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

Beyond us, them, 4% atoms, tiny
wriggling strings; hidden, 22% of the tug —

dark and unknown prostrations
fixed on voices, a first luscious, noiseless bond.

Not running after, walking rapidly, I cross
the hall where the heat transfers ....

Transfers. We can call it that
adding up the lead and trapdoor time, eyes

open, moving, waiting, transferring
but hardly blasphemy. Not that I care.

An irrational lyric? You and I can’t transfer that,
touching on our dual roles as we reradiate consensus.

I like gay art when it obtains, “a merry linking up process.” I know nothing about it. 
 
Bursting out of your head while you hike thru grasses: All this acreage owned by prosaic dabblers, a-theoretical factual folk. Taken for taggers-on, misunderstood.  It’s different evening on and children on fire hit back.   
 
Teamwork. Again, our people are what make us great.   
 
And if that’s everything for now, we’ll switch to loving and losing and loving. Fresh air still excessive — a geyser in a box-set of watchful scenes in bigger sets you don't see?  
Love / loss but for supplements nothing so great and hereabouts as theatre, sleight of hand,  good posture and strategic emotional constructs.

If there were a don’t fuck it over manifesto it would be 
Why make so much of leftist political origin.  
Start for free. Let’s call this the time left.. the end of the beginning.  
The front gate won’t front. “I’ve always been afraid.”  
 
How do parallels threaten a referent? Which fed drug is best?  
Visuals today are overproduced.  
Spot the dog.. or now his surrogate intruding a moment before he’s emptied.  
Intrusions entail teamwork, coincidentally.

109: Mind and body worship is vicarious, false of heart before conforming to a belief system to qualify. As for my soul, I’m too ugly to be molested. It’s true. 
But I like meeting new people and having life changing sex. O never say sex — that would be the interior storm window into no progress, the sum of time, but with the time exchange of preposterously good not frail kinds of blood, the sum of good. Left for nothing. Hoarse for weeks.

We impart numeric dicta slathered with metal bands — century-old middle rock (the themeless modules) where we sleep (wavy fields of inaction) and continue playing around innuendo to stay kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating me to receive you generously. 
Headwinds within and, as it were, without manners. (Good manners can scar but they also let us peons act like participants in the regulatory plutocracy.)

Either way, I know so little about sabotage and losing you so much less.

Semantics in space. Pleasant yet odd.

The Stanford-Benet mentions a handbook (or its conception) for encapsulating syntax to denote space-time, uniting archetypes found in even more complex disproportions that achieve higher cognitive value than meaning itself. 
What have they done?

The grounds for guesswork know what the regulation is. 
If we’re lucky, Euro notes rule our larger theory of commitments.  
Like pounds they bear full imagery, shiny 17th- and 18th-century ideals.   
 
Debts as wasted sunshine labor. 
(I don’t mean that as deeply before we hand them over 
on my thigh.)   
 
Don’t plan on further development.

Finish a stretch and the clouds get confused. Confused as   
 
A rusted barge dries in the sun orange. Or   
 

Danzig is the Wallace Stevens of evil urban clusters.. 
 
Ok, this is not Danzig. Proven  
On the ground
But theory is something else.

122: The longer I live it’s in front of me, beyond all, your gift within my brain.

There’s a glow in seconds before razed oblivion, fun .. and explosive. Wow.

Or much like staying in the now yielded by nature to receive you more.

An idle life abandoned. I’m forgetting about it.
You and I remain beyond all date in my heart and brain. I won’t be funny or make a stab, score or tally...

I’ll subsist to import your love in me .. Again.

To want as well as have nothing. Whoosh 
I shouldn’t ask did I live like that fly on the wall?  
Surface depth. You wouldn’t expect to rework this at all.  
Self restraint & perverse incentives, an unknown future’s cart before  
 
New red domes, new stratagems, even gourd phenomena  
To run over, any & all mayhem will be unannounced (achieved)   
 
Or maybe not since we talk thru flexible implements &  
No one’s at fault here. 
 
You never can tell. I won’t.

18: Allergic to verse? I believe a temperate art is set to make more mistakes, say, rough comparisons to too hot a month this coming May or one that’s past. Say, all summer you are more than nature’s change in course, growing (untrimmed) — owning the day for every moment — and knowing when to shine, to seethe.

And often seeing how hot eternal summer is, then fading all too short ah
Whew. We see you in fair poetry and art
from fair as far and long as men can breathe.

We keep the kids for our national security.

0) nothing horrible, no smudge at all, just horrible 
 
1) both perceptions of opposites are leveraged simultaneously  
2) meaning not only one and more original than none  
3) causing internal illogic along w/  
4) passing out on an ash chaise to bring you back to your senses, shouting  
 
5) I love your idea and I repent only to appease you  
 
6) as adages first thought / never think lose both death / life

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

Guesswork, it’s hardly anything ..

Can waving time like a moony branch  
supersede some language capacities,  
a piece of research asks. 2nd, why open 
atoms under quiver on the tip of your tongue at the edge to sleep?

A re-edit: seeking more bliss starts out, lowering our heads as we write.  
 
We use an alphabet and keep its letters by our side at all times.  
It’s an alphabet constrained by symbolic fonts within other discourse  
helping us follow instructions about grids, metronomes and taking notes.  
 
Like knolls perching like two breasts. Like when we write our alphabet, only the tops of letters are visible 
along with fresh upgrades to letters for colloquial physics.  
Water reddens. A steel door stays open. Here are the last phonemes of bliss. 
We best defer to the latest models to differentiate ourselves.  
Almost like deep blues and silvers with biological shades to form vowels,  
 
but consonants have taken their hiatus with older types,  
seen thru the dry warmth of heated mirrors.

Athens is the cradle of alpha reality 
Hip, ordered smooth, unruffled for the taking.  
The light darkens in the summer. I hate Greece.  
It’s official, we’re its colony.  
Yah, #36, all time subservience.  
 
