Like nowhere else in one place, 
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable 
— a stream of gasses embossing / conjoining an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brays. 

109: Mind and body worship is vicarious, false of heart before conforming to a belief system to qualify. As for my soul, I’m too ugly to be molested. It’s true. 
But I like meeting new people and having life changing sex. Sex — that would be the interior storm window into no progress, the sum of time, not with the time exchanged of preposterously good but frail kinds of blood, the sum of good. Hoarse for weeks.

As luck has it, sections of Alien Tatters (2000), a pre-nine-eleven work, are prescient or more recognizably urgent afterward: Then the top comes off of terror. You age. All the same pictures in everyone’s possible. They stir up the common in search, not to find but to wait. Images are waiting. Sentences are narrowing. Clark Coolidge tapers and tightens sentences to embrace “self-hung trouble” — “I know it looks like I’m not sure of anything,” not sure of monkeyman and his music / poetry that “kept turning me, the one with the three reasons sealed in a pod.” As luck has three reasons or meanings, when Coolidge observes, “..don’t want to see Abe lit...” does Coolidge include one possible meaning spurning the modernist Japanese novel? it would seem so, “House is brain, remember.” How do you like your dimensions? “What are your answers, pendulums?” Paragraphs of sentences. Sentences of captions to the late skyward paintings of Phillip Guston’s: [...]I’ve doffed my alarming with plugs and caps, And this’ll water your eyes. I don’t see saucers, I see servants. Or By that time the tower was broadcasting nothing but shrapnel. How could you bow down? But how does meat dream? Notice how they tend to keep the cows toward the center?[...] Five expansive pieces, the longest, the title poem in 50 parts, and a brief afterword in which Coolidge owns up to a “fascination” with UFOs. “ ..I was calling out to them [...] You guys listening?” 

Exquisitely handcrafted 
meditation retributions..

I swear as you continue, travel further 
As soiled oceans rewild deserts,  
All our props are Darwin contingent.  
 
Making love is war. It’s not just money:  
I’m afraid it’s a Little  
 
Dipper: Emma, You’re handsome! 

Sonnet 78: 
 
Disperse my rudeness.  
See what influences of yours I’ve advanced and doubled. 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 on high to sing to the fair interest of the corps. Ah, same time, so often have I invoked you as a muse, I’m afraid I can’t keep working with you looking over my shoulder  

only to know the poetry is yours, born of you.

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

Music filters out at the one crack in the bridge against the sky. 
All the airports sink back in black and white marsh, just fine.  
Day to day sometimes in sunlight geographers breathe utterances.  
We’re going to be here as long as it takes.

Mass shootings ship via FedEx.

How to buddy up to collusion.
Like Dickens, we’re in public transport space, an elevator or hallway.
I’ve lived all my life down on the highway. I listen, I understand 
Mining empirical data has more value than the vaguest notion of a plot, many floors 
To overhear, appropriate then evoke conversational aggrieving — or if you want to get
Technical about it, the first day of winter in March.

Starting at the bottom of the pack, a fun strata, the face is inside a very powerful camouflage (instructing us to use it). That’s what I heard.  (God bless you, someone’s sneezed ...)

Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment is cut back, 
 
Reminding us of a few contingencies we picked up off trays,  
Bright boomerangs that tantalize in the feasible, wanting nothing and showing  
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.  
 
And some of these pigeons are both dead and alive. Chew on that, Hobbes.

You, my man and woman,  
Pastoral you and all it initiates take humane power in socialist space. It’s rare.  
Home base, hierarchal Finland: say it’s working through the population. 
And we’re the entire crew. The socialist’s way.

Peace, justice, ecology, all uplifting.
That’s not to say there’ll be any food. 

But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently. 

Our area is interpretive search. 
(Want to read our minds?) Symmetry among unequal strains.   
 
No that’s not right.   
 
Yamaguchi feels self criticism got way over-modulated becoming 2nd rate, poor argot sampling hostility.   
 
Masked or not, Yamaguchi steals from me.. ..easy to cite in tones stressing processed shock of inexactitude,   
 
flipping out highlighting weak spots, our freedom, surroundings. Thanks for being next.

Frame: 
Socialist by nature, cashing in analytics,  
Not sure discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income  
Consultancy, honing the reader into two dimensions on the surface.  
 
Looking toward emptiness, embrace it for goodness sakes  

But reading the usual way subverts expectations.  
We’re dealing particles of thought paying homage  
To paying homage, finding a subject,  
Finding how natural invention moves discourse from oversight.

76: In flight, the framework is told on telling. 
How can varsity spend their tribute? How spent? Why?    
 
This café, I think, is going to answer that & help the weather from getting lost.   
I know the frame craves attention, that’s why I always write of you.   
Why I finish a stretch and new and old lines get confused, showing their birth.  
 
Fuse the way  
they     
Continue. My argument.

Should we have 
a message?  
We’re talking to what must  be figurative breakpoints with fate and fate’s consignments. Example.  
 
Empty messages remember nothing of detached  
sensory esotericists.  
 
Vault-loads of cash tho grant fame and no literal disapproval.  
We have  a message.  
A politic paranoia recommended for staying cool and stable in an  emotional tri-level.

Repeat this until approved,
“I don’t know about you O astronomy”
But in a tone that’s affirmative
Like the jeweler’s words for whale
-bone / measured blues − while

This stretch, like all happy comebacks, tells a story of the stars dropping hints of a larger, full-mouthed don’t-know − was it something to do with the focus on one side, truth and beauty blocking another? Do we lead a life another sings with you?

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

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

I came to my senses separating tonal values to achieve a lava tint, acting my age with your beauty inside. So what I say prompts the floor to pour over lava, torn Gillette letters and smaller decimals.

Each step (of yours) ground in my heart.

Blackened windows:
We know we don’t know
Facts are a marketplace,
A rendezvous to encapsulate sleights of tongue.  

I’ll have sherry Pepsi. And just the sardines.  
I’m sorry this happened. I was going to stay  
from the moment we set the stage squinting within representation,  
getting some miles in, taking them on board, putting them in mind  
of a menial photorealism. 

This is a short study. Or it was. Youth is that impressionable.
Ultra blurry, anamorphic, bound movement sung by writing it down and it occurs in the latest form of repayment,

— you
weigh nothing in and get no credit, no
spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in.

As it comes to the flip side, there’s an agent’s agreement containing someone to look up to
                       pulled on from inside.

