Testimony, transit to.

To float in Buddhist undercurrents from work by a mature avantist is not much of a surprise. We know Leslie Scalapino and others as bona fide avantists, demeanors of a calming, enlightened refusal that likely rubbed off during their intake of an illusory simultaneity in the social imagination. Or don’t know. (Also refusal.)

We are free — still — to say what some think — but their recipes, or ours, are perfused with a given theory. Trees in place, defiantly miscellaneous, thanks to a compliant Leitkultur, treeways on a berm, backdrop to civil democratic union with ideal permissions built on headwinds — dormant crescents, lowered apostrophes 
 
with as it were or without lyric buzzers. Good buzz can scar others, you see, yet you see nothing but these facts were slaughtered by pushing somebody else remotely.
 
Free in summary.

Despairing of dead ended self regard, “the self-valuable word” embedded in instrumental discourse, Bob Perlman maps, among other things, Quintilian’s rhetoric, noting key components, meaning, clarity and tasteful adornment or decoration (“Words Detached from the Old Song and Dance”).

Meaning and clarity are fair game for Rob Fitterman: “weeds we may not always / have emptied this meaning for / a top-growth peel-back of another.”


When it comes to weeding and adornment in poetry, which involve making sense of / sense in any alteration of literal expression (via figures, other prosodic devices), Fitterman is an advanced horticulturalist. With 1-800-Flowers, Fitterman smartly “updates” sources for Louis Zukofsky’s last completed poem, 80 Flowers, a construct that “takes to new extremes of density Zukofsky’s methods of composition by quotation, transliteration, and compression” (Mark Scroggins, Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge).

Fitterman replenishes the grounds with inventory of similarly conflated devices, writing in two sections “About” and “Through” Zukofsky’s work. Fitterman frames Zukofsky’s as “constrictive verse” that indeed gets “driven” by inventory, while Fitterman’s own lyric comprises mixed inventories within a discourse hybrid, an essay in verse, substantiation of his exemplary reading, that is, his generatively engaging Zukofsky (refer: ronsillman.blogspot.com [7/11/05]). More splendid, Fitterman fulfills the half audible invitation within Zukofsky’s poetry and poetics, joining Zukofsky & Son Inc whose décor ethos is “precise information... thinking with the things as they exist” inside a recontextualized (if not continuous) present in which Fitterman fixes “new meanings of word against word” (Prepositions).

—2014

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.

In this moon diagram a resistant fragrance was my last fill of fish sticks. Oh you know, unhappy

we supplemented photographs for subject matter, I recall.  
Garland fungus, students in foreground (by an arch to the abandoned parks).   
 
It’s up to pond structure to model our passivity learning the moon’s mother tongue, long vowels   
 
impelled by shore conditions, birds in flight. Protecting the hang of dignity threatens it. Everyone   
 
knows that. Everyone alive. A little sick, even unwell, yet one man’s voice is handsome, calm, also scrappy.   
 
Further down the pillar, a kimono has been entered, explaining prehension tongue in cheek.

Neither so-called dead or alive, the windmill in your imagination has a request, 
“to express things ... as they are when you see them without remembering having looked at them.”  
It’s an infinite standard for reading new vocabulary bracing for normal heart spasms until climax, numbed in shade.

Gastronomy is to breaking the ice as ‘fucking / sponginess’ is to bacchanals.

A Deux Magots adaptation: 
Robots embrace the free market, it was announced in a penetrating tone   
 

over a pale mist of drifting tariffs. Blameless, nonetheless free of anguish for a moment. Free for a $100 million section.  
 
An old master picked that up from them.. ..wolves running through snow melting into wolves..
Never doubt.. ..there’s enterprise in victimhood, each higher up will argue stepping away. There’s one stripping down problem by yourself. Only cash in small bills in exchange for a free ride — we mean it, tho, let’s discourse, subject to chance crowds..

Roadkill would be the most empirical debacle turning abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into epic death by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain his lack of manners or historicity
was a flaw like smearing a heartthrob, a Lebowski.

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

Tons of special forces in silhouette .. polished from water .. on day one we’ll .. imagine caress trails.

