The sun maybe 

Burning you, other brilliant dislocations TBA, expected. Alternate forms go 
Beyond predicates fixated on loud procedures 

But in their giddy case they look into a surfeit of space.. 
A sumptuous, soilless bond, 
Angels — a happy title.. 
* 
Maybe it’s only words, assembly, to quote you. 
They are real actors, culminators, without our enzymes.

In my illusion of minimalism = hammering steel, 
I scored a first wormhole on schedule, a hell of a bind. The frayed entity, o  
no, I should say the accretion settled down, humble salve  
soon spread over both of us, lost, scattered into brain memeory trying to remember and   
 
Simply put, trying to find now where early wounds from speech are  
produced, which sort hits or fits most, kind friend .... mimesis within nature,  
uppermost.  
How is sorrow possible, otherwise?

Celebrity stalkers are in the grips of mistaken identity, immune to sudden desire with intimacy. What have they got to lose?

I welcome myself to your studio of secrets, shaman.
One tattered ego observing very little sweetness.

Nice save. There’s a title now for most anything.
The sentence: the Bruins lost squawking about losing
diagrams the opportunity.


Diagram: ‘But should we use quotation marks?’
That’s a whammy..
let me think.

By then our thought freezes

just why we reserve dopey incongruence



nested within notes to adjunct scenery,

a bright tonal performance = normative outcome.

Nice save. One of them.
Ah ‘summary’ jitters keep an eye out, a Bruins fool fence
-sits to guard tall shapes and volumes of light

stuck on could, could it really be “quoted.”

Burp:
The book covers a lot. Preordination, say. 
An interesting interview on unvoiced phonemes done in depth;  
latest brain and behavior data are radical and mistaken.
‘Staff may be prosecuted,’ toughing this one out. 

You sit languidly, the other side of the room. You’re locked in circumstance. 
Your argument last night was great. You like to dwell publicly on crispnesses in whispers in the air. Not only that, you may already be a criminal laureate. 

You have the single most meticulous details for me. You chill the sorbet and warm the surf insidiously. Your sleep is like a language recognized by flowers at evolutionary distances. 

Mercury is wow! Mars.

Capitalist tactics are sustained innovation in nowhere equivalent to —  
Nah 
 
all right, let’s choreograph the open air in touch w/ no-thing. From the outside  the sky is in a square shape, bolted w/ blips on simplex-repetitive top layers, tethered for interpretation.  
We’ll ingest all at once. Absolutely  
blind tessellation, exhaling while we data dive  
 
inflating the thing / no-thing evidence reactivating jury tampering over the last century w/ glass-and-steel additions for  
 

investors, scientists working together.

115: Devouring you and reckoning, I love you best. A certain aspect of my fiction holds. (I could not love you more in the course of altering things.) I have no clear incentive to divert strong minds,
mindless myself of taking chances, since I’ve already changed through fierce blunt talk — Too much and too often I’ve raised a toast to loving you dearer and the certain madness of it, as my judgment’s grown desperately uncertain over the course of millions of accidents. Doubting the rest (and how angry rewrite gets afterward), beauty tanned by time makes you (and me) enflamed for pale-faced poets like Rene Ricard.

[Note: we follow the para-grammatical itinerary of the manic original, Sonnet 115.]

Politics & dignity of appearances don’t mix. How can it be otherwise? Insects bring the flowers. Financial & party pacs are just kidding. Nothing personal. Trump is the sustained concussion version of civic processes recoiling thru chaos... I also give a lily for what’s not available at all, a cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments, whinnying for pleasure. Or I cry when any prospect of this ebbs. 

Government is the emblem of the economy apparently at work. Mechanized matters of conceptualizing appearance. I credit everything from these nonobjective emblems without a message. For me.

Were John Donne awake, he writes: We have to know more about the nose and its choice utility in poetry. Old question, Among human organs, does the nose intuit (hold) more lyric than the eye, know more than the throat, or even our ears? The nose makes mid-alphabet English pronounceable — M and/orN. And if the nose makes it pronounceable, it’s hummable, too, and that could just be the sloping tip of the nose’s lyric purpose! Hard to hum what the heart may be ‘saying’ — we can’t tell without sizing up other body functions, humming throughout the nose.

113: Replete with you,
I selected a rogue anime — you with improved vision to shape my mind
catching birds, creatures, even the governor e.g. — Mountains.

