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

Hands up.

On the corner of statue and the outer cape, there’s
a beyond just passed an easy show of hands
beyond orgasm overdue an hour ago (one mild altercation took it
into a shade of de-constraining tease).

A heyday of hands.

Sonnet 105: We express idolatry as science. Fair, kind, true.

Amazing to meet you as well as science, two in one.



Amazing to touch your penumbra, feel influenced by funky themes, many songs.


I was pleased you communicated thru love.
Take care, and take your time;
likewise, inspire small talk between you

while keeping the sum under surveillance. You look good together.

108: Admit you miss smoking gold.

You miss the first drag.

Have you read, teens get ten percent of their daily

Calories from soda & smoking. That’s how


They become bilingual
Also. Now. What’s new to speak..
The smoke takes you & him in stride, in spirit
Among the underemployed in hyper décor —

Your glass is half full. Your hair’s on the brink.
Your eyes fill with manpower.

Counting no old thing old,
Stay informal in no time. Yuy...

What now to register?
Stop waving that grape drink.

I’ll say it again, there’s a method to share but it’s overrated.
I’m high-fived as I whisper to myself, falling for the tautology.

When blood types were fresh no one was blamed. Now I am, yet I would like to see or set up the 1st position, be shown the dissolved needle and my as it were haystack with no frontiers, knocking the moment down with glances, nods, inspiring small talk.. yet keep it under wraps.

How now, the anapest.

There are statements of facts
And facts in law. Their truth
Levels go down or soar — depends on
Outer linear order.

The young gain on the old, those that would,

Externalizing an antiquity beyond their years. (The renaissance.)

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

Focused. Demented.
No shortcuts. Nope.
It’s regrettable, they say —
Twin Peaks doesn’t add up
under binge watch...

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

“Indebted” you may think sounds offensive and depraved — down where “forgive me” and “accept me” weave around power lines, ow(n)ing. The next step in the training.

Onto what?

We’re a special team. We’re circumspect.
Our sharing mechanism (pretext) gives no voice
to repeated wandering motifs over a long silence
we back off from. Nightly


we face 10-to-life thickets of cloud & southerly winds
taking it to other investors who might stay offended,


the next step in the training.

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

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

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

Cloistered, possessive habits flatten into praxis
— tho it’s instinctive to watch who’s singing
I get no points jumping in or off.


It’s just synecdoche leaving not sharing to chance.

Refrain:

This is the last time.

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

What are we thinking?

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

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

Father’s Day for the dead? hold on
I’ll put you
on greenish “pallor enhancer.”

Granddads breathing around us, sweating under a river of supportive skin
that flows on,
waking up for compliments ...
What’s your problem?

I’m too ugly it’s true..

No counterarguments.

(When I can’t
sleep I can’t

dream.)

Sonnet 100:

Muse.
We have tangibility subtracting song
— work converted to argument
with little or no honor.

But it adds up. Numbers, if any, spoil everywhere. This time
we don’t have to see you
get the job done. You’re faster than time.

We forget that’s why esteemed actuaries went
unmoored. Affection is idly vicarious doing what’s graven here. Vicarious just isn’t crooked
enough. Fame and skill redeem your fury within what accounts spent,
a despised waste of life like satire, if not, the survey said.

Sobriety, not mine, makes the case for / against boredom in composition, that is, in the poem-making venture. Boredom? Blame it on relatives, the empire-prone who ride escalators up and down the Radisson nearest you.

Sociologists are stepping up and nodding off
Under the influence of futon cramps at home and similar vehicles
Transporting pouti debs and elephant men,
Dostoevsky wrote.

Destroy and smooth nothing.
Mind control is a full canoe of alter-egos, disingenuous.

I do what I can. It wears on me.

Flashbacks pertain.
Large reflecting pools in the future, it’s just a thought.
If I introduce vagueness as a more devout
machine therapy, we can escape

thought-train derailment, bringing on experiments in graphemic parole,
rescue room from disillusionment.


Sonnet 86:

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

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

RNA itemizes facts.
Do you like spiral dares?
Or to be bubble-footed in dark briefs!
None of the above!

Fat, never satisfied, we live on the edge, they say,
we come from creatures far back, slowly calmed
by fear we were of a kind they were to others, lacking
redoubled patrimony and finding-it-out tools.

Distribution adjustment @ sports.com has those to spare..
tasked down from behaviorist beliefs.

Anyone can wish for ‘portal trans specificity,’ Me? I replace all the markers to get totally inside my face. Your face. Your brow sports a few layers of sleep relief, aching in baby, cutely accruing intimacy. Meanwhile a new team is working on strategy, yielding larger holds on cultural cynicism..

A kimono has been entered, explaining sex without thinking, and with. It explains our slender objectives wearing each other’s fragrance, weakening the night body.

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

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

Very good, Jack. We were going over some numbers, audience shares, I mean maxims, and...
I would like to voice concern about poetry / critique spiraling out of control...

Look, I’m filling out forms by the nightstand.
The point is I’m not writing anything “garbage-y.”

Not
anymore.

Don’t be silly, Jack. You are daytime poetry.
That’s cruel, Rabbi, very cruel.

1 enclosure without a pulpit, no dogma...
outdoor passages to enter then exit self sponsorship
spreading out in willful overloads of language design —

Skilled decor, de-simplified, or notional contracts
between science and who knew?
Ironic technologies without precedent —
A corporate hold across manners and adaptations, restrained praxis
and hermetic syntax, all noun phrases.

Nice beachfront but there are fewer nouns
and fewer bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little) —
it seems immaterial — immaterial, 1 of those 2-headed enigmas :

nothing much and — hey! another noun phrase.
An eerie self-eating metamorphosis.

68: Flowers shorn off bowers of wholly living signs —
losing my head over you
inhabiting death seconds before you, around you..
I’m a zealot about knowing when nature’s
bastard signs are vital, not recreational, a map of nature’s store.
Before the golden tresses Arvo Pärt is chafing: making no summer of flowers, no second
life & oblique as you — hours in fair defiance, making another green
for subsiding in attrition, missing you, composing around you.

Your beauty.. new roses, a second head..

Sonnet 6:

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

the winter leaves by the yard .. you’re much too fair
And brush your hair? Brush it back down.

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

Of course I did time as a stealth pathologist performing autopsies on women and men who lost their show. Subjects were mostly strung out on sofa sectionals — big, jaunty shapes who swaddled their inner pooch — gentle work but yes I’ll love you better frosty and lusty! —
Often I’d say I’m a pervert approaching you as summer’s pointilist / a man thinking she’s he of the pulverized, distilled dots — a liquid prisoner

pent in never-resting time leading me on —

A script doctor from Jumanji drew the curtains to reveal Mad
Ave, outside NYC, where people in walk-on roles pass our dead end window.

Cheerleaders knock themselves out, tied together in women’s active wear.
Odd, one has not learnt it’s scripted.

The street, a cul de sac to the point, casts shadows
over ATM media maps bringing more into the live swelter.

From the original Mad Ave
in NYC

Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads.
The contours.

13: Father, son, you’re looking up big-eyed instincts?
                                                                                  hard  
to get out of the valise, dear. My love. We pirated the code.  
 