We’ll correct everything near the top of the grade filling in ahead with capacitance-assistants, eventually 

Theorists of a visual world culture (camaraderie) wholly populated by good, socially secure posturing. After dark trials.

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

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

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

The air is sawed off, wishy and doing better. We were dangerous, once.
Smooth rhetoric is purely blur. It’s too late to make it sparse. Now we’re appalled. Even our restraint is wishy for its own sake.
We could see from a solid distance, your rakish note to yourself, you mixed mediums .. no shit. None of mine.

As I understand it the exact second you insert the first-person, a rotary force from moral freedom will drill 5 feet down underground, a strafed, ethical spectacle falling into proverbial and natural coherence like mumps, something you never saw and you never will, you gestalt freak.

There’s no one way to degrade-ultimately-destroy capital. 
Try feeling polyphonic with an uncapped fortune, reflecting what you did when your adolescent backbone iced up, raising all boats, all standards, all social levels.  
 
Our greatest fear is going deeper—   
 
That would kill our real parents.   
 
They’re dead already.   
 
Hence the family corporation is casually hidden   
 
and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.  
Solitude, confidences, you’ll earn times in the day,  
the plays and jungle, many in an around the clock series —

Random figments can’t say what happened that day (ekphrasis) but I know we slept over because there was a soft on the ears mattress to lie on. 
The mime sequence where you and I speak out was overall spoofy. More, there was a modulator from a board of moderation. Behavior of ghosts.

The heart is sore as 
Whitman precedes Aimé Césaire. Drink up.  
 
Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam — 
(a love poem) one aroma 
— Accounting disappears like functions of context (starched procedures) — 
Love not being is taught  
But fought for in reverse. Freezing one difference.   
 
Physicalism (neural meditation) — here we wade slowly adapting to amoral schemes  
More fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Meow well.

True, false, is it a gaze or rolling maleness? 
Yes. It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and  
Time’s up.

Matins: I can be your face standing there ‘on’ the phone, ‘dialing’ a number. 
A growing explosion takes up time — like cheating in hearts —  
the accident, not the facticity, of ceiling caresses while  
switching impetus (rapidities of prosperity).  
 
Faith deals in future opinions on redeeming enterprises and, that’s if I’ll 
 
put on your global eyewear.

Breathtaking. 

Auto-electrocuted. But calmed down. No more tv, due to sore thumbs. There’s a dual nature of justice going around in “resentment and forgiveness” with high notes we won’t deflate. A muggy, fantastic tenor, jittery, soundless often, active against the grain. He reaches points at which the point director is traceable and draws me in. 

A private-public distinction, extension 8,
No longer limits outcomes for a buffered work force. 

Keeping my writing up
Besides giving empathy, suffering distress,
I write on my agenda, 

A vapidly growing ‘fortune’ 
Once I launch it — 

I got married however without knowing the side effects 
— wait, I forgot why I called.

Landscape: Blimey. Local accents are a focus. Over the summer construction advances. 
Uncivil also true, summer advances over the construction.  
Everybody, everything goes!  
... inevitably constructivist and supremacist impulses are incised and joined.

Your snobbishness killed us. 
No monks wrote the inscription for our ashes. It reads: Just because we’re not there to floodlight what we know on swimming exhausted doesn’t mean we weren’t Bodhis / each physique w/ a hammer in hand. Nailing our souls together takes a moment of our lives that we don’t have, don’t love, don’t hate.  
 
Whatever takes substance and breadth, we’re not doing it!

A disheartening skull pile supposes its completion. Angels speak up, tho, in
dialog enhancer mode. Storage rates go higher.
We get to a point where we have to stop adjusting to the margins as views, as shrine–y meadow 

as I give up missing your skin.

Out front I’ll tell you what awaits the prosaic in The Bible. Locusts.
Meantime a varsity crew 

in a boat house.. eyes drift as if 

undressing underwater. I visualize why snails 

build their houses. They stand around and tank, 
coltish to the end. Jacobeans.

Cupid fell into olive swelter in unnamed aromas 
that led his dogs to you, making clear    
 
Cupid in a blouse, Cupid’s blank stare =  
a blast furnace getting head.   
 
