At least our calls’re in the area... 
‘holding each other open’ formatting our interpretive devices to 
moan for the surface. 

There may be many areas...

Are you healthy enough for perfection in a gridded environment?  That’s a track question.
A motive for our dialog stencils many other expectations while class struggle gets slippery. 
Or peach-dreamy, subverting history. The poster says democracy 
But reading it in a fixed scheme subverts federalist imminence. 

Adam made 10,000 mistakes — and won’t correlate the enormity of it, since evolutionists even now are running back to his bedside to hear more about causality —

Yet the context’s unlocked, to no ideology hewn. I’m

Eve, off Adam’s rib, a financial planner ahead of my time.
I’m still not finished, she says.
We can spot them both as atheoretical elaborators, since they spoke first.

Freakonomics in a Trump-era world, driving toward departure from what is present in the original meanings of experience.

Bad news, I was  
struck by the French property owner. You know,  
plagiarism done in loose quotes.   
It’s cold indirection,   
but my metabolism really took off, along   
with emotions from a huge manuscript   
I was freezing —   
  
watching text spin like sentience   
refined by anthropic bias. Since, tho,   
it’s none of the above, this could be for you now.

If you know rhetoric 
it changes your feelings; 
changes others’ behavior, 
but not especially in poetry. 

Our poetry changes 
only our fine-tuning text, 
the one you’re reading at another 
time coming up now. Here.
Benji, stop that. Strange dog. We’ve decided to beat it out of you.  Say something. We’re losing your spirit and pulse.

It’s a kind slide shot. Or not. We have functional emotions and this much-traveled camera with affects. 

Countenance is matter. Cold drafts are escapement and spray
forming part brightness with a pulse,
part average dare..
Enfeebled? Sleepy days of assented-to hours loosen us
from these biodata — taken to interiors,
into sussed, sonic focus.

Espionage and copy work through communal ethos-retrieval are distinctive features of the medieval era. It’s not unironic in the least digital data assembly enables our return to that ethos. Work produced now is parallel to others along almost innumerable dimensions (once factors or facets). And if most of that work is still authored, we can posit a flourish of production (including poetry) over a measurably short time will totalize individual product into, arguably, 2nd-tier relevance (with a few nonconceptual exceptions, of course).

* Before I turn into another parabola of you, yours, I should take myself out and stay out, crabbed, hesitant to set off emotion that might fail. There’re signs you just want to cry — and it’s not a bad smell, just sad or a bit wifty from dimness when I wake up. It all goes well. You and I take off, tho. One by one. Reasons are weather related, paleness this morning and a similar wash of fog coming back, violaceous air offshore yesterday, the day before. Winds shifted and I barely pertain, and why should I? It would be contradictory and limitlessly impolite to insist we’ve won in a runoff of longing and gratitude. That you and I are taking time to sift through (even the slightest) parts here would be one datum of coincident poses. I cherish your transitioning to mine, bringing it up to me every day yet I can’t presume what we can’t express, foundering and tongue-tied, handing our fortune over to the 1st letters of the alphabet. You want back in — me too. Keep in touch.

We were used by demolition pros,
sliced, etc. Oh
You were fantastic,
an arms race in refuge.

This is the bridge.
Have you been?

Tasted great.
And after

Lilacs with mesh
without a searchlight to blemish
the vapor

Polarized as boats
keel and cover rubber planks
across their reflection.

It’s up to future officials to unpack Zen’s base ironies. Where are they, let’s see... I’m not picking up any .. acoustics. Where I am, they don’t hook up to supplies flowing out since they make love too much — so and because every irony wants to stay on a comfort-slope, to live well too, too well staying relaxed can lull you into a slippery tranquility. 

That’s Zen-not-Zen up to when?

Leave everything : down, self.
Prune, leave less, some more:
our final night still external, vanished cloud
odor..

Leave everything :
while we go uprooting.

I have to take you —
months & years
with the slow ones.

Body copy! with olfactory consequences:
When he blinks there are lightning bouquets. What do I sniff? Here we are,

and some of his aroma is unisex, partly, chiming mad as manmade quakes mushroom.

So. Ghosts roam changing directions with panicked ants. That scent ..

Our position is to find breathing room, enough so we can start over.
Whom will we discover?

I’m in no hurry. A life is ..
Ten hut. What service were you in?
Bankruptcy.

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

Snapping / not snapping to
a majority of universes to brood over, 

your hipster memory 
is a contradiction in universal terms. 
A shortcut to an off prediction. 

Unilaterally a hipster 
throws out softballs, 
variously literal — the power 


system (decentralized) 
mounts a bait 
and switch to chalk up 


the utility of hip lingerie per se, 
discreet shipping, and in 
this case our one universe won’t be serene. 

Anyway, go to long love making, memorizing 
parallel futures on a projective plane. 
Why move too soon into the crash test?

On one side: complex gangly, mostly mute. They apologize for any inconvenience.
Tons of special forces in silhouette .. we’ll ..
put this into words from juked algorithms coasting through long views.
Experimentalists value the power top filling with capacitance-assistants &
theorists of a visual world culture wholly populated by posturing.

