I’m slaphappy-proof to diffuse my sounding implausible. What I say is 
thought of transactionally.. 
it’s simple enough. I think I said this, and made it a quote: a dream   
 
of immense sadness peering exclusively through me promising not to point.  
 
Of course there’s a way or two out.   
 
Say we are birds in flight.

Brain damage is in the eyes.

Rightist verse. 
 
It’s meta-conscious. On the surface text projects as selfie, “poking” materials, assembly, audience. Selfies however adhere to reticent agendas.  

Pedagogic systems schedule examination of dominant samples. Absorbing their data is a high achievement that’s duplicable.  

Rightist epistemology’s key reinforcements:   
 
a) algorithmic methods underline skillsets bias.  
b) calculable hierarchies, A.B.’s, Ivies, ‘little ivies.’  
c) MFA satellites derive from a) and b).   
 
It’s all about people acting this way.   
 
F O’Hara rather not.

I promised you a ham for quilting bombast. 
Hammy man of arms.  
 
You live within politics and practice warfare  
to engage another’s psyche, smiling, you blow yourself up  
& you’re always wrong to prolong your appeal. Ham.

A headboard with no utility other than book nooks. 
Can we cut to the scary part?  
Materiality won’t exist. No dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo that’s 4 ever sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness, unraveling humane optics in dissolved attitudes behind the good times 4-ward.

Since you brought pizza — 
What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us and sociopaths to raise your stature, fabulously?  

That aside —

Colder rain, even snow has a profile that can only be screwed to logic in drier spells. 
Either is widely construed as audible, partially plundering suspicion within either’s wider asymmetry.   
 
Rain or snow, the great work cuts straight through restructure, roughing up more remakes and models we can abandon.   
 
Either or we. Precipitation becomes a shadow racket. Tattooing in the air — if we could see up the walkway and through the instrumentation if they have any.

Un-sober gestures are precise. (Bright eyes, sparkling motions.) You should get a huge lollipop. 
 
Climbing down the outside of pure hell there’s a new mainstream that merits a visitor’s gaze — we — some of us — avoid it.   
 
It’s hard to plot let alone hatch a plan objectively, yet pressure mounts full of smoke. Mm-hmm. Millennial tones of half a political realignment are hemi-obscure now, at this hour of the fireball pyramid scheme — who votes to allow public squalor juxtapose obscene capitalist private milieux?  
 
So let’s start at home with infrastructure’s rectangular coordinates, understand pleasures of neck, spine and eyes. That’s a bigger half.   
 
Before thrills, Balinese yoga is fantastic. I’m 12 years old for years.

23: My agent is in a rage. Imperfect
actor whose shortcomings balloon in ‘harmony’ & w/ use. 

A prick — my love’s epistemology scampers in transparent secrecy 
in such abundance I weaken w/ fiercer ideas to leverage your silent heart.
Listen to my eyes, please. 

My dumb mien may adhere to expressive rules, 
pleading w/ you, entered into by trusting you first, always. It’s always 

Your clear refinement where character offers libation, a rite
to love you, and act on my own might to speak —
To wit, I can read, hear love from your eyes.

A while back, long before punches of text looked great on mobile devices, there were many snores from ancestors with frequent coughs / grunts crowding in together in caves. Back when our bodies taught themselves phonemes thru shrieks of groans to signal pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition — folks like you hit upon logic I feel crazy and fancy and headed for greatness in the morning. 

It’s different from the evening on and some with hands on fire hit back. 

Teamwork. Our people are what make us great. 

The thick grasses went on a date, back dabbling in craftwork as we roll thru them. All this acreage owned by the production-geared and prosaic at base, people that is, a-theoretical, factual. Broke, misunderstood.

Sonnet 86:

The future gives full sail bound for intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to prize and grow, that is, write great verse.
I thought of you
giving us cohorts aid.. No, we see our pride flies off, out of control as it works around a crowd of familiars whom we teach to write.

Once our brains ripen, we reach neither calm of victory nor fear — by night I lack a precious affable character beyond my mortal self.. both that and a familiar’s ghost morality strike me all too precious matters, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling this line.

I feel socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing 
The center.  The middle 
Holds more future than any single system —   
 
Huge agnostic disciplines  
About attitudes behind morals,   
 
Say. You know this open and shut —  
Take it down / or thumb thru.   
 
