This is ur-autumn & with these Q-tips I’m free to cut my scruples off. 
I’m not even a con-anarchist.  
Under pre-season conditions, thoughts washed over about time —  
For starters: Do you test, lease, defame to get the best?  
 
& the answer in a day wherever that is if ...  
Is it about time or times?

I personally maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic one more time. 
The place is firmly democratized, sir, once it seemed and was 
interpenetration among important parallel scenery et cetera running this.

What if your collaboration makes you sick?
We talked about this on television last night.
The kids digging their graves are biased like others.
It’s awkward, depressing and of course concerning.

It’s snowing, nothing personal.
Further out clear descriptors peel off like spiders
descending, moaning nonentities (the Ralph Vaughn Williamses)

hustling all the time, awesome!

Guards stood tall in part over parcels. Now they tell me to take off my belt. Your belt. 
 
My impression is each motion serves a purpose. A higher light according to utopians hoisted in the sky headed toward realpolitik under their own glare. Guards collapsing into supernumerary states of hemi-fusion, 2 or more. Small adjustments in scales opposite a line-up of our unnumbered bodies. (2 or more.) Every dancer stops for a mote, a moment, feels better they tell me. 

Then we yield to the rush of new people stage center, taking on our subject matter w/ a backwash to clear few or no differences worth repeating.

You may have a right to hate me but no right to use hate to transform poetics.
You may be Buddhist but your actions define you as a bully mote of shamanism.

Combustion and dust spores filling avenues between scrapers, your honor.
People borrow shelter in ice cream convenience stores, then run off to the subway, running with asinine language (you can’t call it dialog). Ugly apartments. Life-draining clothes. New affections. Highly recommended. 

Fats Domino, RIP

The  jet gate opens to the drawing room, once a factory outdoors where snow & sunlight close their distance. The old new & new strung out on sectionals, an untapped atmosphere of oblique, puckish Swiss.. The Swiss playing the stunt of relays between workplace & dogma, everything everyone can live by w/out being sequestered or brutally charged by material objects : so by these shortcomings we softball in harmony around some parts of sky & parts of parts.

I question the following. 
“Gogol, Nikolay Gogol, with an M.A. in these matters, says gut feeling, sane  
behavior and noncriminal discourse teeter on the grotesque.” I still can’t turn that  
down. Can I? Could he?   
 
I turned and asked again.  
It felt unwise.

Sing 
YOu defile my people once. Only once  
expresses seeds in the mail ..  
solutions to endnotes on drums.. & pity nowhere now w/  
dark engendered powers @ 1% .. Cavaradossi!  
We’ll misapply principals, w/ others,  
the higher ones [Trained staff encourages sampling.   
 
Any higher are not talking.  
(There’s tighter discipline   
 
Then repetitive motion goes too far  
and some at all levels become enclosed]  
climbing into casual ritual (putting  
their lives together) & keeping order.) 

Poetry on the style page (where it stays). 
*   
 
(A thought I’ll put aside is that a poem is the sonic record of felling trees (for printing the page).)

Adaptability in circumstances 
is hardly effortless:  
I add Ellipses.

CVS counter. I know him, he knows me, I admire him, vice versa 

.. sorry, I don’t have other associations I’ll add. I was driving everywhere. Don’t know why we are in this automatic summation of now or that a minute from now after the transaction but before thinking it thru, sending it over my head, with only a few elements incised to form solid bands connected to CVS.

Let’s dance. I defy you.  
Empiricists map it, we know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n randomness. 
I will be true to conventional physics and change nothing they spell out  
 
but pure benefits never accrue. Inconsistencies never grasp for governance of the governed! Wouldn’t you know they show up in an infinite series w/in each day’s gossip. (Or from another angle they are the series, livin’ history over, as we have heard, incompletely.) As you were.  
 
(The Chief of Staff says.)

2: We never come across it here.

Slow, like never before. Yet a thriftless parabola intersects feeling its pedigree (that was).
Face to shoulders, gestures are precise thru your eyes, the viewer’s glass.
These are proud motions out — the viewer’s eyes. Warm and cold climbing down a first, second, third hill. Falling lower there’s a new quad mainstream-underground

with deep-sunken eyes — we — some of us — avoid. Of small worth. Will

you recover mine? Renew me? how much? let’s call back
successive coordinates, summed up in fair praise

remembering pleasures of the eyes! neck! and chest!
Yes there..