(A revolving fate of unusual depth.)

A warm nearly winter day. 

Solved for the resplendent spelling, but not remorse. 
Now it’s a year later, a fine day emanating 
good news though. 

Typo, I’m late; it’s fitting, weeping inside before you go away. 
Cough cough.

Not at rest, circumspect. (I’m just beginning...) 

Well, most every worry or mistake is bilateral, based on trying to rewrite 
Hellish varieties of you getting fingerprinted in eight 
Perspectives, after xvi-th-century Italian drawings.. 

..The stars are early, out and out of their miseries 
One probing-boomerang day after another. Every day’s 
Important, I see. I remember your aroma, surnamed oliva di luminari.

Welcome to we’re not so much friends. 
 
Not now. We’re made up of chips of one another in other names. I use yours to get petrified, spiders...  
The brightness shunted into red day until emotional exchange began, crested, vanished like emissions administering the right thing to do, Bubba, close to you.

American justice, 2018: choke unions, ban Muslims, mark up Jack Daniels
with a note of no thanks to Addison Mitchell McConnell Jr.

If you swallow your ego luxury is great. I say no 
with my eyes shut.  
No meditation span ning the surface of the woods, no  
massage. No aubergine smell of ash or fir. So there’s nothing to resent.  
 
I’ve lost my appetite. How does it resume?

Sex has nothing to do with sex. Breakfast never eaten.
It’s a joy problem, love called out on a technicality. 
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch 

Per bantam partisans in guaged caution 
Toweling off for the next bracket. 
Boxing’s always hospitable. We’re not that stupid.

Mainly specific 
pieces of pieces —  
Most out in space are pulling apart. Often this is how the latter day sing  
as we come to our senses   
 
with a charming itch gerrymandered in ambiguity. Pull. Puller.  
W e’re pushing in genetic nutrients prompted by the assembly
surrounding nothingness.

There were deleted utterances filling balloons with peacock fat, 
such conceptual enormity it was hooded — a dirge of a term  
that cannot be considered in terms  
of checking cost or average that, 
since one’s intellect seeks damages. Chest with forefinger.  
Take my shoes to concert or even sooner.

34: I have a base feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in my way —
Together, you and I define arcs of ironic repentance but worked out in a series of affable disputes. Just so, we’re still at a loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal but not wind smudging our wounds into rotten smoke. Why?

It’s not enough I lose, I’m scared; ah, no relief as such. Not yet. I don’t travel well through storm clouds. I have your brave face but it’s shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.

Skepticism is an exact sequence blacklisted by metonyms. Time to respect poets. 
 
There’s nothing left of an emergent zone for habitual procedures.  
Bend down.. Nothing.. even huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy in immaculate fictive symbols.  

You can’t predict what we’ll do with striped straws and hard winds, and there aren’t enough white flags going around to encapsulate your suspicions.

I may have torn up the text (though torn only from my mind — you backstroke, swim and still float around in my semen).

55: Nor aside, a period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity,  
a living record. Nor against death can we outlive our doom advancing slowly. 
Not marble nor rhyme so move. Yet the fun workout once was of a soul, a tone beserk.  
So why am I dwelling on posterity like a warrior groom?  
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than all that, still brighter than all the wealth coming into this poem...  
 
You and I find room in our prospect, oblivious, uninvited — statues overturned, and we brought guests — death and memory. I...   
 
Even closer now in death’s eyes, I burn with quick fire for wearing out memory’s velocity — I’ll not speak nor ask (or shall I ask) more, should I?   
 
War wastes time, a powerful judgment at rest and at work.

Mortality can’t be beat. A big send-off but
no amnesty? A ship is on the way 

from mare nostrum 
or / & like crustaceans we had to give in, to forgetfulness for now. No static I could see.

Blinds drawn, our preachy, scavenged opacity fills w/ sang-froid riches of dark matter, soaking the globe w/ its bible pedigree & thumbnail intensity, semi-transparent. 

Before that yoga was fantastic, a soothing coterie added to sempiternal space & entered into w/ a worldview w/out language achieving access to felt qualities.

Oh domestic servant, poet, heck, oh chanteuse — 
I’m your doorsill to walk on and grin at in anguish..  
Open up —    
  
Textual anarchy can muddy and arbitrate convictions.   
The crisis is now. Catch your falling voice.  
Form is no object but slots of hooded activity, dreams into photos — your getting to turn channels keeping to your non-hegemonic pulse — wailing out of a tunnel.

11: 1st choice for a sonnet is to solve you for x. If you must, be rude, foolish but coalesce; x copies my life for yours.

After, I feel a burst of fresh blood, wisdom and your living endowment.

Wait. Later, without x... it’s cold, a waning world away...

But so like-minded so fast —
we convert to folly ..

The world you call yours we keep featureless, barren.

Inky smoke releasing a genocidal collage, live
Thought in waves agitated, reproached, disappeared
In drumming opinions subtracting best practices —
Look for nothing here to help increase harsh times that should cease.
Cold freezing nature, per se, nature will age, decay.
And yet not you, my love.. The more you live you are given what you give.

No pleasure, just a breather, but not while eating. 
 
The show was called; the rain spat. (I'm sorry al fresco’s bad then.)  
Yes. My voice tended toward stridency, an unfortunate strain.  
The music took off about here. 1st smelt feminine along abandoned quays but now looking sharp with canals and minimalist carvings.   
 
We viewed them before the high brutalism of fine dining (Otto Dix).   
 
A violinist, hesitant but banging it out better tonight. This starts our cuisine engines mid-grin.   
 
Tho evasion foregrounds our coerced motives so they sink in more.

