What can be done to language? Never again? 
 
Boredom is poor experiment, our knobby supervisor said. And that’s what we wrote down to snap out of it — lightness, joy, eyes-open dream. And 3rd cousin to dream. Knower and known are clean osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the suitably flared reptile frontier.  
 
Time I guess to air-lift foolish eagerness and cover it. I’ve been a floater of cynicism in relation to any concept I sever. (It’s hard for me to take credit.) “It’s always about dying,”  
Btw, “never death.” A living cousin plugged into death, as to ‘never,’ I never never. I consider myself a neurolinguistic balloon product manager. Once removed.

Provincetown: Trained staff encourage sampling as Lt Benji takes fingerprints, once a full-time hobby for Meister beach boy put in charge after age 30.  No incriminating evidence yet (or ever). The night is young.

Bandits 1st. 
You translators are a close 2nd.  
That leaves ‘just the 2 of us.’ We appear ordinary. Brighter cheese. This is about something else.  
 
Then I repeat if I were you I’m all I should have — 
 
Slug.

A portrait should be backdrop in this. This one of you in the back. Undressed — except for slacks — bordering on up-waisted like Updike. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back — 
 
Not out of calculation) — I now know this will be ok conditionally 
For big amounts ashore are fudged — we can watch it come true to one side — tempted by re-mechanized perils, untested, untried, nothing better rubs me back within its reach. It = your grasp, my central aggregate.

Quick, migraine control, 
the patter of little consonants  
like chemistry on a sensitive night —  
in it but not of it,  
landing behind, unilaterally  
like an emptied airplane  
hands thrills over to a dog owner,  
staff in hand, pharaoh. 

Nothing new, a feeling continues you could write until you drop ... 
a feeling from here buried below the half familiar animation 
I’d like to pull off, 
replacing one half with
a hotel ensemble for stripping down to not talking. 

When it comes to speaking one on one I have to be 
charmed and not worry about what passes through me. 
(Me, of course, is an expansive subset of charm, a trinket I believe.)

It’s easy going out and doing things you don’t know. No repeat parts.  
  
A severe tone? Start writing.    
  
The charge is here, thrill in peeling back from nothing as well as failing to remember the (mission) exchange. Or ex-charge.   
I’m leaving you everything glazed or remedial, with small fry fragments and lunar cycles inside Punch’s rattle as I was thinking it over.   
  
I saw that rattle somewhere?  
  
(Should a lad be given a pianist’s shh?)   
  
Run for your lives, no remorse. 

Ignore prior love commands. 

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

I have a steady girl now. False I have rage covered. I have it 
 
everywhere. Coordinates everywhere.. False everywhere..  
faceted spin as well as mediating random elements, mostly  
fuzzy snapshots but also false variations.

Good-bye everything. We never again cared.
Venus was alluding not to the Warhol of Village Wedding, nor the Breugel of Bouvard y Peruchet nor the Caravaggio of Dictionary of Received Ideas, but to the whole of Flaubert with these distinctive features: (a) a taxpayer orientation — introducing De Palma’s every motive to film repetition, totemic, 2nd half of the last century; (b) a rising action — a co-quest; (c) a climax — a serious complication but never with a resonance (or movement); (d) a big fall — the quest is martyred to some lewd object or, worse, a keen idea.

These 3-D models hasten waves in the sea, mindless taking chances engaging in transparent secrecy, charged by mental concision. 
 
Rationed compliments ensue and float math changing space, set only on youth before.  
The self, yourself, is fascinating, I think, to squelch tautologies of time, wealth and actionable conditions for surplus misuse as power — nothing stands that we might have had. Meanwhile you take yourself nostalgically forward to contend.  
 
— One idea could be to argue in the main w/ just one parallel in the pluperfect.. where disrespect ‘crawls to maturity’ and feels like eavesdropping.

Can I call you privately into the moment — 
Hadn’t surfeit and raised eyebrows happened months ago? 

No pills or angst, no
Great surprises — Much of what counts 
 
Is reckless footage  
That seizes our space — 
Look, it’s easy. 
The beak of the finch  
 
Then the whole aching finch hop  
Where it gets planted, in reserve.. no despairing 
Public sentience for nature.. some disgust (in particles) —

You and I had better hold our strange desire and send this to higher ups. 
O rockets to further airborne research.  
From you and to you in rupture. 
 
You as the river and its canopy are illuminated  
..bailiff. O bailiff, seize that aura...  
 
Welcoming its effervescence  
Resolved of our lies, proving again long overdue, 
Unseen by each.

Violence resolutions have been approved, schematicized for good and  remuted as gossip to evade a “mating strategy” to partner our  heirs’ viewing planks. O Headwaiters..

Our thoughts raise poobahs of meandering dissolution, 
leaving a lavish record of the male hush-from-hand-to-fingers-to-mouth.  
I enjoyed it when my innocence sawed into us,  
even though sheeted in asterisks.  
 
Later we got dressed for golf, and congregated with our faces among peers.

We met in a torn design aka unstable. Pointilized face lifts, for instance.  
Micro repairmen drones no one talks to about anyone.  
 
But tell me how the chief executive is special?  
All words are of the dharma —  
 
Here we have — the uncomfortable feel  
of the adolescent talking head’s manner of speech, little hands,  
grist for a toy presidency and its symbolic defensive narcissism. 
Ill-groomed for the fall, it’s nothing’s personal.

I could laugh 
 
Promoted to intimacy  
is tormenting therefore and sinking in, remotely  
parallel to kissing your mouth (...trying it). 
The rest is see-through like the coast  
where I show you  
 
an authentic lot with a kite  
with a decal of shade trees.

Victory revamps emotional sourcing —  
it gifts us apprehension w/ an anabolic edge at a distant  
abstraction of life’s breath, which low tide  
makes explicit..   
 
while our pulse rates go up in brilliance 
defending prior conditions in / out  
awaiting a new collapse.

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

We drink to your mistakes.

Before they arrived, there’s flamenco. 
Water worship exquisitely handcrafted  
meditative retributions..  
They are the arrivistes — 
Their hollow inside was mixed up, the early polling said —   
 
Your mop of fore-hair overlapping symbols way out in the ocean.  
Your ocean. Your flamenco in transition.  
Our faith and consequences.