In Throne of Blood — if you’ve seen it, you won’t forget — the tall growth of Cobweb Forest is sawed down to new ends, camouflage for soldiers of an avenging army on the march. The sad image is threshing fir and pine needles that shield warriors advancing to unseat a despot who is flummoxed by presentiment. 
Ontologically, a wild deed like rewriting poems is complemented by an autocracy of attitude toward the occasion; the autocrat and scribbler combine as a sawtooth. Standing by and looking on — face it, I’m prone to passive aggression — stunted, I limp off scowling to the deforested haze of profuse misses in experience and dulled lightness of touch.

I see it but am I seeing it? 

Were we mannerists, we’d describe this as Absence from This.  

Quick version: A wall of calm; also self-capture: The cross-hatching selfie that allowed ancestors to exchange traits for others... has just about run out of steam, my profane friend interjects, & leaves us wondering, once more what there is about our plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to. 

This version ushers in even more non-urgencies of grueling yet quickened aversion over entropy. Call it the ideas of how they work off This.

1st question, true or false. Is the last part ok? Technology keeps humming to Aristotelian systems extremes. The cigar and its plantations. It’s a manageable stretch from there to when you left, even while I ruled what went between us out. You hadn’t left a name, either. And yet, I stood closer, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. To misunderstand.

When a bolt strikes the lightning rod emits a ballet in dust and after that a solution, a chemical substance that recuses itself and returns as coloration, a hint there is a small cognitive commotion in the back of something the matter.

This set me thinking of you and me. Two or more of us are affianced to life / love in different ways, always murmuring to the lightning therefrom a la mode and beyond.

There are three pleasure substitutes. 
The frayed honeymoon is first and, second, the writ against love is normative, blushing with its little chant of guts and neurons dying in a fascinating replica of functional equivalence.  
 
After a honeymoon deflections accrue. Third, there are mathematical laws that restore you and all the planets..

Love, A cool looking Japanese acrobat slow-motioned to us to go for the moody and unexpected. 
Doesn’t it freak you when categories are givens we don’t need to work out? Nevertheless. Some of you has given in — there you go, retreating, emancipating solitude, more sound-oriented than dance.   
 
But that reminds me, your drawl is immediate, overwhelming, terse and of a Castilian order. A hundred strum und drang in one = you, contained at the piano. The endive bloat for George Balanchine nevertheless.

A spider running down inside her is in response to the production-vector coursing through concepts, continuous profits bringing story-telling comfort to support thought-out pieces’ position in the food chain, which is in dispute.   
 
Art captive to narrative? I adhere to the same late-filing rules as you.  
 
Thereby art is theft by all means all right. I’m almost a novice enthusiast. It may be years from now we’ll return to favor. 
Then, inscrutably like now I shall be away and ask for nothing.

Undressed — except for slacks — anonymous like Updike but I turn  up   as Camus. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back) . . 
 
The bear, untameable and wild 
 
But calm it down. There’s always a dual nature to justify finding “resentment and forgiveness” within our not being sorry we can’t erase.   
 
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.

A spider running down inside her is in response to the production-vector coursing through concepts, continuous profits bringing story-telling comfort to support thought-out pieces’ position in the food chain, which is in dispute.   
 
Art captive to narrative? I adhere to the same late-filing rules as you.  
 
Thereby art is theft by all means all right. I’m almost a novice enthusiast. It may be years from now we’ll return to favor. 
Then, inscrutably like now I shall be away and ask for nothing.

Without Ashbery
Pausing to look at two tomes & how you toned them.

Inside the 1st it’s gray. Divided & confused, I signed 
up. Redemptive (how?) acoustics are here, also 
a container for every dataset on loud 
so the workspace for the 2nd, smaller volume will hear it 
& feel it in stages getting taller, striking overnight. 

Research-bent, both books move to replace 
— a great new system for appeasing & thriving
that’s always wrong to prolong your appeal.

*

I would love to be back home.
They’ve already taken it from you.
They have taken your home.
You have no one home but you.