‘You are out of your cotton-picking mind..’
— Fox News

‘The snowflakes are protesting..’
— Fox News

Are you thinking of me? 
I used to believe so, along w/ the grossular and pine boxes keeping us apart  
opening slatternly to our former lives, a win-loss for comic, breezy  
violinists in quartets w/ silver hats — Startling w/ their jodhpurs and  
instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge.

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

We repeat there are rules to doing morning: 
Sleep in without a rehearsal,  
Coax a situation back.  
 
You're only human, Fu dog.

How can you care modernism, a despoiled inheritance for poetry, beguiled, diverted, is flatly unlike architecture’s pocketknife connections to the past. Apparently tomorrow is more appealing even if we know where architecture takes us. Poetry?

I could live next to a place with water views. I would continue feeling deprived per diem. 
 
Like smuggling triplets, ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home. High tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. on the armchair that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for another fluke look-see next door.  
 
I watch a dying beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!

Monotone is no longer that severe or cool. Cool isn’t cool. 
Got it, the animal brain’s a little stiff but I feel what I think.  
Words are our feel-  
Ers. Variations leading back to the river purrs, purls — not its sound  
But ours, so I read this  
By me and not me, us.

Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — hints I don’t care.  
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you how we’re doing. Force the window. 
There’s a piece of karate, a fragile backspace we erase, open it to how 
turbulence’s... and your eyelid more active, blinking. A sign your  
push reaches a pull where time management is good hearted unleashed.  
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting your brow.

Cupid, the ideal, fell out of place in a man’s body 

but staying in the picture. Grrr. Voice changes and all.  
Happiest when stairwells mesh to go nowhere, our bodies gesturing, with diagrams: Brass band. Orderly thoughts.   
 
We’re going to finish them. Turn here.

Since when is / are government 
cliffside?

High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long- 
stood. Waking up released. Populations drenched.  
A circus repatriated.

Woe is paralytic. I also detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of it, even when love centers on abandon thru the sky with a body of rare happiness like popsicle rose gold in outer space — 
 
all of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest to seem stupid Dionysian.  
 
Dionysian = garish calculation, puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight. 
Outer space in theory.

There aren’t any warnings. 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. You were saying..  
 
That said, the minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back to a sacred lotus. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never happened. 
Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, new windows frame up vague change, like converging plebiscites, better to pump out to the fog’s grasp.

For design resolution cross the glacier 

— unless you already live there. Take busy roads by a shore in bad translation blues, stock blacks pitched through numbers-to-be, numbers in conceptual realism, contradicting formal transport to where you thought.

Terry Eagleton’s formulations re text and production can be less daunting when edited to their central premises. 1) Production is the key. 2) Text is a production of ideology. 3) Text and performance are “analogous to the relation between grammar and speech” – a production of a production (such as a theatrical performance of a text, his example, or critical interpretation of a text, mine).


Speech is a product, not a reproduction, of grammar; grammar is the determining structure of discourse, but the character of discourse cannot be mechanically derived from it... In studying local color and relations between text and performance, then, we study modes of determination which are precise and rigorous, not accounted for in terms of ‘reflection’ or ‘reproduction’. We are examining, in short, conditions of production.

My statement is enclosed.  I’ve highlighted failures in the trance where you selected the sorrow you know, reaching the silence dramatically — tall, athletic-like aromas.  Speaking of like, make your counter statement gripping me in hot water from hot springs.

Disappointment
makes me tipsy.
John Godfrey

What makes chosen words dressed in black? 
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority.  
Months passed! 
Most rainbows taste like a slow motion cosmos, but we can’t look away.

Hate altered. 
 
So shall we carry on. We can’t do better. 
 
True physicality dwells in our minds and other matter even as  
Orr hair hangs down to the ground in a consciously mixed media ceremony. You can’t throw consciousness out. It helps there’s a mating dance to appreciate what we are shadowing — working on it.   
 
There’s body hustle, along with cargo rips in the funnel of space~time where uppermost thoughts burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth from a sweetheart, accompanied by addiction to risk.   
 
Come here often?

This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a Zoroaster bumblebee 
clocked into life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side.  I’m certain its lack of manners, of historicity  
are flaws like vetiver too broadly smeared over its mad parka-like body.   
 
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, Nordic but not fatal — Chuck or a funny bone will go for the reckless. Really his movies remind me of marigold & allegiance to the ice ants swarming the ozone so I look away — The earth is not the heartthrob 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.

We’re all buckeye strong. 
Very disturbing.

52: I’m in lock-up because of you.

Therefore you and I are both scorekeepers. Ours.

I keep you among my jewels,
Blasted yet blessed moods in ‘key’ to configure unfolding pleasure,
So I am rich, I hope, blunting your deceit for years...
The long time it takes, seldom coming in one fine day —
In time a special instant so rare —

Until then, being had by you was worth it as it were

Like euphoria, an instant in doubt hiding the finer points.
Speaking of solemn upper-lower class triumph and treasure,
We find others also keep to the survey, chest to chest, like mine to yours.

From the moon — the world becoming flat and falling across  


The telling  


(instances of)  


Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic  


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


Rain on ceilings (of)  


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


It is (falling) across

Morton Feldman.

Because I’m a particle animal I can do it all day. 
Rank fidelity, a gazing tilt sideways trying to gnarl  
A sparkle to figure life altogether, no vision...  
There is tho nothing like no despair.

One needs antic intellectualism. Lead-free prose. 
Four husbands.  
Simplistic, Manichaen juxtaposition.  
A solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.).   
 
Jousting snacks.  
 
New verbs like bishop-dave, firebug, Stradivari.

35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.


A scent of acacia and soft frangipani, but not a trespass.


You are a triumph.

Don’t worry about past comparisons. Done. Gone.
I’ll bring up your love of skiing and your playing chess against yourself, may I?
It makes sense at that, loving you is civil war — sensual to a fault —

Roses, grieve no more.. nor silver fountains, clouds and eclipses!

Good-bye everything.

