Jumps to universality mature into splashes of amnesia: unknown events in familiar tropes — 

No forgetting in the meantime; we’re here for discovery thru inflection in lap pools of condensed context from water.. 
The named seas are dated, right, left 
and pouting, getting better! When they fully come to, the oceans will be perorations re-
framing condensation with brims of light in suspension, ripped, 

amputated chutes of moisture! 

So a redraft prompts special inquiry tho tentative as to the meaning of structure. Putting it in a memo, we sleep with a relationship. It’s not an investigation but inquiry. Rough seas but you’ve been here before, you know how we leverage missing you at a time when it’s least expensive. We’re happiest procrastinating, indexing suspicion and objurgating..

I’m going to leave you in the middle of the city where you belong, you robot dog.
Sweetest of the geeks take their training to heart and join a special breed apart. Hoody dog, shoddy demeanor and default dalliance will get us to our destinations faster and more pumped. Something about / the “human couplet” / piques me all over and under. It’s a military formula, zennish almost, doggy enough striving to write as well as to rock. (It’s less lonely with an audience.)

Gong, gong goes all posterity.
Inside it’s gray. Divided & confused, I signed
up. The acoustics are here, also
a container for every dataset on loud
so the bright love space will hear it
& feel it in stages taller, striking overnight.

Research-bent, my posterity does take its leisure.
It feels like a great new unofficial building
while I’m always gonged to delay my appeal.

Didn’t they tell you  

thinner tones & soft muscularity are proof     
  
— our brains are stolen; after that ordeal 
  

we wander back home muttering “TV,  
  

TV,” a mildly eccentric suburbia  
  

waiting for a payday of awe-inspiring relaxation.  

Talk? You hoped we might &?

With each rallentando I feel cleaner, more nondenominational.  
I look up at elm crocuses flinging their odor, climbing their trunk.  
Their air apparent. Also, I feel cleaner with you. Clearer of ignoble gases and flux. I do.  
Love is hell. Hell’s molecules will sue  
 
you — they’ll sue us both for our goals and coral glow —  
What a snit! Apart from our love I am ashamed now  
Breaking up with you feels like the flu ...  
You and I in radon decay — we hope — slow
approximations of my knuckling you.

It’s a classic knife-in-sui-generis.

Parts of the world face streets whooshed by furbishing impurities of state.
The carport is perched high above altered states — people using facebook for subject matter, like us.

There’s an end note for others sweating their alterations.

One polishes the text and hands it in.

Here’s a thought. Stiles of cash stuffed inside passions, stacking up with such speed our national debt reflects the world as it is, advancing toward convenience stops and arbitrary stretches we don’t care about.

Well, most of these “pieces” are literal, based on trying to sit down and sing [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still wearing your headset.”

An air of inevitability around advanced codes has been shattered. Inevitability seems inauthentic in a heavy mustache sense. I am more than at war. Your holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. Realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”

Did you catch the interim report?   
 
Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of capitalist brokering that considers prototype approximates in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard. At first.     
 
Moving forward we have all of an hour to take in sweetness made for infamous exposure (in costume) indoors then out.   
Lights up — we take ourselves down a stretch in the libretto where we reserve dissonance. You deserve it.   
 
Sweetness is vacillating as usual after hours on clear nights. Robbers, cops 
Though fragrant, turn opaque    
 
And poof — still fragrant..   
..could rain.

If you ingest grief parody is aqua foam and orange foam and broken glass. Now I’ve said everything I know about the nostalgia evoked by kissing your hand. 
No meditation spanning surfaces of the woods, no 
massage. No flavor of bullet points and none of cedar or balsa. So
there’s nothing to bifurcate to render your stinking utter degeneracy. 

May you come down with writer’s block in your rotten messianic parole.

Irrational tarantulas of steel squeeze under the door, isolated by
an obsession with coming on, coming right in. There we go, holist.
Theory-and-forth..
Theory is the tickle place you and I may detect the language driver, a feeling you’ve won, untidy and young, accomplished and loathed despite a foundational rule of no feeling without permission.