Sentiment can be taken out.
So a redraft prompts special inquiry tho tentative (after all) meaning of structure. Putting it down in a memo, we have a relationship. It’s not an investigation but inquiry. Rough seas yet you’ve been doing this long enough to be admitted; you know how we leverage missing you at a time when it’s least expensive. I’m happiest procrastinating, indexing suspicion and objurgating..

We sometimes need fresh lexicon to wangle a way to reset the mind-body problem, irruptive words to determine their own behavior, items like primality and cuboidal glints of music, human interaction in heaven, akin to the great abstractions around ambiguities. Never far away strove the steady salmon in jagged streams, eating air, a glorious set!

No variation. 
Lacking truth, research suggests shorthand abstractions,  
buckeye elements around national objects, street names 
more indirect than research shows.  
 
Minor formalism holds the screen for the overweening moment 
winning or won in an upset, out of control yet  
surrounding aggression with this truth in my touch.  
 
No truth.

The gear managers inserted a bonus to exchange and it’s not so bad — 
an innate physical act of fondness that ends in a draw sustained one  
by one getting up, stretching for an hour.   
 
Whilst I’m driven to de-humanize sweet totems that “look pretty close” with my eyes  
now closed, with you, I’ll possess our language with no lexicon,   
without conforming to a belief system to insert a hyphen and assert our memory.

We sometimes need fresh lexicon set for mind-body deportment, words to determine their own behavior, items like primality and cuboidal glints of jazz, a cuboidal glorious set of awareness / possession, lacking amplitude.

Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam, 
Accounting disappears like functions of context (procedures) —   
 
Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to amoral schemes, quieted  
But more fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Travel well.

Are they saying the same thing? Chögyam Trungpa teaches First thought best thought; George Balanchine, Don’t think do. Both mean and don’t mean it. Put extremely, the meaning / meaningless exotica buries itself in application: a first thought in Trungpa’s belief is already broken in two; thinking (or not thinking), even (or especially) when it’s “first,” impedes being (and incidents not attached to being); while Balanchine wants physical movement to write over and above mental representation, yet one thinks on the way forward to execution. Both statements — first thought, don’t think — are similar examples of intuitive layers in which meaning deploys no meaning, slaying the butterfly native to these parts, reflection on and of opposite outcomes.

It’s a classic knife-in-sui-generis. 
 
Parts of recovered history come to streets whooshed by impurities of state.  
The furbished carport reflected in this broad point perched high above molecular attitudes of state, grammars of people using data for material, like us.  
 
There’s an end note for those out of state sweating liens on other attitudes.  
 
That’s why everyone polishes the text and hands it in.

A convert sings:
Dear October looking like June,  
my notes went outside and cried. Happy nerves. I need a new sum of scansion,
just remembered.   
 
A heart holding  
my tongue on the verge of resisting notes of civet and benzoin.   
 
In the right daylight outside yet  
“In each house a different hall, adapted to sever the head  
from the vine.” That’s an odd thing 
to say, are you self-embedded or out?   
 
In a summons I quote all morale is short lived.

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

Christ’s manner of poetry is staring out the window, saving-up.  
Amusing I suppose if not eye to eye. I pass with regard to  
selfhood and its ovoid, stasis  
in battle over the splendor of containment. 
Not grinning first still counts but also where  
and how. That’s my finger pointing for the interim  
realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”

My first night at E. 12th my impression was I had decamped here for weeks, months. Tub in the kitchen will be finessed, a foyer, walled in packed bookshelves, a studio workroom off the foyer filled with files of graphics and drafts, a large emptied bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows, large, no curtains, just windows and walls with decades of paint peeled, peeling. My bedroom is perfect as it is, futon, a damp sprig of pine in a ceramic bowl, one or two books in a stack in-process. I knew the poets in the building, a few famous, many pre-famous. It will all be familiar backdrop in a newer craft, hazarding and giving.

Meantime we’ve moved off the mainland. 
No unknown futures present newer phenomena, fenced off. 
It can’t be easy. Dig 
around for numerals and replacements.
We have no perverse incentive to take any more chances as we talk thru our replacement words.  
 