We got a grip on. 
Times are an outrage. Good times, bad, treason’s treason.  
We’re tracking themes thru anxiety —  
for prejudice damn well plays a formalist bias,  
a tradition of selfishness I’m loosely not interested in.   
 
Tax breaks for the wealthiest keep it humming.  
Due process is to look, also to be  
 
(we note within a screened residence  
now at the end to physics-oblivion)  
seen.

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

Our temperature raised the magnitude of repetitions into a shriveling median in the after-life or its meandering dissolution ... 

An obtainable conspiracy, altogether, surely no hoax.

My job is moving the earth units until I get exonerated.
It could be evasion foregrounds any style and motives.

I’m a woodpecker.

And I have a woodpecker tone.

Remember about now we compile devices with motives, in effect, soft flickers of syntax, rather than comments — good hind (half-)thoughts spidered into leg & arm pins and something more. Get to resolute joy nodes, a punching bag of well refined tricks, compressed — holding you in my super thoughts. 

Check the front seat glowing with our golden characters. In other manners hold your breath. 

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

85: Takes substance and breadth; the going price reacts to audacious desire

(a spare cigarette case, may I?) looked after in polished forms and
No thanks. Just piano and voice. Piano and your voice. Words come last. Let’s
Practice being still. The big meal. Inductions to other habits; hearing your breath

I think good thoughts, speaking in effect, externalizing dumb ideas.

The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of wool

Like praise warmed over by spinning in freezing wind. “Amen”

— I cannot phrase the scent of snow and sunlight, your utter loss

— my tongue tied crying, holding you in my thoughts.

66: Simple truth, our work out here begins to spin. Like the blind we are disabled by authorities who wiretap secrets weighing nothing in, no credit, no ripped off melancholy, nothing but misplaced honor with a substitution agreement containing you and the other you in force, pulled from inside..  and..
 
Can we cut to the scary part?  
Relax, beware, the law of cause and effect can be obscured as traffic aims straight at you and the other you. That other you is and. We misplaced joy since sleeping on it applies love to our flesh alone. And controls our skills. Tongue tied and I still rudely strumpeted, of course. And.

Skilled decor, de-simplified or 
wholly in contretemps between science and who knew?  
ironic technologies with no precedent —  
passing one to another.  
 
A corporate hold across a matrix of manners and adaptations, restrained praxis and hermetic syntax.  
Nice beachfront.  The sky
amuses our ears and eyes, there are so few  
and fewer bonds with the mouthpiece, semiotics doubting itself (if only a little)  
 
— ‘whooshed’ seems an absurd referent and then less  
and less so, here and there.

Sing: I love it when prose or song digs in and flails, goes 
down. That about covers it.  
(One’s destiny is that emotional core between personal and professional.)  
The larynx becoming free is a moving and intimate narrative.   
 

Got to run, prose.

Can we straddle the divide among convention, unattenuated sense-making & sorting through out-of-brainier skyscraper experiment?
Every Harvey Keitel film substantiates you may have a gun, you could be reaching for a gun, or you could just be, in suntan, fronting.

Protecting your dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that. 


I bet we have no major issues.. We could buy one or two now or try living on, holding toddler ropes of feeling, piling them in the garage, tying them up with tarnished piano wire, shoddy mineral samples — stacked together like beach chairs — stacked like old Jane Mansfield — if she sat there Jane would certainly let the sunset pitch its foam as both purchases are burning up.

Pleasure is to ethics as unknowing is to epistemology —

There’s a cool but thoroughly staged oral tradition that’s like trail mix, so rhetorically honey-sealed and narratively palatable anyone with a few years of good high school English can have in. It’s clear long jumps and pull-ups in tone are deployed to signify irony and distance about food prep and galley stainless. The gestalt is to flare up yet relax a while, stay urbanely offhand and sound normal, not superior in any obvious way. I’ve been saving a spot for you, waist high.
Do hang on.

83: Life with Mr Juice came up short — charm 
-ing & familiar — unfair tenderness in a paper sack.  
Hostess Wheel Clacker, bike spinner & fake license & plate.  
A poet’s debt. I was mute then. 
I found (or again I was speaking in silence)  
your eyes are nagging me for more .. admit you miss modern poetry.  
You miss the excess & first drag.  
 
Have you read, praise & worth get their daily  
 

Calories drinking coffee & smoking — sleeping to excess —   
 

Surplanted, Juice never saw it coming & I never wept again.  
Therefore I’m barren, mute now, painting dumb.

Pierre Bourdieu threw a projectile that applies this new year while top donor ‘families’ are in control — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of capital distribution are stopgaps like assembled heterodoxology while subdominant esthetic fields balloon and get consumed by baggier ideas.” 

Speaking of baggage as distraction, Bourdieu went home to his Cajun kitchen and added, “We gain as much knowledge from our shortcomings as insights.”   
 
The shortcoming between having things to say about ‘tastes’ back then, only a few years ago — and now — Republicans circling the wagons while checks and balances are nasally inspissated thru fear.

Right away we’re nimbus-wet. Dark edges must be why
Two very different outcomes equally square
What you hear w/ the you you wear & what you are.

I stake your reputation, touting
you & kiss & lap up the air in your 1st mustache sense.

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

(Welcome home.)

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

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

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

Although I swear to myself alone, my heart,
our love constitutes long shots
in a thousand groans to outlast madness
and slander. And in good faith — how fair and fairer that will be.

Make falling apart counterfactual. 
Make my mind prophecy bohemia.  
Recover the masterpiece. But 
destroy and come to terms feeling we could be free.  
Imitate killing seeing  
the system.

I owe a debt to Christmas. 
Blindfolded angels thinking in the past — 
All mute waving back,  
 

Protecting us from our unknown predicates,   
 

Taking on more substantial roadwork, taking more onboard, putting them   
 

In mind of the New Year, at last.

