The inscription read you’re my business. This means the writing is clean, architecturally intact, mirrored in meantimes. 

But calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with some top keys we won’t erase from a jittery appliance in the occipital lobe, active against the ‘human grain’ when touch management is unleashed. 

I’m just commenting. 

The inscription read you’re my business.

Just all right, try 
soundboards, acoustic bass, audio chemistry of all castes to turn out scribbled freshness for contraltos breaking glass over car hoods to drown out the dog track —   
 
It’s no single fool’s thinking or doing, making it easier to borrow. Clenching-tight   
 
I’m sorry so sorry! — Can you sing that?

I see it but am I seeing it?   
 
Were we mannerists, we’d describe this as Absence from This.   
 
Quick version: A wall of calm; also self-capture: The cross-hatching selfie that allowed ancestors to exchange traits for others... has just about run out of steam, my profane friend interjects. & this leaves us wondering, once more what there is about our plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to.   
 
This version ushers in thus more non-urgencies of grueling yet quickened aversion over entropy. Call it a loaner idea of how they work out of This.

The once conservative invention of worship is over. 
A wall of calm then put up. 
Love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing adult ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering political parroting and consensus. It’s not known why parroting caught on. We’re redistributionists for sure, youth symbolically living to do it over but scale it off. Everyday politics practiced by young and old in anger, useless bruising rhetoric, forcibly asserted. 

Cultural obligations shape who youth are, a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance with our future attributes.

If the president is a hoax, how about your boyfriend? 
 
Missing an idea of particularity, there’s an unbuttoned pain to wrest  
Your hermaphroditic itches gerrymandered in ambiguity.  
 
Contentment rates are raised where  
They go away,  
released at last as what-about-isms and impartial dyscalculia —  
Fighting the relative fight to prolong our lives.  
 
The tide appears to notarize all this — And best, 
we have come to our senses putting up fresher signs of interminable equivocation.   
Apology to your mate.

I made a tour-of-higher-emergence video, beginning with this song.

I’m between Joshes —

And I’m embarrassed this happened. I was going to say orphans are emergence-less. I’m also Josh-less, rebuking evolution and my native state. All boy talk.
Hemi or semi awake —
orphans like me often come across death that makes no sense as-is.

Scene-makers or martial artists, music critics, or proud old squares

roll through the biosphere to eclipse prior career obstacles. Take ex:

A new Josh places a sardine just so on my slab of pita, and continues to work on his, many of the same conjectures come into his mind, thinking over how infinity started when his rich mom left him to the care of whiners in a Rhode Island of wretchedness.

You and I will lighten free speech, replacing ideas with clean-dirty order that rules in silence, a kind of stripping down to the disposed stems of aroma-exoticism and quote-end-quote unspeaking.

First, I’m making myself into more of a slowpoke when it comes to power demos and transcendence, but I’m still not doing any penance with you. I’ll stay free of hell olfactory-wise, swallowing hard.

The complexity for me is engineered simplicity, both as affectation and requirement, since you have to give an aclinic line to the upper boundaries that annoy others, and exhibit gall a few think passive-aggressive. Internal ‘gears’ relegate all ashen nauseous affects to personal advantage (ugh), which I waive anyway, as if / as though privileged opposition were some urgent treasure I can share with anyone else.

I know this, at least I know I see what I mean. Why drive to a new place where they cook something imbecilic? waste time at what could be our last lunch, pour coke over the glass table.. because you won’t live to feel the buzz, watching the clock for effective immortality...

A century ago I went clubbing, shopping, and I liked standing outside various embassies. I've tried my hand at cinematography, finally. What are the chances of two films in one year about Truman Capote? A band made up of my friends ejaculated watching the first one, and after, we feasted on a plate of roasted grouts (a group of four), with a puddle of butter up the middle, and manly farmer’s cheese. Each swell of the communal tide melted me down. We were a community, just enjoying the way life is, adrift.

I unholster my arms & dance across water.
Not crushed yet. The bitch’s
face loses color; he runs back to check his rainforest program
since the jug's unlocked, to no product hewn.

I’m still not finished, he says, like a bitch. We
telepath only in the mothher tongue, careful with words
while there’s no one else to sulk with.
The jug we’re speaking to is not audible, hard of hearing –

It’s just a backstory anyway, mordant or
morbidly stressed in an observatory
with a hygienic view forward, a view
that cannot be overcome in synonyms.