I can’t say we pushed it out willingly (nurture, nature, frantic relaxation in stormy gusts).  
The fit is good to hold. 
I noticed you work away from me to make your poise smoke  
against the coming end. For and against yourself you should prepare.  
 
Against love, your semblances had no results. Call. 

Here’s one’s take on getting back together. It’s one part
to tensive healing (a method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow)
& aspected by hedges, almost. To go on shifting subjects
— I whisper to you, falling myself for revovery —
panicked a zillion light seconds too soon — too late thinking literally
in compliance w/ odds off bets already placed... wherein
chants, conflicts w/ breakfast & rubbery clouds, a proverbial laugh:

Nobody totally killed it. The bonuses were un-reneged-on.
It’s not large irony tho the freehold repaired to comes only in the ‘thereabouts’ pattern...

A politician, claimant of the photogenic vitamin to stop the bleeding,
is not much of a sentence, lacking meaning, more useful settling in mere syntax
as warm-to-medium as a visual partnership queued up imitating /
replicating Dionysius for the evening drive, before severing the vines.

Tattoos first, second, his hair.

The plot leaves the door to irresolution ajar —

Guess what, the grabber is un-bolted down in segments like a rattle
spinning to take effect. It adds an all night ring to our narrative, id est,
the needle breathing hard, leaving the hole
open to irresolution,
to set up availabilities for picking up the dissolved thread.

75: Every time I visit you in your mascara I become lucid about fears you strike. Day by day you are food to my life. I see the brilliant live again, sure enough, in vetted dormitories, always have, fudging abasement with rich food and drugs. Sorry concentrates. There you are.

Pleasure and then the transportation of souls and their wealth take place about now.
Nothing for me. I feel like a pursuer of no delight uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my whorl of cement paintings..

Starved for a look, now counting it best when the world
may see my pleasure feasting thus off you, on you dime so to speak, on / off your sight...
pursuing peace, all or nothing, but with you alone.

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

63: Hours..drain..blood. And something came up.

As I am now, Max Planck fellows are running off with radical research incentives for a frontier in vanishing unboundedness: Youthful organized treasures in a small package, tethered particle immolation. For such a time I fortify my lover’s life. The dignity of boson appearances, confounding cruelty and love, alike, fed from memory. Never cut. With little or no motive, the sky foregrounds their process styles, stealing them all always.

Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises.
Never enough zest or sprouts. Propose the synonym.

A breach of manners can be a sentence. Or a fragment. There is urgency in ideas.


I live in an echo of a country.


In the interim we reached an agreement.
Sex would be redubbed genetic sleep deprivation.

I’ll admit this view is crazy as soft the sun

marshals over the property.

I should break my leasehold, ergo.
Not really, she said out 
loud, ahead of how I was supposed to know.


This was the first time.

Longhand example:

Anguish over a panel about reasoning and not writing anything down, angst in its emptied refraction dancing on a taillight for syntactical beings (in a sentence) on a muddy sidewalk.
So that’s one.

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

Sonnet 40:

When you read this, my injury appears prior to who prompts it.
Not you.

We were informed of your deceit in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with new features and a few we move in any direction.
Not you.

Take all my loves, love. You steal from me and vice versa since all of us is in use.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom
interest me only so far. More curious is why we approach English language poetry primarily in terms of understanding it.

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.
Not you.

Romance forward: service details.

I’m thinking of an awkward color.
The masked ballroom look — glowing
& tiled back & forth mistily
Across immense miasma.
Half of it waxing along with the bride
Adorned in varietal circumstance.
Identity theft occurred when the sky was an idea
Of seeming permanent as a child
Utterly absorbed by stars.

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 go away. I can imagine a spontaneous disintegration of all of them until I find myself in a place like here, only a ‘half-life’ where speech is still material.

Can we construct the weather to circle bright light credited to seven chimeras in a purified labyrinth?
Yes, I think we can. Those seven now under the weather quiver to sleep, resembling one another trembling.

Pine assembled.

48:

One only care, a trifle

I save where you are not / tho I feel you are. Careful..

This is tomorrow before the cart. 
The feel all for it, both arms. 
I feel you over my chest, you, my dearest care playing a best-of-vulgar,
Long shot in a pleasure ritual for the true prize outlasting how nice that would be. 

Misshapen drops of rain change motives for fog storms — more rain —


gracious and fresh earth bodies of work will even

the air out too thickly (thick in spades then racing hearts).
We can see your excess atmosphere conning the brain —
because it is very common it has great importance

... here’s where I lost you. (Ever since


everyone does.) You now me. Clouds yellow venturing far at night



— mist drifting around in the distance, like dust kitties.

Just saying
Spontaneity backs up position vectors.

Woe is paralytic.

Yes or no in tokens, symbols and their prototypes. Yes or no signs. Yes or no to feuds, grim ball-bearings. Forget but never forget the asseverator’s vulnerability. And yes or no rodent names. No yet also yes to poems scoping life as a masterpiece, addressing a doormat standing an inch off the casing, fourth-up past the itch out of somewhere but nothing like every itch up your sleeve. Yes or no tempo of glyphic turmoil grounded into dotage and torpid incision in not one vowel or all 80 of them — 800 tones, yes or no prophase for pensive description. No to yes there’s insatiable shine.

(The lord’s will tilting my ribs reflected aphids gathering on a wall, also unanswerably, in the hand. Whose hand? Those were my sentiments. The last ones. I’m pretty sure. If I weren’t sure I’d take it back.)

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 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 future results?

Sonnet 61:
Simple enough picking up a pen . . . land and those living on it have data functions, similarly I see you

I watch your synthetic appropriation by composition, the vigil and force applied putting your youth

into a piece, since the grown man does not come by himself, regardless of beauty — the river bank plied by far off

metaphors and substitutions most of the time — less formal, so near home it’s taking dictation, thinking after your love of my love of you

I don’t know that much about you, but you remind me of someone
Who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far off, quelling fear.
Half a day goes by and

You are unattainable.
You are hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.

Pull over, this is serious.
Soft desperation, the flip side to formalism ...

There is slender lovemaking on square obstacles. To stop tremors, rouged slippers are warmed like leftovers, something a lapdog repairs with, to a separate bungalow. The commissary is situated down in sub-chambers, getting there aimlessly onerous. What will they spell for lunch today?

Fair weather clouds

67: Smarts don’t matter. You had a wealth of smarts. Advantage achieved?
I’m laying myself off. Shall I? (Not that I’m smart.) I’m imitating an exchequer, an evolutionist of avarice — loose ends everywhere giving wind an upright advantage and inflection point — long since moot — wherefore roses of shadow seem false, laced to society. For this is where wind and other loosenesses keep only youth on the gain side, impious beauty and true presence forward.

And that goes for the lively sun shining with its indirect blush-to-blood on the street, bankrupting grownups.

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

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

Rough framework: A giddy notation to a story.
Visuals like abstract blurs formally at odds,
split seconds in a bigger blank with no data.
A bog of cloudburst capsizes, disabused of clouds,

blending in, no longer exterior to land

untrusted and tenured, a heavy rain

snapping into randomness.

Everyone needs a secret life.
I got the idea from going to church.
Am not believing this.

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 raw shoot from every progressive angle.