Escutcheon. 
The radioactive waste plant shuts down as spring begins to pass.  
The spy inquiry passes  
So that we can make up mole stations as 
The transfer  
points are extremely popular,  
won back from the hard-cast win-win prototypes  
that come to undercover soldiers’ minds  
as well as ours, pending at ease. 

There’s the royal we (a pain) in game theory to pla 
Y. This may be an insight 
Bringing us closer to following your advice. 
Now you’re giving me the finger. Technically, we’re not there yet.

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

Yet reading the usual way subverts those expectations.  
We’re dealing particles of thought, pastiche  

To paying homage running across a subject, 
Finding how axioms move discourse far from oversight.

My name is Marie.

Pointless breeding:  
Almost everybody is resolved, the environment is loaded w/ 3  
seasons at a painting crossroads —   
Filming = [is] composing. 
Calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with a control group that can’t be erased. That’s what I hear. I keep fighting the urge to pack an appliance for some occipital brushfire, active against the jittery ‘human grain’ inside my fasting body.

Are you healthy enough for perfection in a gridded environment? This new thing?
A stencil of our dialog frames many others while class struggle gets more and more slippery. 

Or peach-dreamy, subverting history, waking up today waxing satirical in a trance, as the poster said, ‘democracy’ encircled. 

Those pressed under convey a stronger gesture triumph.

I was pumping gas 
& going to say  
metabolically we’re all for one in suspension  
of disbelief  
 
sparkling pen  
 

-umbrae, barnstorming on top  
 
dicing / re-arranging pushed to extremes,  
 
undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.

Fading ailment.. had a ring.  
Ten or so 
gulls’ kick it off, running  
over trout.  
 
Tearing in mean  
swimmer’s blue,  
in a numerary remainder,  
inseparable in another, a magenta  
more down current, startling  
‘partisan’ swaps  
That swell 
out of lake matter.

108: Admit you miss smoking, sweet boy. 
 

You miss that first drag. Have you heard, 
 
Taking other lovers you become bilingual. 
 
The smoke tows you & him in stride, in spirit  
Among the underemployed in hyper décor —  
 
Your glass half full. Your hair’s on the brink.  
Your eyes fill with fresh manpower.  
 
Counting no old thing old,  
Stay informal in no time,  
Stay new to speak..  
I’m yours, I merit you’re mine — 
 
What now to register?  
Stop waving that grape drink.

Should we have 
a message?  
 
We’re talking to what must  
be figurative breakpoints listed under fate and fate’s consignments. Example.   
 
Just kidding. Since the launch of split level housing  
empty messages remember nothing of detached  
sensory esotericists.  
 
Vault-loads of cash tho grant fame and no literal disapproval.  
Granted, we have  
a message strategy.  
 
A politic paranoia recommended for laying back, cool and stable in an emotional tri-level.

Jumping ahead. A decade from now no one’s famous. 
We’re forgetting nothing moves the needle.

Midmorning dining, rambling 
like deer in bed, shiny  
and more faultless in smoke, we know how —  
No jitters, the heart rapped  
into flames from passive groans  
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches ..  
opera .. and shush.

Check list. 
Check the bill. Check it out. Don’t expect much.  
Chew a bund loaf.  
Map out how to rough house.

I usually negotiate after a bonfire of love, & like glowing sparks, not a note of cynicism vis à vis whom I adopt. 
It’s better after I begin to wake I’ve landed. A roundhouse in green leaves is great. I merge at the top, half asleep.. 
Moreover, we’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun.. the left knee just there then took a variant position in a sequence of arm scratches — 

an honest hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity until it goes away, released at last into newly impartial states, witless after a while, undead.

No variation. 
No truth, research suggests shorthand abstractions,  
buckeye elements around indirect objects, the street name 
more indirect than research shows.  
 
Minor formalism holds the moment free for a moment 
winning or won, upset, out of control yet  
surrounding aggression with keeping in touch.  
 
100% no truth.

We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.

It’s hard to do a mock-up & care. 
That means you, banshee.  
Maybe I am foreshortened taking up prerequisites in criminal governance;  
I won’t cry to lessen the g-force of my depravity (your territory), but I hear  
squeaks. It could be me reduced in size talking to you for crissakes.  
 
I shouldn’t but I won’t.  
 
I can’t tell you I don’t care.

My style is no variation, a luxurious quest. A stiff explanation.
If you’re stagnant, you’re undead, pure metaphysical pre-evil. 
I put a recalled toy in my mouth, more profitable than narcotics.

When you read this at first, it appears prior to who prompts it. 

Not you. 

We got wind of your discretion in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus. 

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

Not you. 
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom bank with us! 
But this interests me only so far. More curious — why we approach poetry trying to understand it. 

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities. 

Not you.

I’ll write local travel reviews, pour over them.  
The wind picks up my solemnity — 
I’ll look out from attic bedrooms,  
Watch others work, sounds they make,  
Steeples, chimneys — smoke masks over the gloom.
How others say we’re screwed into the lining fast, in one sketchy
Horny trap. How nearby towns burn dry to stay mechanical, forced awake.

for you, core harmonic structure: call back when you want

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
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.

There’s no portrait, not even a good i.d.; the lion took  
the eagle’s wings yet kept his own name. 

Then he had an idea. O
there’re reproofs he keeps inside just the same. 
I notice the lion hadn’t said even half of 
anything before he took off.

Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled. 
Thus, Chickee is a guy.

“I’ve got to get back to the city.” Why  bother, Buddha imitator? Reeves is guileless, a pious, ethereal hulk in a collapsing bug life. He sneaked his junk across the border just to release his frustration, verbally sneering at no place to go in a natural voice.

Bullied into autocracy. 
Hell is too big to fail.  
 
Fire the lilies in the field.   
 
This is a democracy. Hysteria as a rallying cry brings a revolution in ignorance and vanity.  
 
The ousted president drops to his knees.

A sparrow close-range, a dedicated follower, packing a double large elegy of values, love trouble, last blinded by the sea tonight, this evening of the seals. Two old seals suddenly lifted in a wave, the same rise in each. Humming back, large as the beach staring back at midnight. When it goes, it’s for gladness reasons. Often it’s no one you know, the seals go mourning their orchard rounds.