Our tarantulas grow mute subconsciously, in dim light over and over —
burbling with a kill-agenda that’s swayed into decisions, aching to blather.

Nonviolence resolutions are approved. Prehistory is the place for airborne definitions. Here you find more muted meaning, good as gossip to evade a “mixed muting strategy” to partner with whom, exactly? 
 
Megabytes are just enough. Nimble music. The constant hiding..  
 
But I have a steady girl now. I have rage stamped inside. I keep it everywhere inside me
 
everywhere.

... the rookie burns on the outside, his few credits were adamance /  squelching any dramaturgy from adolescent apostacy, lost wealth or reactionable preconditions 

/ yet missing the hard-to-forge signals of the older man’s hold. 
 
Is that how you see yourself?  
 
— your idea of daylight  
every day becoming ordinary knowledge  
of parallel ebullience  
 
                                waiting to wake up  
half in sleep:  
steadfast in geometry to grant the horizon an horizon, the whole body.

Alt right verse’s meta-conscious. On the surface it projects text like selfies, “poking” materials, assemblers, audience. Selfies however adhere to full if reticent agendas.
Pedagogic systems schedule exams for dominant samples. Absorbing that data is high achievement, praised and sustained so long as it’s duplicable.

Rightist epistemology’s key reinforcements: skillsets bias embodied by algorithmic sets; observant of hierarchies.

Hate altered. 
 
So we’ll carry on. We can’t do better. 
 
True physicality fills our minds on other matters even as  
Our faith hangs down to the ground in a sensibly mixed fellowship. You can’t throw self consciousness out. It helps, after, there’s a mating dance to appreciate what we are stalking — working on it.   
 
There’s animal hustle, along with cargo rips in funnels of spacetime where uppermost thoughts burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth... yours, I think, accompanied by our addiction to uncertainty.   
 
Come here often?

Living somewhat left of Unitarian,
(Japanese cranes)
I promised you a ham for quilting bombast.

You live within poetics and practice war
to engage another’s psyche, smiling, you blow yourself up
& you’re always wrong to prolong your appeal.

“Dear Hightop,” 

It saddens one to inform the boss 

she’s not serious, never is. She makes 
comparisons during sex and makes 
love whilst checking in — whilst I live 
off the equity of a third faculty 
where the future holds — promised 
money, cash that takes my aches over the edge.  
 
Supposing there’s a container for every passion. 
Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off  
economy floatable within, once  
regarded in wholeness, its contours  
beeped forward with the news, smart enough  
though meaner beyond its whereabouts..  
 
I guess it’s pointing to us.

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 — on all fours. W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please.  

(This soon after his last breath, is it safe to mention Yeats?) (Maybe not.  
It frightens no one.) Some of us are too profoundly false to save the day.  
Today. Tho not all of us refuse to understand further (to meet up).  
 
It’s natural, a picnic on the bestial floor.  
 
The wilds... on all floors.

Mobs and their terms of justice, um, I’m ..
I’m thinking of upgrades. For anything more cautionary and uncool we’ll have to shop politics further, into the deep steam of entrepreneurship.

Since you brought a pizza —

What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us both along with sociopaths to raise your stature, fabulously?

That aside —

My sexual preferences now are for art business and cosmic history.
I really don’t know what I’ve bought.

I was sideswiping beside you, beside maples and different offshoots, no contrivance or Schubertesque opposition. It felt like what heats up under prehistoric pressure; our roles were to fill this in, lengthening ancestral menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus language, thought, attrition.

So I have put back late drafts of infectious provisos and integers-to-be, no rocky shores to fix. Schubert had blond hair, you know, and rimless spectacles, no concupiscence and no comeuppance.

I like art. I know nothing about it.
It’s made for the cold.
Cold body talk has a profile that can only be less screwy beyond logic in drier spells.

Rain or cold, either is felt through the mandible, plundering suspicion within either’s asymmetry.