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

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


choice; the machine flunked me — burst
my thought calculating stretch space sitting there. It restored my faith in the bonus shod of prowess, smoking in slacks (touching my two knees behind your back), undressing. Exercises for us commoners become a habit we can’t keep up for more than an hour but the revenge police are still baffled, turning bright green.

69: Kind eyes are in deeds,
sang an inward voice (of souls).

Thus measured thoughts uttered in tongues more confounded
watching you bathe parts of you the world views
in the same image-cluster now crowned in tawny daybreak.

See-thru flowers and hues your body accents seraphic white, others sang (seeing farther). Wanting nothing, although

bare truth, we are of two hearts. They can mend.

Two more loiter over the beauty of your mind.

Looking on, both smile, neither laugh. They’re extending their blood-pull orbit toward Pan?

For you, that’s outward praise.

89: In relation to conflicts over scale, Habermas and I want to inspect what you and others say.

Truly offensive. Forgetting what we both add has nothing to do with current biases of mine. Like so many others, I’m fixated on warcraft, loss of democratic principles and governance procedures —

procedures again, only this time writ profanely large. The writ carries a stark reference to the last liberal prime number among us, John Rawls, but how wrong, inarticulate and superficially sweet to use him this way. I’ll disgrace myself if you don’t tell me to change.

And speaking of lameness, I’m conflicted about criteria for justice, I have questions how these may apply to our acquaintance and your stranglehold now ...

Methods for substitution include straightforward word shifts within text that is otherwise not disruptive — intra-textual cuts and pastes, say — as well as extra-textual processing of found passages, more often now digital copy and hybrid processing from search algorithms, remixed with other types of found or authored material.

To employ terms like ‘authored’ or ‘intra-textual’ is to risk not paying enough attention to the bigger point that cut-and-paste pastiche has evolved into a vernacular strategy for disruption, including wrenching formal droplets from their generic management.
Poetics of the last decade or so continues to foul up methods and standards. A direction that looks facile and promising is genre-swapping, appropriating and incorporating whole chunks of alternative discourse within plain speech (scanning other people’s suffering, one readymade example).

Panicked, we stood and talked it over until, with Trump-ish aplomb, his stand-in lifted the tarp and showed it to us.

Aw, come on, try an exercise in subject-mood agreement.
Then Alexander went over blabbing to his dark lady, oh, I’ll steal what a thou bequest because we can blow hot and cold here and there. Call it modern English.

Not being English or Alexander I can’t add much. The ache of summer is palpable, and night is falling as snorts of derision dampen my naïve representation of democracy.

Notes on Expressionism:

Ridiculed by sycophants & inferiors, RM Rilke talked to whom?
I rank his output very high.
Off the scale, 9 plus or more to exaggerate
(if I could, hmm).

Duino. No lacunae needed, Rilke’s asyntacity sets an extreme standard atop
a maximally tall order, looking down over his sprawling,
immersive, dark & smoky project-for-good, 10 or higher.

— Empress Eugenie

Treatment: This is tomorrow before the cart.
The vapor’s portrait all for it, both arms..
You’re welcome, Mr Speaker.
You and I constitute the unmarried Non-Group playing along, a wild shot
in a ritual to outlast how nice that would be.

A life is charged by voodoo graphics. Once you sleep, you take up the ‘thereabouts’ pattern: still, it’s not overrated, I whisper to you, falling for reincarnation roughing it ..oh, wait, déja vu..

A new problem set:
Work through naïve discourse —

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

Make it personal then dorky. Work on your arms.

82: Sing:

I swear..

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

Adorno says strained rhetoric is fair game starting over (in the middle) but true words have always been devised.
And therefore there’s no foundering beneath the social parasail of violence. Plain speech commits us, forces us.

And do so, love. You are as fair in knowledge as in hue.

Devised in love, that’s the plain worst case, and here we are — let me give you a hand.

81: I forget so much memory is powered by mistakes = my gentle verse.
Versus I forget umbrage derives from distortion = from a common grave

Fond pleas, fractured time, your and my memory, our deaths and morbidity — all survive.

For in the mouths of men death shall live in thoughts of dying,


Thoughts still read by tongues to be also rehearsing their life with the dead. Haven’t I

Lived to breathe your epitaph? Shall I lie?

Hi cute girl in black hat that works here.

Videos melding media. / These early ones are w/out turning
Words, which might be impossible to say ..
Un-wending, emmmmm. ..

It’s my lunchtime and your breakfast, clear as gin.

What blows you more away than a curl of crabgrass to assess the new spring?
Returning then to a friendly caveat for the cherry,
Against the light it seemed in its bright darks to have a light concealed within.

Pal,
Your ‘work-arounds’ dumbfound sarcasm w/ common sense and vernacular variables.
That’s everything, a verb, noun phrase, enclosed ..
So small, so perfect in their variety, prose poems change due to your English.

I’ll assume you suspected I know you know. It’s in the literature.
I feel bad about blight on leaves,
I hear their effort but there is no god.
Hell is too big to fail.

I chose my ode and it’s a strange wacky ditty to summer, just getting to you. As marriages go it was not all bad. I owe my bros (not you) an apology. It was just an exchange. Excuse me.

Summer!

91: Who owns property, names, anything under formalism? Boasting of birth,
of skill. We grew up 20th century, 100 years before joy in wealth
felt better in one general way, adjunct research suggests

now of hawks or hounds, of all men’s pride. Your love tho is of more delight than dreams of pleasures


that don’t exist — here we go — your love appreciates in value.

Love’s body force is richer, prouder, always on top —
the best is having you, finding this joy above the rest.

What a night! No problem
I slurp eating what’s reflected in your mind.    
Milk white saucers containing light — ergo
The dreamboat approach never grows stale.
You just don’t patent it.

Paradoxical tissue is still not perfect, living unlocked, but scrunched for breakfast.
It dawns on us I am covered with soy reform. That’s why I went for consensus over
the tractor-red flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions!
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole ironic sector before repro-ed onward

offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.

O tranquility, your presence
symbolizes conquest that feels great.

You hate closed doors but like
to close them.

Conquest in your wake gathers late,
You laugh and put me in your head.

You imitate the inflection
rather than the sound of local slippery

conditions. Your victims cohere intermittently
as victims
Of deceptive simplicity
within love’s presence as well as the weather, the weather man.

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

Keep to an order to begin —
Is it the broad-armed approach you took


Erasing most of marketing, any


Specificity that seemed normal?

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

That 



Wok breakfast, man, a chef
Standing off across


Your 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 life or loss.

Hot sun, cool air, and no clothes.

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

Whole.

Generation service portion. p 00, bad line breaks, no indents; p 00 bad spacing for stanzas. When a poem goes to 2nd page, the 1st line begins at the point where text begins after the title — that is, 2nd page text is formatted as tho there were an invisible title above it..

Low mountains stew out back under the sun in blistering speed.
Front and back: Ants climb blades of grass, over and over, seemingly without purpose.
Hollywood has always been a wide-open town that devours its athletes.

We were used by demolition pros,
sliced, etc. Oh
You were fantastic, metallically shaded,
an arms race in refuge.

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,
an essence of flame pink
and orange.

For a recap, I color within lines. Drink? I take my latte to bed
And set it on the stand, tagged and released.
You wailed it, Yosemite!
Morose I am.. and optimistic.