— oh yeah, pulled awake more than once w/ a face, a filled out line. Or lines. Smiling lessons.

Suspend suspension..

Our hesitance to go there is weather related warmth riding in and a similar improvised sauna of fog out, darkness offshore the day before.
The atmosphere wheezes common sense. We can’t bang it over though its pace is emboldening dreams.

What hinges out?
Hop in, I’m a musician.

I have aged for you. You may have noticed I’m on the side of folding in meaning that has no purpose, sheer falsetto.
You want in? Try eye accessing cues, carve out what rafter was last seen strapped at the top. A name for emphasis might be imagined.

A serious pronominal.

62: No remedy surmounts heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the whole life series, bright, tanned & then accounted in sympathetic parody and indeed praise. I define my own worth, contrary to more gracious remedies.

We have functional emotions, I think, grounded inward quite by self-love & this choppy vocab of possessive affects. Indded, there’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I’m reading in the last place you are true, here in my heart, shifting iniquity to self-inquiry and dabble. Stay with me, it will never stop. Sin here.

54: You’re back!

Truth is, we cave wantonly to your lovely sweet odor (fairer in our forgetfulness).
O wooed rose!
Before they show within you — and like you — perfumes were of dark matter, the unmasked buds that distill a civilizing beauty far ahead of summer’s space

Filling our eyes with unmeasured disassociation.

There’s a cloying aspect when able bodies gather to phenotype, we have to polish the devices
we had called gateways where wealth is wed (by the dooryard)
to far correlates, aspect 2, inventing a new intelligence of largess.

The third part is our resolve that comes in processing integuments,
weekly tea, investigative retailing ..

Here’s our take on never getting back together. It’s another part
to tensive healing (a forward-back method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow) ...

You’re a mess, honey.
                 — Touch of Evil

Something came up.

Little or no, nothing. There’s so small

an exchange to transact, no product, only

an exhibitionist’s subtopic within the power den,

coming up again to prove repeated effort protracts pleasure.

A murderer’s son asks for a poem about poetry,
a quick exit from cultural chance and underworld bloodlines.

“Every man is a Rimbaud issue, be mine as we consider
relax words, northern flickers w/ masked ducks or
a painter at noon, someone who routinely does things
that would be awesome if intentional.

Purple black teal are exaggerated.” The other murderers we’re in control,
revealed by the sounding-it-out tools.

Very good: Very goo. I mean knocking the repenters
off, throwing knives, wrecking them from the inside, slicing up!

“A game of obedience is long overdue. And I’m back in the dog pound, now
reading and writing without an attorney. That’s how the paint sails.”

I’m leaving disjunction behind. To work with you (our plan) is one way to avoid subjectivity as a nominal fallacy.

To be anyone who will die isn’t perverse, it’s the inside dress code.

Ah, holism doesn’t come naturally, Nickolas Christakis. Yet the parts know how to grow, Benjamin Aranda.
A Cretaceous bunny stuffed in an envelope is ludicrous. It’s untidy and young. I basically authorize it. While your back-and-forth is rubbed into my hair / no-hair in all these dubious directions you’re going in until you do an onslaught

that’s the game in self presence, yourself, perhaps, to squelch actions that seem certain when hidden by how far we are beaten into their projections. Self presence,

of navy birth, feeling not so bad about the brief gleam that seethed with rank, a gazing furl trying to gnarl sparkle to figure our life together

our history, ok sunsets standing in the waves... a Rimbaud issue.

I read the body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons. My mind messed up. Sun pours down, unobstructed in the symbolist region. “Prepare your red matter.”

Song: How long have you planted thoughts without a gender balance?
Teaching can’t be taught. Or

let me pull an invisible
to the eye hair off your blouse to increase the speed.

When you write you find your living partner. She’s a social creature,
capable of more complex communication, traveling in large groups or schools.

Well, 2 out of 3.
I hardly know you. And will never know you. I’ll give you a call.

I’ve been on a nihilism binge; this is while I’m doing only one thing at one time on a crazed errand-stream to a structuralist’s degree.
I won’t cry when it becomes everything without a message.
I’ll trade you all the noise in my hands, still shaking — scared of leaving you among the spoils..

There’s a tradeoff, my trade. In the din hostility shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing for stopping messengers’ tears as the door from nihilism leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.

Landscape: Driving over taking stock of action figures.

What’s my business? The apertures told me to go off, and that led to my holding

all these are volatility models from T.V., vocalism in a sense.
The point ahead is to enable the passing tourney among tense Fu dudes
to nuance hidden risks shifting weight (merging accounts request).

Modern proceedings like these day after day, not stopping, not finishing

No orgasm. On second thought, call me. I touched it and it sprayed me.
The herd rushed to the rescue (there’s a deadline), a tumble of inventions, an ambush

— a weakening of the night body — today in night — one enzyme waking up isolated above all, seeming eternity..

Sonnet 1: Beauty’s rose is content and ornament par excellence.

The rose’s stems know how to fuel it, desiring more buds to contract brightness and increase —
much as we eat the world to save it — tender, gluttonous — your eyes bright green. You are now the world’s fresh ornament.

Graduate studies. Targeting methods.

To appear transparent out of a board game.
After a button is pushed a model young theorist says hello, how are you, then reverses course. She heads upstairs to an installation in perfect solitude.

I’ve heard that scream.

Anyway, I retract my falsehoods. & for the same sutra
I condemn & mourn meritocracy. For / & all men
are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geo-metry
to inspect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland
                     for nothing.)
It’s nice finally to put a face to the humiliating nickname.

There is a lil automated palletizer of bread
with industrial KUKA robots in a bakery
in Germany where groove is still a verb.

The odd relay repeated.

There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.

Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.

I lower your voice to approximate the closest parity.

Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?
The truth is a manifold vacuum. And we’re feathery.
Shorthand abstractions like these comprise unforgettable totems to our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off, spinning or spun, upset, out of control.

100% our touch.

Hours..drain..blood.. Something came up.

Breaking news: As I am now, Max Planck fellows are running off with radical research incentives for organizing treasures in a small package, tethered particle immolation. The dignity of boson appearances, confounding cruelty and love, alike, fed from memory.

Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn..

23: My agent is a penis. Imperfect
actor, shortcomings balloon in ‘harmony’ & w/ use.

— where my epistemology scampers in transparent secrecy
in such abundance I weaken w/ fierce ideas to leverage your heart in the pluperfect.