Add sleet or hail, great s and m cuts straight through restructure, mistreating prior drizzle we’ve abandoned.

Either or we. Precipitation becomes a shadow racket. Like tattooing in air — epic sums up the walkway and through the instrumentation if you have any.

Can we straddle the divide between convention & sorting through unattenuated sense-making? 
Between waiting, not wanting, untrimmed desires crowd out an undercover, captive thought pattern shaped through long derangement oiling up baby..

at the eye’s edge of clemency.

Art captive to criminal narratives? 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. 
Then, inscrutably like now I shall be free of the food chain and ask for nothing.

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.

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.

The other day I walked into a bar, the old place, saw endless tunnels, gadgets and immortal lighting that interconnected the music underfoot. My fingers boarded an apologetic apparatus, some of it; it was thumping on wall screens... Every minute whenever someone earned all this, eyes rolled, doors slammed. After worship, there’s little but great necks guided by star beats.

Don’t argue with the shipment.

You and I cannot always win. It happens fast. Less than a flash. But the kiss we depend on disappears. We can go for parallels ourselves.
Choose love as a buy or rental option equidistant from the same love options that travail and make surprise visits within quanta both living and not. (Too early to tell.) Choosing options creates an entire platform to spin off more speculative infinite constructs. Eternity plucked out of a good number of now-dead parallels.

Kites: pinky juicy crisp, unlimited
Space parlance —

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

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

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

That sleeping 26 hours would be correct appears a flaw in the succession.
And we were on foot.
That’s what it feels like or sounds like, not is.

Dating overnight could keep on as long as no one cared to read into it.

10 impulses exist then. Do tell. So it’s a great coaster. Can we go for a ride?

Weight loss by design. Classification = evolutionary collisions =
Their work multiplied thru adapted preferences in a prejudicial wedding of banned structures.

From this you think transparent rhetoric all-purpose, all calm, but never resolved,

with an addiction to visceral consequence — vernacular disruption.
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?

In vain a head transplant brings on the knowledge affect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower.
Someday
I will think in porn titles.

It dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for generic consensus over these flamenco-fastened-to-cable partitions made of polymer 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 puffy jigsaw
that goes unsolved.

for Rene
Heedless and highly egotistical,
Two good words; and too,

The beautiful person deals in opinions on redeeming enterprises as I’ll —

Conquest contributes to a wonderful, unanimous,
Just unnerving enough atmosphere
— an image of while.

At some microscopic 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 was a big boho. Auden? Think so. Jim Brodey, a boho. Less narrowly, but also Harry Matthews.

Music up. See this pigeon? He’s a true antihero.

Incandescent. Demonstrating the meaning of couturiers to magi —
They’re varmints in their shortness of breath, indexing our suspicion
tho objurgating — Varmints and saps they are! — Knitting their brows to
go nowhere stepping in, out of buildings, thinking
climbing stairs, it’s 100 percent normal running up
debt to stay heartbroken. So we’re with the pigeon.

Music up.

The skinny from last night avoids defining any parts obscure or complex.
Yet I admire a text assemblage of contradictions. Neander
-thals constructed runes in two rings of deliberately broken stalagmites, 400 per ring.

First to impress their Swedish hosts by workshopping them into volunteer flotation gear.

Second, they learn to protect themselves from a wrong-headed gesso-like build-up and still call their portraits “transactional,” they limited their data to phenomena that are easily observed and stuck with expedient production from self-contrived ideology and history.

Because I’m a particle animal I can do it all day.
Rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl up
A sparkle to figure life altogether, no vision
Or dash — no longer having to know.

Algorithms are vicarious. We thought no way could there be ultimatums to rephrase, immoral aspirations — nothing but propositions flavored with work!
Experience evolves work pretexts with no possibility in the future of the past.
Experience is then unpredictable for a pay grade gaining access to weather bombs in a manifold vacuum. Again, it’s up to algorithms currying favor

if you have questions or think on eco-estheticism that enlarges.

I am a smoker :

I blow black smoke in your eyes when you want.