It sucks less.
(Reflected aphids
gathering on a wall, also unanswerably,
in the hand. Whose hand? Those were
my sentiments. The last ones.
I’m pretty sure.
If I weren’t sure I’d take it back.)

113: Cheaters with Clark Gable. I’ve seen it.

Replete with you I selected his rogue anime, you with favored vision to shape my mind
to catch birds, creatures, the governor e.g. — Mountains.

Since I left you I’ve gone partly blind, seeing you day and night.
My point is quick yet slight — incapable of more, out and about, unkind
~ For leaving you to me seems effectually rude ~
Even dove- or sea crow-forms pay homage to you, shaped to your features.

The rudest to crudest creatures impart your functions
and get noticed — but deliver no part of you, true mind.

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

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

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

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

Do not take poison if you are allergic to poison.
Show more of you.

One’s partner
is a doomed villain — twenty times less than one’s own weight.

He runs down to the water, sticks his head in.
On a second take human strangers are defined for their video sense
by god, by sex appeal. Thank god that intimidates.

Here, I can see what Buckminster Fuller means
feeling the curve of the earth.

I get the feeling
god has gone one’s way.

I hate being made fun of.
In the interim I’ve written jokes,
All natural as clouds part — over 1000 —
The aerodrome softly moans .. it could be roars of laughter in introspection

slotted for long silent scream divisions
— raising our heads front and center.

Heads up = you’re paying attention to adapted preferences, opposite Proustian project boards.
And owing to your interest... this won’t ever constitute a date.

How can I neck you into warming
up tomtom heartbeats, migrating
to youthful boundaries by hand
to hand in a laughing matter?

Trick question.
That’s how comedy for squares works.
If it’s a question today,
Tomorrow, what’s the transition?

Reciprocating.

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

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

There they go
When you say

Well stay well
Where they rang.

132: I’d like to bend rules for a stretch to wipe within a finger painting
where we get dressed soberly for a sky out west —
It’s so cold here. A place for mourning w/ subdued hearts, rare
minerals that become tree colors we paint back east.

Your eyes I love, and they usher us
where full stars by your grace torment me more —
more than half the sun, than half the glory of heaven
as those eyes become your face.

Tonal jumps signify charity in a literary
float off.. .

modulating one’s ego, raising stakes
according to odds makers for daring.

Don’t smolder, show us
your simple skill.

This is god’s country.
I don’t know why it’s not winning.

Anima to Anima, you couldn’t be ruder.

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

I am of two minds husbanded into a common marriage.

Broken, giddy up, dead.
Today I face thunder. How to pay homage...
Page 10 concluded some orthodontic advice.
My instinct when asked is to inch back
To the moody raw nation where these talks and notes
Jettison their own use. No half-soothing word
On top various uninvented heights,
No heights outward
Of looking into what we broke —

The soul is a hypothesis, a sweet flying
Fish out of water wind-surfing over interstates
To destroy itself.

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

If you can slap it perhaps you should.

Nolo contendere, so it must be spring, just one daffodil standing,
Gothic non being, lonely contexts & forsythia’s juvenilia, pancake brown.

No good acid, no sulfur brown, no browns in hidden rounds
or flexible spite.

I’m not sure it’s inclusive or scrambled enough if we differentiate among them,
& besides, why be preoccupied with peculiarities?

Nobody has to talk to me about me. I see what no means. This island,
the water rosy cast.

Poll these opinions. No contest.

Heavy pollen, nothing! I should add I’m writing on borrowed-spores.
Making up a to do list! blinded by periodic breakthroughs,
A pragmatics circumvents the will —
The focus is on nothing we won’t do.

Sweetest of the geeks take their lessons to heart and join a special breed apart. Hoody, fucked-up demeanor and default dalliance with convention will get us to our destinations faster and more pumped. Something about / the “human couplet” / keeps me over and under. It’s a military formula, zennish almost, common enough striving to write as well as to rock.

Without speech sex is peroration.
That’s a normal reduction or formula for my song,
So few words on process.

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
like a voiceover to operate microspores humanely,
stacking ideas of alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.

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

signals liberate you to oppose other facts,” you wrote.
Or plans change.

Chinese chill is tossed thru the window, surf rotates
about-face like a mercurial tidal pool

filling sand and dusk with water wheels nearly at rest
as lurches of nibbling torque days into weeks..

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.

Is that how you see yourself?

— your idea of daylight
every day becoming ordinary knowledge
of parallel ebullience

                                waiting to come up
half in sleep,
steadfast in geometry to grant the horizon an horizon, the whole body.

Matters of faith:
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
Lay before my head cold rumbling..

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

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


Of aqua and orange foam and glass.

Even more I like meeting mates’ life-changing kisses —
Kisses like odes on progress.
Hoarse for weeks.

Sonnet 150:

Power to the powerful. A truism like this reminds me of a simple turn of the ignition, not a big deal.. A journey over a pathless scrubland back at that bind when you and many were read by the last data beyond the (evolutionary) point. All in an identical manner, everyone getting one message while sugar consumption skyrockets and textless news advances in choppy ‘prose.’
Would you like to ask questions or can it diagram its strength of skill?
The message refused to come here directly deducing another head scene to make me love you like the first time. That’s in my mind ever since love’s regimen bulked up, competing for powerful excess, powerful perspective in every word mentioned or about to be, with all syllables performing as one compass spin between you and others trained in our elite language packing questions, giving no cause of hate. Who or what taught you to make me love you more?

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 bullet points, none of wood. So there’s nothing to resent.

How does it resume?

Nobody trusts perception, eh?

Tho the moral base is as gnarly as helicopters in spin, any panorama you enjoy leads to ‘representative fantasy’ or real facsimiles apposite the perceived, blocking open
view, requiring accommodation to time squeezes that appear on purpose, tho cyclical,
‘unlovable’ (according to Wilhelm and Baynes). Yet conflict tho evil lends focus to self regard
and moving on, moving collegially. This is the potential utility of bachelorhood.

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

Hands up.

On the corner of statue and the outer cape, there’s
a beyond just passed an easy show of hands
beyond orgasm overdue an hour ago (one mild altercation took it
into a shade of de-constraining tease).

A heyday of hands. (If you seek it.)

39: Sing how in absence our thoughts on love prove only hints of torment. Separation seemed brilliant manners far back, before now. The thought of that now is oblique, divided but pointedly, singly alive.
One difference, then, sing that you are the better part of me that changes — I’ll praise you at the gate praising him.

Even divided we’re the same. We live to entertain the time with thoughts of love. And even for this it’s still separation. I dream w/ you.. as you sing.

Diva writes,
My leaving office is double edged as I am prone to off-center my impenitence about ‘the what’ we don’t get, the known limits to affirm any retraction, winding into a reliance on hard work, pleasures, plans, and this most generalized — one shoulder hitched higher, set to name names but allegorizing ‘the what’ — it happens.

It’s nothing personal.

I go for the moody and unexpected.
The color of the spine goes ultimate, high and below, unlikely yet

I put my name in. Am I fit for the scenario? Are you and I? I ran out of balls rating you. I found so much of what you say emancipating, but the data are hardly unadulterated. You’re driving me nuts.

I’ll say it again, there’s a method to share but it’s overrated.
I’m high-fived as I whisper to myself, falling for the tautology.