My mien adheres to an expressive rule staying purposely
dull, entered into by going your way first, always. It’s

clear refinement where character offers libation,
supports your tantrums from underneath. I can step right in.

Filming you again. Filming double quotes.
V. painting just your voice, a glass house perforated by action tones. Beating hulks to the punch as they pour the next vodka that makes us cry. A film with multiple data fields, a crew of stunning extras in malaise.

No ilk of valid colloids — No mimic measure, no ceremony “plinthing a drumbeat.” Also, no dyscalculia, no hindsight bias, on purpose no flavor.

Worth repeating.



We weren’t orphaned, we just decided to pursue other interests



not to get re-elected to you as we’ll proliferate to here if you try, if you have the confidence and say it..

We wiretap the secret you weigh (you get no credit for this) —

Total lunacy.

No ripped-off melancholy, no spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in.

On the other hand, I can’t forget this is for you now.

There is nothing like an emergent zone of autonomy to find a prosthetic artifact like lack of despair. Except when you think it over.

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

Song: The sexes are divided. I’m a wielder of ‘cynicism,’ a goaded identity. The whole 86 floors just snowballed.



Huge finesse augurs repression and destruction in one immaculate fictive symbol.



Jonathan stayed and worked with the new ones coming in, who were all “Could you be a little more specific, doctor?” while they were arrested on the beach after a session of folded-wing snap rolls.


Time to release the affinity shapes. But I’ll stop now.

31: You remind me of lovers gone. A morning crew, weathermen
Waving arms over their heads in all naked patterns —
This was their 1st stab at tantrics, due many now.
They merited love trophies — now yours alone.
You have all of me,

My tears buried in view of you. They’re inside you,
Removed, disguised as glare hung from all love’s loving in you.

Inundated with liberty, I talk thus in a mocking form. It’s well after the game. My face — like the next — supports layers of sleep relief, realizing exponentially our wildest ambitions.

I thought you as a musician would deeply apprehend these leftover radiant, interactive forms (and opposites, among variants), soberly and liberally studying them in breadth (if you can still breathe), alert to surface details, part of the work week.

I’ve made it routine getting you to this next point in our ongoing gay sports bar repartee.

East of Eden: There are ideas w/ smarter definitions. We needed the smartest drywall too, to excite ferns and moss growing, other side — everything about the yield blowing in its whereabouts news of perpetual unitary joy... I liked getting you to this point in our ongoing...

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

When I don’t hear back — I’m oppressed, no longer glad
or self assured, merely present-absent, melancholy.
It feels by this quick account I’ve sent my desire back, too far away from me, from you.

Hot 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. Helium released — thrown in reverse in spring — trees light up. Better to heal resentments buried in percussive isolation again. Hot wind dumps more ideas for everything from desolating satire to a cucumber vine growing up a net. 2 sorts of woodpecker came while I was there.

Let’s bring it. I even agree if
Conditions look not so great — wanting you (I say I do),
Not out of calculation & how far & vast connivance

Take us. I’m holding out.

Now it’s daybreak —
— everybody under lunar waxing
credited to whipsaw. A foot of sleet
from the window, eyebrow roughened.

I’m

petrified by merger talkathons —

The forsythia is trying to warm up.

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

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

becoming day after night. O no thanks or so we have one thing in common.

Tomorrow we leave, a sunset among clouds.

43: There is your dead-of-night agreement to let me in. Iron clad. Skull with putty.
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down to earth in dreams, darkly bright, best seen dark directed.

The more you put on earth, you know shadows, shades, colorations are evidence of imperfect unseeing, but blessed (made more adhesive) and happy when looking on you.

It’s much clearer in the light. Yes. Quick. This is a speaking animal in heavy sleep, you remember —
all days are nights and nights bright days. Time’s up.

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/ one emancipatory norm of curiosity —
Set it to limitless, w/ its winners & losers, a humanist quiz.

104: You’re fair to do this, my friend. Etc.
I saw both of us stop the actual dial, reset the pace. Still 
you and I may be deceived, turning toward seasonal
purebreds for fresher figures, new times and hot pricing, unless  

  Your turning green to yellow from deception and envy is better.
Burn for me, friend. Hues balance in your green motions 

  Since.. I have seen shaken flares express fear and beauty in your eye. 
I eyed your figure before you were born to me. 

  Perfumes of April so stand as axioms this June — in cold pride 
you’ve already processed.. stolen for future use.

  You turn summer into spring’s first age — 
such a future never can be old or done.

The back office is an eyesore, assembly required. It makes itself think...lets itself think... (It’s a coin flip.) I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems. Thanks for the memories. You ruined everything.

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.

                  And any night they enter,
they appear as though have been with us..
it’s amazing how “they simply pass”
coming from another space, radicalized before they got here
proceeding under a bust of John Wieners..

139: A poem fires up photoshop. Excuse me.

A poem is a picture as love well knows.

That your cunning lays upon my heart...

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

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

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

Also I’ve saved your robocalls to prove it.

I’m not kidding. No more pictures, please.

The full amount is not enclosed: So this is not the other day. And I don’t envy them — it’s a raw day.

Not dying is not not wanting to die, a unique semantic potential assigned an inventory. (Dying is not wanting to die and then waiting not to die: countering selfmastery. But I wouldn’t envy them anyway, not if it was their best day.

Between waiting, not wanting, desires crowd out a covert, unplayed suite shaped through a decade long derangement..

We’re on the edge of a storm.

I put out the light and lit a candle.

153: & so. I guess I’m ready, off

that ground by which I prove

1. Love my god heart inflaming new fire. Let’s call this unconnected yet wise 

whilst it’s cool — well... a coincidence I went to golf school. 
2. New fire this time, your eyes — no cure, it’s the beginning for men if 
love is kindling in seething, lively heat.

3. My guard is up for a trial bath in your eyes.

You, your love heats water inside each word I borrow or find brand new, withal. All syllables steeping as in a ‘Cupid’ fountain of desire, inflaming you & me & others by our side also training in golf. 

We can’t always gather this way but here we are. New wilderness tracing a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed, cuddling escalations in body movement, ledgers of age. The brilliant live on and they always have, fudging abasement in a clean confinement serving a purpose within supernumerary states of being (confined).

154: Once asleep I’m sick of true love, disarming love; I’m diseased, too hot a votary of you.