Everywhere there’s fog off a chokehold. I give up, nowhere better!  No ripped off melancholy, no lecture / rap / blues, no shelter against the curious. I’m lying.  Part of what I do here. Throw up my hands!

A buffered work force manhandles indulgence
— wait, I forgot why I called.
We’re 1/2-way there.
That’s when the alien suckers evanesce.
Their loneliness and excruciating pain
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing
basin, weeping ... You try piling on debt, ok?

A dead friend has helped me collect a few tropes. Am I nervous?
It’s a fashion wife swap. The house is

scented with a feeling that’s recreational and that one is god’s fave.
So no, not nervous. Back to you, friend —

Impersonators write in a fraught cycle of ceaseless panic.
Not yours, happily. Mr Verbose.

Everyone’s welcome. The emptiness that was 
 
one fine day... 
 
                    A mercury-brimmed scree 
 
insubstantial in unexpectedness 
 
to dawn, ‘disappeared’ 
 
into the leg o’mutton of oblivion :  
You behind the scenes evaporating..  
— we owe you nothing  
                    falling out w/ your daylight and sexual theater on the same sheer precipice..  every day becoming ordinary knowledge  
 
of parallel ebullience  
 
                    waiting to come round up ideas sprouting from half-sleep,  
 
holding w/in geometry to grant the horizon the whole body.

Mueller on investing in Trump: 

Absence of thought rules for higher authority. ‘For’ or in place of. That is a summary. Correct. Felonies fill to their edges with intricate crosshatches over pastel word clumps, busy yet redacted, hacked into non-exculpatory fudging. True, soft or hard, pr pellets change our impressions a bit.

Pattern a busy, contingent thoughtlessness that’s slimed,  
generally.  

Next, he’s a waste of time. 
Are you threatening me?

Baby Watteau — 
 
The empty sale window closes and I’m on the move (or we are). Early or late, the sky’s not falling as point of fact. Watteau flows like a stripper in spiral. Another pointer in dance, harder to verify. More blessed, Baby’s greatest came early, while someone like Cézanne showed up late. These data still matter, in a manner — I’ve found someone else, deeper in, a thinly veiled version of Cézanne.   
 
The flow is hard to describe — an astrophysicist, a higher up, going blind. Perfecting for a fall. His baby traps me.

The if-movement (aspirations) can be thought
A saga you (any of us) can pump off & on — so on

-Coming then coming clean, another part of our closeness.
Lateer, new police!
[speak of paranoia]

*
You don’t understand until I do.

No futures present new phenomena — 
I have a tiny soft view of holding to their path, a core harmony purring yet put aside.  
3-D models are mindless taking chances, everyone that engages in transparent secrecy charged by mental concision.  
 
Rationed compliments ensue and float  
newly consistent maths.   
 
Math is fascinating, I think, to squelch tautologies of wealth and actionable conditions for surplus misuse as power we might have had. Had the self taken itself less nostalgically?  
 
— an idea to play w/ just one note in the future perfect.. where disrespect will have felt like eavesdropping.

A new problem set:
Work through naïve discourse —

Keep methods observable as everyday mayhem —
Call this ‘transactional’ force
Unlocking — on sight — your pervasive hesitation.

Make it personal then bring your breathing back up from
the deep -- smiling as an art of life.

The contours are to look urbanely offhand and sound normal, asymmetrically curt.   
  
Pulling a change-up tantrum repurposed into conceptual deflation.   
Psychotropic bios are commonly diagnosed as parallel discourse twists.    
  
Now one concentrates on the next available thing   
Until one like me goes broke; summarily I’m screwed.   
I then center on perception (whether beauty or wit), sustaining losses out of causticity.

Wool flowers
Are harsh.

Ducks flying down
Splash.
They are flattened grey
Popping on mauve.

Kennel light
fences barks

Yet impassioned so
There’s nowhere

Wind-
In-tent-flap sounds.

I count 9 emergent explanations in the dark.
We are here.

Reading and living 
Ontologically under-simulates the senses. 
Be furious w/ the proxy world w/ dog-food boxes, be 
Angry at keyholes, too, w/ their conservative 
Counter views to earnest alignment as one’s timing slips 
Beyond the prowess of floating unquietly, 
Into apothegms, into sidesteps of fine voice, 
“A voice and nothing more.”

What’s missing is why is there feeling?  
It’s a state of mind according no rules.  
Global warming jazzes a decimal of our pablum.  
Where should I hurt?  
Once again no rules. Or more. A few more.  
It’s not torture unless it causes organ failure.   
 

Baby steps fix the climate really fast indoors  
for we feel taller unregulated  
and inflatable as we cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

Without counsel, full consent is a slog. 
You trust yourself by age 600 satisfied  
Euclidean space holds the blueprints to make home ec more efficient.   
 
That was before you were reborn or uninvented.   
 