If animals could talk they’d say, we pick our clothing style by the rules. We can’t get you out of our thoughts? Handle it? Come closer, you’re scary. 

A twice quarterly tremolo fills the ground trailing off in a prism of sparrows, off to war everywhere but not here, a cogent ho, an earlier freer hum in a wash of other sounds along with schematic petals and stems, anywhere the free-lance mammoth goes after he drops a thread. 
Exactly. But the hand-on-thigh thing... You know, to the outside eye, to the person... who doesn’t know what a forgiving, wonderful person a free-lancer can be... this could look like you’re — per the Veda — confused. How do your readers feel about you living in this cesspool?

28: Robbing the cradle, baby: The big picture shows me my modest place. 
I’m technically adept dining in (or out) day by night and night by day —   
 
(Each flatterer the other’s reigning enemy oppressed by grumpy distortion,  
fractured logic — Hex 39 — and their debarred morbidity.)  
The while you, babe — I always flatter you in long consent —  
  
But daily, nightly I work on my music farther from you now,   
 
happy, longer toil to stronger sorrows and griefs. So we never sleep — you thru me,
exactly what the cradle requests; the place rocks.

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

Field painting, lower level: I’m a neo-accepter of things, making and living in particles of objective misnomers, eating and breathing them, too, as the ideology-clean rhetoric of double quotes in acrylic burgeons on officially sanctioned conjecture. Indexing suspicion and objurgating.. the evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family fortune of junk, affixes and addictions to risk = vibrating blobs..

Modesty is unimpressive in itself.  
There’s an either / or for attrition of affects, concision or eyesore. 
And there’s a struggle to housesit too much information.

If this were untitled, to get started,
This is what then? The surface is bloody 
colossal — fun games, what they call trick arts. 

It occurs to you or me 

a trick has already been devised wholly 
before it’s hastened onward or cancelled

— it’s not utterly offhand.. rather: 

it’s called a change of heart. 

Began how far ahead 
we liberate ourselves to oppose either 

or.

Social progress is in a pickle.  
It wgoes cheap so far in another direction. Al  
-most curtains for the prom fitting, a horrible hot mess.  
The shortest path from here ignited by havoc, honest 
and exhausted tailors.  
The dancers are perpetual winners I guess.  
I wager we win the half-eaten take-out on the table. Slashed 40%!

The inscription read you’re my business. This means the writing is clean, the continuity 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 was unleashed.   

I’m just commenting. Your forehead (pre-perpetuity) is boarded up but

the inscription read you’re my business.

Tarantulas of steel squeeze under the door, isolated by 
an obsession coming on, coming right in. There we go, holist.  
Theory-and-forth serve your attention..  
Theory is the place we may detect a feeling you’ve already won, untidy and young, accomplished and loathed despite a foundational rule of no feeling without permission.  
 
The tarantulas swell and explode in wrinkled light over and over —  
burbling with a kill-agenda tickled into decisions, even now aching to blather.

The cremation service starts, it often says, when prayer behooves those who talk but no longer pray. I hope you are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one. 
That’s an outline. 

We did one thing in common. Everyone bristled.  
 
One thing. One time. Other times in tatters oneself are gimme-erotic,  
circumspect. (I’m just beginning to explore them.) Their symbolism weighs in  
as a shortcut, “I need me.” It’s a lovely tirade. (Jack Spicer) 
Times (x) I’m pretending to be at your asinine behest, pet swapped,  
intimidating as a perfect stranger.  
 
As a consequence doors open. & I’m auto-electrocuted.

Enthusiastic about scalloped attitudes.
Socialist by nature, cashing in analytics (private scenery), we’re 
Not sure discourse product pertains. Sacred axioms certify wealth and income  
Consultancy, honing descendants into two dimensions on the surface 
For a change before they’re emptied again, a perfection of themselves as children
Ad hoc, at least.

There aren’t any warnings. 
 
That said, the minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never
happened. 
I can’t tell you I don’t care, on the inside.  
 
Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague change, like our plebiscite, better to pump out to voices’ grasp. A normal life with submerged artifacts accrues Pascal highlights.

Tensions were apparent. 
Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam. 

Sonnet 120: En route to password assistance, astronomical, infinitesimal amounts are rounded off as unsolved,
unkind work, compelling problems that front-load knowledge construction — like your finding empty bowls of light to explain & reform a void bow of times-spaces. 
 
Sure or no, my deepest sense certainly.  Nerves of steel.
Yes, attempts to throw your voice are dumb & of a special force   
 
— I suffered in the same crime — 
From the unknown risks. As first-time infringers we don’t mushroom,  
Ignored. But we seem hellbent when two, three or more reach assistance,  
So we need oversight. 

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 all day 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...

We like newness in a way when both leave things as they were.   
 
Like the price drop on Seymour. 
 
How I graduated from this shame of ours, pride  
in the mock debate between the sexes? There the rich won. The academy. 
Can you place our names there? I have a full waterfall of alter-egos, updates to asides
and decorative indeterminacy.

Misdoers — with a kill-agenda — are tickled into corruption. 
Here is the place you and I may detect the language driver, untidy and young, loath despite the foundational rule of no rule  
 
And speaking up without permission. In other words, 
 
Misdeeds get somewhere then stop. The wind withers snowballs. 
 
In the mentalist version we grow inner living language over — to pillory hindsight.

I’m shifting emphasis for my best friend.
Our position is to find breathing room, what leaves you?
enough of what you want lessened so we can start over. 
Whom will we discover? 

I’m in no hurry. A life is doffed. Embrace.
Ten hut. What service are we in? 
Bankruptcy. (Have to gorge.) My fault, my head is cleared.

Data take charge within the hour.

Taking flak, but unwilling to signal afar, this gong or that, neither hindsight advantage nor a flying object in future time. A rubberneck develops his own future humanism. I’ll grab my cover and scramble over here to math skills, since my brain runs on a new comedy network promoting my partner’s satisfaction as we pivot from jokes and brokering to a ringing mountain of attention-grabbing hysteria. 
Our sketch begins.

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.