Since I left you my mind’s eye has gone partly blind, seeing you day and night.
But untrue.

My point is awfully slight — incapable of more, out and about, unkind
~ For leaving you to me seems effectually rude ~
Even dove- or sea-crow-forms pay homage to you, shaped to your features.

Some rudest to crudest impart your functions
and get noticed — but deliver no part of you, true mind.

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

Outside, I’m late, 

Impetuous, costive, unflappably happy, brusque.  


I floated here; my toys are asleep. I voted for change.  

Injecting their blood was redundant and crazy but I won’t go off schedule.  
 


Time now to stir toy racks with a respondent gavel. Then back to the bench.  

Judgment, a big puzzlement for suspects in natural selection.
Only the jury rises.

Painting formalism. 
1) Bad philosophy pulls you into art markets like painting, you along with lab wonks, emphatic cat stranglers, lesser rogues. Screwball robots, all interpreting the same aesthetics of action hulks who stand as proxies for casino archetypes.  
 
2) A bad market estimate demands constructivist concepts like twine notebooks — a photo show projection over notebook sketches in twine, high and low brow volumes scanned by market members and their flamboyant offspring.  
 
3) Ask if show attendees are “happy,” knowing there is no way to measure stagey inculcation. 

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

Docile or not, 
Look away. 
Blatantly un-shipshape seems the new daring..  
I have no idea —  
The bemused, deliberate downgrading of the presidency  
More than fair warning. Undoing the effect, 
We should seek co-equals now (particle-wave  
Duality), an engaged handshake, clear speech  
To think with the whole body electorate. 
So we learn that or relearn it.

We need a fix for everything foundered in potentialities and obsession. Come in. Please step inside where the fix should be. 
 

 A dog actually ran in here just now shaking his tail, what deception. In that sentence before — it wasn’t definite what sort of dog he is, but now I know — bad dog.  


I'll make him disappear.  
 

And away with these shirtless demagogues from history.  
 

 We got them to crack but I want you.

Think of our courts and cunning missing bail. 
Everything you expect waiting now in wistful   
 
landscapes, hum-vacuumed.  
What’s the worst that can happen?  
Um, ok, yes, I bet. Open the curtains.  
De-peopled points trip up not speaking for months  
(critical moments you thought),  
 
finding my direction as I thought of you —  
So it never happened.

Parallel universes? Depends — an authentic adult language includes dance, charades, 
Mores are raised —  
Bullets and lists shape one phase,  
A look back over who we are after we agree — not that I care.

Before apologizing, pre-winter is fantastic, like summer for wanton beginners, a civilizing pleasure messing up eternal categories, removed by you. Your absence offers waiting rooms (decoherence), libations & it supports how I feel from within. & speaking of the pure land, it’s freezing. Barely recognize the place.

Through quantum microscopes
it’s not winter but it is dark and may snow.

This century’s waste already stands tall, but this A.M. sun rays clumped like snow unsnapping linen clasps to white headbands. 

White on white. 
In bridal light one sees seraphic whites. 
A small number appear   
 
Their sloganeering is back. Is is. Join today.   
 
The music darts up, up, handcuffing only a few.

Emily’s neighbors, according to census data, 
 
Gone, none here now. Their presence was filled with compression, ideals opening a science of situation (Thoreau) and unobstructed white sky (Whitman) for unstructured joy, bouncing up years later with satiric multiples (Wieners, Ricard). Only yesterday! Literary worth automatically fills the page like scrub pine — from which tribe down the Cape? — becoming more fearless (less indiscernible) when units of innocence, acrobacy and self-neutering come together, vaunting in plainer American English, a context addressed by even gayer neighbors.

2 quests.. Just who are we to say we should attend to what I am doing? It’s love like ours that pitches English to prioritized claims. Are you sitting in the sentence while listening there? wearing nothing but a motive, eager to do what I’m afraid to be?

What is the difference between imminent and threatening? How do you pronounce annunciation?

As atheist or decision theorist?

These images are confused as of prior understanding. 
Petunia Pig. Premiere then curtains.  
 
Childhood runs out, our taxonomies still  
unexplained as temp permits.   
 
We loved your altitude, your trafficked facts, but  
we fear anti-humanist divas like you, 
wound up in your senseless atoms packing uncertainty principles —  
just the tips loaded 
...you know what I mean standing up there, promoting pap acceptance.. you’re a diva in fact with nothing to give back, not mad enough, feeling too little.