“Tear up this paper,”
Everything is trauma (“I exist”).

Tonight the way you move for me is a fair shake at fame.

When you put your money down
We can start over in Dumbo but it’s just just inflating real estate.
Fame’s either one long inflation or buckets of sequence.

New day! Matins yet ghosted, Starsky’s tongue in my ear
& all the bobwhites in Appalachia hush... off

& then — second — noise
of collared, greening hospitality where Hellenic

banter might calm a tax credit havoc.
Third, I stay nonprofit
worshiping that everything belongs.
The rest is stress related.

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

Surely I have ideals and uncoded momentum. My bolo’s intact.
Rain twisting in “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 American.
Down with collapses too. In fact

I’m breathing without a commodity or form, undisciplined by my language.

There’s always looking out, up, through fitful silence & a humane sense of feeling cornered in music practice. Enough, enough women and men are deaf to ruin

wherein love rebuilds our smirks pressing on — drizzle would hurt if seen but it’s only visible as a short, stout white truck rolls under haze, Kia-like, choked in a soft, fluffy diorama.

Marriage is looking good for a mistake but “not a lasting one.”
I know this sounds flimsy — 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 niche ideas.

No fins of infinity. Nope.
You and I have no customer issues!
But we never make it, going back where we come from,
corroded with physical self-disgust, chained to our desks.

I own two-way ideas about how birds dance, to scale.
Their knowhow keeps adding up to no modesty issues, none detected, fewer and fewer policy goals.

Soon we relaxed our balance to parry something (or perhaps two things) that once seemed clear enough, but not now, here we are..

Like it or not, sparrows, jays like radical jitters, untitled moves.

Massive help but no gracias. This is tomorrow.

Relax. Faster.

Rescinding our directive, we constitute the Non-
Group taking part in I-hate-new-calculus speech acts ..

We win door prizes in the periphery

if we let politicians go wild

losing our meaning and forgetting about it —
Tasting shale, we met some firepower to prevent further questions.

The traitor’s bags are packed.
Gyoza, tofu tempura, veggie soup, fried cricket. Democracy progresses on almost everything, available now.

$1.5 trillion added to our deficits. A structuralist’s daydreams centralize.

Federalism & the dignity of work slide down between national gratitude & liens. (The financial pacs industry isn’t (just) kidding.) Nothing personal, this is the sustained concussion version of indenture as citizenship... I also give a lot of thought about what’s unavailable, a big cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments, boinks of whinnying for pleasure.

Or I cry when I know you love me. Same thing.

When I get to work I credit everything from the atmosphere, the engine with its own message.

A cubist staring in the mirror — back to her tapestry, a big girl with a pineal gland attending what’s neat in the future, and she finds me attractive!

*

You may have noticed planning in my head,
flashing a badge. Home is a test pattern across an all-species
life span — everybody under anesthetics for waxing credited to lexical
whipsaw! Ok. A foot of rain
through the window comes to mind in
reverse as if a long eyebrow, roughened

over & oh, hold it —
this is not a test, no more, I’ve been holding out to you
for you ..

A ruse can be your generic object, emerging as sleep.
So you’re still in danger within the same baize corridors

— How do bricks
hang through the duration? (How is the easy-hard part.)
Ruses write themselves.

If every frontal move forward were interrupted, we’d never get back to bed.

This is a transparency first to seeing speech as transparent. (‘This’

is a relative of frontal opportunism. “It is.”) When you’re young
clemency is rampant in meaning maybe.
Maybe not as opaque.
Ok. I hear voices in the kitchen. My thoughts freeze in a total makeover

as all ‘this’ recedes — putting “it is” mockingly — heading back w/ nothing.

How to hitchhike. I come across an organizing principle and by pulling the trigger, I replaced subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: structure, acquisition, misuse, new media — no eros in no ideas.

Self-conflict and compromise keep popping up as rich bases for ironic pleasure and symphonic allergens.

If those are allowed.

Primitive patterns and blue throats, crowbars taped to a tree, in the distance, Eroica...