The disease gathered in a kitchen at the West Wing.
Democracy is a charity case. I have checklists from television.
It’s beginning to come undone, a lesson-fraught age.

21: This is a loose translation, drawing on your love. So it’s not about me but my verse muse. You planted yourself here with sun and moon.
I’m writing, stirred by such purpose and huge beauty —

I’m writing in love with you. Hemmed in April’s first-born flowers, rich gems, rarer things to compose from — a retrieval search with gold candles fixed in air! There are no comparisons to how you and I write together and then believe me.

Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

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

There are statements of facts
And those of law. Their truth
Levels go down or soar — depends on
Outer linear order.

The young gain on the old, those that would,


Externalizing an antiquity beyond their years. (Like the renaissance.)

What’s missing is why is there feeling?
It’s a state of mind according to Hoyle.
Global warming jazzes a decimal of our pablum.
Where should I hurt?
Once or more. A few more.
There’s no torture unless it causes organ failure.

Baby steps fix the climate really fast indoors
for we feel tall
and inflatable as we cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

1: Ornament is content.

The yews know how to wear theirs, desiring buds to contract brightness and increase —
much as we eat the world to save it. Together, dilating, tender, flaming, increasing now in riper time, your own eyes profusely fresh, then green.

9: No form of you
Feels anything but unused, average, a spent, destructive sort of guilt, blandness also a problem.

Your world consumed by issueless fears in political experience / current status / win-loss =

Hey here I am! Staying single you and I may change our minds!
I almost forgot to.
Could we? ah! you and I are loved by many. I’ll commit in sleep ...
We are gracious, watched over and settled into a kindly almost unthrifty shifting
Still, but still enjoying practice, wailing, banging triangles and drums ...
your private voice is wet like children’s eyes. Look.

I wake [Ah!] — My own voice hoarsens
A life desire talking with you,
But no form of you.

The times call for action.
Not

Caliginous faces, doubts, pleasantly high alerts.
No tedious script but liberation in horror!
We heard from the ‘producer’ under his own rubric
that I guess is also an icon of his intentions.

And yet stuck at this end I’d settle for a shorter story
or a preface to a cookbook. Staying within lines.

We’re feeling besieged, a little called out
in his meaning of no revolution now.

Focused. Demented.
No shortcuts. Nope.
It’s regrettable, they say —
Twin Peaks doesn’t add up
under binge watch...

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

“Indebted” you may think sounds offensive and depraved — down where
“forgive me” and “accept me” weave around power lines, owing.

By future standards don’t-I-wish
is disgusting.

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

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

Sonnet 3:

Now is the time.
Image & posterity aren’t everything. But they call you back. Same for dying. Stop Pisces & disdain. Face to face

Mark self-love as no fond option. Unearned. Yet thru windows nearly your
Own age April will renew another golden time that forms
Single light flows, now “Could you be more specific, viewer?”
Fair, prime, calling you, repairing for you
Your face, ear, a form of yours remembered.

“A solid base” cited in the last run of artificial snow foaming imagination — I do not have licenses to bring in blood.

It’ll be there where I leave it — under a trope for downward spikes in bonhomie —

In bed the U.S. landscape descends from clarity.
It collapses, torquing with disaster tv on, volume off, backpacking services and beautiful goods.

After homesickness, there’s new inebriation,
one way to degrade-ultimately-destroy the dynamism of capital.
Otherwise, there’s only perpetration and fortune to hide.

The sun, authentic each day, is too direct to prefer less than disorder
beside a confection of labs, East Cambridge..

Obliqueness shows up around access to felt

authority. It’s fair if you can’t say why.
The new job title appears un-urgent & you’re evenhanded getting back here.

This is an essay forgetting that mess nevertheless. I’m searching
new categories to enter in with you uninvolved.

51: Movement, not lineage — war is unjust when there is only one side to wage it.
Gleaned from what war is, my desire keeps pace.

I’ll be an angel investor in spontaneity, no need but love, for love.
This is strictly deliriously business, self-realized adventure
losing daily battles, no excuses.

What time do you get off work in poetry? Shall I know?
Speeding up when swift extremity can seem but slow

I hastened to run to you
before even starting ..

We’re a special team. We’re circumspect.
Our sharing mechanism (pretext) gives no voice
to repeated wandering motifs over a long silence
we back off from. Nightly


we face thickets of cloud & southerly winds
taking it to other investors who might stay offended,


the next step in the training.

Onto what?

New pressures during a break from bodyguards.
I enjoyed it when the vertex saw us off.
Later we got dressed for golf and congregated in the face with peers.
Starting at the bottom, the face is inside a very powerful camouflage (instructing us to use it).

Non-linear process (formerly progress, one kind), implicit co-branding of public domain utterance, hysterical strings (upon strings) of surprise, skilled narrative downgraded to parish bulletins, text-snatching and re-assembly lead on. In “Was That a Real Poem or Did You Just Make It Up Yourself?” Robert Creeley observes, “As a poet, at this moment [1974]...I am angered, contemptuous, impatient, and possibly even cynical concerning the situation of our lives in this ‘national’ place. Language has, publicly, become such an instrument of coercion, persuasion, and deceit.” Sure, though keep in mind that sentiment, along with this very sentence, is a set of ad hoc thematic pointers.

In the process something like an orange cloud enters the locker room of the essay. This is the middle section where Jorge Borges is transported to the essay’s ‘character’ to do the interfacing, theme propositions in your own words. Form as script. Gustave Flaubert did not have a script, much less digital media, and the word ‘hysteria’ does not occur in the text of Madame Bovary. For his time, how informed he seems in connection with emerging appropriations by psychopathology. It’s an early manifest of a viral cloud in our terms. By now every sentence in MB can be re-assembled into a poem, waiting to be taken out.

Stan the man, a legend;
it’s “OK” Stan explains,
we’re all Buddha’s fault.
He isn’t kidding.

More than a god or a three-in-one, a god’s pup
fills in quantum entities on a not-
fully-occupied terrain, terrain, I repeat, “on
pause.” This is space and time —
Whew — you think of puppy paws
as your head fills up with the stickiest
most adorable pup gifs filled out
in dissonance for street lights hum

and flicker

and ......

and

emotions
Stan aims to lay claim to and
protect as his own.

Living in an urban sandwich,
tomorrow or the day after you take out what’s here,
it’s in the doing log, down toward the end. Even if you see
spoilage as natural you might sense a hidden hand (vengeance),
every time those who argue grow untimely.

88: Patriarchy expands fraternal allegiance. You & I so belong.
We’re well acquainted with our own double weakness. Well, I really enjoy it. 9 out of 10.
What do you look like now? It’s right to ask? For your right I can set down our story, bending all my loving thoughts on you.

We both gain an advantage (all wrong) to prove you virtuous.

2 out of 2 observers were cut off. Innocent men on a wet
Highway, casually substituted. Putting it
Bluntly, during the break we reached an agreement.

Peace, justice, ecology, all uplifting.
That’s not to say there’ll be no food.


But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently
— 4 plastic badges for now and pa-


Per sacks. Imitation spinner features,
striving for positive letterform

abstractions, speed processed
but that alone is wearying. Bitch bitch.

You cannot do this job alone — an intuition.
Nor can I maintain perspicacity.

It’s just synecdoche leaving not sharing to chance.