Lack of novelty set in. You had no modesty issues.  
You have none now, none detected, and fewer and fewer policy goals.  
You change your shirt, put your weight behind an outline (a study)  
— on one on one galvanized love that escalates knowledge, utter   
 
Formalities therein documented by the self-styled mind’s eye,
so fine a point kept on balance / in suspense —

I’m right beneath my shirt. Sort of a theory laden species.  
What if there’s a non-theist way to prepare, provide? & what  
if we’re both wrong, but less wrong than who?  
 
Let’s keep to federalist motives, far from fashion simplicity,
& let’s live together at night while we impel  
 
malfunctions that blurt out permissions extemporaneously,  
licenses to re-authorize no god’s sorrow over death.

It’s a privilege to be singled out 
..once there was a C-class ..  
 
We stay onboard  
 
Suffering, complaining, 2 out of 3 observers get off, depleting the shipment.  
Surnames are ..oh forget it, huh? They’re randomly conjoined.

The government could be in trouble. 
I hate to be asked the price. A fortune.  
I’m boiling and sad, practiced together.  
— Wish it was just bad counsel all right..  
There’s word of solid drama down the road,  
a binary fission when you’re only expecting  
deepening rudeness, so we’re attentive bound for well-armed  
crazy-not-good disturbance ...

It’s spooky rhyme but it wasn’t my first 



choice; the machine flunked me — burst 
my thought calculating a stretch space sitting here, smelling of weed. Tho it restored my faith in the bonus shod of prowess, smoking in slacks (touching my two knees behind your back), undressing. Exercises for us commoners become a habit we can’t keep up for more than an hour but the revenge police are baffled, off the advisory team.

I wish you had taken that job singing of thingness.  
Even so, if you could eat onlyone food for life, what would it be? “Take notes,” you called out. You were singing of a provisional throb as you forced his from the inside.   
 
I miss the walled city where an operator like him looks up when you arrive at this next step. . 
 
Try to remain calm. I’m going to talk you down. 
We'll take the stairs, because the elevators refuse to go with people in them.  
(Ok, you there? Bye.) 

No escape no fooling. 
Rain is a collective that takes singular form.  
Replacement rain falls on rain, a term of art.  
 
The pace is noncommittal; a global officialdom germinates apart.  
 
We don’t follow Jesus or Yaweh, except chronologically;  
The topic thread is I’m a friend of theirs, barely.  
Rain! I feel sick yelling frequent amens.  
I do my best and worst in the future and still get rained on  
when I start to step after them.

So far: There is still no nastier event in poetry since top dawg Arthur Rimbaud snitched on Paul Verlaine & switched off poetry to run guns. (What about that prick? Rimbaud, I mean. Can you rap over Bourdieu & Weil’s take on renunciation of the Dionysian crafts, poetry & lovemaking, as a coherent strategy in Rimbaud’s case? The system upended — production so restricted it pro forma led to killing the craft? leaving oneself out by reference to internalized, thus rerealized, revised, social norms of cultural legitimacy & self-perfection!)

After Rimbaud, Pound was nuts. When it comes to the poetry, some think thank goodness. There’s no defense, today, for calling Bollingen panel’s perceptions “objective,” and it seems reasonable to imagine a few, such as Eliot, were willing to overlook a man so “situated” — that is, despite Pound’s anti-Semitism as well as his insanity, he was ensconced on the “legitimate” bases of shared esthetics, the shared part left, even now, unspecified because it’s easier left out.

Even a static ethos moves on — just as neutrinos can’t stand scattering. Next up, the sun we say shines, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of our meaning it and not tempted. It’s still my life, we say. Some of you and me was here, and more ‘you’ve been away,’ retreating to emancipating solitude, keeping / adding up wait time, sporting by degrees the related changes you seem and are.

One style is no style, a luxurious quest. 
If you’re stagnant, you’re dead, purely metaphysical evil. 
I put a recalled toy in my mouth, more profit than narcotics. 
Doggie style, god is mirrored information.

Potassium and chlorates boast of their oscillation lists. Both look down and see a blade of sedge whistle, handcuffing a tiny load of buckshot in a slender gust.

Confound more, the glue is drying to dry. 
‘Polls’ down. 
No truth merges thru transgression / you well know 
Bad news just walks in — 

It’s ok. Just punishment 

for obfuscating more conscientiously, touching dual roles in the expectations-slogan — desultory of us to ‘read’ and re’read’ brutality ritualized, extending to your one body, cancelling our love,

always for the first time beneath infinite ceilings.

Pure gentrification directed to cheap, unearned consensus — 
 
Everyone needs a secret life.  
I got the idea from going to church.  
Am not believing this.

The same self-referenced music and books,
Ah blizzard.
Can you come up with sardonic threads?
The Buffalo of paradise could be Pasadena out in the old wild .. What?
There I died of Abilify and became a robotic afterthought —
ever since I’ve been threaded with ..
imitative silence in the eco-sleep aisle. Reading less now and more.
Donald Sutherland’s bio is on me — on my mind, just to be clear.
Does or did he mention lutefisk — fish jellied in lye? Not sure.

