescales.
Make their falling apart counterfactual. 
Make my mind avoid bohemia.  
Recover the masterpiece.  
Destroy and
smooth feeling worse.  
Imitate killing seeing  
the system.

Skepticism is boosted by metonyms. 

Ever since, one’s intellect seeks damages. Time to boost actual ideas.

There’s not one left from an emergent zone for lack of despair. 
Nothing.. even huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy from institutional fictive icons. 

These icons I believe can’t predict what we’ll face when they take over — hard winds! and there aren’t enough white flags going around to

delete utterances filling our balloons. 

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

On the closing date, only a scent. No contrivance or Schubertian opposition feels like glistening bouclé heating under debate pressure. Arguments by analogy are always weak. Our roles are to fill this in, lengthening Schubert’s insipid menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus attrition.

The wetlands work it through. Words we had and didn’t have consequences. Learned good is bad is good. Nonetheless the lesson learned appears unseen and as unspeakable as libido constituting a knowledge module, aimlessly blowing in news of constant unitary joy...

It’s pie for you now to set yourself free through what you don’t know — that takes a kind of thou shalt resurvey, needing practice and achieved overviews. The verbatim relishes living among a slew of lucky design ideas orphaned to an alien ethnicity, busted out of place, in the wrong skin and age. 

(Welcome home.)

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

Many of you walk to Central Square w/ expectations
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 replicating changes that stay.
Mores are raised —
Bullets in lists shape one critical phase, a significant influence, last,
A look back over who we are after we agree — not that I care.

Morality can’t be beat. 
No amnesty? A ship was on the way  
 
from mare nostrum  
or / & like crustaceans we gave in, up to now.   
 
Blinds drawn, our preachy, scavenged opacity fills w/ sang-froid riches of dark matter, soaking in its stygian pedigree.   
 
Before that yoga is fantastic, a civilizing coterie added to survival space & entered into w/ a worldview w/out achieving access to felt qualities.

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

Off up in a gridded department one understands this may be an error.

Cocktails, 4:00 am.

Dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflects gritty, blind optimism via violence. 
 
Are you healthy enough for this perfection?    
 
A little off, ok — speaking the usual way subverts expectations.   
Stencils of our doctrine line up behind others  
As good critique pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.

I may have torn thru your text (though torn only from my mind — you backstroke and float around in my semen).

Once I had an eye & a golden beak.
Predictive dialectic is not strong enough. I repeat,
My miming the berserk,

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

Does any bird genus follower know more than I 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. Nor nonexistence when it turns to leftovers, raw as theism.

Existent secrets of satire go free of situation and structured sky, fomenting complicities (skydiving).

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

What’s the worst that can happen? Leave now.
For your misrule, striking down the Voting Rights Act.

Um, ok, yes, surely.
Open the curtains.

And de-peopled points trip up not speaking for months
(critical moments you thought), the

meanwhile finding my direction as I thought of you —
So it never happened.

59: Sonnets are ok, nothing new here — going backwards — 
 
Let’s labor through  
this ostentatious luncheon in old world pensiveness,  
self-admiring praise.
I might see more, fool my brain mended by your image but your fly is open.  
Stay in character.  
 
O sure you’re freaked by what antique words  
dig up and how re-inventions get composed, but we have to keep our wits —  
looking backwards under whose  
 
thumb? And am I yours?

Oh domestic servant, poet, heck.. oh chanteuse — 
I’m your doorsill to walk on and lick in anguish..  
Break your silence —   
 
Text disorder can acknowledge and arbitrate some of our convictions.  
The crisis is now. Form is no object but activity, explosion,  
channeling a non-hegemonic pulsing — and due to substitution  
ceiling lights repeat this.

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

“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 spaces
filling our eyes with unmeasured disassociation.

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

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

What happened, you look so radiant?

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 then discard a tuxedo.

Surely this is no coincidence. I detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of thought, even when love centers on the numbed one with a body of rare happiness like popsicle rose gold from outer space — 
Space in theory.

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 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.”

No pleasure from coercion, not while filling up. 

The show is called; a rain spat. 

(I'm sorry the al fresco was familiar.) 
Yes. And my voice tended toward stridency, an unfortunate strain. 

The music took off about here. Feminine along the abandoned quays with minimalist carvings 

We viewed before eating, thinning out in the high brutalism of culinary workers (Otto Dix). 

A violinist, hesitant but playing better now, starts our fine dining engines mid-grin. 

Evasion foregrounds coerced motives 1st. So they sink in more.

And

they’re off —

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

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 film 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.

You’re 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 quintets w/ silver hats —

Superangels w/ their instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge.

Lao Tsu (Lao Zi): The flower’s name is hooded, part doodle, part unsure his swag is clean. 
 
We’re in the hallway leading to stairs cut in two, fronted with don’t-know plaques. Stirring 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 say is partner to it. And how his confusion is proof to diffuse.

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

A few words on equations in lit: Counterfeiting
Is luckier than regulating everything before it’s rooted in or out.

No sweat on tragic self attainment comes now, available in this reversion of Recent American English to wish you any and all the full pleasure I withheld. Damn!

Sonnet to looking forward:

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 most position vectors.

Gloom 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.

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

A horrid plurality system turns a wall of calm over to science for good profits then greed, forgiveness and clumps of renaissance and their round robin prototypes that sell the smear to the cerebral cortex.

The plot’s motivated by small sums of justice. We’ve still not captured how justice is crammed w/ underdeveloped moral emotions and pillow talk — luxuries that bind, ushering in more non urgencies of a grueling yet quickened mind over entropy.
Info-tainments advance by themselves, lovely distractions, shooting the steepest mountains w/ slime. Thinking back, they segue w/ riveting inclinations in our self interrogation while commuting to work where we share high fives and broker a plan!

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.

Since when is / are government
cliffside?

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. Fixed formulae v. new options. Turn here.

Today I threw together one or two queries about genome erudition and fate. 
 
The pilots that disappear on our radar had kind eyeholes,  
a measure of gamblers’ vision, along w/ curly eyebrows  
of course, promoters of the foreground paradox of bad reasoning. Raw  
 
proxies — responding to scale
 
in the background — sweeten arbitration (explanatory data).  
Genomes step up even before birth and keep booking fights (proxies responding to scale) on what’s inheritable, determined.