I’m sick and so I take a vow to a life of heart-inflaming desire — never touching you..
Trompe l’oeil conditions I now know approximate maiden hand abstractions.. (tripping by..
each taken up hot as a brand) ..and so well inflaming we can grow

mind and body worship by your side, worship un-quenched, a general practice that warms us before perpetuating a healthful belief system. Or

do I prove a chaste remedy never cools, but heats your heart for a cure?

Flack? You gave me flack the moment you cried — Before taken whole.
Before moving on,
It’s typical, offhand.. rather:
My point if
— I’m probably not taking this all
In for the sine function that it is.

Let’s file it down.
I’m sipping Tropicana on your behalf.

All the time, staggering!

There was a boom in robots once.
Then Alexa came along.

The pattern is expanding.
The polls are now tightening.

Your proof is the topic sunburn that we can take indoors to paraphrase with little experience.
Give it a chance. Even interrupted our conversation never ends —
You’ll be taken up on your offer.

Staying chaste .. it’s on the house.
Feels great out ahead until there’s a threshold.
In those same terms there’s
a reliance on your pleasure as well as plans.

Optimizing the center takes more than a single system.

O nothing horrible, opposites are leveraged simultaneously.

We’re enormously self-disciplined torpedoing expenses when it’s cutthroat & officially sanctioned.
Getting a pulse, fixed pupils, dilated. Don’t try this without the others ...

Impulses to conceptualize or collectivize contexts are fabulously auteur-like;
sentimental to the core, even if in fact especially if sample texts (poetic treatments, meta-essays, e.g.) argue on the surface against individuation & sentiment. This is self sentiment affecting triumph.

The war rooms (ivory/media towers) in times of blanket authority — assumed — instantiate slaughter of memory & varietals of ‘superseded’ texts, schematic petals or stems from where the other goes after s/he drops a thread.

Let’s say you’re a man in your teens — that’s how it seems. Also, you were a near-death nut, now coming back to life. You say you saw strangers, that is, the appearances of strangers that fade away, persuading you
it’s for good reason there’s oblong smoke.
You read in the report one investor came to deny he forgot
he saw angels act like strangers, glancing back

as though we never knew the ‘aggressively disposed of’ on a first-name basis
or we forgot the name of our buyers who were reluctant to pay.

The new world has been well-informed, laying out bike paths that emit
repetitions in the bushes. Tremolos — we just don’t know — beautifully made.

To vote is an act of federalism.
Voices in our heads are social media. How far is it to the casino?

There is a civilizing process to telluric space


entered into by putting some wheat germs in.

Before the kill, yoga’s fantastic. You complain I’m brusque. It’s urgent.

Beads of moisture are in a pickle. Who isn’t?

A hobby becomes the color of dreams then addiction.
Can it hold the same seasonal affect?
I know what I need, blindfolded.

My life is the intervals it contains minus your presence.

Which is a way of drawing in regret.

Statement of purpose —

Just because we attribute work to personality doesn’t mean I’m not a brute with a hammer in my hand. My nailing us together takes a moment of your life.

Whatever takes substance and breadth, I’m not doing it!

Ascared.

151: Our berserk contacts squeeze topical structure into gentle shadows that are too numb to know what conscience is.

We learnt lightly, love is too young. Yet triumph in love is slathered over the poor and excluded. Axioms and other memes are what we are deft w/. So the poor-excluded doesn’t count? I can’t tell, I wouldn’t know. Who does?
When instrumentalists and the proud struck their alliance, we thought this is a gross prize although our ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspirations became more footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.

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

Colors burn up, each color of stone perpetually raging with a claque inside, giving more access to haystacks we call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.

146: I’m talking to you in American. 
 
  Christ is missing. No more dying then? Not going to lie, I watched us dream economics weeding and painting over a radius, destabilizing temperament like itty worms eating up the soul. Not going to lie to you. A body loss. Looters and rhombus-gatherers, all doing well respectively — great work for them, cuts straight through its own restructure creating more chopping patterns to abandon.   
The chips mount a background to soundtracks muting key words. Entire sectors of us feel it’s about time, so short a lease, epic sums on new slender gloss in silence. The walkway and manly instrumentation   
 
are redone for full combat. Let’s remember in passing tidbits of hyper-literal churning depth. (It might be feminists like us are on genome probation.)     
 
Is this that world’s decision theory now? Don’t know. Not going to lie. (Ideologues often get stuck on last lines.) 

‘How far? Rub it in.’
Think or don’t think of it as conspiracy of/in the sun

in/of a square committee afternoon.

Spring!: billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom bank with us!

We’re playing with a few new features and a couple we move in any direction.

Their funds are soon to be declared ‘NONCLAIMABLE’ and subsequently turned over to you!
You’re assured this transaction is risk-free, as we have taken all modalities to be less acrid and top secret.

Lugubrious or not, we’ve been informed of your discretion in our sleep / lines from Aeschylus —

See! you forgot: Your first poem!

I’m a little I guess confused

I thought you might understand I mean

I'm surprised, do you know


what I'm saying? I guess so


not exactly.

Physicalism (neural brand continuity) adapts to schemes.
Government is not that impregnable. The background is a colorful PROCESS shot. A lethal-to-pallid graduate group locksteps to the scent, clothed less formally, save motives for eagerness.

I remember those breasts..

A geometry that respects the brain,


Fred Astaire kind of shit.
When I win, I’m

Drifting toward us,
It’s a back-drift

Under your blanket. I’m

Over you now. I’m half-awake


Falling asleep in the speaker’s presence.


It’s deeper than that really.

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

Losing both death and life in pursuit of other business.

You look how I feel.
No plan is perfect.

137: Love is a fool. A blind fool. You can’t see what they see. You’re wide awake thinking it through until a subfocus gets lost. You can’t see you grow accustomed, so to speak, directly oblique : but pointedly no name escalated or united w/ the width of what beauty is! And where it lies!
Bon équilibre, someone else won’t choke (and in a non asphyxiating language at that), one a 2nd person, your “someone else,” comprehends. What do you say? Why of falsehood, tell me, speak to the wide world where all are over-partial to judgment. Why should my heart do anything?

Yet I give up weak words thinking they seem right, hack at reasons to try more with the grit of fairer and fouler understatement, neither the worst or best.

And you know, that’s what’s wrong then. Over-partial you and I can’t see what the world sees..