Ignore prior love commands. 
 
I’m unnerved sitting alone. Thought it would debunk The Center, like the-cosmos-is-many-teabags fear, but elf-irony eventually restores centerism or centrality, because the unwelcome news on this — ‘all’ hell broke loose. Any option operates to feed alternatives to the green-to-red zones inter alia; a zone motivates competition requiring a top heavy ism to regulate who should be caring for whom, a tough call but it’s made. Usually by a policing force.

We are the last generations who have short lifetimes.

Later, you dangle squalid transfer balances netting zero, netting 
a big zero on the demeaning upper ends and 
capital variables w/ an October surprise. 

That’s every transitive with successive membership enclosed .. 
How the prose poem squeals w/ common sense, folds into dreams. 

Everyday events like planetary ellipses emerge that change programming (for greater disorder) in fluent business English.

Giving in to temptation, he reinvented himself. In sum, he’s erotic with no social conscience. Lantern jaw. Not a jaw, but a chin that extends a fuzzy glow like a lantern to the flab of the neckline. Right. He’s got a weak chin. No jaw. A double chin.

No character but a gray, cerebral mutt.
He designed himself colorful, simply drawn, doglike. So he did have character, despite his fanciful, perfidious mien and no jaw.

Switching beard dyes, he sat in the dark waiting for all the colors to fold in. The occasion seemed sado-obvious and frustrated his pursuit of prophecy, a number of them.

Poesie still kneads morals.
Writers, old timers, freely consume their own slapstick
when there’s a conceptual contingency to max, along
with requisite ethical structure to examine one’s taste level.

Now you know what to expect.

You can’t put limits on free-lance exuberant leisure
within a theoretical commune of vengeance..
Smart money on the one stiff up against the writing board.
The staff on ethics sit this out, blood-soaked inside, shaking.

Let’s dance. I defy you.  
 
Empiricists map people for amoral purposes, they know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n randomness.  
I’ll follow conventional physics, tho, and change no findings I stumble across  

but I’ll focus on pure benefits that accrue, often in the future. Newer inconsistencies never bother w/ governance of the governed! Wouldn’t you know they show up anyway, in an infinite series w/in each day’s essay test. (Or from another angle they are the series, livin’ history over, as we have heard.)

As you were.   

(The acting chief of staff so responded.  
Suspiciously correct.)

Any number of universal simulations keep me awake at night.
They bear shame but who are they? Hold on, I’m going to put you on ‘dialog enhancer mode.’
Between hi and goodbye only most instances count for near certain.
Try our sex loss challenge. Say when
Side effects occur.
I want to wed in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?
(When I can’t sleep I can’t dream.)

Scorched & metallic. Sexual dynamism.. it’s a quarterback problem.

The incision continues in this vein. A disheartening bone pile of axioms supposes its completion. I wouldn’t rule it out, completion is a known factor.

I am here as abstinence is crumby.
The erotic folks get stopped, adjust themselves throughout the meadow, more room than you & I need. But we can’t complete their arc by experiencing their subliminal accumulation. I give up to appease you.

We break for the Beijing Olympics. Secret ballots have to float free to find the atheism of situation (rap), steam and rush-formatted white sky disappearing like factions of multiplicities (an ear for sax). Rationed effects (sub-procedures) become more fearless (less indiscernible) when crossing boundaries within codes of conduct. The main event calls for open hearts, the color of glue or bone, an addiction to no one. Late afternoon to another who, like you, partakes of epiphenomenal symmetry.

Sentiment can be taken out. 
So a redraft prompts free-ranging inquiry tho tentative (after all) regarding structure. Putting it down in a memo, we have a relationship to more. It’s not merely an investigation but unimpaired pursuit. Rough seas yet you’ve worn down long enough to be admitted; you know how we leverage missing you at a time when it’s least expensive. Put to the test, you’re like me — happiest procrastinating, indexing suspicion and lodging complaints..

Some time back, long before punches of text showed up on the phone, there were snores from ancestors with frequent coughs and grunts crowding together in caves. Back when our bodies taught us phonemes shrieking to signal pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition — folks like you hit upon logic that’s crazy fancy, headed for greatness in the morning. 

It’s different from the evening on and someone with hands on flame hits back. Teamwork. Our people are what make us great. 