CLEARS THROAT. LAUGHTER. Suave slaughter.

The School of Nobody takes 8 lives.  Nobody wins in a debate over no- and not- distinctions: for incorrigible voice matter is always interesting  & moving to work for meaning.  There are no stages. 

What is a bleb? It sounds and looks small.
Jumping ahead. A decade from now no one’s famous. 
We’re forgetting nothing moves the needle. This argues for problematics.

*

Should we have 
a message?  
 
Possessive self-possession. Without title.

If you want an interview we need an answer to this, Guiliani said in an interview.

All experience is seriously correct.. 
But what is?    
How can it if I tell you what I’m?    
 
A blind accident, 
 
I’m in no hurry. A life was charged   
now curled up on the menu.     
 
(Have to go.)     
 
There I was, preaching to your eyebrows.   
(Cave safely.) 

Politics is the gene expression omnibus.   
Each of us is one viral video from partisan fame.    
  
Vanity is promotion.  
Amen to white boats opposing innocence.

A foolish few of us keep fighting for independence. But bosses are out there. Sure savages, quick with their own designs. Yet I keep running from the bosses above — psycho-analogs, nonverbal monitors of sensory and motor operations standing up to view the repaired wall unit, hearing you read fibrous new copy, pacing in warrior suspense, smelling something burning, watering potted moss, falling asleep. When you listen closely the analogs are meddling, nudging nearer to a verbal core, editing prose, keeping everything tidy; above that, less of a presence, there’s one or more crisis managers descended from a family of ethicists, whom Freudians describe as facets of the superego mostly whizzing by shaking a ‘finger’ up in the brain and mumbling something half-received, half-worked-out for the moment — be tiny, be warned — there are tribal icons above superego facets, and their points of view are even more fleeting, harder to perceive as they’re fossils — given up to us like paste gems and gluey blobs, deliberately dulled into falsehood with real results! 

I wear them indoors.

We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. Miss you. Miss you.. There you are! What’s the matter?

To explain leverage inside a more collaborative framework..  there is the physical sound of a frame along with a framework. What’s matter..

we’re adoring you reflecting our status wanting a moral politics where leverage follows its bliss

(returning to duty)!

Media is clogged with a reductive, neo-fascist message... 
Trump just has to look presidential for a few minutes to emerge [..presidential]. 
Fascism stays underground for as long as it takes. Now here it is — it’s about to play nice. 

Nice or mean fascist views won’t disappear. Unamerican discourse has entered our lives. It’s commonplace in our high schools. 

The time seems backward. There is the example from frog species. Frogs lost teeth in the lower jaw at least 200 million years ago, but whoooa.. lower teeth reappeared in a marsupial tree frog species about 20 million years ago. 
— Sept., 2016

C.V.: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating fair use praxis. My focus is the hand hath put connection to a nearby eyesore we could fix up, borrowing an old face beauty once remanded. Inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying nameless, profane, increasing inventory, keeping focus on their esteemed orientation, mining their richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday, they think: further focus on infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs that flare up into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer!

Shopping sprees are migratory patterns. 

They get disrupted but like age and defeat don’t let up.

It’s all set here. The economy is fixed to move. 
I’m a meta physicist to an inner antecendant for whom marooning was neither scarce nor chic. Tempus fugit despite taking an interest in properties & stratagems bequeathing us  

sherbet, oomphy comforts & massive inflows of feel- 

ing great! These brands are shocking taken to far corners every day, above  
 

a once bowling facility, now airbandb-ing. Tried to.  
Thousands tumble.

Mere research reports what’s on your mind. 
Why not reflect it in text?  
You’re showing one lie can never be replaced by another  
It contains.

146: I’m talking to you in American. 
 
Christ went missing. No more dying then? Won’t lie, I watched us dream economics weeding fertile ground and painting over a radius, destabilizing temperament like itty worms eating up soul after soul. No lie. Body loss. Looters and rhombus-gatherers, all doing well respectively — great work for them, cuts straight through an apparatus restructure creating more chopping patterns to follow the predictions.   
The chips mount a background to soundtracks muting key words. Entire sectors of you and me feel it’s about time to leave history alone, so short a lease, epic sums on slender gloss in silence. The walkway and manly instrumentation   
 
are redone for full combat. Let’s remember in passing notes of hyper-literal churning depth. (It might be feminists like us are on and off genome probation.)     
 