We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown,

The great We of fish, that's what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.

Once I was a Marxist, now I’m a Darwinian. 
To let cleverness exceed indecent levels  
 
we formed a taxonomic relationship.  
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax.  
Parallax is no toy. It’s an example of completion we can’t have.  

Some wind, just above freezing, my Marxism is coated with near ice and disheveled.

You all right?

There’s a title for most any time lapse. Stick around.
The sentence: ‘Jets, Giants, even the Broncos lost squawking about
Losing’ diagrams the opportunity


‘But should we use quotation marks?’
Came up as a refrain.
By then our thought freezes,


Just why we reserve dopey incongruence for fill-ins.
‘When you put it that way I can’t complain.’
Dodge this bullet, I’m only luv to you, you all right?

There is evidence. That’s why we live there.

Language is spoken better where it’s taught. While you’re at it wedge your correspondence. Then add neural linguistic by-products.
Sorry, I have no unequivocal association I can share. Only songbirds that flew in from the sky everywhere. I don’t know why.

Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping sun-and-moon neutrality w/in the gloom of purgatorio as perceptions of different possibilities blow town, including the best halo effects and feelings. They’ll come back. 

It’s nice finally to pin a class of face on our humiliating supressors. 
Today, every day open censorship is going to be there,  
filtered, unfiltered as long as it takes. 
 
Thunder on the outskirts — how to pay for this...  
Bouncy... apocalypse...  
My instinct when asked is to squeeze back  
on our purview of half-soothing terms,  
junking on top uninvented heights,  
the same heights outward  
as the sunset roars into place.

Antimony. I should know. Something after poured out, dazzling its double structure, going forward filling empty screen boxes you’re bound to organize.
And you were rushing and pausing over more optical symmetry. An interim for you, pushing up and out. In that case there was little point to cremating your melody tonight

unless there is nowhere else.

There’s no one way to degrade-ultimately-destroy capital. 
Try feeling polyphonic with an uncapped fortune, reflecting what you did when your adolescent backbone iced up, raising all boats, all social levels. 

Our greatest fear is going deeper— 

That would kill our real parents. 

They’re dead already. 

Hence the family corporation is casually undercover 

and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens. 
Solitude, confidences, you’ll earn times in the day, 
the plays and jungle, many now in a series as —
You sit languidly, the other side of the room. You’re locked in circumstance. That’s fine. Your party last night was that great, dwelling publicly on crispnesses in whispers in the air. Not only that, you may already be a laureate.

You’re the single most meticulous complement for me. Chilling sorbet and warming surf.. insidious! Your sleep is like a language recognized by flowers of nearby orbs.

You see what I’m dealing with here?

Mercury is wow! Mars!

An awful virus. Just an excuse.
Rhetoric as privilege dies. 
Came from outer space; was well radicalized before it got here. 

Freer speech in every direction — your known inclination 
for walking strong will accelerate, wild yet tranquil, excused —
ruthless in value, vast layers set in funereal trance. 

As we go about thinking like animals brushing up on ideas...

Time ran out.

It’s one of those peekaboo fogs.

Your integrity has a political bent.
I stay in position, authentic / inauthentic;


I model your bifurcated attitude
yet I could do with more peek, less a boo —

everything I neglect is in a broad context. One after another piles up if
or when — &

This is when —

Your nuclear self, writing you, lingers for a moment or more... Huh? Now you know I did it.

I wish I hadn’t / I wish I didn’t.
No it was clear until supper time then it fogged up.

Fund-raise off that.

Hands down. We live on the ground, off the land.   
 
The culture caught up to our light sprinkles of sexuality.  

And we chew to 1 side, noted by 3rd genders;  
Superego abstractions hanging out in their white corridors  
 

Suggesting we’re still trembling from the  
 


Physical chew off, just a short chopper ride  
 

From the first bank and trade. It’s sprinkling again, adding to feelings  
With a so-tallied mother glossary, 1st-  
Order noncommercial phonemes pitted together into cognates  
 
Still coming to seed and full adornment,  
Half-audible ricochets, feeding us like a lawn.