Yes, I’ve recently incorporated; makes me feel, yes! you are more melted into tomorrow’s borrowing high, mighty simplicity. As when a killer bee leaves a pattern to teach reform, pushes a path open. 
 
Pull it together, a life that’s sustainable you can just make up. (You are under no obligation.) This is a real company. We call her Cathy.  
But this has nothing to do with  
walking away burning more calories,  
‘mountains feel empty’ / they’re  
rude − here is where the card you play helps.  
 
And there you go, retreating to that panoptic middle ground where you still disavow the same 10 variations. We have to choose the Non-Group taking part in the landing, staying cool to outlast time. For this is tomorrow.

The will to quiet is the flip side of getting a lit 
-tle piece to burble, crying doubly inaudibly  
for more power when a robot loses its job after a thoroughly successful war on the homeless...  
I get scared how the losers mediate their spinning up to the new hostile  
surface, w/ no message. So there’s nothing left as surplus.

The service manager said these are extraordinary times. Exciting now. Where are we un, um.. if that’s everything, we’ll switch to administrative cadence. Our slogan: heavy production charges the new world until only one or two beats prevail. The right hand shadows what generations of fear mine from naked hypotheticals; the heroic code on the other hand never misses. 

Ours was a taxonomic relationship. 
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax  
With a starry equity of neurons. Our lexicon strove for beta worlds  
that heat up while young at the edge yet a lost cause.  
Vicarious is not strong enough.  
And titles cost. Avalanche. A virus.  
Cherries Hamlet.

You’re a world-famous trance inducer. That’s it.  
 
I like it.  
Clymnestra’s seen things in Europe. European things. Sophisticated things. Things of the world. And things beyond. Beyond beyond.  
 
Thing is, tho, I got this idea for a Henry IV one-pager. Understand, I need time to develop it.  
 
Come into my poem, and we’ll make the time. We’ll get a plagiarist from a little ivy, spin your look doggy hip, inject you with gender theory, you’ll be composing down on your knees, fizzy.  
 
It’s all happening in Henry’s head?  
So we need just one poet! You, you trance inducer ... Am I crazy?  
No. That surely clears up free verse for me.

You and I go over the Spinoza graphics. I also was thinking it’s hard for us to get foreign sports equipment or a new o.s. without indices of suspicion and objurgating.
If you agree, I’m happiest procrastinating. We have a pleasant sencha. It strengthens our attention for doing so little.

Random influences could fill in my cancelled checks. Filling in on smart hills, cute and cuter, butterflies having at butterflies, why?

Feet on the desk, smoking is no manner of genius.
If I’m right, Beethoven’s later sonatas are brighter to a significant degree. 
He had to keep up. Or 
it was simply beautiful.

The status quo models verse as living matter re-involved with impulsive energy coursing around flecks of appropriated ideas, especially when it comes to appearances, tones and language use itself. I might call this artful transmutation of intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t a history of folk enslaved to procedure.

A flood of text molecules offers ‘relationships.’ It’s very simple.
This isn’t the time for that.

No. Let’s.
We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. There you are!
explaining entrepreneurial ignition inside a collaborative framework.. 

O adoring you as an all-in enterprise assumes a moral politics where clouds of electrons boost us into magnetic orbit.

The vulnerable and maligned muses were not held enough as children on a moonscape of beaks. Ever notice? Certainly I wasn't. Now I have to make excuses for friends of mine buried below their own livelihoods with no heirs.

They’re donning synthetics, and only half familiar, and just too intense, plundering the transport of their ambience. 

Hands up.  
There’s a beyond just passed an easy show of hands 
beyond orgasm overdue an hour ago (one mild altercation took it 
into a shade of de-constraining tease). 

A heyday of hands.

Breakfast past midnight is smokin’ yet a lost cause. Like The Inferno and Nerves and every shined wonder since. I have nil to learn engineering the tilde of speech desire.

The whole sky is celebrated. All sorts.


Why make so much of fragmentary blue in here and there an owlet or purple jet streak?

That time of year with smarter definition. 

How’s that if your electricity is out and you forgot
the pre-existing theory profiled in the west, 
ferns and moss growing either side, every-  
thing about the yield blowing in its whereabouts  
news that seals up all the rest of perpetual unitary joy...  
 
It must expire. 
 
I liked getting you to this point nourished by discovery. 

You need to review hedonism before it’s retouched ... 
& there’s nothing wrong with my commitment. I am massively committed. In national interviews, if I have to give others the finger, even faction members, I’m committed. They get it. You’re the problem. 
 
Your friendship is a job (like sloganeering) and, more elevated, craft (sign). To illustrate, job is to craft as practica to theory or open animosity (a sign).  
Also review free speech. It’s cool for sure and I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend. What’s it? There’s no work-around to the observer influencing the observed except for you later — it’s much later.