Waking hay feverish, bona fide stuffed up 

— Standing across Jimmy Lotuswept, 


You’re just altering my whole outlook! 

Should we have
a message?
We’re talking to what must be figurative breakpoints with fate & fate’s consignments. Example.

Just kidding
Empty messages remember nothing of detached
sensory esotericists. Acreage &

Vault-loads of cash tho grant fame & no literal disapproval.
We have a message.
A politic paranoia recommended for staying cool & stable in an
emotional tri-level.

Political direction gets cluttered in secrecy with a corolla of shock. 
 
Sometimes my thought wanders from the epicurean, no?  
No, hear the artifact out, the value of terror is epic. How about blood in the waves? 
Joint damage. Same thing. 
 
Then fishing for pain I drove off the roof and am now on foot.

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

But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently.. just a cloverleaf...

Side streets extend down to hourly weather and to the power grid; 
Razed, rain’s over, its light flow an oily example. A male nurse.  
 
This extends thru night rain. I reason rain’s surrogacy is the more serious and newer down. A replica hospital bed, say.  
 
More anguish driving over to a panel on reasoning and not writing anything down, a stomach turning experience. A secret of laughter   
 
in its emptied refraction danced on a taillight for syntactical beings (in a sentence) on a muddy drive.

I felt something.

The hollow inside is mixed up, the survey said 

overlapping symbols’re happening way out in the ocean. 

Your ocean. Your breathlessness. My dog

tilted sideways and holy as he is destroys
our bad faith and whittles consequences.

Don’t take it.
That ordered a way of not answering the phone.. poof.. ..
A command now nearly lost.
I’m bipolar from the past. Sell it. You know. What hat? What?

Just like putting the call off ..
We can make a poem go mute.
If it doesn’t speak, we don’t have to pay it as much.
A world-less deaf-mute.
That’s how unclear the past becomes.

When paying attention to monarchs I run across babes among cosmoi on gangly tractors. 
Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment was cut back,   

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

Making love is war. It’s not just money: 
I’m afraid it’s a Little  
Dipper: Emma, you’re handsome!  
Hold on?  
..membranes are functional! It’s an open   
 
Darwinian algorithm to back more  
nano-proposals, say, walking in, “hey..”   
 
No excuses, now  
make this a rite glistening of the wild...

Cocktails, 4:00 pm. 

Dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflecting gritty, highly-trafficked back alleys of jinx, beaming seduction and violence.   
 
Are you healthy enough for this perfection?   
 
One is a little off, ok — speaking the usual way subverts expectations.  
A stencil of our dialog frames many others  
As a thought pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.

Doomsday Door A or B? Let’s start with an idea that makes us think differently about its components. If you or I have an idea to process a text or, broader, an artifact of value — a central concern, subject to critical and conceptual analysis is, how does the processed result change ways of thinking about the process? In other words, does the artifact generate inquiry into both (a) the who, how, when, why it came about and (b) the utility of its replication or adaptation into the future new year?

The local is inside you, sang P Seeger and B Creeley.  
First heard this when I tossed my head and rode  
two feet, pawing the ground before a gallop.  
As for my consultant that day, he shook  
the bed, broke his baby toe, 
That much as ‘the way things were’ stay the same that one day.

My friend ran away with his silent partner 
who stole my identity, whirling flecks. I’m trying 
to look at it from your point of view on your way to my lawyer’s office.
The current balance resumes its burly teachings. 
Candles out, pie for the asking,
no funk about clauses over boats. Still uneasy with beer. 

It is possible to get homesick crafting with macaroni. Of course.

I’d heard a heart beats faster waiting at ease. Wait time takes ‘full effect’ without attachment to addictive capital, party hacks. Time to get off.

Fear, clarity.. This is an edit. That’s as close as I have to lush, less certain, too-ennobling a pulse.

First rain. It’s what’s put back.

Heavy-lidded, an escort’s sensibility, “everyday” reality (as if I know any — )

Space time. Whole minutes, days. Slash pauses.  
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /  
not while angles of light are brawling over taking us home.  
Vaccinated, a merciless itch, what is this collapsed satori we travel into?   
 
Passing though with amazement the X+1 “casting  
of cities,” thinking past us, pressing against me.

Here they come. Uniformed blobs. Sometimes later. 
Bandits 1st.  
You translators are a close 2nd.   
We appear ordinary, elongated, dome shaped. This bunch of sex workers is almost about something else.   

Then I repeated if I were you I’m about all I should have ..

Your mellowness operates transferrable accounts.  
 
As it were. Yet it’s shameful to work for the state, wearing kilts no doubt. How did Paulo Freire alone stand, pause and brush back his hair? others like him looking up like flight risks? To keep going we find little or no compromise.  
The music seems headstrong but we’ll give you a call. 

“Great ... I’ll just hold...”

That slap in the face harder to explain now — a waste of energy on a streetcar..  
 
Traffic jammed under the apartments — tropic action — wallops 
W/ a cruel lemon sliver caught in my nose, pairing up past reason,   
Tangy..   
Romeo and Eurydice. Just a wedge. 

Facts are a marketplace; figures look good when least derivative, swinging sexually. Volatile objective content triumphs. Right or wrong it’s kind of a snob racket (Charles B). 
 
It’s profound and prefigured... mark how the Frankfurt School’s defenders get nested within the keyboard to flatter contingent values within partitas, quieted down, trios and quartets for others’ voices from inventory.  
 
Our nervous system can distort music abysmally, Charles might say, ignoring pain to emphasize changes in radial evil neglected by the super ego. B is for Bukowski.

There’s a term for attrition of affects, eyesore. 
 
And there’s a hypertonic struggle to housesit too much information. You know panting exists, pliable and glossy. Human body fat is worth $100,000 a gallon.  
 
The good gold. I fall into it.  
 
A life is charged for care. I’m otherwise a coffee head! But let’s pare it down.   
 