Diffuse claims from the storm-injured outer sky, yet 
during the break we reached the claims officer. Big 
thick crazy eyebrows, a swelling voice, easier than the rest. 
 
Planet Earth has been coined Taoist hell. Coinage ringed with grassy estates where men with money like you and the c.o. can tiptoe or fall further. If you invite me... Tag, you’re it, absorbed in my desire to sleep with anybody great.

A lone maple against the light has breadth and the dark thin substance of shot up shadow; this is a guarantee
as local time is disguised among skimpy swags and willowish leaves as living structures aspected as abstract in the ‘inner’ harbor of salt glare, cut from coastal space.

Space (within) doesn’t know you’re looking... doing nothing, watching you looking.

Space’s slowed us down to furnace the pace

for full positions in another trace or matter. Earlier or later
we feel snooty, strange, blue-eyed —

it’s about meeting people in a way.

I pass 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? 
 
Sculpting formalism.  
It pulls you into the sculpture along with lab wonks,cat stranglers, lesser rogues, screwball robots humming the same songs of contrasting action hulks that celebrate manifold casino archetypes.  
 
Their refrains go like this, early and often; three or more faddos attempting authenticity; spoken text in utopian media, tense and alive volumes of emphatic notebooks; high and low brow platinum blonds and flamboyant offspring performing stagey inculcation.  
 
Beating me up pouring coffee to make me cry O not today.

Keep an order to begin —
Is it the level approach you’ve taken


Erasing most of marketing, any


Specificity that appears normal?

Looking at the pebbles and snails
And tiny shrimp-like creatures..

That 



Wok breakfast, man, a broad-armed chef
Standing off across my


Whole food outlook!
Compression is particulate and coarse-grained. But —
It remains a true shortcut.
Both our voices have to grow

Until I know you from a prior identity.

Hot sun, cool air, and no clothes.

Loss of pain penetrating like moral gelatin
That pressures, punctures social tyranny

Whole.

We were used by the demolition pros,
sliced, etc. Oh
We were fantastic, metallically shaded,
the arms race in recess, ribbons torn down.

This is the bridge.
Have you been?

Tasted great.
And after

Lilacs behind mesh
without a searchlight to blemish
the vapor

Polarized as boats
keel and cover rubber planks
across their reflection,
a taste of being shaken flame pink
and orange.

One’s god and partner
is a doomed villain — twice one’s weight.

He runs down to the water’s edge, sticks his head in. Stays in.
On a second take he and other human strangers gain their godly presence
thru sex appeal that initiates delaying tactics.

Delayed, one sees what Buckminster Fuller means
sensing the curve of the earth.

One gets the pretty steep sense
god has gone one’s way.

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 pickled filth and circumstance? Who isn’t in one?

The you I 
tableau sponged, spackled remotely, 
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva. Anything 
pure, immersed. Swimming 
synchronized. The bellicose slink back. 
I left y ou out.

The soul (of love) is a theorem, a sweet fading desert
Growth out of water, a gawky dust bunny grinning over the interstate
Working up a vacuum to destroy liquidity.

We begged Mr Soul to hop faster and keep at it,
Stick with a superb racket or rocket, rally
For more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can wake that guy up perhaps you should.

Let’s break up. Broken, giddy up, trouble maker.
Today I face no opposition. How to pay homage...

My instinct when asked is to inch back
To the moody raw nation where prosody
Jettisons its own use. No half-soothing opponents awake
On top,
No heights at all outside, only a few problem solvers
Off looking into what we broke —

Upstairs message, parts of it. We call it yeah 
Parentheses (w/ monocle) to explore;  
The 4-D printer’s, they have many followers, you on it?  
As one’s eyes reset  
Focus time to question more.  
                              Anything to take from the a-argument  
For leading us to pleasant complacency...

A few minutes ago there were bright shadows
on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part scribble / disassociation.
There’s a voiceover operating humanely, with viable explanations.
Another voice appears excited. Like alembic tubes mating
over magnets, tubes lit with disentanglements.
No prayer in all directions.