Cloistered, possessive habits flatten into praxis
— tho it’s instinctive to watch who’s singing I get no points jumping in or off.


It’s just synecdoche leaving not sharing to chance.

No punishment without a reward, sorrow over death.
Only your own meets you halfway, morning blurring promises in
An aftermath of the long hiatus, letting your adages cool.

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

Another question
Of where should I hurt?
Once and be done.

Morning spectacle, desire, the physical. 3 prayer components one ought not to be without. When I find them in others, I know I’m getting close to unending originality.
I won’t practice anything less knowing what it means to maximize experience over accomplishment.

Just piano and voice.
I won’t do more, not even for track officials powered with centrifugal force from a hot past.
I should add my visual gamut speeds ahead, surrounded by haves and have-nots of guitar spinning in freezing wind.

Thru drizzle stepping over water, balloons floating
In a once swimming pool.. spurts of views down
Hallways of stairs set apart and fronted
With music waking in dimming brightness
Without memory of how you got there, you.

64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced
done in by time, grief and American English.
I hope you can let this go..

Time will come to take our love away leaving me breathing without a form; structurally I’m sustained by hypothetical force —
I can’t go on without an interchange — an episode in your telegenics.
When we walk together, it makes no language difference what we believe, what the soul is.

I’m just commenting having you, I fear losing you.
The soul’s inscription reads you’re my business.

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

Sex has nothing to do with sex.

I thought you knew that.
It’s a joy problem, love let go on a technicality,
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch

— bantam partisans in calculated terror
Toweling off ready for their next bracket.
Boxing’s hospitable. We’re not that stupid.

Back I said, a piece of non-advice.

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

Adoration had a poetic scent. Still has.

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

84: Partnerships were counterparts, 1st a little lunatic, more than most...
                Worse, hotly culled.
Let me copy what is written here and how it lends some small glory, substituting natural praise
                — you’re admired almost everywhere, making it clear
I lower my voice to approximate parity.

To which example, who can say more? You alone
                 As the story goes. And you let it go.
Rich in style, equally penurious, more fond of poetry.

Trading down, can you place our names? You miss the point.
I have a decorative indeterminacy wearing a terminal degree, while I got to anticipating how ambivalent I am about Bedlam.

Unlike the head in a head, a third-rate supreme court is traded from the top; time to find fortune underground, in roundish coiffures north of town. As noted last century, there’s the rustic perp for a painter style and muddled cool.

“Could you be a little more specific, doctor?”

Destroy and smooth nothing.
Mind control is a full canoe of alter-egos, disingenuous.

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

Received pronunciation foregrounds style but
We’re both bat shit over historical fantasy. Well, I enjoyed it.
Bowie’s on Netflix. What does he look like? It’s ok to impart?

I admire his pronounced snaps of skepticism, obsequious, sharpened anomalies.

An etude like celebrity.

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

Facts 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 a vulgar adder’s sense, Charles might say, to emphasize changes in snaking, radial evil neglected by the super ego. B is for Bukowski. 

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

My muse makes it so. Don’t blame me.
Say I’ll be back. We’ll look into it. You never can tell.
Poverty is all right but not extreme poverty. Without you I’m barely striving

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

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

Time runs out.

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


I model your bifurcated attitude
yet

everything I do is sin. One after another piles up if
or when —

This is when —

The 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.
Fund-raise off that.

Midnight dining, rambling
later like unnatural deer in bed, shiny in smoke. Seagulls catch their distrust and birches tear thru passive groans uttered to affirm fajita in snatches, opera and shush...

Smothered abstractions. A sure entrance without purpose. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me holding the moment but for paranoia’s audition trapping you too. Losing control. If we let go we yield authority.

I do what I can. It wears on me.

Flashbacks pertain.
Large reflecting pools in the future, it’s just a thought.
If I introduce vagueness as a more devout
machine therapist, we can escape

thought-train derailment, bringing on experiments in graphemic parole,
rescue room from disillusionment.

RNA itemizes facts.
Do you like spiral dares?
Or to be bubble-footed in dark briefs!
None of the above!

Fat, never satisfied,
we come from creatures far back, slowly calmed
by fear we were of a kind they were to others, lacking
redoubled patrimony and finding-it-out tools.

Distribution adjustment has those to spare..
tasked down from behaviorist beliefs.

87: Sodajerks. Their stock was luminous. Adding

that noun phrase furthered ambition (we’re sure it was theirs), amusing
vim shaken from the inside. Each had a skeleton curse; the lot growing thinner,
fewer. (Youth, after all, is the determined object of love.) An emotional matter
language models for 3 dimensional farewells in waking you
then not knowing.

Nice beachfront but there are fewer nouns
and fewer bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little) —
it seems immaterial — immaterial, 1 of those 2-headed enigmas :

nothing much and — hoy! — another noun phrase.
An eerie self-eating metamorphosis.

One enclosure without a pulpit, no dogma...
outdoor passages to enter then exit self sponsorship
spreading out in willful overloads of language design —

Skilled decor, de-simplified, or notional contracts
between science and who knew?
ironic technologies without precedent —
a corporate hold across manners and adaptations, restrained praxis
and hermetic syntax, all noun phrases.

Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads.
The contours.

20: Like voices & solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.) — amazing particles sleep it off in traffic, affecting hues up to the bridge lattice. You
& by you, inside nature’s face you’ll find warm things. All hues, charged, painted brilliant to the eye. Passion that’s stuffed, adding nothing, except altogether

the work is controlled, less false & the life, almost like master-&-mistress gazing on as it flew.

Have a Bud.
I treat our sect thermos as a norm for trade
finding order in play divisions and muscle octads
glinting with swapping.

(Party is just one axis.)

Close to my sources I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Resentment buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous, beat through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right, clinging without a theory of purpose or the gift of agency to promote his case, as masking vanity becomes a sidekick’s challenge.

What happened there?
Narrow rails, sheer curtain..

Step out of that church.

Never confess.

Straighten your teeth, vampire.

I got a grip on the heebee-jeebees.
Times are an outrage. Good times, lean, treason’s treason.

We’re tracking theme thru anxiety —
for prejudice damn well plays a formalist bias, looks like
a tradition of selfishness I’m loosely not interested in.

Tax breaks for the wealthiest keep it humming.

To look is also

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

Dear Diary,

Here’s one’s take on getting back together. It’s one part
to tensive healing (a method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow)

& aspected by hedges, almost. To go on shifting subjects
— I whisper to you, falling myself for weird directions —
panicked a zillion light seconds too soon — too late thinking literally
in compliance w/ odds off bets already placed... wherein
chants, conflicts w/ breakfast & rubbery clouds, a proverbial laugh:

Nobody totally killed it. The bonuses were un-destroyed. It’s

little irony the estate repaired to is only offered in the ‘thereabouts’ pattern...

A politician, claimant of the photogenic vitamin to stop the bleeding,
is not much of a sentence, lacking rounder meaning, more useful settled in mere syntax
as warm-to-medium as a visual partnership queued up for replay.

Coat of arms:
There’s something to mining homilies and off-color
copy, imitating / replicating Dionysius for the evening drive and later.

We’ve now passed the second-cousin stage of wretchedness. You’re
good to take it up with the authorities before severing qualms.

Sonnet 7:

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

Tattoos first, second, his hair.