Ironic judgment.  There are a hundred butterflies in perilous art. What’s wrong with watching one or two spin like happy mediums, go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?

Not running, walking rapidly, I cross the hall with the heat transfer …. 
We DOLLY into a MEDIUM soft shapeless mass of subjects and no distance. No, forget it, that’s too risky. Not quite standard. 
 
Scary Movie was a date flick. A private-public bond like Atchison and Topeka.  

“My regrets.” Switching phones, I look up to the Great Plains waiting to take me somewhere. Thinking is enormous but I practice until my call splits other but not all calls in the multiverse.  
 
I’m sick of Great Plains things.

There’s a container for every passion.
Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off
economy floatable within, once
regarded in wholeness, all contours
beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough
though meaner beyond any coarse-grained whereabouts..

I guess us.

Social progress is depressed, a big abnormal mess, a product of one’s time. It wins all the half-eaten take-out left on the table. 40% made of obdurate hardly-ever voters like you and me. And how long can one live folding up conversation, conjecture perpetually minimalist verging on filth and circumstance? Who isn’t one?

Oil, vinegar, mistakes, which in religion ..  
 
become defects in the emulsion. Well, pairs of prime numbers have different sapors, pots, odd sets, syrup-simple to complex, some devolving into a brawl, randomness, others’ chaos, as well a outs a game of self-similarities... can't make it out, call them alloys of function routing. I’ve highlighted this one, Apollonian male familiarity that will never feel safe, topped with a Mainline ranch dressing fabricked in aromas of surfboard polycarbonate.

“Dear Hightop,” 
 
It saddens one to inform the boss  
 
she’s not serious, never is. She makes  
comparisons during sex and makes  
love checking in — whilst I live  
off the equity of a third faculty, timescales  
where strata hold objects — the ones promised  
Hermes that took him over the edge.

One by one
wait for it.
More promiscuous than anything not there.
Therefore here.

Late electrons hold a preferred representational system after 10 tonight. Floating too close, roofs blanketed by flyleaves. A styrofoam waterfall will declare total amnesty. 
 
The whole month is booked. Interferences in the electron field.  
One thing is that performance yesterday and the morning before. After you washed off, you understood when to pause long and leave when and where you smell a rat.  
 
You’re not alone. You want in? Try code switching with your interlocutor. You’re coming to brush dirt off while I’m looking to redress. A mindset carves out the rafters’ flute, our voices upwind. What was seen trapped at top? An old pronoun for emphasis extended from the blaze under your eyelids.

There are no pleasure substitutes, after all. 
The defrayed honeymoon can last, and it’s normative, blushing with its song of guts and neurons spinning bottles —   

There’s no hurry.  
 
After a honeymoon deflections accrue to go on.

Don’t we have an elevator to take (to greet you)? 
 
Gavel to gavel hours turning the page. Hours. 
What we do converts personality to stunt-craft.  
What we have to act out is open discourse W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please,  
 
have your way, fleets of stars, your options. Have your composite gods who do it for the masses.  
 
(This soon after your last breath, is it safe to pun O Yeats?) (Maybe not.  
I’ll frighten no one to be temperate.) Some of us are too disgraced to save  
the day.  Tho not all of us will friend you now or any time.   
 
Now there is no instance of friendship at different times.
It’s natural, a picnic in the wilderness.   
 
The wilds... on all fours, all floors.

Who will win you, be you... when we take up past lives, 
 

linger over fruit, a blackjack of planes  
 

and volumes of ourselves in the polish of systems gaming  
from which we now resign, in grace (3 cherries).   
 


A wild bet is the oldest touch in the darkest town  
 

[a friend’s lyrics] — buckets on red, someone’s lucky color  

in a city of red lights and streets, carnival streets losing identity 

with cabernet in bottles, women and men in  

off the streets, profiteers in cafes of Reno, I imagine!  

Let’s toast everyone holding a perfect suit  
 

in focus, carnival glass, reddish goblets letting the workday  
 

work away. Afterward, we leave home forever and go to college   
 

and get involved being there to face the sky.  
Tell me, poem friend.

That’s all right.
Another time.