Is this decision theory now? Don’t know. Hard to lie. 

Often my partner exists in a fortress, deliberately passive-aggressive like any fool.
I’m kidding. Even alone.  

In our farewell, as I see it, our descendants build a museum to spy  
on us & others. They look great — stomping out corners. That’s their 

moonlight, indispensable today for smearing glows  
 

down walls that follow a trajectory
aimed at each atom of both of us in maroon cords.

Criticism “must take a wider horizon of use.” But my notes go lost, colonized with off-rhymes; my lexicon wears rhetorical “skirts” wrapped around some legs. 
 
Between a minimum and maximum 
Buddha retires in expired turmoil. His daybed is in the new office with murals of white doves passing morsels out. His critique has no name; it’s all about listening.

So I put my name in. Just one. Am I fit for the scenario? The next one. Are you and I? I ran out of balls rating you. Instead of my goals, I found so much of what you say unique, but our data are adulterated. Both sexes. Barns and shrubs. You’re driving me nuts. 

Channel my absence from you. 
While my paranoia reminds me of you   
 
when I am feeling discordant, scared of death 
from which we come back as braggarts having it all wrong.  
We both goofed but it’s negative matter,  
only a fleeting year — rectified  
less or more spasmodically by time restored removed.

Psalm make me sorry with the music. 
 
Nothing is unimportant. Neither the bray of birds nor their sweet after play. Send for Fr Pierre.  
He lives in harm’s way. Sit on his face. “A pure transit of showdowns.”

After you, bursts of daft tone substitute for a dream retreat. Or 
wait. There’s nothing.  
 
I’m making music past the closest saturnal   
pluck of adversative brutality ..  
Yet nothing is forbidden.  
Finalists like you quit general practice — off to privacy  
with little or no forgiveness left, I laugh. And yet not you, your honor...   
 
Inner, outer merge in our court system, no shadows, the light flows in your odor and hue...praise be ..

’Recursive perception‘ — 
For your birthday (bleak as mine, too) I came straight from the agency, this text’s agility welded to the dirty platform on which I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception and Inaction,” which seemed all I wanted to think of, ambiguously. 

It was everything. All pre-happened and decided.

Poetics process stuff. Ketchupy. 
The coast is never clear, fat boy...   
 
A whole new side to nuts & lightening bolts, narrow & hollow in the center,  
along with holding on 100% — inflatable as you lay back in a blank whisper,  
clearly in the nick of it, spoiling the fun.

Cliché inflects necklines. But I like your flask.

At a new level of storytelling that hang-in-there ideal is on your side, time sick. 
 
It goes with a backhand irony like pigeon guided missiles or extra guards at the gate.  
A free coupon! No, the front gate won’t front  
As there are centers of wishing beyond your closed doors.   
 
All batteries are charged (that’s the feeling). I’m pouring  
Molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with microfiber  
— I’m about to walk the spiral and more!  
While chestnuts stand around in verbal hoards  
Coupons expire.

You were good to give us storylines, battle scars, vanity, thrills, sky 
dogs, paint & sloppy intercourse under conditions that surround our desire 
calming down time for loving you.

“...all men suffer:”
& what of? 
I’m like everyone else who grew up refusing novels, a nutshell of a wonk
glaring, boasting bragging rights over inexact outcomes, crayon-ing onto smiley,
boundless love non-judgmentally! Silently indicative! 
& of course I too did time w/ “live people...”

I can’t win = that’s the primary end of inattention.   
More bounce for the retina to unscrew my internal hysteria pouring up, out but  
unembarrassing, rocking like breaking news, losing both death and life, dropping your    
rogue’s whip, over my heels.

I forget what really and concretely meant to nature. 
My post values are really skewed, I forget William Blake.   
I forget historicism.  
I forget the Kennedys and the Dead Kennedys.  
It’s the same with my wearing bangs.