Noir is for life. 
In America, of all places!
For all appearances nothing lurid due at signing. 
It’s filmy out there.. 

A cubist staring into the mirror — staring back at her tapestry, a big girl with a pineal gland attending what’s neat in the future, and she finds me attractive!
Then the fuzzies of taking on a tapestry matter .. 
G forces gathering momentum in shade. 

Lilac is a favorite zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. 
Here we are, talking about it.
I feel so socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing the center: 
More than a single system, 

A huge agnostic discipline 
About attitudes behind morals. 

You know this open and shut — 
Take it down / or thumb thru 

The balance left over. Inhabit the brim 

To the point you don’t have to know anymore yoga than 
We know now — less than nothing, the inside of zest.

* Milk skin therapy rallies across the Atlantic, abundant, compulsive, redemptive and with slivers of nourishment, some rousing start to en plein beauty. It’s a trap, why were we going? It’s easier to French-kiss anywhere in Europe, more natural to pose — here we repeatedly set it up — a painting in asterisks.

Feeling is feeling. 
It’s said repetitive motion has gone too far  
and some at all levels will be enclosed, not spoken of,  
climbing into casual spectacle, ritually putting  
some lives together & keeping nothing.  
Trained staff encourages sampling,  
sharpened, feeling a moral duty.   
 
That was the life of the party speaking. Highly attentive,  
morally camouflaged. A gun fired.  
 
So you get it now about dualism, you can make 4 walls the rendezvous, hang a roof, lounge in queue for the motorcade. The ride feels small —

Time runs out. 
I stay in position, authentic / inauthentic;  

I model your attitude and your facts  
yet  

fear overextending them if  
or when —  
This is when —  
Huh? Now you know I did it.  
I wish I hadn’t / I wish I didn’t.  
Fund-raise off that.

I forget ephemerality, I forget narrative. 
I’m drunk on the environment; 

I’m a working temp, a role promised Malthus that threw him over the cliff.   
 
Now suppose a perfect Darwin of heavenly fury,  
searing, puffy, relaxed and succinct.   
 
Now an angel, let’s run some #’s.  
To pass out when we wake is ample.   
 
I’m at your side placing puts  
on the evolutionary table, petite in wanting you (I do).  
I forget farewells.

Wha.. sorry. I was wondering if you’d care to show us around.. 


Last night — or the last few nights taking the wrong bus. 
Dropped off in a maze. 
‘No normal’ locals with misleading directions for the way out. 

One rooming house. Inside, every room named canonically after a poetics. Defence of Rhyme, Habits of Empire, Preface to Sordello, Being and E-vent, Thick Field, Prepositions, Camera Lucida … one kitchen-bedroom Untitled.

“Satan was seductive, motivating me to seek his darkness,
Pick up the guitar & write more songs...”

Talking Chimp squealed like a talking dog.

Lean, fluid, sleek, balanced, clipped close,
His inner daredevil is fallen into a state of confusion & loneliness
— just to feel a cloud pattern over being no one.

Walking thru panes of sunlight —
how many hours are we talking?

Fog over my hair.
Big-eyed instincts?

Nothing new. A feeling continues you write until you drop ...
a feeling from in here buried below all the animation.

The half not familiar we’d like to pull off,
replacing that half with stripping down to not talking.

Speaking of you, with you, I like being
charmed and not worrying about what passes through me.
You, me, of course, are an expansive subset of charm, trinkets I believe.

My statement is enclosed. 
I use two-way ideas, to scale.  
It keeps adding up. I have no modesty issues, none detected, fewer and fewer policy goals.  
 
Soon we relaxed our balance to parry something (or perhaps 2 things) that once seemed clear enough, but not now, here we are...   
 
like 2 radical vapors, untitled moods.  
 
I’ve highlighted your failures in the box where you select the sorrows you have, breaching tall, athletic-like aromas.   
 
Speaking of like, make your counter statement gripping buds on a glacier.

Targeting methods 
To appear transparent 
After a button is pushed 
— I’ve heard that scream.

And I know it sounds weak — you and I annulled our thingness with a few hand-waves and it felt major, the way I inspired your open, emotional austerity, rubbing eye cream in, admiring buzzwords but no ideas. No fins of infinity.
Nope. You and I have no controlling issues!

Experience is impulsive concealment, according to unrigorous physics from the outside evolving pretexts for work with no possibility in the tomorrow of the past. 

No such experience predictable for a pay grade gaining access to weather bombs in a manifold vacuum. Innovations 

Would be taking on and over and winning without wanting to substantiate or junk any part? 

Innovation’s machinery is vicarious. We thought no way, no ultimatums to rephrase, immoral aspirations — nothing but work slathered with work!

This is a formlet of pathology — 
 
I’m doing ok 
standing in waves stinking of pleasure — 

a dream of immense peering through  
as if I were an action that couldn’t meet with your approval   
 

yet whose estheticism enlarges.   
 

Diagnosis is a mystery. For you.