Cupid pulls the curtains to reveal a street, permitted 
yards outside where people pass by in walk-on parts.   
 
One doesn’t know any more  
if there are good times or bad ahead of war.

My quandary repeats among aromas from hydrangea in labor (staging nightmares) —   
 
Once in labor we chose our birth parents; this is a profile of some.  
Yet it’s with Bonnard’s visuals of pleasure I’d be holding you for conniving to carpet silence. O Amerigo — 
Another wish never fulfilled, you and I round off contrasting demands of flimsy seriality and sequence, conquering death with choices and abundance.

The future in tatters weighs in as an erotic shortcut, “I need me.” It’s a lovely tirade. (Jack Spicer) 
All thus was mirrored in meantimes. Staring into light wrongly revealed I’m pretending to be yours at your asinine behest. Remember it’s wrong — I am not pet swapped, I never intimidate a telescope in conflict. As a consequence doors open & I’m auto-electrocuted.

Donors take over America locks, stocks and barrels (for the Dems).

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.

Ethical epitomes go against the grain. Maybe grains.. What are spurious resonators for but to attempt command of natural selection and a jillion bloodlines. 
Um.. there’s nothing but an eye blush of heat that measures desperate ‘orders’ you put in reckless hands. 
Don’t forget your silent partners ripening for future sleep-overs in green, un-despairing usage summaries... 

Brilliant. Breathing new life, we have hundreds w/ crazy coats of arms. Look at you.

...pleasure before Hey, that your velour vox?  
For the poet art administrator, hissy fits of modesty are unimpressive, swept up and vacuumed off each cowpoke. 
 
A year of taxes and you’re a neo-accepter into excess, making, being smithereens since and before the temporal.  
 
Fits of pique are objective misnomers, eating and breathing them, too, as our ideology-swept rhetoric of double quotes administrating burgeons. Omniscience is semi-officially sanctioned conjecture. Modesty goes as the evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family of arrivistes and custodians.  
 
[w John W]

(Someone asked me to float a tremor phonemic as old style bait.)    
  
That’s the sound and meaning dust flecks skim from the top while our so-named public face makes its living, almost kidding and choosing your chest, shoulders and hands to precipitate my clemency.   
  
What kind of government overthrow takes parliament  
maneuvers more lightly?

Inter-OK...

Standard touching looks terrible or descendant. 
Capacious anxiety, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... we’re done.  
You can break the law to shoulder perfection or save a life, only once. Either way is a fractional immeasurable in any context / e.r.  
 
Something was definitely going on.   
 
Lefties are feeling cornered (not to say conned) but  
it’s breathtaking administering the right wing to you.

66: Simple truth, our work out here in the desert is beginning to spin. Like the blind and needy we are called disabled by authorities who wiretap our 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 disgraceful part?  
Relax, beware, the law of cause and effect is obscured as traffic pours in and aims straight at you. And another you. Tired with this, that other you perfects the business end (doctor-like). That you helped me disable joy, just sleeping on it, applying love to our flesh alone, controlling unhappily shameful skills, miscalled simplicity. Tongue tied, I am still rudely attending you and you of course. And.

Marxist-self irony:  
I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of subjective misnomers.  Eating and breathing them too. It’s July, August.. 
And this is what it means to have a muse. No blame. 
No poet will work in a freezing apartment except when it’s far more than a place for thoughts to gather thru summer. She struggles in cold rooms for little compensation and goes beyond the joy of subverting arbiters of something loath. Something enlivened, something ripe. 
 
Paperwork fastened to repetitive joy, coming July, August..

Untitled:

Beginning to see the picture. Beyond some blanks
you can follow love making advance to endlessness:
Our love (a winner ... have a look!) is a time share in calligraphy.
Joining you, me — my hand learns & flows with others’ stealth — committed to your tongue tho, delivered from your brain,
nursed on your beauty’s signature.

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

We think on our feet like animals brushing up on ideas...
Condition blue. 
Ten or so 
ululations kick it off, running 
over one ocean. 