“Bliss.” We were looking it up. 
A battle between two distinctions  
 
among words bringing up a few others,  
times two more of those brain-states from Asia.  
A marsh is now interesting  
(vitae) for the sea. For the eye, nothing but applesauce then shellac,  
a varnish the sea brought in without consent, leader of the pack  
of subject matter. Not of varnish, bliss.

Sure, I’ll leverage our last minute or two, let’s say I’m deeply missing you.  
There you go! but how long have we been planting post mortems with no conventional frame for gender balance? or how not to terminate? 
 
Maybe it’s a mistake, wiping post mortems out, collaborating on curious travel so close to a fault line... I grant you that; 

Like all of the above and people going in and out of Odd Fellows buildings, climbing stairs in fat, you’re one hundred percent normal running up debt to keep devotees heartbroken.  
 
Adoring you is a fault line in my moral politics! where any leverage follows oxymorons.

I write on my nature in my head. Let’s hold a séance! 
I snare us Joy to starve a fever. (Is it raining out?  
At a range in speeds and locales.) 
Many rooms, each story (usually) with clay-toned physiques  
fighting the relative fight waving, receding to one another  
 
— everybody under an influence indoors and out, which is filthy. A foot of snow from the window. Laps of water filled with light snow, rotating in reverse as if catching on how to purify their offspring & manage fever in lurches of nibbling torque adjusting the day into days.

There’s salience to nodding agreement thought- 
fully, since you get your ideas from media  
studies, yet geometric brainstorming staring blankly 
like realism is easier-to-sleep-w/-&-pulsate  
-to  
 
Instincts tho are buried under cement,  
sunk talking to each other, eh?  
Hard to get out from the extrapolation —  
(I removed its tongue)

I reincarnate myself along with my house from a test pattern. I picked the place up from an ex-class-marshal, one who never had to do much, holding out for one’s nest egg. A nestling. Hushed buzzwords in the newsletter bring up null tinctures from rain or sunshine sprints, much as a will to influence is the answer sheet for getting fleeced. Not hearing from you (I’m lost in your doggerel...) fosters coercion of what evolutionary good was before it ran through expulsive options over this place. This. Its. It.

Your nest or mine?

The you I 
tableau-sponged, speckled, remotely 
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva.
Tableau — Anything 
reasonable, impure, immersed in freedom. Swimming 
synchronized. Induced but so what? 
I left you out.

Tarantulas of steel squeeze under the trap door, isolated by an obsession coming on to us, coming right in. There we go, holist.  
Theory-and-error-correction suited your attention..    
Theory is the place we may detect a problem set you’ve already gone over, untidy and young, accomplished and loathed despite a foundational rule of no principles without permission.      
  
The tarantulas swell and expire in wrinkled light over and done —  burbling with their own kill-agenda tickled into indecision, aching even now to blather.

With good optics petroleum and related interests can get serious. Bosons exhale thru rainy nightfall. I reason their surrogate likenesses (x) are more set and more recently struck down. 
Razed. Rain’s over, prancing on the lawn, rain in light draining oil.

On mortality,  
 
I’m a big baby. That’s a big b, for clarified as black-and gold pelage, married and vulnerable, exploring reiterations of my own duality. 
 
I’m alive feeling the swansdown of DNA. Soon I’ll be comically dead — that’s married to a triplicate database — sinking into forest behavior, giving up fish, emotionally shot .. devoted to background intelligence in seamless disproportionality.

Social progress is depressed, a big abnormal mess, a product of one’s time. It wins all the half-eaten take-out left on the table. 40% made of obdurate hardly-ever voters like you and me. And how long can one live folding up conversation, conjecture perpetually minimalist verging on filth and circumstance? Who isn’t one?

The sun is gray. Divided and watched thru a sex microscope. 
This cluster of fuzz is not perfect, an everybody  
in conscious movement with that living unlocked smell.  
I set the controls; active ingredients are  
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.   
 
Noonish.

In evolution we have an i.d. crisis 
when who knows I’m doing this   
 
for our agenda? How near the teary top we crate  
handiwork, cover it with a power tarp, draining it all of weight?   
 
I could use another i.d. if any of the artistry touches either of us. Or any of ours.  
I used to have a power dependency that’s reasonable to regret.  
I think it’s polite to say ‘power,’ not ‘ostentatious pensiveness’ boggling handiwork for ours.

Sonnet 93:

Better to live more as love may near
— supposing I’m in many ways a deceived husband. So?

A coterie of enablers cooperates fully. For both of us,
a love interest is altered to look calculated.