Aren’t we supposed to feed the acrobatic dogs? Yes but summer, winter? Minutes after the work is filed, dozens stand in line for a treat, free rein over the sentence.

for Paul Manafort
Leaves are no longer the leaves, you think?  Don’t come near — I’m writing in fraught cycles of perpetual panic. 
The warden had called for vinyl yellow corn husks flanking french doors leading to the territorial room where they proceed with surgery to remove complainant fat..   

Not yours, happily. But close enough . . .

The screenwriter, who cheated your father, wants to stay chic simple, s/he develops fat samples — tints them solar . . 

Then changes fat to bay windows . . 

And the surgery is successive! One by one the windows break down with no views.

Then it happens. A man’s voice, handsome, calm, also nervous ab structure.  Protecting a man’s dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that. 
Bathing — ‘worth the trouble’ — called out in a tremblor voice to men aroused like children  
blurring the terrain,  
stenciling closure. He shouts,  
‘Can we search for reason in nature’s chaos... ' 
No one writes like this, pulsating — it’s wonderful.   
 
A near miracle.

Extortion mirrors bribery. The mirror puts itself out there.
‘See, I am everything I usually ignore.’

All my teachers are dead.
I’m still looking.

We have empty form in grizzled perpetuity and a hip cast 
— super angels strumming harps for a full encore of Zeus Arrhenothelus  
Bringing up larger drama for the stretch and preen in uncanny vigilance —   
 
Fall back, breathe out while while other cast members get authenticated —  
Casually removed or   
 
Restored at a slight remove since we are implanted with manifold waves  
From darkness as most 3rd-dimensionalists will tell you, like most vacuum ..

Sonnet 100:

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

But it adds up. The numbers spoil everywhere — times
we don’t have to see you
we get the job done. We’re faster than time.

We forget that’s why singing actuaries went
unmoored. Their affection is idly vicarious here.
Vicarious isn’t crooked enough. Fame, skill have long
redeemed our fury over what accounts spent.
The survey speaks of love only in numbers,
a despised waste of life, if any, as satire.

to Advisor Bolton
One thinks one loves you all-purpose, all calm, never resolved, 
Because you’re only one resource, one swab   
 
In a climate of drumming opinions and best practices —  
Then driving rain and surging seas, heinous Persia  
 
Long overdue, you said, any day. A refreshing reminder.  
My sympathies.

Your bromide is familiar. Let me grab a pen. You’re gaining attention for the wrong reasons, dummkopf. Stay where you are. Exploit the familiar, even an inkling. Glow fast.

The cosmos is unwilling to go very far, now or later, this way or that — what we inhabit is neither a stoner planet nor merely a plywood-and-particulates object flown in time. Earth turns out an enormous intimation as sexual icon, promoting violence, death, laughter. 
Those not laughing are listening, assuming we’re incandescent.

I say you sign off on others’ labor — A newspaper edition, documentary remnants, penetrable databases — We occupy this clever, conceptual nook, curling up, thinking up ... At times siding with the powerful (administrators) seems deliberate as well as passive-aggressive, love’s public effect, blots of respect for undue labor. 
I’m kidding. I’m staying sarcastic — unironically. Anxious pleasures bearing pleasurable anxiety, repeating ...

In our heart of hearts, lord, we’re wading out to meta-trigonometries ..  
I’m wanting respect, witness to a natural moon shining  
its belle-lettrist metamorphoses, moving sweet points  
over the slip, damning loose ends even with fairer aspects, so great a duty  
but giving wind sheer every opportunity  
.. to let us go. On.  
Up. Now. 
Prove me yours.

36: There they go. Altho one 
You’re not alone...  
you’re mine. We get somewhere, so far then stop.  
It’s a shame you and I grow our inner living love in dim light. In that respect I confess — or let me confess our undivided love is tickled, altered into love’s sole effect, corruption —  
 
Your love, mine — separable remains of the nervous system that distorts our love radially into two lives.

Stacked tonal asperations.  The luminous patina of an excommunicant / He thought about SciFi from the Sixties / Of a bright, lit, obvious labyrinth / All his life as if he were a mercurial creature / As if meeting death half-way by making connections / The kind of greenish pallor you’d desired — 

As the furry chestnut shadow turns from the window / Fighting the relative fight to endure / His coat with his assassin’s bullet, effluvia, life / All his life as if he were a mercurial creature / Etc.