The balance is left over inhabiting the brim   
 
To the point you don’t have to know anymore yoga than  
We know now — less than nothing, which spurs practically nothing.

As to the origin of matter: Cottage space and free time contend at unexplored depths.
Past is no guarantee of future promise.
Anywhere farther, dark matter is a lot more obvious, a nonverbal compromise. But you and I know more; our cottage industry is up next, forging newer and more colors, so I’m flapping my arms in front of me, keeping a few novel resemblances to myself. 

Maybe I’m afraid of being abducted. Off to a thoroughly unnerving, bigger anywhere, the other half’s anywhere ...

At the very tips I’m pink, divining our fixed up eyes that are mapped, hey, whoa, how awful!
how much closer to the maker are we now ... So be ready.

My best friend is my most erotic partner. It’s a simple corporation. 
But our success or its lack has nothing to do w/ simplicity.  
His music brokerage remains in aerospace 
w/in no sound  
where there is none  
other than our hearing.   
 
No other devices for hours.  
 
The more I say it the more open and closer the roar.

I like political art.    
 
That’s your interpretation.    
 
Can you penetrate other people’s ethos growing up empty of teaching, unavailable reserve? Yet too reserved to comprehend thick grasses amount to ridiculing the five phonemic states of flying birds.   
 
Someone asked me not to float this while our so-named public face makes a living, almost kidding and choosing only ballots on fire. What kind of prose government takes dabbling more lightly?

The other day I walked into a bar, the old place, saw endless tunnels, gadgets and immortal lighting that interconnected w/ music underfoot. My fingers boarded the apologetic apparatus, some of it; there it was thudding over walls... Every eye rolled, doors slammed. After worship, there’s little but taut necks guided by the star beats. Yesterday was bright as today. 

Don’t argue with the shipments.

Where did passion trend? 
Search: Wittgenstein reads False Prospects. So too The World of Normal Boys transcending genre, understanding one field painter’s task.

You cannot win. It happens fast. Less than a flash, the kiss you depend on disappears.
Go for parallels yourself. 
 
Sorry, felons, there’s a fool’s guarantee. All you have  
to do is ...  
Choose love, a buy or rental option equidistant from the rest of your thought and defunct phenomena that travail and make surprise re-visits within quanta. (Too early to expel.) Choosing love creates an entire platform to spin off much slower tangential constructs. Happenstance plucked out of a good number of dying parallels.  
 
Sorry. Now dead.

Sing: 
The virus is already inside you  
Hunting in a lather of swing, lacking other nouns.  
Remember thoughts?   
 
What if thinking doesn’t work. Now what?   
 
No single body move can think back,  
a trick the unexcelled Spinoza observed when the virus foams.

Do what you want. Just a few synthetics I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I am curious underwater as sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. Preaching to the tenor choir, I deal in the ethics of what we do together. 

So there’s a rule-of-thumb with natural stenches & hidden fundaments back on land, which seems ultra altered, it’s just too much. My.. 

Rain obscures movie nights and a bar to be what we want. Tall pathologists are restless in the rain. Excellent. We’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads.

Well, our faith promised us immortal lives, backup roles that made us teen idols,

central characters in an improvisation we lost track of.


I gradually began to buy things in no order, branched out a little finding a passion for saluting a nationality that apprehends my experience as no one else.

The world is explicable because sex is sardonic comfort with a sober edge.  Such limited reach is very sobering. Time’s up. I have to guide the world back to her tapestry, a bigger viewpoint with a visual cortex attending what’s neat in the future when the world finds me attractive!

Pavane: 
 
At arm’s length..  
There were dimensions an hour ago enabling 2 events in a plot we’re party to.  Tenebrae, we said. Let’s return to the olfactory sketches, in which the cosmos is left and right unexplained. Constant and converted. Incandescent, then, our ardor comes back to choke a rocket sidelined by a braided chord worn as a necklace, a burning space distinguished by the compliments contained.

Have yourself a good time. I’ll have you over when political science gets to better thinking, Aldous Huxley augmented with a good bouquet, plus a full deck of historical raiment among the aspirants decoding automation...
After that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous to grab at, but for now, good talk! 
Who is this? Nobody. Nobody’s first choice.  
 
We’re fine with “no real choice.”

42: What do you need now and for what?
You may ask if I loved you.
Is that my get-out-now question?
Do you test, tease, defame to get the best?
I ducked his punch, closed the distance.
His loss is my love’s gain for my sake.
I told him, no don’t, I want to bolt.
Loving offense I excuse you both.