For there can be no hatred in our eyes.
Tho, facing true love, the early light seems to
Urge us to go out, rehearsetoo much and get wasted, frowning, grow moody —
Eve’s apple was Adam? One love’s face? You and I cannot know.

What have we if our heart is in another place?

We could see from a solid distance, your rakish note to yourself, you mixed mediums .. no parochial shit.

We all have our own crowds that relish lyricism mounting a central stairway. Sour notes suggest quick detours and offsides. A couple of hours pass. There’s been vintage aversion within the pulsar, around a corner noise from sirens lifts up the galaxy. Sunshine starts to feel like a slap in the face.

Milling around is jammed.

My name isn’t terrestrial playwright with hunter sunglasses for nothing. 
Retreating to circuit theater is a bore, finding 
backwater exchange wears down seeing infrared.  

Meeting up, we stand around, 
crawl and cover gorged ground. A once frontier then.   
 
Then what if our adaptations wear out on the ground? What 
if our species’ reach, having pulled thru, pulled out.  

That’ll be the day to bring a guest for the ride! 

Hands are everything.
That was past conjecture; ever since  
The evidence upsurges when language retires.
His eyes & yours fill with manpower.  
Your brain stores all kinds of pleasure. & his the same.
 
A genome led you to him..  
He smiles with no doubts about your bluffing kowtow & innocence  
  — nothing to discredit &  
...no hell to pay! ... the rain keeps raising rules of thumb, bringing it all back.

Keep secrets in brackets to float free. 
Free momentarily. Here [or t]here — volatility models! according to our genes spreading, vocalism in a sense. We’re beaming them and their feelings up with unknown and hidden risks — fat chance shifting their weight brings in slimmer odds.   
 
All or nothing, win and lose on cue.

111: Before I turn into another cure of yours, yours for my sake, i.e., I assure you a corrective hand took away anything too crafty in my nature... I am more receptive to work now and long subdued from harm, far and away.. at last ah! nothing bitter, I’m your willing patient (almost). Fortunes, manners, means, everything doubly correct and subdued. Pity in that sense our infection and bad deeds, guilt, nothing else — the die cast.

The if-movement (aspiration) can be thought 
a saga you (like any of us) can pump off & on — so on   
 
-Coming then coming clean is another part of closeness.  
Later, new police!  [talk of paranoia...] 
I flash forward to some new policing. And I’ve never been more uplifted, more unnerved by an against-type chamber piece somberly floating in fun intelligence, now audible signs of history, of intention, preparing us for a fixed melody with renewed power.  
 
Unless there is nowhere else.

I’m drunk on uses of empathy and bounce. Or plans change. 
Universality is homesick, having lived off the nice laws of physics. But not now, it’s daybreak — 

Conditions look staggered, off-ivory — wanting the universe (I do), a profane
absurd Rubik of dawn’s color range, 
yet how far & vast connivance 
liberates the universe to put aside laws and whiffs of disuse.

The inscription reads you’re my business. This means the writing is clean, the continuity architecturally intact, mirrored in jumps for meantimes. 
 
But calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with a moral philosophy we won’t erase, a jittery appliance in the occipital lobe, active within the ‘human grain’ when touch management was unleashed.     
 
I’m just commenting. Your forehead (pre-perpetuity) is boarded up still    
 
the inscription reads you’re my business.

140: Winter leads, wise and cruel. Should I grow mad?
In sleep even a con anarchist gets immunity. 
Going wide, this is mad, better it were more bad news washing over time under preseason wraps. 
Snow this soon is a surprise.

(Slanderers are believed. Didn’t know I’m a novice enthusiast, the tongue-tied manner of my wanting pity.) 

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

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

A fellow on horseback. What a night. No problem 
Expunging a storied narrative 
That was normal, believable 
Then 
Waking up, sticky, stuffed-up nonphysical shrugs 
Not far off, across your thought to meet up, cough.. 
Not even having hay fever as a backdrop —
Hedged enough, nothing 
Hidden, nothing, 
Not a chance forever.

Microscopic levitation in words got modulated. Had to be. Modulated is like coming out to predict your views, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact explanations and multiplying love of what we were doing before the procedural took hold. 
Then we are off, taken off, clouds keeping our eyes immune to causation.

When you got up your voice was 
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling 
Flat into dust in 4 dimensional motes. 