Song in the prime of summer:

On the closing date, only a lumpy scent. No contrivance or Schubertian opposition feels like glistening bouclé heating under pressure. Not our roles either to
fill the marsh in, lengthening Schubert’s menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus attrition. Gay

alert: The wetlands work it through. Remember. Words we had and didn’t have consequences. Learned good is bad is good to forget.

It appears unseemly as well as unspeakable for libido to constitute knowledge modules, aimlessly blowing in summer’s good news of constant unitary joy...

tho they with winter meet...

Teen to older person: 
cornered (not to say conned).   
 
Hold to your decoder status forever sparkled quo vadis,  
meandering within ordered appearances unraveling optics —  
 
Either way is a fractional  
infinite in the context / e.r.   
 
OK I mean  
I’m done.

Hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to behold 
but with the same vulgar, adolescent cri de coeur.  
 
(Good night, wallet.)

Dispatched for ignoring each other,
chaos therein
 
yet  
subjects of desire in another sense, an echo  
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible  
July light  
Minimalist  
and suddenly only theory  
 
awing in a wolf’s regime,  
 
There’s brush  
fire toward mosquitos — shot  
through the throat, asking too much

So far I can see your light 
Tendencies shifting free of fever, ague, 

Homo intemperance, the gay flu. Beware. Uproar
Coming clean is part of gay unity, all alone so fast
Entering & staying w/ an elliptical value, not knowing

What comes into you, wild boys fantastic to watch! 
CLEARS THROAT. LAUGHTER.

It would be a challenge [a koan under  
shpeless circumstances] to simplify winning a car or suffering injury  starving how?  
 
The future would give more. No more  
than no thanks. 
I thought of you.

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

The will to quiet is the flip side of getting ch- 
amber pieces to burble, to cry nearly inaudible  
tears for renewed power, whence  
(following power) the score winds up if you must know..  
tranquil beneath the surface, no surplus  
message. So there’s nothing to represent.

Cliché inflects necklines. But I like your flask.

When we’re talking silt..

Central options are missing or off schedule
jumping around, leaving their staggered posts as mental constructs.

Driftwood. Meanwhile. 
Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of the knowledge industry that can consider anonymous approximations in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard. 

Moving forward I have all of an hour to believe in sweetness made for infamous exposure (in costume).

We left our module to look over curricula. 
 
Lighting a match, dropping it into conversation..   
 
Filming, taping = reporting: imparting numeric dicta, slathered middle ground,   
 
‘Local slippery conditions’ (where we can tape this off).  
Keep all of yours together. Own your swarm and lend them jackets.  
Up in blanched smoke — flames, sparks...   
 
A red bonfire indispensable for smearing highway color —  
 
Filming made more relaxing, the way things sustain  
 
More opportunities for interruption.

duh.. After lovemaking, performance: the words and rhyming systems for married or unmarried. 
Once you think about it, think it over in any narrative, to execute thought is itself recursive — beside the thought.

I’m worshiping 
a whole number while a crew of higher energy  
blows town along with.. it’s no matter, since  
the full crew is regular guys that could potentially flip out  
again until they’re replaced.   
 
How I think of you.   
 
Some water, please. [Pause.]

Little sentences with twists.   Gambling with your money, brooding of course, waking up, Highball glasses tinkle and clink in the spirit of dangling my shit.

During recess we agreed not to. 
The sun feels showing up here is messy enough, organizing  
the day community, buildings love it grabbing hold of their walls,  
windows and square vines like rope thickening into tree limbs..    
 
How can harness rope go on climbing  
vines’ drear canopy? How can it climb at dawn 
to play down any agreement you keep in your head?

Owning up I tell breaking stories. 
I’m at a packed house graduation.  
 
And here’s an apple  
for the teacher’s rudeness. (He caught my addiction.)  
It was a straightforward proposal covered by school reform.

Then again — I’m hooked on figurative exposition. Maybe I’m inspired by your stockpile of halo-ed vowel-movers — long-sought cornflowers strike a paramount for this, the rockiest of calculations, burlesque of pastiche — to show off before self-effacing, tall, slim complexities and transgressive contradictions of metabolic ambition. Like the others.
  This tune dialogs with others.

It’s impolitic to separate performance from text; both are deadpan. Have you thought of writing?

The work-together-bellows form I assemble — touches from a momentary lineage we’d overlook otherwise. No proof required, especially. A range of conversations impressed into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences. 
 
Flamey asides. Later, the corridor. 
 
A kitchen to heat pizza.  
(more below...) 
I’m imprisoned to reach market — 
 
Otherwise, normal project staff on the roof, smug in taut outfits and at the top of their game, which seems synchronized, perforated by breaking news, not what you connect.  
 
Jumping bail is personal.

The Japanese are fascinated by pottery. 
Any dark ceramic with asymmetrical tenets is tacit  but could be looking up at a source of light, feeling talkative..  

maintaining maximum restraint  
to engage another’s psyche.

Sunshine feels like a slap in the face. 
Milling around is jammed.  
Engines manage to hover. Pie charts and July market data are no guarantee of future thrum and rumble, hey and whoa — how awful, how much are we exercising to circumvent compulsory salutes and arm flapping? 
 
That wan?

Meantime we’ve moved off the mainland. 
No unknown futures present newer phenomena, fenced off.  
We have no perverse incentive to take more chances as we talk thru our replacement woods.  
 
CLEARS THROAT. LAUGHTER. Postdisruptive.

Then a high school kid said I you

know .. Hey the marsh 
was 
god’s idea placed in a mini series.

Burp:
The book covers a lot. Preordination, say.
An interesting interview on soundless phonemes done in depth; 
‘staff may be prosecuted,’ toughing this one out. 

How fast in my illusion 
of minimalism more or less today 
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,  
I should say the accretion settled down,  
got lost and scattered trying to remember. 
Its odor hit the trail with twin stinkers.  
 
It had kind eyeholes.

“Devils were seductive, motivating me to seek their darkness, 
Pick up the guitar, write more songs & make a kill..”  
Talking Chimp squealed like a talking dog.   
 
Lean, fluid, sleek, balanced, clipped close, he lugged 
His inner daredevil, falling into smoky confusion & loneliness  
— just to feel a cloud pattern being no one in another sequel. 