My name isn’t terrestrial colorist with hunter sunglasses. He’s
the playwright here, retreating to circuit theater, a bore, finding 
backwater exchange wears him down with more 
blind faith. Lumpenproletariat floating pronounced.. Meeting up, he
and I stand on gorged terrain, a red square
on a lemon ground. Red = still on hold.

Then what if manna fell? Think 
if our rich friends pull thru. 
That’ll be the day to show up, bring a guest! 
We’ll code this orange. Hold on.

I am citizen physicist to an inner antecedent for shorthand deadpan.
Drowsiness may be my great escape or I can walk it off, forgetting you’re allergic. 
Your face, the trains I ride, it's all good. And staying casual definitely has legs. 

Levitation with words is modulated. They wanted to be. Modulated is like free to play, sample the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our verbal environment and back it up with inexact beats and multiplying love of what we
were doing before the procedural took hold. 

There’s a low threshold for unlimited joy. However,
it’s always better when I wake up we’ve landed. 
I was just there, then a few rain forest elements form solid bands incised to now-text or a minute from now-text.  
Striking the bell, lightening round..   
 
Brightness gushes out, but forest living is euphoria-through-turbulent-process, your early morning critique. It’s tight. So tight. What happened? Diagramming conditions of jitters and others’ waking, I am anonymous either way.   
 
Before the mist rolled in I felt your grace, your holding the threshold with both hands.

Let me rest. Can we go for a ride?
Btw, we got here knowing how the world works.
That’s what it feels like, not always is.

So let me rest. Also, you know what .. we just can’t do enough. Sleeping more than a few hours would be a flaw in my socialist secession. The reason why is a sorry concentrate: Until we went broke we were indebted.

Now an international scale opposes the polity in our very constitution. Analysis, with setbacks, is scary-loud,
yet there are comic possibilities as federalist dreams keep pining to colonize.

Showing results for innuendo: ‘You’re good, doing this, I offered. Just  Report to duration centers for the rich to achieve best pricing, unless  Theft looks better. Go. Fees balanced. Eject.’  Then you told me repetitive motion went further — heck, Making money w/out reason is mass  -ive. After.. surely if that’s the zeitgeist, there are vector  Utilities for expressing wealth after dark..  Sleep has no opinions on here and now when everything is the right answer .. all on your check.

Why tonight?  
 
My day jewelry drove down surface tension and gave us enough balls to take off and run.  
No jurisdiction encumbers where we hurt — 
leg and arm abrasions carry on our tradition of critique. Show me our holding the moment once.   
 
Once and done. Modulating the individual encompasses apotheosis 
according to types of daring.    

Don’t smolder, exude words.

The elevated prose idea
helps you get through life wellness rooms 
circling a moratorium on consumption — 
so help yourself — thru summer. Then just before Halloween this comes in.
Your first lover could not heal your mind through his skin.
Then we happened to answer you, seeing the wind is fixed in the dirt
and circles midair. We see your subtle flight.

Buried for dead but still in our view:
If I put my hands on..
you can’t hear me you’re going too fast (bicyclist to bicyclist).

It’s a mistake in the tradition but it gets you sleepwalking now with one shoe in hand.

I will find you. Until then It just snowballs until all frontiers on Earth are taken under one Halloween rule. 

Our slogan has been restated: Bodies of formulae destroy poetry until only style prevails. 

(Yay..)

Every cent in our scheme is fungible.

But not in all cases. This brings on what works mostly. Life is short and good investment prospects drive you all over. Recent example — no longer victims,  you and I grabbed the momentary offer as a ladder we shouldn’t overuse — 
A moment to stare out the top windows, a lamp over our shoulders to herald the swindle in American wind farming.

Getting ahead of message. Gas, food, lodging. 
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, I made messes all over the nesting ground to suit a creative purpose, balancing running around everywhere and getting lost and then explaining the gorilla mask as a prior condition.