The plot leaves the door to irresolution ajar —

Guess what, the grabber is un-bolted down in segments like a sex rattle
spinning to take effect. It adds an all night ring to our narrative, id est,
the needle breathing hard, leaving the hole
open to irresolution
and availabilities for picking up the dissolved thread.

You & then I change very slowly with a shower curtain,
on televised football. Management didn’t yell
raising your pulse rate. Or is sweet smelling flame just to remind me?

Frag-mento steps in, We came from coming back, he says, never the same last cry when you like to stay running on a cult classic with breathy folk components, listening and showing we both are here, one part synergetic Weltliteratur giving less weight to fantasy — another, no excuses, is where the renaissance part sways.

24: This is color in mind: Q-tips & smoke. Good turns. Painter can pick you up, take a day off
              from where everyone who’s still standing is drawn to your shape your shape,
your eye for eye, physical & prime for the stress of form relays between a rat race
             & cunning security IF
Painter’s 3-D models have your body frame & everyone else’s in mind Painter can gaze on w/, w/out you.

What does it mean to work? I don’t know that either. What I know is how to belong, stake out territory and bust heads, maintaining an atmosphere of trust.

Trump investments.

Absence of thought rules for higher authority. Top markets fill to their edges with intricate crosshatches over pastel word clumps, busy yet redacted, hacked into coherent thought. The soft vellum pellets change our impression a bit. A busy, contingent thoughtlessness that’s slimed, generally.

I have nothing — O Q-tip

A truffle and goat cheese pizza, for all its ambition, feels contrived
next to Talking Chimp.
The Talking Mallard Dogs sounded as good as they looked, they could speak for themselves, and they seemed so authentic you and your pet thought they were Talking Chimps. But they produced only vowel sounds from a larynx implant device.
Talking Chimp is laughing now unable to stop touching himself.
Spa services await you, Talking Chimp!

A blinding texture pours over adverbs, rocks...
Is that all we’re having for dinner?
Eating so little as I advance through security,
I promise nothing. I die today!
When an opportunity to think took off we rocked,
Turning the environment into identity and rumors.

Geometry respects the brain..
somebody likes a piggyback...

Preliminary talk we said,
knowing I’m going to grow

— I just drove all the way
from Hawaii. That proves I
can smooth your hair then do
your cheeks, your temperature would

like it was
lighting up my senses

just before you shave. I’m
noting how your chin juts into form —

It’s deeper, more formal than that really
a perfect animal halo front to back.

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

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

We’ll do what we can — crawling to maturity
set on the rarity of natural youth and beauty.
Slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless in times w/ no hope
Yet guardians who follow grow tired of interruptions and self-
reflective outreach; wherewith the corporation is late
and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.

When? as soon as today.

Auto minimalism (3 steps):
I don’t know any means to practice externalizing ideas to see myself as snowfall in faint sunlight; I don’t know how to transfer contextuals and theory dated over a hundred years ago or earlier!

I think I might keep to one or two tenets of esthetics, but it’s narrowly vernacular across, I think, global surfaces.

Vernacular means I’m not doing it unless ego steps ‘aside’ and I get paid in sleep.

Opening windows, pissing.
Perfect! Beautiful...
When the soup lady arrives, something inside of you snaps. A crack-up.
Exactly, exactly. It’s all gotten to you... poverty, deprivation,
peeing in the streets. So you reach into your bag... and you grab a
knife! You take the knife, and you lunge at the soup but immediately
fall into a numb coma. You are dumb, so you cannot speak, you grunt a little.
Okay? Try it. Good.

You’re confused? I have my poem now.

Loud poetics antecedents and indebtedness toward them could be handled better if questions of egotism, fashion, clique formation, and friends-enemies were eliminated. That’s asking for several parcels of human experience to be disappeared. For each poet and her cohort, tho, matters of contemporary personalities, preferences, biases, etc. do blow apart in time.
We descend from loudness. The Dylans, G. Stein, E. Pound, B. Mayer. Take Pound (please). Today most ‘responsible’ poets speak less canonically, less willfully than he, one of our accomplished loudmouths.

My view of SSTs is fuzzy, made fuzzier

Because of blazing fog. Industry rumor settles for non-empirical fears and precedent touting prejudices, converting them to virtues. Virtue has it, spy aircraft are halfway-habitualized, declaiming for clarity through observation, fact and opinion.

45: Sir, libido and swift words send and return messages — coming back as first thoughts even when quicker elements, air, my fire are both with you (wherever I am).

When I don’t hear back — I’m no longer glad
or assured, merely present-absent, oppressed by melancholy.
As it were,
by this account I’ve sent my desire back, far away from me.

Full version.

Holy shit!
Sorry. Your language is procedural lengthening its insipid menace.
Accommodations are key. That’s why we signed the contract

hammering out so much history & sensory awareness.
It’s said starting to speak of you is written better where it’s taught.
(Our addendum is in the mouth.)

Sadly Emily’s neighbors: according to the census,

Their presence was filled with compression, ideals opening a science of situation (Thoreau) and unobstructed sky (Whitman), unstructured joy, bouncing up years later with satiric multiples (Wieners, Ricard). Only yesterday! Literary worth automatically fills the page like scrub pine — becoming more fearless (less indiscernible) when units of innocence, acrobacy and self-neutering come together, vaunting in plain English, a content now addressed by new neighbors.

Libido and new ways to be policed are on a vain man’s brain (one with any pulse); the 1st few words take on destabilizing character. I’m trying to clean this [snip] to leave enough ‘intent’ to keep me happy after I’m finished he’s finished. This is an exemplary yet limited procedure, so I’m framing it fun work, cuts straight through its own restructure creating more choppy patterns to abandon ...

37: ‘Feelings are empty’ .. still / they’re
entitled − here is where many motifs help.

Despite our comfort and wealth
I told the boss he should go to hell
(after all), protecting shareholders from hock.

What’s a game emotion? the hang off it.
The contours. Nothing month. T’on. The shadows ’n
the lame, the poor, the despised will talk.

Not a one in the cards can bend. Simply phrased.
Emotionally poets always knew, ‘knowing
they have not made a point’ —

Should I continue to enjoy happiness at dinner
having intercourse by

Missing your motifs? Any or all? Enjoy how
people say they’re living to be admired..
Have a child? This wish I have..

How people talk?

The music brokerage remains in nautical aerospace.
A month ago a morning flew by.
My best friend my
most erotic partner. It’s a sea cooperation.
I was hit in the face when he turned himself in.
I knew I am unhappy and, like most everyone, I am not —


the boat’s cortex holding out ..

Nasal voices wake you up.
pulsing in a deep mirror,
light rain performing heavy Norman orator.

(Ethical and mammalian boundaries pertain.)

— I don’t want fun or get to dress you, hell
I’m ultra-excited to seem enthused ..
.. I’m on their side in the I-Be area
mincing a response one thinks on the way to ..

tilting your head with no untoward parts, transfixed silhouette,
— the Demon Puff in your plumage / language.

By popular demand we sign off on others’ labor — A newspaper edition, documentary remnants, penetrable databases — We occupy this clever, conceptual nook, curl up and at times siding with the powerful is deliberate as well as passive-aggressive. I’m kidding. I’m staying sarcastic — It bears repeating un-ironically there’s audible glee not being perennially the other and oppressed. The oppressed are whom we avoid where or when we can be free — On the outside, in place of a popular voice, outsourced bouquets smolder w/ the emancipatory normality of assumed dominance.