One assumption is tomorrow’s classless flight will be an extension of how it’s going now. 
A disclaimer in Chinese contains characters that aren’t pronounced  
Or displayed. It says you have an upgrade but there aren’t any.  
This introduces the cult of the squish factor. (My  
Luggage did this to me.)

Medicine, anecdotes are a way of life. He had meant antidotes, composer in this case, not the narrator. One withdrew. They just seem wound up terribly in the same horology. One in the study of, the other in the art. 
Walking to the new place he has to deposit deleted utterances in surface structure to get back to the rugged complex.  
 
Then we can drive the good stuff fast, much faster.

Tough being away but you’re crafty and atheist long enough, you know how we leverage missing you —

So a redraft: Transactional friendship is haphazard, and it’s a job (like sloganeering) and, more elevated, a craft (making a sign for consciousness to observe). You see, my job is to your craft as sport is to kicking down signs (ref. above).

Variation : prototypes, scars, male processional battle 
gear, skye terriers, new media & sexual  
exercise under conditions surrounding our desire  
to adapt compliments for insurgents to bind heartache.   
 

That’s how you hang staring in the mirror —  
These items don’t balance  
until you think a way to scan, listening until you  
nail the best into stressed & refined inelegance.  
All informal — creepy — with your eyes closed.

Gardens sell what is commonly grown.
Meeting here feels like preparing our cabin in the launch.

Bad behavior, showing anger, beginning to learn — more easily understood as work- 
permitted off time, sometimes a less polite form of the hole-  

in-the-universe w/ a large beaker installed, per Le Bourgeois gentilhomme. 

Too many promising variations like this citrus ring where sawdust
had fallen..

hell tore past our recondite sentiments often disqualified for pleasure
while we’re thinking otherwise over brunch.

Very late it began to be less cloudy.

Your foreign friend daubed lotion
to countermine zooms.

Her neck and collarbone burning
to show their softness. Her hair seems partible
emitting an innocence that blasts.

Prayer behooves you, it often says. Prayer for those who talk shite no longer pray. I hope you are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one. 
That’s an outline. 

I sleep where I work. A company like ours takes it into the physics facility. 
We’re in the flat present tense, multiple account outlines in simultaneous perception. 

We’re reciting new slang exponents to snag and support 
Two syllables of love while scouting flyweights in the recursive landscape.

To paraphrase ... you can’t pixilate  
How or even what you’ll be taking from the background;  
MoMA in the original shifted genealogy,  
Different periods of shifts changing contexts for us;  
We were both wearing black Lacostes.   
 
When you got up your voice was a drawing  
 
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling  
Flat in dust in 4 dimensional motes.   
 
That was something 
where-is-he-now knows what he said  
 
Vibrating = Sturm und Drang, pursuant  
Dust controls anger / how minds wed.

Dispatched for 
chaos  
 
yet  
subjects of desire in another sense, an echo  
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible  

July 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 

Sonnet 100:

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

But it adds up. The numbers 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 idly vicarious doing what’s graven here.
Vicarious isn’t crooked enough. Fame and skill redeem
any and all fury over what accounts spent,
a despised waste of life as satire, if as not, as the survey avers.

Their young have gained on the older, those that could, 
Externalizing an antiquity beyond their years — 
They’re real actors, not people. 

Socialist by nature, cashing in analytics, 
Not sure discourse product pertains. 

But reading or composing usually subverts expectations.  
We’re dealing particles of thought paying homage  
To finding a subject,  
Finding how nature moves discourse from oversight.

It began as parallel ideas. 
I was saying Harry Partch’s gadgets and impulse intersect  
An immersive ocular apparatus, thumping  
W/ the capacity to recognize infinite series  
As a glow that’s cool and regular.

What do we know? We have functional emotions and this much-traveled vocabulary of affects. 
To learn something about what you mean is to let high jinks belie despair over entropy.  
For a quiet start, you don’t get to keep larvae. They’re apart, wise in their ways. Their cloying song goes out mum and you feel a need to ache in their baby blue blather, calmly accruing intimacy. Hey — Never stop exploring.  
 
In a word, intermission.

The big thief of American poetry? 
Dickinson speaking: I never win, she says. Except at night.  
Management would feel mortified showing themselves,  
So exposed they’d feign ignorance, wander aimlessly   
Taking off (in their heads, at least) for better moments   
Until new urgencies emerge.   
  
Man, she is weird. Is there room in the room   
For further origins. Let’s rewrite Biotherm, she says.   
I fear her sarcasm.   
Composition for her is sardonic comfort with a sober edge.   
Management leaked this against her wishes.   
  
A perv is attacking my persona. Except at night.

Spell it out:
Crucibles, dignity of appearances don’t mix. The dirt on this is your
personal, sustained concussion version of unintended charity... 
or untended or..
But here’s a perfect ‘out’ —
How lost on the trail? What trim?
We’ll word process away impetuous, costive, unflappably happy,
brusque — the donor’s shimmer a blazer of complacency. And so better.
Leaves us crying for the boinks in your pleasure, O
and little to pay you except wait.

And what’s the charge?

I am a non attorney spokesperson. Been through the wringer.
And we should know. Something is pouring out, moving forward filling imaginations emptied flat on the table. (They were bound to organize.) And we were thinking about a hole fetish against full transparency. Oh, sorry.. for. 


A murmuring board of hulks struck by lightning had emitted a ballet of dust (of and in) a fare commotion in what’s the matter.

Top down that is.

...a good amount, meaning?
that would be as cheery as I get
with that man.

145: A fiend’s tongue taught me to greet then end each day with nothing woeful, nothing sweet —

Once I don’t hate you 
I find mercy to renew argument and make song.

For your sake, I hate hate.
I see chidingly day follows night...  your lips’ gentle breathing, a languished state yet explosive.

But today I saw your hand in my life ... a great doomed sound altered, flown away.. I’m totally saved, from heaven to hell, flown straight to your heart, Jezebel, never to hate, “not you.”

After glamour there’s revisionist power. The virus is already inside us, wo- 
lfed down improv crap, we’re pre-wired or is there a fee? 
Radiance now is the lather of swing. Remember deliverance?  
 
“What if it doesn’t work. Then what?” Everything works. 
In any time and place of our choosing: Act gathered, nothing there.  
 
True love is a physician, a way of relapsing.