Ripping in mean 
swimmer’s blue, 
in a competing mesne, 
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta 
more down surf, startling 
That swells 
the back light among us.

I can put a very ultimate prayer this way.  
We need to work on a new trial and platform. I recommend blending in with ex-lyricists and anyone non music industry.  
 
So I put your name on and in. Am I fit for the scenario? Are you and I?  
The pinnacle of the spine plots murder while we stay neutral, high and low, austere yet foreseeable. 
 
And the evaluations are in.  
You are part of what we hold.  
It’s an argosy of what’s evolutionary before more uplift.

You’re exempted from outdoors, empty Psyche, 
Exempted from showing up to enchain, knife, subdue..  
That’s before I reverse your leavings, fragrance —  
 
The calm never resolved —  
because we’re only one muppet and one marine  
reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, the last weaves.   
 
“‘In a way’,” he said, “‘nothing saved me until we ran the gauntlet —’”

49: Let me hold you ... don’t, I’m a future defect in law against your time.
If ever that time comes within my own knowledge, no, I’ll know
love is no more or less the thing it was...
                and no cause alleged.
I raise my hand now, called to, on your part
when you scarcely greet me as we pass.
That’s how with all due respect works in both our times.

Ode to the dead (maybe not yet). Then dims. 
A beseeching sentence:  
Everyone’s in place. One’s place.  
Food also knows where it belongs. Rapid in general.  
 
The proscenium brightens. Thinned out. 
Is it sub-luminous un-inhibiting our endowment?   
 
Knowing the ropes to scale now, even substance,  
clearing the theatre of lame comforts,   
 
stern, food pecked over, even down  
to our place, last place, last row.

Gardens hold what is commonly loaned.
Meeting here feels like preparing our cabin in the launch.

Bad behavior, showing anger, the beginning to learn — more easily understood as work- 
permitted off time,
she’s too many promising variations like this citrus ring where sawdust
fell..

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

Very late it began to be less cloudy.

Lamps buzz daubs of sound, almost a lotion
to countermine views.

Her neck and collarbone burning
to show their softness. Her hair seems progressive and cimarron.

Language + materials referred to, dimensions variable. Dimensions variable. That’s the ceci n’est pas une pipe part. I’m one of those hoarders of history, picking out, piling stuff in the garage 
(of accessible language), keeping barbed wire and Ted Greenwald materials reconciled like chairs.

We invented the night birds.  
Had to. What we thought we understood  
they enjoy making ‘dumb-  
great’ from the top  
terminating in celebrity stalkers, gawking in peers’ backyards —  
 
Following orders so conditions inflect non-criminal immunity  
to sudden desire with intimacy.  

17: We don’t want to be a second late — I’m hellbent to get it down again, to write the beauty of your eyes where numbers number (poets lie) — hidden with only half the story in time to come.

That, yet by your grace you should live twice. Tho who will believe these touches are living parts of you without touching, without your offspring stretching all the way into the night, keenly inanimate tho alive all that time.

You said no way, I only half like it, blah! / This poet lies
...lies, but no less truth than tongues filled with living rights to an antique song...

Unfinished sculpture. 
 
I am is still here, the body’s heroic purring could not be put off. (One hush dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).

What can be done to language? I register nothing. Never again? 
 
Boredom is poor experiment, our knobby supervisor said. And that’s what we wrote down to snap out of it — lightness, joy, eyes-open dream. And 3rd cousin to dream: Knower and known are clean osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the suitably flared reptile frontier.  
 
Time I guess to air-lift foolish eagerness and cover it with worn Keds and Swiss Army knives. I’ve been a floater of cynicism in relation to any concept I sever. (It’s hard for me to take credit.) “It’s always about dying,” btw, “never death.” After dying, the process is plugged to death, a ‘never,’ as in never never.

I consider head scratchers neurolinguistic balloon product managers. Once or twice removed.

Fact: eye contact is more defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense that’s forbidden. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making patterns to and from alterations sited within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.  At the same time I’m forgiven I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)

..dropped by my boyfriend,
we all do dark things sometimes...
ask whatshisname.