Caspar continues, 

I’d rather not trouble you with my impressions of resource hoarding, so dependent on flow of daytime into night. Shades at midnight can ‘almost’ whisper faintly but I botch capturing even a fraction of their directive. My willingness to keep watch through the evening keeps up only to find your granting me permission to maintain my distance. I’ll let you go then. I knew you would understand.

Ontological waves beat their objective prompting fish next 
Out of breath, nearly within sight, cinched it seems, huffing at the mouth.  
 
Sister Fish wishes nobody had cared. A collapsible bottle of hope with  
No chance, just hunger and digestion.

Questions of motion and change belong in the verbatim over 
 

-supply. That is, which lexicon will be appointed most enabling.  
Ellipses point the way out & will continue — how we express and re- 
express ideas, simple or not.  
 

Big, multiple ideas are broken down or/and up; discrete yet continuous 


constituents, subordinated data emerge, important as big data, simple and not. 


Simpler the better. Poor poetry yes, scansion none the less. 

The catch, a fading ailment: 
Ten or so gulls’ kick it off, startling  
over brown trout.  
 
Tearing in mean  
swimmer’s blue,  
in a supernumerary mense,  
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta  
more down surf, slaughtering  
partisan swaps  
that swell  
the color skit among removed attributes.

To protect yourself from a wrong-headed (naïve) build-up and still call your portrait “transactional,” limit data to expedient production from self-contrived ideology. Bleed into history. Kindly avoid defining parts that are obscure or complex. 
Maybe not. I admire a text of contradictions. By submerged glaciated valleys Neanderthals constructed runes in two rings of deliberately broken stalagmites, 400 per ring. 

An elegant sleight to impress their Icelandic hosts by workshopping them into volunteer flotation gear.

Top of the moment — I saw your approaching motion
my once satellite du monde in real vacuum.
Now you’re smiling, shhh — more observant, with a more observant love.
Still flush — yes, feels.. not useless..
It feels like impossible.

Likely, the point becomes welcoming
hands that boss

parliament
maneuvers. Point taken. Explanation intact.

Bliss. We were looking it up.  
A battle between two bohemian distinctions  
among few rules bringing up a few others:   
 
A marsh is now interesting.  
 
At some tiny level there’s spontaneous disintegration of what’s on my mind until I find myself in a “half-life” where speech still matters. 
By way of a PS on bohemians, Schuyler (ravaged of course) was more of one than Ginsberg, unravaged. And Brainard (ravaged then unravaged and then ravaged) was a big boho. Auden? Think so. Jim Brodey, a boho. Less narrowly, Harry Matthews.

A man in drag wearing a gown I tie.
Your cool red bones,

A cold star, partly the wind,
Your superb gall
And me, I’m feelings which move in time
While this lowest button erases..

There they go
When you say

Well stay well
Where they rang.

I’m going on all nerves stolen from you.
It’s impossible to separate my understatement from your achievement; both are adolescent in a good sense, pitch. So that’s how cave and landscape can be performed. Next, a cool minimal database advances to burn out our swing — try (again?) living on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent. 

The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity or trance. What matters to me is finding and / or emplacing each close to noble attempt to be you.

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.

A note on aging.  
 
Smacked down by a coordinate from outer space,  
 
Keanu Reeves isn’t reckless, iniquitous or anatomically complex, 
though monotone to the gills like a slower yet more self-subtracted Rod Serling.  
 
We reach elements within erotic catalysts where touch management is unleashed. But Keanu is suddenly beyond diagram while the crew calm down. There’s a dual nature to visual depth that makes thought disappear, a bright pulling apart at the summitry of escape. 
What’s semiology? unless we un-gnarl affects to figure it out?  
 
(I don’t remember whose or how.)

I’m fifteen. At that time we can do the roundtable math rather well, yet not entirely. Free-range sunlight in the clerestory of our lair... where elements of bloodthirsty aplomb are excessively off-key. Tragedy in timing carefully disguised as bright to furious pace setting, knowing the advantages to skip a beat.

Good news in bed. (But) I’m getting way ahead.

Artifice, craft, life are short and drive you all over. 
 
Out of yourself 
 
Making out, I can drop the question and have a look-see as our morals scatter. Behind artifice there’s an interaction lab.  
Behind life, a free agnosticism. Easy sway.  
Non-interference takes charge, under which an authentic deadline will take shape, the last phase of withdrawal from our deadlock with future attributes. 

48: One only care, a trifle..

Save where you aren’t / tho I feel you are. Careful..

Tho a treasure you are left the prey of
Tomorrow’s falsehoods before the fun starts.
But you thirst for it all, all arms.
I feel you in my breast, my dear care — you and I play a
Thievish long shot in comfort for the true prize, our pleasure
Outlasting grief over how we come and part.

Knowledge suffers, finding things out, 
Traveling to each of our genes —  
 
You enjoy yourself when abroad. 
Who’s sick over us and who questions any vulcanized backlash? 

No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless:  
 
The future would give more / no more 
Than thanks and laughably no thanks.  
 
I thought of you.