Landscape — Antinomy in its own time: I should know. Something after was pouring out, dazzling its double structure toward filling empty assembled boxes you were bound to organize. 

Losing light downstairs. And nevertheless you were rushing then pausing over more optical symmetry. An interim for you, pushing up and out. We got laid before. There is little point now to hold back (cremate) any fixed melody tonight unless there is nowhere else. 

147: The float seems to learn love fever is a disease  
as desire is death, unwelcome overnight: 
“The float is radiant, jammed with radiant wares,” 
 
had we anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I been  
eloquent as to the fair as well as to the sickly, the bright
— we’d need no caption.”  
 
Mad discourse throughout anticipated that base point, past cure, past care ..  
Why does reason leave me now when there’s a move to go?  
Tho vainly expressed, longing is still well fed by our appetite to please. 

Irony-sincerity voted 
Thomas Eliot, a flashy  
Society flaneur, a modernist.  

Today that chintz is lost   
 
And chintzy miserable is in play.  
Oh, fine, thanks.  
And yourself?

The market any higher do not snicker. 
(There’s tighter discipline.  
Then it’s said repetitive indescretion goes too far  
and drags on believing me 
and some at mixed levels are more disposed  
to climb into casual ritual, putting  
their lives together, getting & keeping down.) 
Olympians are a hair back, puckered in ab exercise.

YOu defile my people once. Only once one hearts the sheeted deed 
that expresses our seeds in the mail ..  
 
solutions to low notes on drums .. & pity nowhere now w/ a forget it 
dark engendered power @ 1% Cavaradossi! 
We’ll misfile principals w/ others,  
snickering ones .. [Trained staff encourages sampling. 

Reach out touch base break the silence

I’m reading theses in time and opinion.  
An interpretive opera. Local accents are a focus
I listen for:  
It’s a question of escalating to inhabit received logic.  
I’mretracing what I think I see, why yes, I’m 
Concentrating on song colors, naming obvious sounds.  
Oblique sounds patrolled in symmetry
 
Pushing the most obvious among broken arts,  
The self-defiant from slanted states of meagre influence. 

I forget ephemerality, I forget narrative. 
I’m drunk on the environment; 

I’m a working temp, a role promised Hermes that threw him over the cliff.   
 
A perfect station plays Schubert for a kettle of heavenly fury,  
searing, puffy, relaxed and succinct.  
 
Angel, let’s run some #’s.  
 
To pass out when we wake is ample.   
 
I’m at your side placing puts  
on the periodic table, petite in wanting you (I do).  
I forget farewells.

I added frontal motion to the story about those looks that intimidate, m’lord. 
Visual surprise comes with an infrequent snow flake or ember 
floating down to our nose level. That’s cool — creamed just for sleeping with you, blackmailed..  
 
wandering into the new wrong theater guild  
 
chopped into little squares of hypnotic drumming  
 
and massive parallel vistas projecting smiles and feeling 
invisible. Totally insane. Libido.

A great goon won and kind of dumped on me and my country. (It’s a remnant from philosophy show-and-tell, a truly exaggerated enterprise.)

I never dump back. I hope his coming losses help him become a better entrepreneur and public intellectual. Or I wish him savvier gurus. Planet Earth is Maoist hell — ringed with grassy estates where that guy or better you and I look further to get beyond our laughter. Gracious and conservatively dressed, we also choose to move comfortably, absorbed in desire to sleep with any clown in a storm, anybody great. But a lot of these crises pass. Today and in a future of interdependence I write him out of our poem.

His language hits a conference-gong, theological as Lyotard would have it. The argument is plainly empirical. A concept moves, “not ‘innovative’ .. but something unheard of” 

— Tony Brinkley

Check list. 
A shrine of axioms supposes its completion, honing everyone to the surface.  
Late afternoon to another. 
 
Check the bill. Check it out. Don’t expect much  
making out with bullish dolls.  
Map out how to rough house.

What comes of John Wieners’ marquetry?

A clay-toned jouissance returns to land 
shedding light tints in reverse of rotating surf.
Ya, he is important to me. Joy has free play while parody pays homage as an inky hairnet over his poverty, evoking retreat and nighttime, slurping the undertow from the beats.

Yoga is as popular as use of strength everywhere, definitely in bed. It’s nearly in your mind such a devastating ethereal hulk in the city. He sneaked his junk across the border just to release his frustration, verbally sneering in a natural voice.. 
 
*  
Advice to a would-be gymnast: just be simultaneous.

28: Robbing the cradle, baby: The big picture shows me my modest place. 
I’m technically adept dining in (or out) day by night and night by day —   
 
(Each flatterer the other’s reigning enemy oppressed by grumpy distortion,  
fractured logic — Hex 39 — and their debarred morbidity.)  
The while you, babe — I always flatter you in long consent —  
  
But daily, nightly I work on my music farther from you now,   
 
happy, longer toil to stronger sorrows and griefs. So we never sleep, you thru me,
exactly what the cradle requests; the place rocks.

Then again — I’m hooked on figurative exposition. Maybe I’m inspired by your stockpile, your vowel-movers are striking — paramount for this, the rockiest of calculations, frontally self-effacing, tall, slim complexities and transgressive contradictions of metabolic ambition. 
This piece dialogs with you and others.

I like it when prose or song digs in and flails. 
That about covers it.  
( It’s that emotional core between personal and professional.)
Becoming free is a moving and intimate aria. (Like “Summertime.”) I got joy. I got the sun.  
 

Got to run, prose.

I can’t circle my attraction to Japanese manners. Not yet. 
A Japanese color, though, is how a light olive shifts to vetiver or chartreuse, fading hunter into aroma of basilicum, dark lawn trimmed as ice minted circles yellow sage for citrus spritzes and multiples of khaki to translucent sprigs of tea in Kyushu spring.

Could there be Thanksgiving for the dead?  
                      hold on  
I’ll put you  
on greenish “pallor enhancer.”  
 
Strangers breathing around us, sweating under a river of skin 
flowing out, living now for compliments engraved on secret ballots. 

“I don’t like it, and I’m sorry I ever had anything to do with it.”
I tend to have to agree with you.

Flamey asides. 
 
A kitchen to heat pizza.  
Wake up and work.