Have we ever done anything but tamper with the weather? Oh, who knows?  
 
Oh, Ladytron. You seem so fake-excited in the sprayed periphery, a three-dimensional muse staying in balance inside a soft radical vapor of bigness, loosely demolished.

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

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

Here, you take it.

Just before Halloween this comes in. 
“Your 1st lover could not heal your mind through his skin.  
We read spume on his obscure chin.  
 
Then we happened to answer him at a clip, seeing double in hot sun 
and circles midair. We see his subtle flight.  Buried for dead but still in our view:  
If you can’t hear me you’re going too fast (bicyclist to bicyclist).   
 
It’s a mistake in tradition but it gets one to sleepwalk with one shoe in hand.   
 
I will find you.”

Dutch people go Dutch. I go along. 
I’ve moved to the Delft coast, Rijswijkse Waterweg, dunes of Irontown, leftovers from an old fiord, because my ideal climax is at the salt edge, just across from Spread Eagle where I’ve bagged the dainty, ultra built new guy who lives at the priest’s house, along with the priest’s teen sons.    

[Very few priests hereabouts.]

All experience is also suspended.. 
But what is?    
How can it if I tell you what I’m?      
 
I’m in no hurry. A life was charged   
now curled up on the menu.     
 
(Have to go, there’s blood in my veins)     
 
There I’m preaching to your eyebrows.
(Cave safely.)  

I see your idea. Gnarly aviation. 
 
Purity on the surface deed is recorded, perked into light  
 
                          handily.  
 
Public-private property hit on a plan wound up slugged in disguise,  
 
A ‘contract’ on big physics, ghastly on its back.  
There’s envy of political haters’ swimming synchronized,  
                          beyond prayer —   
 
(In or without ebon ink, capitalists itemize all bets.)   
 
One pleasure is borrowing sentences to raise our debits.   
 
All experience is seriously snipped off.. How to wear a summer dress.

Monkish antinomy left the office to 1/2- 
Center on taking off for pinier points, points to please death, love, money, success 
                           desperate even dying.  
My 3-D models are you & everything else I can be w / w/out you if  
You left me at random past care.  
 
This dawns on me once  
Before blasted onward, discourse & chaos hand in hand, utterly psychic as we are  
— having seen it, lived it earlier  
 
& I don’t mind if I look dingy or if I’ve already laid the table  
 
Like a fever costume (stretched black poplin) for a big job in a trance.

After glamour there’s power. The virus is already inside us, easy spaghetti 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?” Prune fizz. 
Anytime and place of our choosing: Act gathered.

And here gear management inserted a bonus to exchange for rapid respiration and not so bad — 
a physical act of fondness that can only end in a draw sustained one by one   
getting up, stretching for an hour. 

The float seems to harbor fever unwelcome overnight: 
“The float is radiant, jammed with radiant things,” had my

Doctor in his Silent Treatment anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I
Been haywire over the fair, the bright we’d need fewer captions.” Fuck.. 

The float throughout anticipated that base point ..  
What does there’s still a move to go do?  quivering, invulnerable,
Keep nursing desire past cure — a psychic point or three feeding the appetite
To take my mind off floating thru a hole in my notebook. 

Once your public is mounted on tiptoes you can
add your own awesome content! 

Your first lover, dull, expressionless.  Tho

he could heal you thru ballast. 
Then forces of narrative came
seething, your breath fixed 

to the floor as it circles midair as if it had a right to. 
Large blossoms are about to push
Also we see their ETA. 
We won’t be a second late — your ex boyfriends 
understand we can all meet taking on a form of you. 

That’s the gist.

Socrates is made to say, “My guess is this. The very existence of Athens, however peaceful, is a deadly threat to Sparta’s stasis. And therefore, in the long run, the condition for the continued stasis of Sparta (which means its continued existence, as they see it) is the destruction of progress in Athens (which from our perspective would constitute the destruction of Athens).”
David Deutsch, from “A Dream of Socrates,” p 149, The Beginning of Infinity

Our last owner had an understanding with multiple staff. 
His happiness washes up in our candy bar and cudgel DNA.  
O we celebrated, beaten but breathing in what’s next.  
We have a most advanced gene distribution system.  
 
Try to look better. 

Mundane deception. 
I can talk to your teachers. I can reason with them.  
I can’t reason with you. I can’t even talk to you. Why?

Here’s a proposition. Start over. Compelling work toasts knowledge construction — in plainspeak — as well as finds, explains & reforms infinitesimal times-spaces reflected infinitely. Your optimism is required (a) to keep everything open for reform; (b) to understand we are beginning our work, always.  
*

Naval voices wake me up. 
It’s too embarrassing 

pulsing in a deep mirror, 
light rain to snow performing butoh. 

(Ethical and mammalian boundaries pertain.) 

I’ll put it this way and be done. 
I misfiled your core principles, went 
for higher ones in baroque-neurotic REM sleep. 

Any higher, they’re not talking .. 
(there’s tighter discipline)  

Highly apéritif, 
morally camouflaged cold indirection.

Violence advocates
have an entire stance in mind. Our freedom is success.

But our counter was preliminary and really took off, along 
with raw emotions from a huge manuscript 
I’m freezing, since 
It’s none of the above. 
Pericles, Funeral Oration

Having only a sec, you never know there’s an animal that needs you.
Someday tho the fragile male coloration returns as a feminine force with tinctures and inaudible signs from a long history of decision making, preparing us for more retrospective behavior, more implicative speech and extra sensory anger management.

It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and

in time was up.

It began as parallel ideas, say a few radio waves up on poles.  
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. 
 
With dangerous gaps.

Living somewhat left of Unitarian 
 
(Japanese cranes)   
 
I’ll simulate it’s impossible to separate understatement from the performance; both are adolescent in a good sense, pitch. So that’s how the cave and landscape churn out. Next, a full database advanced by a minimalist method, burning out your swing meeting half-death in no way hapless, sensing no value contingent; partly insight, partly one-to-one correspondence. 