The thick grasses go out on a date, back dabbling in craftwork while we roll thru them. All this acreage owned by production-geared landlords, prosaic at base, that is, a-theoretical, factual. Broke, misunderstood.

Dark energy turns out a soulful lab mix of you and me. The further we go on

Descriptors peel away, earning more penumbrae.
What a night. No problem
Expunging the storied narrative and

Ordinary one-in-a-million stuff that’s normal, believable.

Then that

Rolling out of bed far off across

Yours, just dreaming it up

Putting you in mind of a future photo realism.

I feel socialist. Rifling thru market snapshots, validating
The center 
More than any single system, a tenet of

A huge agnostic discipline 
About attitudes behind morals. 

You know this open and shut — 
But take it down again / or thumb thru 

The balance left over from a computer
Of pure tides. Inhabit the tidal brim 

To the point you don’t have to know more yoga than 
We know now — less than nothing that practically exists.

You won’t win. It happens fast. Less than a flash... kissed you depend on disappear. Past and present, neither play of emphasis false, soundtracks on pulleys, suspicious... these tracks overlaid w/ speech you keep delaying. I'm so sorry the music became an investment vein to punch and then pull-quote from.

Sorry, there’s a fool’s guarantee. All you’ll have to do ... 
Choose love as a buy or rental option, both equidistant from love’s defunct phenomena that travail and make surprise visits within quanta. (Too early to tell.)

Choosing love creates an entire platform to spin off slower tangential constructs plucked out of a big number of now-dead emotions.

Also suspicious, emulations of you both, standing up without sticking, detouring into aah

choo! the roof of your mouth unhinged keeping suspicion warm to the bridge of his nose.

See, is it a pigeon?
It’s a true albino!
Incandescent, I was thinking. It’s hard to pick up ornithology or meanings of jazz composition — also, a table for the counters of instinct and learning in the shortness of thought. Then there is objurgating.

As I’m happiest procrastinating when stairwells mesh and go nowhere between you and expulsion, for the hole in my cohesion is closed.

Turn here, there’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, submitting to your own perks.

A poem is a naked person, the winter force

Through the green fuse to drive extra flowers —

That so,

Some persons say I’m a poet. Sweating,

A healer is one of a few who drive my green rage —

One who understands the responsibility that emerges
Amidst roots of poetry’s trees.
(Phosphate, the fallen blood shall calm her sores.)

And I have dined under poetry’s arbors with queens and kings.

I’m dumb now to tell the royals I’ve been offered wings.

Land-locked, royals are bent by the same wintry fevers

And I’ve never been that impressed.

The virus is already inside us 
Hunting in a lather of swing, lacking other nouns.  
Remember thoughts?   
  
What if thinking doesn’t work. How do you know?   
  
No single body of quantum gravity can think us back,   
a trick the unexcelled Spinoza observed when lather foams.

Do what you want. Just a few things I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I was curious  
underwater as sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. (Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.) If lost  
 
there’s a rule-of-thumb for chapter and verse with natural stenches & prophetic fallacies back on land...  
Clad now to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” one tenor sings. He was staring at my teeth, wondering how much they cost.   
 
Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”   
 
In this chapter I fear sarcasm.

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 habits among the aspirers decoding automation...
After that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous to grab at, but for now, good talk!   
Who is this? Nobody’s first choice.  
  
We’re fine with “no real choice.”

I know where I am going,  
gawky, rattling my enormous will.  
 
I know where the caged bird sings.  
Philosophy is ironic. 
 
Shy of seduction  
I worry about a bigger family.  
Like Clint Eastwood we were shifty.  
Once. What was that all about?

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

Heedless and highly egotistical,  
Two good words; and too. 
 
Conquest contributes to a wonderful unanimous  
Just unnerving enough atmosphere  
— an image of awhile.

Like infinite ignorance, a hierarchy is constitutive.  
 
The core science is neutral. I should know. Antinomy fills us with optimism and reason. Meanwhile the little we can take in around here rushes then pauses over more neutral symmetry. Getting nearly there is an interim for you, pushing up and out. There is little point going into our ‘better problems’ tonight except if there is nowhere further. 

There’s a container for every passion. 
Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off  
socio-economy floatable within, once  
regarded in wholeness, its contours  
beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough  
though meaner beyond its whereabouts..  
 
I guess it’s pointing to us.