I know where I am going   
gawky, rattling in my anthropocentric will.    
  
I know where the caged bird sings.  
I shop for scum.    
  
Shy of seduction   
I worry about the bigger primate family.   
Like Clint Eastwood I got shifty.   
Once. What was that all about?

What about Lars? 
We didn’t kill him. 
                                  — The Thing (2011)

36: Repetitions. There they go. Altho one, 
you’re mine. Yet you get somewhere then stop.  So far you’re not alone.  
I may not acknowledge you my love’s delight — you’re not solely mine. It’s a shame tho we honor our inner living love that divides us in stolen light. I confess that — or let me confess both our loves are shamed into love’s altered effect —  
 
Your love, mine — separable remains from the nervous system that distorts public love into two, radially.

Why tonight? 
 
My day jewelry drove out surface tension and gave me balls that took off and ran.  
Software permeates where I hurt —  
Show me holding the moment once. 

Let’s see what we get at top of the chain of proxies. 
There you go again. Tax and spend. Death panels. Lyin’ Hillary. Toxic concepts infuse social ideology and organize perception. Political samples predict voter behavior.  
 
The kings are crazy dudes. Party “extras” play along or rue it.   
 
Turning to outdoors there’s a wholly hidden idiom of renderings, highlighting themes out-of-focus, left to twist in the leafy apolitical acreage.   
 
Art director’s cut.

New day! Matins but ghosted

& then — second — non-glowing noise 
of collared, greening hospitality where galactic 

banter might calm tax credit havoc. 
Third, I stay nonprofit 
worshiping everything that belongs in consecutive cubes 
on an ice grid.
The rest of identity is stress related in as many directions.

As noted last century, there’s rustic prep for a painterly style and muddled cool. We come from some landscape with a father, calmed by his fear we were of a kind he was to others.

In full bloom, full blown. There’s too much junk in triangles. (Conductors, maestros know this.) 

That’s how I live alone anticipating mind control as  disingenuous. As  
my own adverb creator I found action verbs with alter-egos,  
exact asides, and decorative indeterminacy.   
 
Love memorials are cool.   
 
The smitten dissipate. What is it like here?
I’m a fan without chemistry.

Surely I have ideals and uncoded momentum, bolo intact. 
Rain twisting, “tensile lines.” So wave back, s’up?  
We’re at the prelims of collapse, I suppose.   
 
I’m on the outs with prelims, down with the innards of English.  
Down with variations as conjecture too. In fact   
 
I’ve been breathing without conjecture too long,  
restrained in my language on earth.

Fair, dark warning. 

None of this is pressured by déjà vu. It seems rational, with a little prep you can achieve more intimacy with a poet you’re initially wanting to know. If you want. And, of course, you’re helped by the other, the other’s writing, I mean, since poetry is one medium for splendid self-introductions of a framed sort. No, what I am about to say ...I want to put here and it’s not entirely rational .. there may be a blushing-waif-zeit and atmospherics, but certainly a range of collective empathy (psychosis?) with a potentially or partially vulnerable social manner.

Wanting together with his and your own empathy and vulnerability, will put you both a way forward; you’re talking fast and can’t control your eyes, even before you have intentions. This happens fast but not forever, especially with one who has submitted to selection-pressure before, one who misapplies both your moves and language to enact motives beyond the immediate speech act.

You all right? 
That’s a title for most any time lapse. Stick around. 

The traitor’s bags are packed.

I swear while we teeter and travel further  
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts —
All these props are just to get in.  
Or I was wondering about the knowhow that causes new wonder,
That licks both problems.

The world is explicable. Hold it.
Close your nose.

Yes or no, certainly. & all right 
All attempts to throw your voice were patently dumb & of a special force,  
Interventions & addictions too disproportionate  
To unknown risks. What’s semiology chanting?  
 
No futures present advanced phenomena — what older worlds once added —  
I have a tiny soft view of holding to the new path, a core harmony of former days, purring yet put aside. (One chord configuring another.)

Do I have a taste for disharmony and disproportionality? No, I elect to be ignorant. As a singularity 
I believe in undertones and the mimicking hidden force of gravity. You guys go ahead.  
 
 


I’m going to walk on w/ Gilbert, that’s the best stunt.   
 