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

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

It’s much clearer in the light. Yes. Quick. This is a speaking animal in heavy sleep, you remember regression —

all days are nights and nights bright days. Time’s up.

It would be a challenge to simplify winning as in a new car or suffering injury, 
Starving how?    

You’re at the door    

As I thought of you.    

Now a delay for    

More. 

— you mentioned erring out 
 
For tax purposes as accountants for love often suggest —  
Kudos for their thanks!  
Your iron determination to play your own tax guy is magnetic.   
 
I’m solving you for new parity  
W/ the scum of the peninsula.

40 winters: a sorry concentrate: I went broke to be indebted. 
 
Unable to owe enough. Do enough. 
An international scale now attributes innovation and its subprograms, scary-loud at first, yet comic ultimatums as dreams seem to centralize, acquiring a new fixed order.   
 
So what if I say prompts an assembly of torn Gillette letters and fractioned decimals?  
 
Simple-torn versus complex debt proving my excuses by succession under the laws of physics.

I see your inside voice, binary to binary autosuggestion. 
When it gets dark rebooking happens fast.  
 
The voice we wanted to get to go to a naked singularity, that is  
This abstract point now stabilizing outdoors — over the ocean  
— smelling you in all your possible reassignments. 
 
— A rank in heaven!

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

Time will come to take our love away leaving me breathing without form;
structurally I’m sustained by so lofty a hypothetical force — 

But when we walk together, it makes no language difference what we believe,
what the soul is. 
I know can’t go on without more episodes in your telegenics: 
I’m just commenting having little or no fear losing you. 
The soul’s inscription reads you’re my business.

* 
Come on, don’t let me down.  
Someday all this will be yours. A few  
City blocks that lean socialist, an oblique, neat,  
Untapped atmosphere w/ corners of slovenly  
Housekeeping and, worse, earnest alignment,  
Reading strung out everywhere. Living  
Nonchronologically simulates the senses; these new scents  
Went in circles as tho undressing.. sidestepping  
Into some prowess of floating rare, unquietly new —

Blackened windows:
We know we don’t know 
Facts are a marketplace,  
A rendezvous to encapsulate sleights of tongue.    
 
I’ll have sherry Pepsi. And just the sardines.   
I’m sorry this happened. I was going to stay   
from the moment we set the stage squinting within representation,   
getting some miles in, taking them on board, putting them in mind   
of a menial photorealism. 

Something came up. Anthropomorphism. 
And what’s not mentioned expands underground. 
This is as lightning gains on fog. Lightning ‘understands’  
 
it’s disassociated. Has nothing to transact, no product.   
 
If I don’t buy this, I’m the product.  
 
How is it fire tears up fluid in sparks fog glows around  
 
and falls out with grey streaks that look glazed or remedial —  
 
I have the same trouble when I shop for oil and details —  
 
past the details and expanse of the seven seas.

There’s a cloying aspect when able bodies gather to 
phenotype, we have to polish the devices   
 
we had called gateways where there’s an increased reach (by the dooryard)  
to far correlates, aspect 2, inventing a new intelligence of largess.   
 
The third part I guess is our resolve that comes in processing integuments,  
many teas, investigative retailing..   
 
Here’s our take on never getting back together. It’s another part  
to tensive healing (a method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow).. 

This is a short study. Or it was. Youth is that impressionable. 
Ultra blurry, anamorphic, sung movement bound by writing it down — it occurs in the latest forms of repayment,   
 
— you  
weigh nothing in and get no credit, no  
spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in.   
 
As it comes to end, there’s a substitution agreement containing someone to look up to  
                  along with me in force, pulled on from inside.   
 
— or yeah, pulled awake more than once w/ a face, a filled out line. Then lines. Smiling lessons.

You contain only so much of me. 
I live where you belong, you said.

You’re a mess, honey. 
                           — Touch of Evil   
 
Something came up.   
 
Little or no, nothing. There’s so small   
 
an exchange to transact, no product, only   
 
an exhibitionist’s subtopic within the power den.   
 
To prove RNA is a computer protracts pleasure.

Full expression is expected yet ruinous ahead of patterned, glimmering haze surrounding the powerful, dating them; you know, the level of glamorous self regard goes high. It’s impossible to remember what they say. If all we do is seduce and denote conquests, we lose. We lose austere joys, cloud dogma, sculpture perpetrated out of wire in scentless comfort, winter’s coming skies. Scentless discomfort, too.

1st proponents of holding on go on.
Sometime when a slob takes over
For seconds, sloppy seconds —

Once (as) the Babylonians counted a lot.
We remember them for progress.
We are now in a position that puts

Shame to shame. My right.
You’re wrong, 2 new tattoos,
Change your name. You

Move on and do independently produced things.
We talked about this on television
Last night.

83: Life with Mr Juice came up short — charm 
-ing & familiar — unfair tenderness in a paper sack.  
Hostess Wheel Clacker, bike spinner & fake license & plate.  
A poet’s debt. I was mute then. 
I found (or again I was speaking in silence)  
your eyes are nagging me for more .. admit you miss modern poetry.  
You miss the excess & first drag.  
 
Have you read, praise & worth get their daily  
 

Calories drinking coffee & smoking — sleeping to excess —   
 

Surplanted, Juice never saw it coming & I never wept again.  
Therefore I’m barren, mute now, painting dumb.

I am is still here, the body’s purring could not be put off. (One dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).
*
Wrong. Constantly wrong. (Seriously? But why is identity.)
[...can’t stop it...through
language [going in] [out...] cheesy time lapses in which [animating backward] speech & narrative continuity become incrementally
transformed into deep structure affixing Old Norse phonemes to nonobserving verbs. ]
That far down is how my head is cleared.

Still if we had grounds I’d subside higher up having you weed out caution.