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

This is a.m. color I propose: Q-tips & smoke. I can pick you up, take a day off 
                   from everyone standing  
physical & prime for the stress of relays between a rat race  
                   & security IF  
 
you can trust an opposite sketch,
my 3-D models are you & everything else I can be w/ w/out you

Vacation. A violet mist. 
This is prison.   
 
(You have the evidence. Ugh!)   
 
Losers = worshippers of their detractors.  
Heaven is in our hearts with an eggdrop of credos and documents, from which large scale dull instruments get tossed.   
 
We drink to our loud mouths.

Sonnet 40:

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

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

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

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

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

12: This is a fugue in your name
talk talk future talk..

We do not count the clock telling time
..we’re spry in our motives, underhanded
getting back to catch the slapdash in how it works.

You may have noticed we’re behind open doors, past

abhorring a vacuum when it doesn’t matter —
vibrato and sunlight close their distance.
The wastes of time are subject to change
— never saw them coming, old and new to some usual ends
but not here — we’re braving talk of your beauty telling the future..

What’s curious style? 
Engineered simplicity holds tho 
Taken whole:  
“Give in, dig it.”  
(There’s a new policy to highlight deletions.)  
I’m waving on the wave’s behalf,  
Taken your lead. Word processing in Palatino sans 
All the time, staggering prose!  
 
Tomorrow I’ll  
Tap out more deletions I forgot to close —

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

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

W/ several newer ideas that would leverage you right there in the pluperfect, had your love held on to my name.

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

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

We marry. There are mantras on rustic tolerance, manners but no one has more than the allotted answers for the stumper final (newer solutions are nothing less than what we have in mind!) : The last step brand.
Did I mention Wittgenstein helped set our algebraic terms? This is a dynamic factor everywhere the living supersede water towers and physicality itself, where there is no algebra, no privacy. The brand started before Béla Tarr’s close ups, his editing, his ‘border violations’ and the runtime of his films that transcended precise location and presence, running forward and back.

The gist in a slurry, plump, downy evanescing took the elevator. Up buzzers rise above affixes and urgent notation. Helium released — pushed in reverse come fall — trees light up then darken amid writhing worms. Better to heal resentment buried in colossal Orpheus, the un-spontaneous summer physique. With his gift of sullen madness signing everything in burlap, compounded and oncoming in percussive isolation. The upshot. 

Don’t care, don’t moan, lie only about what’s really
colossal — masking your vanity becomes the tortured challenge clinging to verse. And.

To vanity, tyranny’s conditional surrenderer, 
I was thinking of god’s shoplift energy .. 
Hold on, I was handed this bag of sentences. 

And this is what I did not want to say.

57: I watch the clock. Being your slave, what can I do? 
I wasn’t just orphaned, I pursued other interests  
 
all at once. Time’s precious, 
save I feel and still show absence of move ment from the inside,  
absence upon hours — a sour dare to expend ...  
to question my jealousy — 
So it’s taken this long to read the gospel of wealth and service.  
I dare not think of desire diffused at any cost to render your mouth
a world-without-end, a sobbing, precious mess.  
 
On the outside how happy you are ... are you? Tho this may be amiss, I think no ill. Adieu.

Let me grab a pen and clamber over here to the landmark network... you’re right, this isn’t the window for you or me. Before the heat dies, if ever, we’ll try praying in all directions and improve our math skills for our window cleaners’ sexual satisfaction as they pivot from top panes to a ringing mountain of attention-grabbing hysteria.

I invented the elbow railing
thru intimation, insinuation, innuendo. 
It was something I ate but stronger in overlap.
Never believe quite a theory, never say it’s conjecture.
It costs a constellation or a bundle of heart, faint of. 

139: A poem fires up photoshop. Excuse me.

A poem is a picture as love well knows.

That your cunning lays upon my heart...

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

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

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

Also I’ve saved your robocalls to prove it.

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

I swear while we teeter and travel further  
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts 
All our props are just to get in.  
Or I was wondering about invention of the smoking planets, sympathizing  
With a numbers crafter also the director — one of them that never fought to smoke.  
Often that’s a normal baritone and determinative section to sing:  
Spencerian, bodily stranded leaving warfare to the professionals.