“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 
where the future holds — promised 
money, money that takes me over the edge.

After  you  
I went into analysis alert. Less mistaken misconceptions 
bear us shame? Facts change when the less mistaken use  
new words; plus or minus they’re so close —  
tho without the answer in a glance we’re all about to bail out, off —  
why are we even arguing!

To resist extreme sobriety of the autodidact, bouts of hedonism are recommended under the guidance of loving doctors, nurses, others beyond family and school though you can try your luck there too.

Someday
I will think in porn titles.

Don’t we have an escalator to take (to meet up)? 
 
Gavel to gavel hours and hours wasted turning the spit.  
What we do converts to personality and stunt-craft.  
What we have to feed on is open discourse W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please.  
(This soon after a last breath, is it safe to mention Yeats?) (Maybe not.  
I frighten no one.) Some of us are too profoundly false to save the day.  
Tho not all of us refuse to understand further (to meet up).  
 
It’s natural, a picnic in the wilderness.  
 
The wilds... on all floors.

Down Maine. Wondering at an anomaly,

I write in my nature/head. Let’s hold a séance! 
I snare us Joy to starve a fever. Is it raining? 
Seven rooms (usually) with clay-toned physiques 
fighting the relative fight waving, receding on one another 

— everybody under an influence indoors, which is filthy. Snow!
A foot of snow from the window. Laps of water are filled with light, snow rotating in reverse as if knowing how to purify offspring & manage forever in lurches of nibbling torque adjusting into days.

I’m shading my eyes with my right hand.
I step to the water’s edge.
What’s wrong with me.

The you I 
tableau-sponged I’m now waving to with my other hand.

After all, the water spackled remotely, 
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva. Anything 
to stay pure, immersed. Swimming 
synchronized with the bellicose you. I’m slinking back. 
I’ll leave you out.

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

To break this down, I’m always explaining the place where I work.
Gateau what’s his name is done (i.e., delivered) in a tangle of foxglove as you and I de-meadow.

A company like ours takes it into the nanophysics facility.
We’re in the flat present tense, account outlines in simultaneous perceptions —
Reciting new slang exponents as we have no major gay issues,
Making wave sounds we scout flyweights in a recursive landscape.

A spider running down inside you is in response to production-vectors coursing throughout the enthusiasm industry. Continuous profits bring story-telling comfort to support well-thought-out positions, which are always in dispute, in the food chain.   
 
Art captive to narrative? Maybe much of it. I adhere to the same late-filing rules as you.  
 
Thereto art is theft by all means. All right. I’m almost a novice enthusiast. It may be years from now we’ll return to favor. 
Until then, inscrutably I shall be free of the food chain and ask for nothing.

I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Drumbeats buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous,
drumbeats through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right,

clinging to no theory of purpose, no gift of agency to promote my case, as masking vanity becomes a park manager’s challenge.

Fizzy yet salient points soak over the water poloists hanging out for the escape clause (always the last place they look)!

It dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for generic consensus over these flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions made of paradoxical tissue.
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole sector before repro-ed onward.

Purely offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.

A note on aging.

Smacked down by a coordinate from outer space,
Keanu Reeves is not reckless, iniquitous, or anatomically complex,
though monotone to the gills like a slower yet more self-subtracted Rod Serling.

Snapping to / not snapping.

Anyway, hipster memory
is a contradiction in terms.
A shortcut to an off prediction.
Unilaterally a hipster


throws out softballs,


variously literal —
mounting a bait

and switch to chalk up


the utility of hip lingerie per se,


discreet shipping, and in
this case it won’t be serene.

Anyway, go to long love making, serene now memorizing

parallel futures on a projective plane.
Why move into anyone else’s crash test?

The sun is gray. Divided and confused.
The system is not perfect. It’s an everybody
movement with that living unlocked smell.
I set the controls; active ingredients are
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.

Noonish.

28: Robbing the cradle: The big picture shows me my modest place. 
I’m technically adept dining in (or out) day by night and night by day —   
 
each of us the other’s reigning enemy taking umbrage from grumpy distortion,  
fractured logic (Hex 39) and their combined morbidity.  
While you — I always flatter you in my long consents —  
But daily, nightly I work on my music farther from you now,   
 
happy, long toil to stronger sorrows and griefs. So we both never sleep — I’m living you thru me,
exactly, and vice versa — what the cradle requests; the place rocks.