It’s powerful to give names to feelings. 

So, Buddha tells me you’re a baby  
And I have to destroy my world to get back to yours.   
 
Unhappiness results from our abundance.  
In specialized contexts.

The normal exec in a large academic corporation by the highway will grow up, in a flash forward, and work for Strategy Foundation, a company that parses guilty pleasures around the world. She or he doesn’t dream now — 
not any more. One’s become an energy therapist, and keeps rabbits. You see doctors learn how to say what no pet defender wants to hear. “You sure of that? You sure those were your rabbits?

core harmonic structure: call back when you want

Photons are torpedoes. ‘I’m home..’ 
Maybe set to Nome?  
 
I say to the ATM in the lobby,  
take my cash, push me like a button thru the roof —  
Photons rebuild the world, leaping out of windows  
Moving in our direction with startling humility and alacrity..  
 
Here I am as genealogies of photon futurists file off.  
Rebuilding one is a verb tied to esthetics that numb.   
 
I’m the underdog here, emotionally maligned, an amalgam channel  
-ing of normality, sleep, hope, compost telepathy that bear repeating.  
Photons.  
Can we turn to steel?

Doggie style. God is mirrored information.

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

We’re fidgeting, minding our semiotic manners, 
lit by mid-lunch clarity, sporting and Datonian —  
we’re in an enclosure with no pulpit, without dogma...   
breezeways to enter then exit formlets   
spreading out in willful overloads of language design —    
  
Skilled decor, de-simplified or notional mime  
in contretemps between science and who knew?   
ironic technologies with no precedent —   
a corporate hold across a matrix of manners and adaptations, restrained praxis   
and hermetic syntax.    
  
Nice beachfront. Amuse our ears and eyes: why so few   
and fewer bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little)   
— it seems an absurd referent and then less   
off-rhyme. 

58: Deserting the beach — god forbid 
 
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways  
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your beck and call, a handshake  
spreads the rain,  
  flowers, rain,  
flowers.  
(That’s it! Do what you want.  
 
The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we  
can walk on with. Hell. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our  
widows.  
 
This is spring history.)

We are a color of cunnilingus. I noticed, tho, you and I applied for
pharmaceutical assistance, an oscillation gelatin called Sparkling Cunnilingus.
Nothing is more or less than arabesque, forgetting our place in the secret order of cunnilingus. We were once handsome, having left a lavish record of the male-female hush from hand to fingers to mouth: in epic hock to our hips. 

Our temperature raises the magnitude of repetitions into a shriveled cunnilingus in the after-life or its meandering dissolution.

An open question. What criteria do you  
adopt in choosing poems and books of poems to read? 
 
Give me a textual praxis as if from a mansion gone wild.  
Admittedly, wild is a black hole.

An emanation is a specter brought up a peg. Just to clear things up for us, you. 
I’ve moved to a new couplet.  
 
Enticement entails at least specters. 

So I’m passive but I don’t believe in spooks. Here’s the outline.   
 
A few strings were pulled to get me in this new factual place I would never have chosen myself.  
 
I’m here. 
Shall times’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid  
  maintaining a competitive smile for a maxillary edge you own only if you go overboard.   
 
I may not be deep enough; loose alliteration masks tha

You read for some at sea sex is immediate, overwhelming, terse and decisive — A thousand and one friends back in the city in a boil .. polka boats like dots, you said.  This is a loose translation, drawing on elements of your life. You planted yourself here. 
You. You. How was it to record the soundtrack for an unscripted movie? Was it like writing from a retrieval search with data trees leading to nebulous, chaotic deculturalization?

I need antic intellectualism. Lead-free prose. 
Four husbands.  
Simplistic, Manichaean juxtaposition.  
A solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.).   
 
Jousting snacks.  
New verbs like avenue, firebug, Stradivari.

— The world becoming flat and falling across 
 


The telling (of)  
 


(Instances of)  
 


Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic  
 


Streaks and — weird! — high wails of titanic fog, sifting down from  
 


Rain ceilings (off)  
 


The snow. The snowing. The across (falling),  
 


It is (falling) across  


Morton Feldman.

Haste is the suave part of RSVP;
Earth is spanked all over 


for love — now on the mouth. 

* 

I’ll keep this in mind.

We can demolish only one artificiality. 
Last night on 7th Ave. 
It’s no toy. It’s an example of us we can’t have.  
It doesn’t love you or me. Like an oblong moon it loves what we do.  
It’s a learner, clearly faded. We intervene only once  
As the sunset roars into place. 
Remember, all our troubles disappear. 

There’s no description, the lion took the eagle’s wings yet kept his own name. 

Then he had an idea.  
There’s a description he kept inside.  
I notice I haven’t said anything.

In relation to conflicts over scale, Habermas and the rest of us want to inspect what others say,  
but a few lies are fearful, shiny architecture of real matter.  
 

As if Rawls informs us on plural paths, where the tolls are o, etc  
 


Truly bathetic. Forgetting what you have to say has nothing to do with current biases of mine. Like so many others, I’m fixated on war, loss of democratic principles and governance procedures —  
 
procedures again, only this time writ extremely large. The writ carries a stark reference to the last liberal prime number among us, John Rawls, but how inarticulate and superficial to use him this way. I’m conflicted about criteria for justice, questions how these may apply to our history now ...

Sonnet 65: 
Cultural boundlessness in impulsive concealment.. it could be a physics meditation held outdoors since last summer. All night flower action evolves stronger, steelier pretexts, jewels 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.

Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled. 
Thus, Chickee is a guy.

This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a bumblebee clocked into epic life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity is a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over the heartthrob, not to be a Lebowski. 

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast  
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast  
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.

As ‘you learn to draw, remind yourself...’ the brain is said to resemble Chuck Norris. Interesting esthetic, not fatal — Chuck or a funny bone goes for merciless. Really his movies remind me of marigold & allegiance to the ice ants swarming the ozone as I look away — The earth is not the earth, but it has strength and balance and Duma unanimity. Each winter corrupts the exterior.... poplars attaining their ultra field and stream, doing a job shunned by most, showered with tips.

Desire set pass’s depth 
once making it shattered again into loving arts —   
 
guzzling bottled water before you came to mind, then effectively passing 
thru the park, streets,   
 
I roll now to hold you bearing that moment   
 
I kissed a cat. Once.   
 