The hitch with supervised simplicity,  
You annoy others (meditations in telling).    
 
I don’t mean rampage in any civil sense,    
I mean surgically knocking other chanters    
Off, throwing knives, wrecking them    
From the inside, slicing up!      
 
I was kidding I’m not religious.

Perfect color is an egg-hatching moment, kairos, and from there we can move forward back to detect undertones that encompass our naïve expertise.  Yours and mine.  There are a few nasty hues in our nesting place. And a flywheel effect turning conversation over to science and greed. A private-public wholesaling of prototypes that mess up the visual cortex — pasting-in blind spots crammed with luxuries that bind. The flip side — color powers enduring benefits like tooth and nail radiance.

I cannot stress enough 
we’re suspicious of wormholes, tho  
 
I get off my resonance to give us joy.  
The boat’s cortex held out. Altogether.  
 
For what party in sleep?

Blame for mocking Plato — he thought a musician would deeply apprehend radiant, interactive forms (and defects, among a few variants), soberly, liberally studying floss of beauty in breadth, alert to surface details, part of the work week. It’s all hideously exciting if you’re fair, unstained and the sweetest. 

Justice for all as the crow flies only looks calculated, Plato said. Liberty with caution, minuscule, exciting.. again. 

The soul is a hypothesis, a sweet flying
iota of consciousness surfing terrestrial states,
this both to find and destroy itself.

We begged it to go faster and keep at it,
stick with a sublime subject or object, rally
for more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can buff it up perhaps you should.

At speech therapy you wear wet marks under your shirt — there you go — sent, 
Slotted for long scream divisions raising heads and  
.. bright debate  
 
Drawing boundaries along dark areas of youthful propaganda. And ..  
Our dual-cosmos line of argument self-inflates as a weather injector, fouling the atmosphere into Beirut colors, pebble and pale lucent grays.  
 
At this point, colors burn up, each measurement raging over acres of matrices, giving more access to haystacks you call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.

Cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower.
Their work multiplied by pre-adapted prejudicial vapor. 
You think transparent rhetoric all-purpose, all calm, never resolved, 
Because you’re only one sailor, one swab 

In a climate of drumming opinions and best practices.
Your bacchanalia talked up while slotted in. 

Sailor tattooed with an addiction to visceral consequence — swab 
Reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, sailor.

Ornament is content. 
 
The yews know how to wear theirs, contracting buds to bury their starship in content with our bed in it — the last day we ate the world of bad philosophy.  
Together and tender, flaming, increasing now  
and then their memory subsided in time, turning dull in bright green.

Beaten gulps, pouring vodka that swirls in an action film clip with multiple data fields and a crew of deft extras in malaise. Their theorems about pain are supported by one or another grabbing ropes, showing pain.

I’m told you’d prefer not to watch. It’s better using your own voice to ask a friend or two, pretending they are you, falling mute.

I’ve been on a nihilism binge; this is while I’m doing only one thing at one time on a crazed errand-stream to a structuralist’s degree. 
 
I won’t cry when it becomes everything without a message.   
 
Greyhound hurling on seesaw but feels fine,  
Any footage balances when pushed, so it’s  
Not so entertaining or serene. A maelstrom lights  
Up the foreground, no questions asked.  
Pit Bull sits tangled in tree w/leash & kites.  
Corgi spinning in washing machine, a hairy fox. 
I’ll trade you all the noise in my hands, still shaking — scared of leaving you among the spoils..  
 
There’s a tradeoff, my trade. In the din hostility shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing for stopping messengers’ tears as the door from nihilism leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.

Never disagree
with inferiors. Never.
Never field questions
about meaning what is not said
or saying what is not meant.

You & he wonder about summer’s eternal
possessions, the buds, shade & one day
staying chaste .. It’s on the house. 
It feels great out ahead until there’s a threshold. 

By the same rule there’s too hot
a reliance on eye pleasure, a threshold as well as a disaster 
Optimizing the center where death lives.

Which path did the photon take?
The answer takes more than studied ambiguity
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still.

No orgasm. On second thought, call me. 
 
I want to remarry in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?  
Marriage makes me horror-struck either way —  
Aghast in wake of our previous melancholy.

Of all the varied and fabulous pieces by new composers I wager many are bursting with personae — because of what they rock to, also because many exuding confidence have gotten past graduate school, one’s corporation, a ballooning investment. 
 
One of the donor’s places resembles a Marine outpost with sweeps of property edging a subdued headquarters.  
 
Here technology’s refined flux appears noncontroversial.  
At sundown a leftist French brain speaks up, confined to a balloon:  
“If you’re anamorphic, within measures of comprehension, flux members too often adopt overheated lingo or low-to-overheated if you like.”  
 
Other balloonists, also French, shrugged to themselves in red embers; not really, they said.

Failures in love are heinous, antique, never in 2 places enough needing permission, shuttered, untainted & bleak, drear & just dumb. 
Translations = ‘live serious & young’ ;
‘articles have been written on...’ = ‘long-lived, still this croaks’ ; 
‘snow falling backwards’ = up & up / course untainted ; 
 
‘the world of secrets has its own’ = patterns to succeeding circumstance. 