113: Since I left you, my eye
catches you in my mind in viewing creatures, the governor e.g.
— the gentlest doves — mountains.

Untrue, yet replete with you, my mind’s eye sees you day and night.
Untrue.
My point is awfully slight — incapable of more, out and about, unkind ~
~ For leaving you makes me blind and rude ~
Yet even dove- or sea-crow-forms pay you homage, shaped to your features.

Other men have the mind to impart your functions,
I notice — still they deliver no part of you, true mind.

High middle of the road church service.

Weight loss by design. Classification = evolutionary collisions =
Their work multiplied by adapted preferences in a prejudicial sort of structure.
You think transparent rhetoric all-purpose, all calm, but never resolved
by addiction to visceral consequence. Utopians had been right —
reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, sailors.

On mortality,  
 
I’m a big baby. That’s b for clarified as black-and gold pelage, married and vulnerable, exploring reiterations of my own duality. Yes, I’m a dyad.
 
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 meat, fish, emotionally shot ..  devoted to seamless disproportionality.

Post-cogency, you still doing that? That’s what’s long about sadness,
the real overhead. Lost time, money. A sky of ice cubes for what party in sleep?
When I leave, I’ll take no
memory for a drive. And just the sardines.
The cat owner in me is unknown to me,
permeates me. Consequences...

Lost time is sawed off from a vast range of gravity.

Here’s another invidious comparison. Confucian poetics, unlike most of ours, deliberately chooses lexical anchors that can be readily translated to other languages (and cultures). This appears limiting since the deliberation is a constraint, for most of us. Nonetheless, the strategy presumes no professionally trained or hip readership needed to follow the broadly universal epistemology. (Historically the in-the-know or hip presumption gives meaning to specific tropes that are nonetheless encapsulated by the universal — hipness segregated within the hegemonic radius over the long run, clocking in with a short (2, 1, close to minus and counting) shelf life for tropes and their reception over time. The surface warrant to the comparison, perhaps: Overspecification evolves into ‘period’ samplers, accents of quaintness.

Levitation thru words was modulated. They wanted it. Modulation is like coming out to play, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact beats and multiplying ententes of what we were doing before the procedural took hold. 
Then we are off, clouds keeping our eyes not far off the ground.

Kites: pinky juicy crisp, unlimited
Space parlance —

The language predates handicraft mottos and canned audience vibration,
Slithery, always waxed down toward our bumbled abstentions.

Life is better, a few times, even
Looking 80 with pencil marks across gessoed

Pearls — a level of wealth that’s puny, worn parlance.

5: No remembrance. Of confounding beauty. Of the lovely gaze where beauty dwells. 

Of course I never rested as a stealth pathologist performing autopsies on women and men whom I led on. Subjects were mostly strung out on sofa sectionals — big, jaunty shapes who swaddled their inner pooch — gentle work but now yes I’ll love you better frosty and lusty!  

— I’d say I’m a pervert approaching you often as summer’s pointillist distilling pulverized, liquid dots — a framed prisoner doing time, 

pent in never-resting time that still lives.

Back in the day when the fair-minded had complex appetites,
when pragma-morphism brainstormed about innocence

— in the larger context there was no recidivism except in fashion.
A song about innocence was a meta proposition.

The guys with magic marker eyes who paid for this were enamored of throwing off articulate signatures —
But everything was their idea, sustain and change
reaching back where no limit whirrs & now sings..

O ouch. I’m not sorry.
This is my first try in three dimensions.

There were more debris balls thrown so we ordered an atemporal zone of grace — w/ the emancipatory norm of curiosity —

Set it to limitless, w/ its winners & losers, a humanist quiz.

When you got up your voice was 
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling  
Flat into a dust-up of 4 dimensional motes.   
 
I don’t know how motes, much less how 4 dimensions rush   
 
And flounder into mountains. I only heard   
 
Vibrating = Sturm und Drang,  
Dust controls anger / how severely narrowed minds are wed.

Song: Blushing breaking news..
One time I was inconsonant. Or..

I was found holding a grand lodge of doing-splits glossary.
— why

Does a face arrest?
You had on your fabulous eyeliner from a while ago. Cunning
Thing is everybody had it goes without saying a probability before
The news

And all of us now are blown away
Getting wind of the Red Wings.