Modulating the self comprises an apotheosis 
according to types of daring.    

Don’t smolder, show us.

After the decline of the XIXth century, there were little insurrections 
The state held sway, even on the 2nd floor near the coatcheck.  
Eminent domain: Paranoia engaged us then passed out.  
Young & ugly you & you were next. Clouds dumped into drinks  
Not to arouse the unknown or undue, your well-being was my concern.  
Few invitations. I won’t forget. In, out, very well. Plato in French. 

To resolve a domain, auto-explicability emerges.
& that does it for this hour. New world seasonal circumstances had  
Postponed further equity & because of you =  
No end to inquirers laughing thru-out. Keep them waiting.

When shopping from your texts I find solid proof 
Showing stunning results for innuendo: ‘You’re good. Doing this, I offered. Just 
Report to duration centers for the rich for best pricing, unless  
Outright theft looks better. Go. Fees balanced. Eject.’  
Then you told me repetitive purloining motion went much further —  
Making money w/out reason is mass   
 
-ive. After.. surely if that’s the mood, there are vector  
Utilities for expressing amassed wealth after dark..   
 
Sleep has no idea of here and now when ordering everything is the right answer
.. all on your check!

We already have what we ask for. 
Vainly but not fast in never induce italics:  
We gave at the Office.  
We gave it up.  
 
This is hardly ever for the 1st time,  
disappearing in molecules like context, just molecules ago.

Sitting down delivers the good news, stateliness while steering already had its faint say. Now we can text and ‘drive’ over time and zeta functions mowing down hedgerows like highway dividers along an infinite axis.

Thudding airlines: As the prosecution collapsed 
you hand over your sack of warrants.  Wait!  

At the end the evaluations are in. Jumbo on  


justice, liberty, rule of law...    

Ergo, time to concentrate on that killer c.v.  
It’s about warrants for words, Might (Mate).

Writing in a voice for a glass room that rings of convoluted propaganda, in finger paint. 
With brush and paint we take dirt off a crescent metal, easy to pick up, feed and embrace after the climate changes. So writ. Under suspicion.

Go on, I respect you. Tell us about your background in propositional aesthetics (affiliates who you think are like you but aren’t).

One assumption is tomorrow’s 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.

No interviews today. Triumph* is creepy**. 

*Creepiness, unlike triumph, widely construed as inaudible tendencies in the third person toward plundering contexts to alter the body’s asymmetrical neuropsychology.  
 

**Authentic triumph, group or personal, goes beyond construing or exciting discomfort, turning inland thru space.

The tallest paintings remeasure your height.  
 

 Painting ideas.  
 


You had heard accelerated pilgrims eat paintings stretched onto canvases of different sizes, gloomy jigsaws, severed threads, sticky placards in paint that’s waste emaciated into planes of junk and emptiness. This rural road.
Painting double quotes.

I’m leafing through your agility in pouring out seeds, turning over new seedlings — 

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

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

Here’s how I hitchhike. I pull on my gloves and come across an organizing principle for pulling a trigger or 2, replacing subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: structure, acquisition, mis-use, peasant media — no Eros except in ideas, room for the best but never the pure. 

3, One who hitches has no right to speak other than excellently. Self-conflict and compromise keep coming up as rich bases for ironic 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.

Voices in biological funnels, a trickle down of their futurity, 
Dropping into your sights — now rising 
— the fastest way to earn points. Yet 
We’re surrounded, opening 
I write poems for children, progeny 
Forward, a debit resonance disproving our successors — 

We’re nothing their voices bell without words. 

Make a difference, make an offer.

but I have to smile 
                      The emptiness that was 
one fine day... 
                      A uranium-brimmed scree 
insubstantial, to dawn ‘disappeared’ 
into a leg o’mutton of oblivion :

Craning one’s mien goes on outside e.r.’s as events pass — comments from nondoctors, random lines off tv — lies and freedoms in this vein take off at many a critical point. It’s interpersonal, e.r. managers hold. But not now. It’s conditions like these making it impossible to write enflamed birdsong and comb back your hair at the same time.. Can you do that?  
  
Light with a spooky edge..     
  
to sound off like your own critic.