Sing, my next self:
There were balls of steam suspended in bacteria over our hands, discouraging others. (A boiling kettle contained prescriptions, a guess.) Better now not to digress but file out a shade apart trailing the other copycats.

At top the penis is everlovin-elastic.

Heaven is in the heart with its egg drop of credos and documents.

A mood is an emotional state. Comcast.

Everywhere there’s fog off a force field you tend to dislike, nowhere better!
No ripped off melancholy in a sky, no lecture / rap / blues, no shelter against the curious. I’m lying.

Part of what I do here. Throw up my hands!

Ventriloquating is something.

No one’s favorite word yet — nice aftershave, Rene

I got wind of it, put you in —

Can you be “quoted” in any meaningful sense?
We have two arrays for time & harmony:
That ass buzz — I know you meant juniper
within a philosophy (in movement thru spatial dimensions)
(& the aura of a scent) forward!

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

Two very different outcomes equally square
What we hear.

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

Clear clear bright morning.

I won’t do your religion, good day.

Just piano and voice. Sunken gardens with a fountain of moods for here in Four Corners.

133: My strategy is sweet sleep until we wake.

Who is calling?
Your friend is coming. Must I abandon myself? then my next self? both appear wounded players, both slaves, both to slavery?

Who can say? Twice or say thrice double crossed and, again, — whoever, it’s not enough to torture me alone —
Engrossed, I can hear my friend’s heart groan in jail, thrice threefold — pent up cruelty that’s iterative, baroque:
As if out of time Couperin sprawled with the naked around Antoinette.

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

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

127: C.V.: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating raven yawns from fair use, and there’s the bastard shame (old age) accounted to eyesores we dreamed up or we could dream up, successive faces beauty slandered. Inside, borrowed codes trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday, thinking: so many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs up they flare into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer! Blocks we’ve been party to after lunch. 
Hitherto nature's power susses its own fair use, so lovers per lifetime meet others halfway, creating new faces, slanting the blurred promise we had or we don’t know we had. Mourning beauty, letting it die down. 

Sonnet 131:
Meeting slander again: 
A delivery system processes our facial powers —
they have many words for yours — doting, precious

But it’s our doing, picking a few others, throwing cash in for pizza ..

It’s a balsa wood decade, valuing hoax, coming too near tyranny
for it never ends, I swear. 

Although I swear it to myself alone, my heart,
our love constitutes long shots. It never ends
in a thousand groans to outlast madness
and slander. And in good faith — how fair and fairer that is and will be. 

Hail, love, I’m in hell with you
Having seen again what we know about us.

We’re not living there right now; it’s too far to drive, leaving us out drenched to the waist, hanging down on the sidewalk and in blue and green mud sludge that’s looking a little ‘filmed over’.
The now is? I don’t know where it was. I wonder if they’ll show up.
These questions are battered about.

I don’t get what you want
— our lives are directionless without a group, a clan?  
     
The telling problem with engineered simplicity,  
You annoy others (meditations in telling).  
 
I don’t mean rampage in a civil sense,  
I mean surgically knocking other chanters  
Off, throwing knives, wrecking them  
From the inside, slicing up!  
 
I was kidding I’m not religious.

We went nowhere. Propositions become a promise.

At first random, as noted last century, there’s a rustic perp to experiential style and muddled cool.
2 million years a species, we know $ is good, sexual liberty never expires, but the cool gauge is slipping

while I’m not going anywhere until gang murders are cut in half.

Do you write while you edit?

Here we go. I got you.
Here we are.
I got you.

My back!
I got you. It’s okay.

You sure that’s why you’re here?

Nature is too loud for poetryts.

I’ll stop here, because I know you dislike machine habits:
Des ert-wise, how’s it going?
Well, you know, for a few weeks words like ‘trounced’ came up.

I lost how small I get.

Here are today’s avoidance words.

More bloom in the rubble.. sands mint white

Tho overstated, the mind is a beautiful tool of late capitalism (the unwitting effect and cause). 

Capitalism stands at the curb, a whiff of more aroma, waiting, eyes unblinking.
(Or one could seek documentation, semblance, something Swiss.. From now on the mind is Switzerland, ok? Two eyes staring everywhere, mein Herr, leave now.) Capitalism thus gives up its dude ranch, akin to its rustic factories on the way west to prey on the drunk and disorderly. This is the highway the slug runs out on, leaving us up here.

A futurist has a softer side.
His life is his poetry, which appears as a biopic on my writing poetry about your life.
His life then is built around sane choices w/ a sense of a person, even though in a few seconds, I’m in memory* of that person to come. Aw.

That a fact?
Some don’t hear clearly when one’s “voice” joins others’ to deepen ultimately anonymous expressions of desire.

* The memory part is mostly vice versa.

to dead poets..

Been holding your tongues. That’s how it works.
Non-interference takes charge, under which an authentic kindergarten language, dance and charades get raised and quest is forcibly asserted. Working against deadline shaped the last phase of withdrawal from our deadlock with future attributes.

Meantime you targeted a fan like me because of familial obligations to ageless platitude, your camouflage in plain view, the focus of stiff winds over centuries-old middle ground.

Our supply chain deals fatalism whose allegory
can shape and twist any desire, except a ready
-made means to change the supplier that feeds us.
That tells me
I love needing what tv does.
It feels great here. We’re on tv.

Nature is too loud for poetryts.

Nothing is such in all cases. This brings on what works mostly.

We grabbed that as a ladder we wouldn’t forget —
In short, mid-super memorized treetops —
at the edge, entrenched applause

plumbing calm fields

of mind-boggling quiet,

stronger now for loss of plant life.

Another moment soon to stare out the window, a flood lamp over my shoulder to herald the swindle in wind farming. Craning one’s mien goes on in this vein, time passes — comments from barbers on stale movies, political lies — freedom takes off at many a midpoint. It’s personal, e.r. managers tell me.

It’s almost sullen to write enflamed birdsong and comb back your hair at the same time.. Can you do that? At the barber’s? To sound like your own critic stay light with a spooky edge.

Life is short and good grooming rakes you all over. No victims.

136: I am nothing. What’s my business? Blind soul systems led me to O you

— whereas my epistemology scampers in secrecy, the password pilfered, your soul knows it is already admitted...

W/ several newer proofs that would leverage you right there in the pluperfect, had your love held me by my name.