I don’t know how motes, much less how 4 dimensions rush 

And flounder into corporate’s mountains. I only hear 

Stupendous vibrating = Sturm und Drang, 
Atomic dust controls anger /
Now a low wage bet how severely narrowed minds are wed.

Who or what is as reserved and specific as moist film (a hue off, a little cucumber)
on a blade of grass? Yah but a friendly warning for the mind, 

Pal, 
Film ‘work-arounds’ bully sarcasm to un-wit ways and means to spiraling into complexity illogically. We’re closing the book on you.

Please, not now, Santa..

..invoking bad explanations, Santa is supernatural.

My counselor affidavit registers deficiency of discovery and revolving pretexts. All the same, hunches count. (I’ve always been competing with myself.) 
 
Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for foundering within the social anomaly of treason.  
Rules commit us. Voters chose Trump. Yet this is the latest case.  Everything I note here is integrated. Remember those days? Remember those databases centered on surplus insertions while John Kennedy sober on the ground kept looking up... (Reminds me when democratic ideals could get by on appearances.)

I am citizen physicist to an inner antecedent for shorthand deadpan.
Drowsiness may be my great escape or I may just walk it off, forgetting evolution never optimizes what you already think. 

Your face, the trains I ride, it’s furthermore good. Even if you’re allergic and our staying casual definitely has the appearance of progress. 

(The above interlude rules us both shifting variants.)

To Caspar,  
 
I think you asked for this over dinner.  
Ghost buds for twenty-first century renos in a whole range of sentiment.  
No chance, astrophysicist. 
 
So you get it now, assigning you to our planet to feel cathartic  
is dimensionally impossible. You’re dull. Rather uneducated.  
You’re all shine and velocity to us, the living!  
Sap is flowing, Caspar, top gear, top speed.   
 
Grab a sawhorse.

En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse w/in; pushing deeply. 
Our lot’s in a hurry. Some Greeks added vowels.  
 
No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there is no threshold. Matter persists, w/o dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual and vital amid meanderings that are ordered appearances gone dormant, nearly, or snap, running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in more unboundedness, optics unravelled in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.

As you had to know, I drive a Steinbeck but dream in a Camus. 

Striking the bell, lightening round.. 
Take a test. Brightness gushes out, but colliders roughened by screaming take a fall. Living ballet is euphoria-through-turbulent-process and comprises your early morning critique. But do you understand the point of the test?

It’s tight. What happened? Diagramming conditions of jitters and others’ sentences, I am anonymous either way. 

Tho before the mist rolled in I felt your grace, holding on with both hands.

Song: It sounds like you know the feeling but you’re not getting it. I want to distinguish our common introit of grabbing knives and spoons v. the naive intuition that expresses it.


Missing you is hard to implement & doesn’t change anything. I want you to be happy but on time for signing the release pledge, availing yourself of lilac patterned backgrounds here that look like versions of wicked cunning & mirrored parsimony canceling out our love triangle — set against fetishes & hiked vibes. It also helps us rolling in bed side to side.

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


but staying in the picture. Voice changes and all.

I’m having a pitch dark 
brainstorm so obvious 
why stop  
 
Only, let’s call it implanted intelligence,
O baby  
all the way unnhh..   
 
O yesses encompass in advance  
shimmer  
— crash. Al-  
 
So let me see..  
dreams get put on the map  
that reads us into the program.

I work here but not any more.
Cascading circumstances.
My personal limits are a chimera. Not a destination.

Imposture-prone or — simpler — fictitious avant-garde strategies as well as their vulnerable practitioners and critics are celebrated in the film (Untitled), written by Jonathan Parker and Catherine di Napoli, directed by Parker. In just two columns of text NY Times critic Stephen Holden deploys a massive array of double-edged vocabulary that unsettles to the gut. (Untitled)’s protagonist, a conceptual composer with a perpetually furrowed brow, is said to be tormented with a teasingly paradoxical attitude... [a] hostile scowl. The anti-hero is so self-absorbed and ungenerous that when confronted with experimental work in other fields he is as rudely dismissive as any provincial philistine. Meanwhile, to highlight the acerbic entwinement of sexual performativity and aesthetic judgment, a cheating, gallery-owning and aesthetically ‘disingenuous’ girlfriend shines her popping eyes like a bright screwball. Holden notes other types, including a self-loathing conceptual artist whose works have self-explanatory titles like “Pushpin Stuck Into Wall.” (Untitled) goes for broadly obvious, easy targets, in other words, in a line of lampooning artist-fish in a barrel, a long satirical line that spoofs an avant-garde tradition that goes back at least as far as Marcel Duchamp’s urinal. Some would-be targets are employed for aesthetic as well as comedic affect. Avantist David Lang writes the goofy music for (Untitled) and film maker Kyle Ng constructs proto-conceptual pieces, among them, a taxidermist monkey sucking on a vacuum cleaner (Jeff Koons, no?). Holden’s review encapsulates a chapter on current aesthetic temperaments and fomented doubletalk that run for cover under the rubrics of satirical outrage and conceptual deflation.