I call this on leaving you.

Alfred Starr Hamilton has been on poets’ short lists at the balcony edge for 40 or more years, but he’s undergoing “rediscovery.” A stack of Hamilton’s letters to the Montclair police is “the year’s least likely literary find.” The letter excerpted in The Times reads like poetry. For counters of endurable fame, it’s another 15 minutes. 
— August, 2010

Frame: A diminished mood will be buoyed by scatterings of photos and books, many unread. Cast more atextual sources our way as fodder for your new faculties for text, new ontological components for bringing up temp and humidity composing, as well as subprocesses harder to isolate and observe as they flood into short term memory. Keep the Fed in balance for two (or three of you, as many as you like). Liberal arts breaks further from esthetic scholasticism, inventing new suppositions for research and intimacy. After government, wiry empirical jolts, with semblances of enmeshment in a readymade mood and control structure parallel to voc ed for poetics; appliance hint: metronome.

Gilbert Ryle asks, “might not every action or reaction be a piece of shamming?”  


To throw out sleep, trust, and nimbus-wet telepathy — I’ll never feel his arms around me again. Never feel the air on my skin, or wake up in his warm bed, I’m done, I don’t get a chance to try again for anything, not even for something I’m not. I can’t do any better than what I’ve done. 

“Absolutely,” visiting professor I don’t know her last name will reply, if asked.

It’s only words, assembly, to quote you. 
They are real actors, not people. 

I went to hell with you. 
You gave me hiccups back when, floor six. Now my senses are restored.  
The unoccupied mind long overdue.   
 
And I’m back in my vertigo seat, reading over and writing disciplined boilerplate. The Greeks added vowels. Their editors’ marble thought structure swarming with pleasant memories.

Crime: The noun to which much is given. 
Can you spot the q and a between shorelines?   
While in the time and motion garden, a parallel door banged thru the night.   
I hugged rugged trees in the upstart foreground, our encampment after   
Ridiculous, I guess.. juxtaposed, dative..   
 
  Anglophone atonal fuzzy. It’s so. We know it when we hear it,   
 
  Anacoluthon. 

Attention. 

As you advance, there are four surveillance cultures from which to plagiarize a response, while materials become more complex, building on what’s been put into the record. 

Is that all you’re having for dinner? 

One will need a clearer message for individual agency. There’s no humor in discretion. Wind in your hair makes us sick. 

Pantoum: given a key, you lose it 
— shifting attention but staying in touch.   
 
I forget functioning ghost towns caked with tire tracks,  
I draw a blank on jailhouse interiors and decades of Tonka trucks   
 
[...there is a far outside [...] only it’s already here [what we breathe] below,  which is  
Immature, impulsive...] [as above]   
 
— I forget empirical relationships the most, the visual force of  
                        a “mottled taxonomy,”   
 
Complaints and sworn declarations,  
I forget meeting you.

Don’t expect me after all. 
 
Even if we kiss later, it saddens one to inform the boss  
You’re not serious, never are.   
 
Like you we’re turning state’s evidence holding on to meet  
                        even newer phenomena (‘stolen parts’  
To run over) any & all mayhem coming unannounced (achieved)  
Or some won’t since you and I polished the text equations,   
 
Already saying goodbye takes us far up the jet trail! quelling fear of want-  
Ing pain. You never can tell. I won’t.

Here’s what I would say to your teachers.
* We started hubble. The shavecraft.
                          *
Being a family is our work.

I wrote this 15 minutes ago. 
That hasn’t stopped me from modeling.

15: It’s your last day of youth throwing trust out, sight and now telepathy — you’ll never feel his perfect arms around you again. Never feel the wet air on your skin, or wake up in his sap on his secret warm bed, you’re done, no chance to influence, to comment, to try again for anything, not even for something you’re not. And I’m not.

I can’t do any better than what I’ve changed for love of you.

Here’s another centerpiece to explain how flowers are cut in plurals of progression. 
 
Iconoclasts count on progressions in a series, along with any allure of falling fortunes (they did).   
From the center literally nothing granted as good as your word.  
Then it’s a poem.  
 
Months later, fine timing  
Since you waited to listen, not empower others.   
 
Now everything belongs hiding in plain sight, living unhinged, no limits. A fact, also  
a point... an ornamental one; our brain / body fiber pierced day, night, point b...

Favorite singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to interminable sex. 
Learned consensus becomes early performance; both adolescent in a persistent sense, the deep pitch shows up invisibly,  
 
unspeakably, as libido constitutes knowledge modules, glistening aimlessly.   
 
Candy stops by later.

Capital is redeemable as all abstractions exchange directions yet barely pertain, and why should they? Why? What’s on our minds will be low on your mussed list, even lower than that. Off list.

Capital brings about physical causation and causes, abstracts themselves.

My area is interpretive search. 
You’re always not talking.  
I get your point (approbation without the tedium of argument).

Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush nimbus-wet in devotion to their next decimal of the property. I’m not anxious and this might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads   
 
and let you know when. Tomorrow or much later now.

Softly speaking, I thought of you. 
I explained the other time. 
 
The time we see a dart has feathers and flies, works the crowd. And something came up. The curvatures of space time bled into overtime and ideals I thought you stored overseas — they came back in a screw-up, gleaming like platters from our grandparents’ era. The gene spreaders (grandparents, their dinner ideals) were thrown out before we got to know them. 

Kind of stuck up.

I came for our invoices.   
 
Ever notice? No one lives in that town.   
 
Half-vegetarian, self-colliding fog drinks only from its disconnected, treasured demographic squandering energy.  
We cannot mean erasure, remember.  
Our nerve infused by regulatory propriety until we get up to dance founding paradox.  
 
Name a landscape and give birth, rename it and you bestow an ecology of resonance and history.   
 
We’ve heard enough.   
 
This is strictly the governor’s business.