You see, G Ryle asked (and w/ this new knowledge he still asks), “might not every action or reaction be a piece of shamming?”

As one says in social sciences, it’s too late for Cy Twombly’s nervous breakdown. There are gaps we spot now and see through. the universe in flight enjoins the loyal center, Twombly’s converse expanding and accelerating.

Your reading was beautiful, well pronounced. Perfect make-up. Had I...humm? Your boredom is poor experiment; that’s what we said to snap out of joy, lightness, eyes-open dream. Knower and known no longer clean, osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind others, our others. And I’m less affected by less meaning, un-giddy like you. Duly of course sounded, I cover my throat. 

“It’s nice to be interrupted twice.”

Our atmosphere squeaks common sense.
I sensed him and he liked me. It’s an eye popper, a new 
Use for fumy italics — fumy on the outside,  
Different inside, just repeating, just on nerve, just on time.  
Like him I leave my stamp for no reasons, for nothing spurs dreams.  
Here take a wild guess. 
A young monk will then say,   
 

Tell us about your imitating experience. 

The door to the exchange was left ajar. 
 
Fizzy purviews haunting harbingers that hang around from The Inferno. Quantum waves beat our eyes off. Don’t you care structured improvisation vibrates thru personal diaries (volumes) over time? I’m chatting up my repressed side to save you from all our early decisions. The charge is to pass / not fail to remember our nonironic ignorance.

I swear while we teeter and travel further  
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts —
All these props are just to get in.  
Or I was wondering about the knowhow that causes new wonder,
That licks both problems.

Firewall, a king wanting sleep. A foot of sleet, mush, your estimate 
From the royal window.. pane..  
 
Nothing concentrates like a.m. rulings on Nordic weekends and a palatable wardrobe.  

I believe in you. Evening you’re distingué. 
You give me a musical temperature, a fine spray marvel. 
We’ve discovered squeezing brings up more meta-activity as superstitions based on fact —  Blasts of selecting fast, out of nowhere.. nowhere near here. Not even now.
We reach back to no self, only others.

All puzzles solve for a religion of dance sharpening endurance, risking focus.. 
Hermes masks, a precondition as two satyrid mayflies pop up, ones who advocate for world peace. Their reputations recede but the fact of their early apprehension holds sway even before guns were worn.

The service vice president in one wrote you a note:  
An idea dawns as you and I back ‘into’ the salon.  
It’s a salon poem, exquisite, uninviting, keeps its distance, so what?   
 
You contain only so much of me  
as I live where you belong. 
P.S. They are holding your brain illegally.

[adverb not here] I can’t face facts auf deutsch. I invented my elbow railing thru intimation, insinuation, innuendo. 
Also it was something I ate control-grouped in overlaps.  
Never believe quite a theory, we never say it’s conjecture.  
To translate costs a constellation or a bundle of heart, faint of.   
 
(Inauspicious string, translation und fear.) 

— I see your potential; can’t wait to be huge. Time is temporary; eternity  
Later .. it’s not much.  
Get your share,  
knocking love-moments down with small talk, unscripted, unpredictable.  
 
But there are standards.  
Shined asides. 
Pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,  
Really a vase,  
 
Set it, let sunlight pitch in its foam, infer  
Poetry goes thru many drafts.

Lack of knowledge. Living with relatives.
Two earthly conditions for losing your inborn mind.
Little, no, nothing. There’s so small 
an exchange to transact, no tangibles, only 
exhibitionist’s subtopics, within a power den, 
proving repeated effort is self plagiarism.

You may have noticed I write over your face, in inessential praise  
of your fuzzy fragrance, choosing you out  
of other top notes then commending you to a suspicious but dearly rational face-off:
What to look for and how to wave to be waved to,
reducing hang-ups.

It takes a while. Day by day. The way 23 hours ago the multiplicity of writing today took a while. Times itself: A brainset, no doubt, occupied .. & this just in — jokes turn into dreams. It’s dreams that forgive us for everything (except melancholia). That’s because multiplicities, ‘sleeping while awake,’ get downgraded to icy normality, farthest from sight, trapping you & me inside a force field owing to our expertise. 

So there’s no lack of constancy in experimental states of mongrel forgery & the economic pull.

Hey mmm 
Europe with Alsace in its midst about to be a pain ..  
I’m furious about pure consciousness, its transparency and orchestration. A conduit of expanding stops and sharps. Stasis. Or is it a geyser in a box?