Therein, a civilizing process today to staying purposely
dull, entered into too by spotting it first. It’s
a clear refinement where character offers liberation — my sweet nothing

for nothing will hold me, nothing
supports the love-suit from underneath. Only you win the job!
You’re my own nothing boss.

50: A hip cast of super angels strumming harps, an encore of Zeus Arrhenothelus

Bringing up larger journeys for the stretch and preen in vigilance onward —
So far the miles for me are measured from my friends left behind.
I fall back tired, breathe while new cast members get authenticated —
They are casually let go as they finish groaning for us.

Our joy restored at a slight remove from sharp pain and darkness in grief, putting this in mind
Since we answer to manifold waves that weigh in:

Unprovoked, a heavy vacuum still.. you are away while I am on the way at my travel’s end.

64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced,
increasing store with loss, done in by time’s fell hand,
the rich proud cost of grief and American English.
I hope you can let this go..

Time will come to take our love away, leaving me breathing without form;
structurally I have seen I am sustained by so lofty a hypothetical force —
But I can’t go on without some
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 ruminating on having you; slave to you, I fear losing you.
The soul’s inscription reads you’re my state of the eternal state, my kingdom.

Vile. Vilest. I’ve lots of life parts going in, a series of vignettes, monologues, whatever comes w/ writer’s block undiagnosed. An intersection of an un-demarcated self, motion in unrecognizable patterns, math as therapy and fear of validation. And another thing is a screenplay called Standing Dissolved, My Back to You about a homeless guitar sampler befriended by a yachtsman who hides from the world. They head off exploring Taoism so there’s a lot of take-out. For a documentary short it’s a bracing swim. The guys bond fast and plot their way around eating, watching tv, taking long walks, suffering — all of which figure in my earlier career, more cold-hearted patterns I hadn’t even realized!

Go, go, go!
Oh, my God. This twistee’s blind as a bat.
Doctor, what a surprise. Are you having lunch here?
Well, I would if it’s that simple.
I wish it were that simple.
— The test results have come back — And?
And I’m afraid the results are very disturbing.
It seems Jack has a rare case...
of brake fluid.
— Bran fluid. Bran flavor —
Brain fever — Say it!
Brain fever — Yes. Life can be hard..
Brain fever. Or what we call at The Tech...
At the current rate ...
his brain will laterally explore...
Literally explode — Exactly.
— within the next three houses — Hours.
Yes. It will literally explode within the next three hours.
I would suggest leaving the restraint.
— The restaurant — Restaurant.
Yes.
His brain will actually explode?
Yes. I’ve seen it happen — Check!
It’s a dread.. ful...
thing.

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

Self-conflict and compromise keep popping up as rich bases for satiric pleasure and symphonic failure.

If that’s allowed.

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.

Rush to earnest sentiment and keep me there, do me up.
Only four exceptions: I wasn’t speaking to you.
I was speaking to strong, sustained interests of Oil Inc.
Oh, and incidentally, I can’t keep working with you
Looking over my shoulder. Don’t be afraid,
I just kick back and relax, the year will be half over.
Summer .. if I could let myself be completely a nano reading.

I should add I don’t know anything about microspores, also
Heavy pollen, nothing! I should add I’m writing on borrowed-spores.
I haven’t done tranquility either! — not even a feeding..

Making up a to do list! blinded by periodic breakthroughs,
A pragmatics circumvents the will —
The focus is on nothing we won’t do..

Blurb:
You bet monkish materiality does not exist. No dissonance, no disruption! There are appearances, such as separate questions and baseline boundaries in self-abnegation.

The book covers a lot.

An interesting interview had to be done in depth, ‘staff may be prosecuted,’ toughing it out.

71: We don’t remember your life, your name, I no longer mourn you.

Like a surly, vile freeloader / poet, I overhear captions in robot clauses... giving warnings. It’s vile — compounded when I think you read these lines into my thoughts. I’m the hand that writ ...and I negotiate cash for rapprochement after I am gone. Hey, don’t worry, my next line is not incompatible with yours, for I love you so.

77: Beginning to get the picture. Beyond the blanks
you can taste love printing out its progress to eternity:
Our love (a winner when you take a look) is a time share in choreography.
Joining you, me — my writing learns & shows a shady stealth of other men — committed to your writing now, delivered from your brain,
nursed on your beauty’s imprint.

102: You’re the matter at hand merchandized within isomorphic rotations from green hues perpetual to earth.

You’re asking a lot.

Still our love was new.
Well, most of these “notes” are literal, based on trying to sit down [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still the matter.”

The access air of inevitability around more advanced codes got shattered. But I hold my tongue. Shattered seemed inauthentic in the first mustache sense. You are more than sex. You’re holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. This.

Tv interview:
I still write poetry. Yet I have no regrets.
I subsist in attrition finding and picking up purviews —
Th e enigmatic verse syllogism under one rule is eaten alive by song layouts,
that’s the power of bounce over provisos.

— Let’s be fair, the partnership was an accident enjoining boosters of equity.
Runic, compared to poetry now.

It just snowballed until all frontiers on Earth were taken under one rule.

Our slogan has been restated: Bodies of formulae destroy poetry until only style prevails.

(Yay..)

We reach elements within erotic catalysts where touch management is unleashed. But the scenery is suddenly beyond diagram while the crew is calmed down. There’s a dual nature to anonymity that makes what’s inside disappear, a bright pulling apart at the summitry of escape.
What’s semiology? unless we un-gnarl affects to figure it out?

(I don’t remember whose or how.)

Vengeful dioramas later ..
soaking up positron equations that might italicize sex (our hobby and bent!) annexing us to commune midstream freely by the humming fireside. Yes?

Yep. I’m not picky. I’m trashing blushing shame / anthropological-foam-bearing puffiness, that’s all. There. Chucked.

99: Stay on the hunt, tough to please, speculate (ouch)

even as vengeful tectonic plates jump over
our fears, shame and despair.

Annexed to you, a purple violet seems grossly dyed, your soft cheek
raining havoc for lilies.. marjoram, my love’s breath, your breath. (Uh.) Here’s where you and I lose the scent. Ever


-yone does. Clouded (ouch)
flames ennoble the sky to blush through


my love’s veins, your hands, both of us in thorns
condemned for pride, going on all nerves stolen from you.

My alter ego leaves for finishing school. She’s wearing khakis and a red T-shirt and my new backpack stuffed with graphs. She wants more than a group-regulated ethos for the manufacture of comedy and verse. Auteur-ship is a social construct.