— 2009

We unholster & dance across the room / a lumberjack in me & you. A cobra balance in our DNA.
The color wheel for our genes is graduated to go with our rainforest ethos & smiley 
faces. We speak in our mother tongue of fine ethos and interiors, to no product hewn.

I have the same problem buying oil.

I see your inside voice, binary to binary autosuggestion. 
When it gets dark it happens fast.  
 
We wanted to go to  
This point, stabilizing the home office — over the ocean  
W/out oil in the water — ‘or personal contact.’

British require eccentricity as a lovely part of identity.
Americans excel in artificial eccentricity focused on being.

I’d like to thank the Academy  
and ignore X to reinforce ignorance.   
 
IT warned me of overrefined emblems and their sweeping reproach. Can I have a parochial amen? I’m not religious. Nor are you. But I took note of what you like from the beginning. I had a few ideas in mind divorcing you.  
 
Oh, tech services, tell us a little more about your miserable ontology affecting checks, balances, and mantra logjams — How did worldviews crumble into unlimited environs and potential instrumentality to pantomime the common numerator undercutting American literacy?

Guards used to stand tall. United parts and parcels. Now they tell you to take off your belt. 
The impression building is that every move serves an Euclidian purpose. Then. A higher purpose according to religionists, in a word, a metonym for dizziness everywhere according to boundless practitioners. Their approach, heading toward final devastation, collapses under its own glare into supernumerary states of emotion and minor readjustments on an international scale of anxiety equal to the light of your body. Then. Every dancer stops for a moment, and I feel better.

75: Every time I visit you in your mascara I become lucid about fears you strike. Day by day you were food to my life. I see the brilliant live again, sure enough, in vetted dormitories, always have, fudging abasement with rich food and drugs. Sorry concentrates. There you are.

Pleasure and then the transportation of souls and their wealth take place about now.
Nothing for me. I feel like a pursuer of no delight uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my whorl of cement paintings..

Starved for a look, now counting it best when the world
may see my pleasure feasting off you, on you dime, thus, on / off your sight...
pursuing peace, all or nothing, with you alone.

We all have squatter’s rights. 

We never forget and we do not forgive. Even tho we’re too fat to have insurance, our moms have always been supportive. Viruses are like that. The wind too. Shivers of a sigh, glistening in black, typical of nothing congealed, we made messes all over the nestling ground to suit a creative purpose, balancing running around everywhere in total regression and then explaining our gorilla masks as a prior condition.

Gassing ahead of message. Gas, food, lodging.

A warm light is produced by heated argument. 
Heat the cosmos can hear. The blazing trajectory halts in NYC or Washington on-to-nowhere, a very mean arc to bridge, all right — erratically stencilled with tweezers-length trapezoids at its austere outer rings that are comparing infinite sets.  
 
Taxonomy, to get back to the cosmos, stands tiptoe atop shoulders of ascending ideas, forgetting the battered raw laborers below lined up on broken mosaics, necks pounding from overtime  
 
like ex-royals.

To reverse devolution we’ll rush back 
to hear more about causality proportionate 
to a principle that cannot be considered in words  
like suspension of liberties and financial slaughter.

A finite presumption. My last gay bar,  crayoning hearts and drunken smiley faces,  pledging boundless love, packing up my belongings,  You be the new C.E.O.

92: To my love in constant revolt, stealing away...

Once again my life ends. Next, let’s be happy love never stays; love is vexing weather depending on manual labor. With inside scars. A heightened blush. But no longer — it’s so like American Gothic under manageable stress, learning to fear the worst I’m happy to have had your love — I don’t know, what’s a fair question — is there one last best state to restage or not to live? For it depends on you, not false humor, and it’s not wrong I belong in a humorless state without dashing our love. I find my love for you is self-assured and formally difficult and ooops... So others happy to die are on fire.