Hours of frizzle.
I’m a fashion historian.

We chew to 1 side, noted by 3rd parties 
Superego abstractions hanging out in their unusual white corridors   

Suggesting we’re still trembling from the  


Physical act of mowing. And now  
It’s sprinkling, a brilliant backdrop adding up cruxes  
With a so called mother glossary, 2nd- 
Order noncommercial gists pitted together as cognates  
 
Still coming to seed and adornment,  
Half-audible ricochets hitting us as if we’re a lawn.

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

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

137: Love is a blind fool. Among the true and false, you can’t see what they see. You’re wide awake thinking this through until a subfocus gets lost. You can’t see, you grow accustomed, so to speak, directly oblique : but pointedly no name escalated or united w/ the width of what beauty is! And where it lies!

Bon équilibre, someone else won’t choke (and in a common language at that), one a 2nd person, your “someone else,” comprehends. What do you say? Why of falsehood, tell me, speak to the wide world where several are over-partial to my judgment. Why should my heart do anything?

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

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

Letter to homosexuality, 
 
Standing — rain along with others’ happiness neutrinos can’t stand scattering. Next the sun we say shines, it’s nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of our meaning it and not tempted. It’s still my life, we say. 
Use your pointer, since some of you and me show up here, and more ‘you’ve been away,’ retreating to emancipating solitude, keeping / adding up time, sporting by degrees the related changes you wait to see sitting in the only passenger seat, chihuahua staring, neh?

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

Deadline. Make a joke!

As adhesive behavior, speech haha is streaked w/ extra 
sensory blather, a polite form of the hole-  
in-the-universe. Blather ornot  
                    that hole is a sometime power brimming w/ blobs trying again.   
 
Storylines, battle scars, vanity, 
gesso & sloppy intercourse under un-quaint and drunken conditions that surround ourdesire — counting the days  

to laugh down compliments from insurgents binding future heartbreak.

The sun is gray. Divided, confused. A hairpin curve.
The system is not perfect. It’s everybody’s  
fulfillment welcomed with unlocked pleasure.  A manual ok.
We set the controls; active ingredients are  
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.  
 
Noonish.

Some standards. (The norm is share and share.)
Shined asides.  
 
We pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,  
Really a vase,  
 
Set it, let sunset pitch in its foam, declare  
Poetry goes thru many drafts.

I picked up in a flier my soul is a hypothesis. A fish out of water surfing coastal states to destroy his wiggly self, a gerund seeking to join cause and effect.

Since we live in new enterprises and intuitive ecologies, we begged him to learn to swim further and stick with a nearly sublime topic, to rally for more than this textual ceramic holding a spray of the straight and narrow.

When you got up your voice was 
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling  
Flat into dust in many dimensional motes.   
 
I don’t know how motes, much less how many dimensions, rush   
 
And flounder into mountains. I only hear   
 
Vibrating = Sturm und Drang.  
The nerve of eroticism controls anger / how severely narrowed minds are wed.

Writers are still proletarian at the start; each a lone entity in a world dominated by luxury and power groups. 

Conflicted about big money, I’ll pick up anything. There’s been a request I read corporate art management aiming to commandeer the pipeline, production to sales. It’s fairly obvious when you look at other art industries, video production, digital media, music — marketing small press poetics, like the book industry writ large, integrates with managerial acumen, a chunk of aesthetic / academic taste and decision making falling under the control of entrepreneurial influence: NEA, Poetry, Poetry Foundation, down to narrative and copy.

Some standards. (The norm is share and share.)
Shined asides.  
 
We pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,  
Really a vase,  
 
Set it, let sunset pitch in its foam, declare  
Poetry goes thru many drafts.

A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a stream of gasses embossing conjoined tattoos. Outside the again-feel of an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brightened ways from air conditioning.

You, all our neighbors are mirror bees. Music up. Am I not one?

Progress / regress: China funds high speed railroads in Africa.
Americans for Prosperity funds and wins campaigns banning high speed rail and busses in TN, AR, AZ, MI.