The archives are at risk.

for February
Ontological waves beat their briefs prompting fish next
Out of breath, nearly within sight, cinched it seems, huffing at the mouth.

Sister Fish wishes nobody had cared. A collapsible bottle of wish with

No message, just hunger and digestion.

Hypoxia: poor make us sick, The

13: Father, son, you’re up against big-eyed instincts?  
                              hard  
to get out of the valise, dear. My love. We pirated the code.   
 
I can’t say we did it willingly (frantic determination in storm gusts).   
 
A semblance of you as some other was good to hold, in lease.  
Who lets it says so. 
 
When, again, you are love for me, against a fall,  
against the coming end, against death and eternal cold, my dear, 
 
we then and here should prepare 
but against love, your semblances bear no results. Call. 

Marriage season. The mood passes. From desolating satire to
Constant put-downs you parrot like executive control

— Holding firm in the wilds where fireworks will be slowly ignited
“In the slumbering gaze” parallel kill and be killed, united obliteration.

Provincetown: Veined staff encourage sampling
as Lt Benji takes fingerprints, a full-time hobby
for Meister cabin boy put in charge over 30.

No evidence yet (or ever). The night is young.

A chance at a longer life.
The copy writes itself.
I pulled out a blank check and left it blank.

You don’t even have to be interesting.
T hat doesn’t sound right.
Always repeat what appeals to you.

I’m captioning this Token Austerity, sleep-laden.

Copy-fitting is more profitable than deep discounts.
W e need to see everything before it’s retouched out.
This is a new policy to block deletions that go missing.

4: Unthrifty = extravagant; nothing = nothing.
To traffic in deception, record your writing. Take notes here
.. and I’m being frank, beauty lent to you
will oppose given facts of previous loveliness gone unused —
a perplexed legacy taken outside why or what’s acceptable

to audit profit and thrift. I’m lending you
my saddle for your extrication from hallucinatory delirium ..

Love whom else? Is it largess to go free? In a coin flip, we

traffic with fog to bequest lilac-dark in the air
spending upon you and me
so great a denatured octagonal gloom
by our own natures, sum of sums, we must leave alone.

So far I can see your light
tendencies shifting free of fever, ague,
Intemperance, the flu.
Coming clean is part
Entering & staying w/ a value

That comes into you, fantastic to watch!
Won’t lie, I sleep in it.

Hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to behold
but with the same vulgar, adolescent cri de coeur.

(Good night, wallet.)

Dispatched for
chaos

yet
subjects of desire in another sense, an echo
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible
June light
Minimalist
and suddenly just theory

awing in a wolf’s regime,

There’s brush
fire toward mosquitos — shot
through the throat, asking too much

Guards stood tall. United in their rhythm over parcels. Now they tell you take off your belt. The impression received: every motion serves a purpose. A higher purpose according to those hoisted in pectoral breeze. Purpose in a word is metonymic for devastation in dance, collapsing under our own glare in supernumerary moves, minor readjustments in body politik on a purely intentional scale opposite a line-up of out-of-control voice forms.

Then ballet natives yield to a rush of idols and new people center stage... my right, your left.

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

You have no better skill than to pump out to my grasp and rhyme with me.
Girls, gardens, “outward fair,” nothing less!
No less and still one idea for you standing happier than the rest — only a wish.

I can’t make you living in the eyes of men ..

I can’t tell you I don’t care.

22: Inside you

The mirror shows raiment of sorts — therefore
so long as your youth & your ...

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

Classics are for romantics like the Raveonettes.

I digress: y+z (1-x) is a blind patch of petit point. Kissing is sick. It’s bad for you but wasn’t as destructive as the filching of imitation.
Anyway, kissing where you are is so blatantly filled with what it spreads everywhere completely negating its purpose.

So why does it get processed in your eyes through history?
Maybe I’m a critic who’s decided to blab about all the wealth we have coming.

The theory,

pleasure is to ethics as Spode is to gastronomy

while across the terrain a recurring nightmare, film tunnels’re lifting wax paper (wind) when the water is abusive — yet all ends adaptively,

nearer Duluth — you can’t handle Duluth. (RF)

The strategy is
like any landscape, wait for mistakes (1) and (2) pounce.

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

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

Remembering hymns for love rich in hope, wealth, art, a human’s scope.
How all men’s eyes rise at dawn from birth, this outcast state without you, when..
Almost enjoined as to the sullen lark least contented, almost cursed —

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

Sundial-changing sex contests a thousand bees stinging our feet
— after we polished the text and handed it in.

Teen to older person:
cornered (not to say conned).

Hold to your decoder status that’s forever sparkled quo vadis,
old, meandering within ordered appearances unraveling optics —

Either way is a fractional
infinite in the context / e.r.

OK I mean
I’m done.

Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush nimbus-wet in devotion to their next decimal of the property. This might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads

and let you know when. Tomorrow.

32: You’re reserved outdoors, Psyche, for his love
Exempts us from showing up to enchain, knife, subdue.. 
That’s before reaching heights of happier men.
Satie playing, giving away what we’re good at 
— gosh! I read a generation in tears warms up in boutique brothels. 
A class struggle thinking it’s for real. 

The struggle, not the tears. 

Elder solarization = zealotry = teen manners.
Down, one-eyed birds. I may have to leave you guys.
Thin in Henleys you and I got dragged to the ceremony, moist, asleep.
My own appearance leaves me acknowledging you,
forbears, quickening what we expect from
fallen heroes on the diagram.. cheers for inviting us, as well as differential probabilities.
Very differential... very well, improvisations solve for paradox
— a more refined backdrop in so circular an ambiguity of scale.

I remember when common peril for any politician was taking a supersonic flight carrying a single Russian. Wisdom lay in de Staël turmoil, a title from the ‘political’ surface as if exclusionary discourse / action is exercised to preserve future salient differences emanating from the core.

The again so-called establishment are working on blowing up salience, a peril upgrade. For anything less cautionary or wishfully uncool we’ll have to shop outside the left wing. Each of us now rendered a non-donor monad and pre-mogul again — our search, yours and mine, worked up into retrievable data of auteur dealerships; we’ll get back to you —

On the closing date, only a scent. No contrivance or Schubertian opposition feels like glistening bouclé heating under pressure. 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. It appears unseen and as unspeakable as libido constituting a knowledge module, aimlessly blowing in news of constant unitary joy...