First question, true or false. It’s the one I ask myself. Technology keeps humming to a manageable stretch to when you left, even ruling you out. Out on the sidewalk you hadn’t left a name, either. And yet I stood close to you, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. To understand.   
 
Fricative efforts add a bunch of O’s   
 
— language & body mania, aqua ions show their molecules in bulk, imitating an obsessive personality. The rapid strength of bonds between metal & water molecules is their primary dissolution.   
 
What can I declaim? Repeating prose clips may transit through a few (of those) loopholes to confront loopholes’ necessities, maybe.

Spacetime. Slash pauses.
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /
not while evangelic angles of light are making a fracas on our way home.
Vaccinated, I have a merciless itch.. what is this collapsed satori we travel into?
Other instances of ourselves / Passing the “casting

of cities,” thinking past us. Way past.
A normal 2 years B-4 messing with U. Why wait?

Another time, we meet in this version north of the town offices 

shaking tidal vapor thru no wait, no  


fewer than ten seconds off the slopes 

— 
 


meaning above the steps coincided with the light  
 


clipped to the powder base patching this thaw  
 


— spirals discharged, wind heats the ground and trees open.

You are now failed. Don’t call before you go on. 
 
de Staël turmoil, under pressure for the ‘rhetorical’ surface,
experiment and critique to improve and integrate the soul. 

In one text, we’ll set up a bighearted appendix   
like a safety school cafeteria menu.   
  
Unknown to you, I’ll be chancellor of the swelling enterprise   
dividing my feelings into vendettas.

For a recap, I color within lines. Drink? I take my latte to bed 
And set it on the stand, tagged and released. 
You wailed it, Yosemite. Morose I am.. and optimistic.

Hoping nothing won’t happen again, I cover my throat. Duly of course sounded. A few facts crowd around figures that are un-garbled when least derivative; ephemeral objective content triumphs. It’s kind of a snob racket. (C Bukowski) 

We weren’t exiled or orphaned, we decided to pursue other interests. Plus, it started again, as theory, pleasure is to ethics as the roundup waiting in any landscape, waiting for mistakes (1) and (2) jounce. 

Spontaneity backs up position vectors (thinking and acting). 

Woe is paralytic. I don’t detect a drop of broad mindedness toward any arched dynamic or versions of it — far better when and how you love or even when you nibblingly slobber over a numbed one’s body of rare happiness, feeling better. Hope of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest Dionysian. 
Dionysian = could pull off brocade, puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.

Affordable Noh. That’s both of us w/ big ways of explanation. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to spook w/ pedagogy when we meet, somersaulting in /

What went around then came gasping, the more irregular the verb:

At fight camp all you bring are wet marks over your shirt — there you go — cadet-ed!

Inductions to your other habits —
The flying haze drags down sculptures of felted helium
A little like nerves of drones spinning in warm wind.

Noh stuff.

Ode to the dead (maybe not yet).
A beautiful meal is a life sentence:
Everyone’s in place. One’s in place.
Food also knows where it belongs.

The stage brightens.
Is it dark matter was inhibiting our endowment?

Knowing the ropes to scale now
clearing the dinner club of lame comforts,

Stern, all the food pecked over, even down
to our own place, last place, last row.

One does one’s best and worst tautologies and still gets picked on — now in a major way. 
Business proceeds on spec — you stick in a little yoga. Then one runs after you  
thinking what a complete idiot. One is. One’s hair’s havoc, you’ll have it restructured.   
 
The contextual self, oneself, is fascinating, perhaps to squelch the pleasure of symmetry-breaking terms.

What comes of the heart’s marquetry?
A clay-toned physique returns to land 
Shedding light tints in reverse of rotating surf.

Dresses. 
 
Now she’s spilling bourbon over my a-line, all thumbs to keep our game up & running. Likewise I’ll write about it. As poet-jewel thief wearing a dress, you might think it profitable to string her sentences together like paste rubies & artificial pearls deliberately mismatched, like John Waters’ suburbs, inexpensive & adroitly passé. Each sentence shines in gloom as ends won’t match up with beginnings, not quite, each sparkle dulled into an afterthought containing falsehoods but cinched by faintly plausible, recognizable style — sparkle doubled down, my other dress draped over bowls of Chesapeake crabs & crab traps, a near accident or an accident-in-the-making.
It went from cinches & dresses to pants & belt from there.

To a lark, 
Like torsion in differential calc,  
your obliqueness shows up around access  
to ruling authority. It’s far off if you can’t say why.   
 
Your prefixed, scavenged opacity  
fills with sangfroid riches of dark matter,  
cloaking them with lark pedigrees.

— The world becomes flat falling across 

  The telling (of)   

  (Instances of)   

  Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic   

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

  Rain ceilings (off)   

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

  It is (falling) across   

Morton Feldman.