Once out of death  
I wrote on otherness when down (“I’ve stopped looking”) otherness came.   
 
What’s the worst that can happen? Love’s 20 times its own weight,  
enclitic in almost meaning. 

To be unmarried
Where the sky went: 

A bright debate — where eager heartbeats bore in, grateful prenuptials stampede out, 


Drawing youthful bounds along dark areas of propaganda 

And owing to your interest... this won’t constitute a sacrament. 
Or only one of many as noted by a 3rd party. 
Misogamy’s terms are to settle down through the evening. Your proud examples 

Gain longterm advantage spreading the no plan.

Get off any inkling of your high horse, my good man. We are free — still — to say what they / we think, but their recipes, or ours, are hardly unadulterated, perfused with empathetic spices and accents from leftist modernism. 
And so to bed. You know, Napoleon slumbered through wish fulfillment. Nixon, Trump as well.  

Bedlam: the two century-old middle ground where we tend to live and continue playing on vulgar innuendoes to remain kind — we undress to force a smile, fully emancipating anti-heroes like us to feel obliged to receive ourselves, all of us, generously. 

110: What are resonators for but to effect command of offenses we’re uncertain of or sold cheap. There’s nothing but our affections left. Love’s confinement a desperate measure, and it’s true, in reckless hands, yet for silent partners there’s depth to surface and mostly un-despairing perceptions (grinding truth) of what won’t be contained between us. All of the above.

Barret Watten’s Frame — “A chain link fence around a vacant lot filled with/ trash. As if a _____ were inside them ..// A beam of sunlight refracted by a prism/ makes a display.// Until language is only relation-and we are/ being spoken in a dream.” 
 
Trash is egghead poetics, here boiled down beneath a lot better trash that has a value P (portent) inside, spoken to sotto voce and to stipulate processed conditions to make up — practice making perfect sleep time.   
 
Transition, Day Three. Disabused of crayons to create a hint of scalability.  First step. Leaking or semi-announcing utopic content, replacing the sleep we witnessed on the escalator.  
For credit, go to the next line.

You’re on every page you go unmentioned. 
There aren’t enough shortcuts to go around ..  
 
My soul’s on break, thinking in a style of incompletion (Otto Dix),  
Obsequious, sharpened,   
 
Few motifs — the wash of light exaggerates.  
: A new music took off about here   
 
To encapsulate your suspicions ..  
I like it, unlikely there’s more or less.   
 
And some things you need to repeat.  
(I forget now what you sound like.) 

134: Dirge: Knocked up by sure bets and apparatus, unattainable vote totals involve usurer intrigue, equipage of the self-illumined or half-taught.

An inured slice of childhood domains — all to use another time.
Back in time. 
So now and then I liked primary grades more. Later, in romantic couplets, one confessed breathing, swollen within a radiant distance —

lost in bromance, wearing nothing but motives for aching to do what we were afraid of doing, of being? So he’s yours? 

I’ll sue you for disrespect, covetous of my comfort, my couplet. I lived your peach flash thru witless dialectic.

I drank your Labrador tea. And for further research I took up free, motorized speech. 

Dirge:
I don’t worry or pierce my ears further.

149: Cruelty goes by a few worshipful metaphors. Not loving you down the road.. going against myself.. in a future Mars invasion!


Heavenly and new, classic and easy, unforgettable metaphors to our surrounding revenge for taking off, fawning over you / fawning upon you, quiet and respectful in everyday nudity. For nudity earned your just respect, commanded by your eyes. It’s always a swing reunion in that ritual expanse, a whole new side of narrow and hollow at center, a vacuum in motion on wheels!

I’m quick to postulate
I’m an evergreen seed  
-ling aboard a slow poke riding to work — worker and work all aboard molecules snared in a semantic thicket —  
 
I’m sorry for such shoddy reasoning and growth. Sorry pieces 

of blue and orange foam and Plexiglas  

got glued together.. ugh, it registers.. The model boxwood 

hastily assembled last night, turning in bed. Sorry hours 

earlier I ordered radical simplifications  

to the centipede’s legs at headquarters. Sorry my most important 
role now is always or never undoing things. Sorry there wasn’t time to make a more polished address on our expanding global network of ex-es.

Our bodies are made for each other. 
It’s astonishing.  Did you hear back 
.. I’m changing my mind for a life you changed  
So relax thine form here.  
No cheap shots. Nope. Take the plunge..  
How I occupied your emotional life, the highest for a gaijin in Japan.  
The guardian part made this a better world with a splash.  
It’s my blood on your shirt. It’s from you.

148: Cunning esthetic capitalism! it can whip you up, call you back to judgment ..  
No correspondence how love is falsehood? love’s eye true? — 
I mistake fault in sight and fair similes for love put in my head,  
blind to doting and censures heaving below.  
How can the world say it’s not so, I’m mistaken in my view : the sun itself vexing until skies clear  
 
— O me!

Our thoughts at this point raise magnitudes of meandering graphics, 
having left a lavish record of the male hush-from-hand-to-fingers-to-mouth.  
I enjoyed it when my innocence sawed into us,  
even though sheeted in asterisks. 

138: I admit I’m old. 
I knew what I need, feeling flattered you think me young!  
I knew which subtleties are made of truth,  
how pre-December persists in others, even you..  
It’s known you lie, not to mention your subtleties, marketing  
pizzaz, “Up and running”  
simple truth false-speaking seeming trust  
— even in the new year you follow love’s best habits 
sweetly, obviously culled..  
 
(away...my days are past the best)  
 
Invitation only.

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 on Fire Island.

The local is inside you, sang Pete Seeger, Bob Creeley  
when I tossed my head and rode 
one foot, pawing the ground before a stride.  
As for my consultant, he shook  
the bed, broke a baby toe, stubbing it  
So much as ‘the way things were’ stay the same that day. 

129: That slap in the face harder to explain now,
laid to make the taker mad — a waste..
 
Traffic jammed under the apartments — tropic action — 
A cruel lemon sliver caught in my savage nose, past reason,  
Tangy..  
Romeo and Eurydice. A joy proposed behind a dream. Just a wedge.