Question.
We strewed photographs along a shuttered residence, having
an interest in opulence & stratagems bequeathing our
ing great! Those brands are awesome announcing oops, they’re
digging in bins?

Sonnet 27: You’re wearing a scent of rosemary to bed looking on darkness, looking down  
I’ve always been here waiting for far updrafts to work my mind — 
my eyes open wide, I see you more clearly now, 
 
your shadow makes night beautiful and her old face new.

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

Act gathered.
There’s personal glamor that can only end in a draw sustained by two
getting up, stretching for an hour.

After glamor there’s power. The virus is already inside us.

Taking flak, but unwilling to signal afar, this gong or that, neither hindsight advantage nor a flying object in time. A rubberneck develops his own humanism.

Here I’ll grab my own cover and scramble over there to math skills, since my brain runs on my partner’s satisfaction as we moan
Our sketch begins.

30: Losses restored?
Often there’s a new plot — I think on you (dear friend) — those words we had or didn’t have were consequences. The milieu bad. Bad as in cancelled woe, since we know enmeshed values constitute remembrance of things past wastes of time.

Yet I take liberties moaning now, bubble footed in dark briefs. I have a dream of fair housing: Free-range light and dark in the clerestory to our lair... Our sorrows end. Some of us are going there after work. I’ll pay as before. Would you like to come?

We like newness in a way when we both leave things as they are. Like
how I graduated from this shame of ours, this pride
divided & confused — data signed
up too. Data’s acoustics ornament impurities of state.

There’s a container for every dataset turned up loud
so the workspace hears it,
feels it in stages growing taller, striking 12 noon.

Data feel like a great building boom.
Data can’t live without taking charge.

Can you place data’s names? There’s a full canoe of alter-egos,
asides & decorative indeterminacy.

& they got to anticipating mind control as disingenuous.

Our position is to find breathing room, enough so we can start over.
Whom will we discover?

I’m in no hurry. A life is ..
Ten hut. What service were you in?
Bankruptcy. (My head is cleared. )

‘Electing’ a demagogue feels like brain cancer.

Metaphor and life changing commerce, cities unknown but arriving soon.

Sugar Dust (you in a Bernini head replant) brings on the knowledge effect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching seasons float in willpower. I never understood insinuation. I never misunderstood it, either, a pulverizing divide teasing my attitude into admonitory tableaux sponged with your eyes...

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 on empty?

How I do love U —
Graduate studies seem piecemeal.

I watched U & me dreaming in economics
affecting a radius of 2, 3 coasts.
What happened out there? What 4?
The survey said I made it 2 the 2nd challenge,
a winning session in crude instrumentation.

Looking into the camera makes this a document.
Gestalt-like comfort in disruption is 1 point of a # in our seminar on 6.

Socialist by nature, cashing in analytics, we’re
Not sure discourse product pertains. Sacred axioms certify wealth and income
Consultancy, honing acolytes into two dimensions on the surface.

Sonnet 26: A life is charged by your sweet respect. A duty so great
Occasionally you sleep, given immunity, I hope.
My thought is tottered, all naked but fair.

Dear you,

The finest knits are lacking for a good generalist’s conceit. I’m wanting words to show half a wit. I’m clueless about vertically integrated brinkmanship. Conceits in that field are deliberately made up to look made up, to look as if we need a hand skipping dinner, combing through motions and whatsoever chrome and low pressure peeled back from almost getting our tenuous, jutting fingers into and under the interstate that brings you and me home.

I don’t think driving in my mind can be boasted of by moving points but it’s so fast I’m not worried it gets easier.

Un-reproved, I love you till then.

33: I may not be deep enough; loose alliteration masks that, only maybe
— maybe I’ve got a thought altering ‘mentalist’ landscape up my sleeve.

My love is the sun in the morning .. You have a roundish face, green eyes and a slender yet blunt nose that hardens your otherwise sad, unrecognizable features and your sovereign eyes.

When I read about alchemy and ‘splendor’ I keep wiping tears from my neck, but I never read the sun in the morning as love before I met you.

42: What do you need now and for what?
You may ask if I loved you.
Is that my bravo question?
Do you test, tease, defame to get the best?
I ducked his punch, closed the distance.
My loss is my love’s gain for my sake.
I told him, no don’t, I want to bolt.
Loving offense I excuse you both.

141: Heart to heart:

I’m dating other members while we go thru systems — I love you
who.. in my eyes.

Your own speech acts and errors aside, who in spite of foolish tunes, no pain, no taste, there’s always

desire.. it’s self-invited in faith. It’s inside you like sin. We’ve gone
over this. But I’m dissuaded of tender feelings by you alone.

And your views look great in text — I promise my five senses, your proud heart’s slave ...

my gain I’m yours, unswayed by slaphappy-proof likenesses to-be, I love you
pleased, delighted, you only. Thus far.

140: Leading with wise and cruel. Should I grow mad?
In sleep even a con anarchist gets immunity. 
Going wide, this is madness, better it were bad news washing
over time under preseason wraps. 

Snow this soon is a surprise.

(Didn’t know I’m a novice enthusiast, the manner of my pity.) 

Should I despair?
It’s snowing, nothing personal, wafting like foam over my awesome hamlet — 

Further out the world is blown up with descriptors peeling off like spiders hustling
always. 

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 top notes we won’t erase, some 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.

Nobody trusts perception, eh?

Tho moral bases are gnarly, like a helicopter in spin, any panorama you enjoy leads to ‘representative fantasy’ or a real token apposite the perceived, blocking open view, requiring accommodation to time squeezes that appear on purpose, tho cyclical, ‘unlovable’ (according to Wilhelm and Baynes). But conflict is not merely evil if it lends focus to self regard and moving on, moving collegially. This is the potential utility of bachelorhood.

... the rookie is burning on the outside, his only credits were adamance /
to squelch any dramaturgy from theology, wellbeing and actionable conditions, missing how far you are beaten into their projections.

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

I blame eternity. Not you. Eternity is more short than waste. Ruining only me for you?

I’m flipping out, whoa. Lose it all, and more! A white screen blackness. Inform, suborn, freeze freely up — tho external leftist dwellers lower right, then in the middle your lips moving up and down, talking design.

Changed my mind. The rent’s too high! No one can help me switch compounds. Not now. To set myself up is to wangle a musical proof, great bases not mixed with seconds. And it’s clear whose side you’re actually on, landlord.

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