There are procedures for mourning. There are a slew of them.
I can’t say these things. These same things. Page one, no one, page 101.

I may go on to continue. To be pressed on cardboard.
It almost makes me say all aboard. Then it “goes.”
for Ted Greenwald

Any ineptitude of continuing the ceremony motivates our family plan, a spiritual prank, an outright lie, vowel shifts ‘living’ in sin, associates and fellow nationals glimpse each fetus as important as it flies.


A fetus in these circumstances brings on drug dependence, except yours of course.


I note its pale eyestripe of looking and reading. Down curved and black edged, its camouflage of being read. Frankly, it’s not that much into whom? When the father was asked, he hesitated and then spoke, “Not me.”

53: A substance note:
Suspend suspension of all illusion — 

All kinds of nebulae. Curved and hollowed. 

You have some part shadow
as long as a 
-utomatism maintains a
counterfeit value evolving spring shades a
-mounting to zero autumn after your beauty, a 
constant show and a 
variable now. You always have some part.

You appear in every august shape we know.

No just proof —

The Conservatory’s always nothing much minus common sense.

Come out and play, practice, sample finding out
the masked hostility and indecisiveness of national honor
backed up with inexact and multiple scents of feeling, crooning sounds
from what we were doing before [give me a sec..] took hold,
instantly recognized as identity.

Identity and hardened m.o.’s from silences and retakes
and feral scents of feeling cornered in a long, measured piano lesson.

(Argument intact once you forget some are more alive to practice all of this.)

As ‘you make a profit, remind yourself...’
the president’s brain is said to resemble Chuck Norris. Interesting
esthetic, not fatal — Chuck had a punning bone, also he was merciless. Really
his movies remind me of tin futures & allegiance to the ice
ants swarming as the mind controllers sidle away —

90: Hate me now.
It’s up to pond structure to model passivity discharged by shore conditions. Only don’t drop in.

The pond holds scraps and parts of nesting authority, an after-loss. Rainy tomorrow. I join you to re-reference an arrow and bow made out of many purposed m.p.h. gusts — and this is my body as well — a priori nil in inner life razing names of sorrow.

Our racecar can’t postpone it.
A tongue in your ear
a driving noise from pioneers and
‘kissin’ cousins in lines of duty.

A two-mate cabin five steps down.
Sleeping with you, blackmailed looking for a mnemonic to store in a palindrome.

I will never betray metaphysics oxidizing beauty goals.

The main thing is to tell a story. It is almost very important.
— Frank O’Hara — et al.
Composing like this focuses on writers, how they are unionized and surrounded. Focus is prewriting.

I work in the market.
I ran from information, bracing for a selloff.
Consequences, real overhead

And limits next. Back in a moment.
I can’t stop it’s my job.

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 — the power


system (it’s decentralized)
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 memorizing

parallel futures on a projective plane.
Why move into the crash test?

If you know rhetoric
it changes your feelings;
it changes others’ behavior,
especially in poetry.

Our poetry changes
our writing now,
the one you’re reading at another
time coming up now.
Benji, stop that. Strange dog. We’ve decided to beat it out of you.
Say something. We’ve lost your spirit and pulse.

The rhetor writes, “Linked phrases run through the a’s, b’s, c’s so on, but a-phrases, again, often point to the composition (the kind I am).

B-wise, my creativity
is not wasted in remorse.
What I owe: I know
almost and almost lost,
unfinished, in everything. For the c’s
I moved along a scratchy plain
of dandelions, peony, clover:
checked for snags of fern, fir,
and the only woman nodded: Oh yes —
It’s always your newness:

and I see your form
as I fill in the questionnaire
putting your back into it.”

Ode: I’m sleep.
An only hill
I’ve been searching
Awake most nights:

A clean face in the morning − caped
W/ sounds. Sounds caped w/ light, the best.

Dogs in woods by the ocean
Together, like them and like us,
Can you fill in the stillness?
Keep an eye out, the ocean over?

Repeat this so it’s approved,
“I don’t know about you”
But in a tone more affirmative
Like the jeweler’s words for whalebone
in measured blues − all the while

This stretch, like all comebacks, drops hints of a larger, open-minded we-don’t-know − was it something to do with the singer to one side, blocking another?

Do we lead a life another sings with you?

I’m learning squat
until you get home.

We fail to clarify after political glamor there’s poli rant along with new protocol (old manners) watched over, even policed nightly — many topics in mind so a few words take on character, a wince, a tilt of hat.

Current government gives a glimpse into events shaping war or “The Owl and the Nightingale.”

The passive voice was made for you to prove your anger; propositional semantics =

key [snap] decisions, arguments, further jibes, shaming within a sub-class of invective, a face-off to persuade waverers; Julius Caesar, Juliet, “Much Ado About Nothing,” “Battle of Maldon,” where Saxon to Welsh sat on decline benches, threw slurs across the Blackwater banks, add flytings of Skalds of Old Norse in Simone’s Droplaugarsona Saga, as well as the Scot Dunbar et al, “Montgomerie et Polmart,” plus vomitous insult at one another from Middle Normans freezing progress for the Republic of the Nightingale.

It’s closeness ahead shaped by time gone just like that.

Let’s now prescribe an observance of justice
for each game, any obvious bravery.

Let’s is an imperative like make a muscle when referring to the prompter.
A source of bravado was not sad. Separation from the source is.

A magnificent evening can be given to loose, persistent thought.
This or any separation we call the blues, shyness,

meaning frame and ligaments hold feeling, no source.
Feeling is not sad. One votes sadly.

I’m new to this housewarming.
That’s why we have two arrays for time & harmony.
Can waving time like a ‘crown’ of contradictions
supersede nature,
a piece of research asks: Why open
not quite a theory? it’s string conjecture.
Intimation, insinuation, innuendo.
Then it was something I ate.

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

Nah
all right, I lose. I’ll open in complete command of nothing, no skill to praise you.
From the outside the sky hints of hinges, bolted prophesies that you master now —

I’ll not waste time — we’re tethered there.

For love we’ll ingest all of you prefiguring present day,
inflating while we data dive, I guess

exhaling descriptions
w/ eyes to wonder on the full worth of your beauty making beauty.

A note: to John W,
Illusory a
-utomatism maintains a low balance outdoors evolving anonymous pretexts amounting to near
zero, a
large zero, derived from sweet metaphors for punishing discourse. Automatism covers some
ground. Nonetheless graceful concealment provides fractions that go free within our known
physics,
demeaning no value and a
variable either way.

Watched watching.

144: You and I model language as living matter, two loves we have re-involving impulsive energy that courses through particles of appropriated intellect, especially given appearances and given language itself. Still. Never in doubt, you and I may yet not directly tell this synthetic transmutation of fiendish intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t folk history of subjugate pride and procedure.

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

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

English language trends...
We can’t compress enough or too much. We were one people at one time.
We
also =
a glistening database advanced by textuality. The underground =
stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity.
ID traces out how to refine / displace any remnant of cultural contempt.
Classification adjoined by adaptation passed thru descendants.
This break and entry taking place under balloons holding our beef jerky.