Happy to die! — do we take their place?

Achilles, what can you do or cannot do? Are you sitting in the sentence  listening ? wearing nothing but  eagerness for a motive to  hear what we were afraid to be?

Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping neutrality (plain v hard) w/in the gloom of purgatorio as perceptions of different possibilities blow town including the best halo effects and feelings. They’ll come back in the wash. 

It’s nice finally to put a class of face to the physical world’s humiliating covered breathing. Geometry is of and true to nature throughout. Today, every day open censorship is going to be there, filtered, unfiltered as long as it takes.

Sway your head. That means dance. 
 
Don’t hold it in. Talk to your doctor.   
 
Try something cartoonish. I’m whirling around, pens and markers in hand in roughly 4 minute stints. Learning something about what I mean, high jinks soar belying despair over entropy, a quiet smoke, losing gravity! 

Privilege the not status and function.
Read this. (I did.) 
It’s half a libretto.

I’m a woman. Or you. We have all the training we need listening to Jim Carroll — oral chemistry, the beginning of rage, this is my body. Almost the same as hopeless, the only oasis was just passed. I was more at home with early stage fright than deconstraining tastes at war with passivity. 

Then you and I had an urge and we felt gorgeous wearing an engineer’s hairnet over the situation.

Oil, vinegar, mistakes, which in religion ..  
 
become defects in the emulsion. Well, pairs of prime numbers have different sapors, pots, odd sets, syrup-simple to complex, some devolving into a brawl, randomness, others’ chaos, as well a outs a game of self-similarities... can't make it out, call them alloys of function routing. I’ve highlighted this one, Apollonian male familiarity that will never feel safe, topped with a Mainline ranch dressing fabricked in aromas of surfboard polycarbonate.

Fire, ready, aim.
My product is a l’il soggy.

Foundational bias underpins the closed argument for or against not being sure.
A signature concern is the cosmos’ experience. The bigger the better. It’s peculiarly nepotistic, another point, so many writers simultaneously figure out these expectations within multiple, extra literary contexts, politics, cultural construction for personae, nonprofit and corporate performance theory and the like.

Atom = the first head turns in which a detail is explicative in several ways at once. 

Clockwise = second head turn: two or more meanings re-solved into one experiment; foul results = no explanation.


Counterclockwise = third turn, in which there are two or more reconnected experiments.


A pulse of light of the right duration = fourth turn, alternative explanations but none good enough for clarifying experimenters’ state of confusion.



Superposition = fifth, lucky confusion: the experimenter is enamored of her idea in the eventful processes of argument and experiment. 



A row of 10 = sixth, universal yet irrelevantly ‘sweet’ shades of experiment, this time many experiment join in minting explanations, making’em up. 



Measure = seventh, and it’s official. Unbending full argument and testing of dogmas and contradictions, transforming ungated minds turning heads toward amplified democracy. Dirty outdoorsmen, sailors, all on board.

Nor one presumes elements are strung together out of desperation and a deeply ingrained exposition to de-mark the unknown. Much as technology funds science, randomness attaches to most regularities.

It once read architecturally, you’re my business. 
 
“I heard talent & beauty & money come with their own flickering light; by your putting them to rest they take ‘full effect’ with no attachment to bad diets or addictive capital.” Leaving you gasp.  
Is this documentary or did I make it up? — “when you remember wit and austerity read each other from the start, after wit — seems mathematical tho programmers have a fiercely vandal like impression of appraisal under uncertainty.” They ‘elevate’ climate potholes. 
 
So this is an edit (to hide highway hunger). “That’s as close as no personality has to keen, endless pulse.”   
 
..bicycling no-hands feels like what the sign reads in the dark underpass. To put it together, anonymity makes what’s excess pain disappear along with too much poverty and sugar.

Since giving up on poetry, singalong has vaulted to the top of our shared agenda. Shared or snared, just like they. Leaving office to wolves has a double meaning to off-center the filing (and filtering) system and other singularities I’ve kept back under my appendix for years. We have no limits to affirm any retractions, feeding our reliance on illumined work, dire pleasures, majestic plans and, this most generalized I guess, fortune (Fortune) itself burningly turning back to watch the wax dim.