There was a boom in robots once.
It all came about back in 1st or 2nd grade.
And if you invested then, daylight garners you
several that breathe, toting samples of published cook
-ing ontologies, torrents of taste alleged. Memory has it we
don’t have the brains to recall their recipes.
We politely followed them, tho, unwed yet in peace
until we ran into a couple out cold staring thru ice.

Is this bluff for real? one asked with good reason
before the ice covered future grade markers.

I remember those breasts..

A geometry that respects the brain,


Fred Astaire kind of shit.
When I win, I’m

Drifting toward us,

It’s a back-drift

Under your blanket. I’m

Over you now, half-awake


Falling asleep halfway thru a larger presence.


Larger than that really.

Our crash test is named Defens(c)e of Double I.D.  
 
Of course. You.. your desire and I are habits of empire living off the clock, off proceeds, off motion futures from one of each you / each of me, facing the beam.    
 
Earth’s permits are issued for those landed that grow to rue nonphysical properties, if only at times and slightly.  
It’s feasible if you keep watching the clocks on board.

Role switch. We’re editing a poem for you.
We are not unversed in universal postcard theory. I hear it’s packed with shrill ideology, multivalent intelligence & ultra-experimental conversation. But postcards, my good man, they feel good as marginal surprises.

Less marginal, we, you & I, are writing where the living speak up to the dead, like hushed correspondents in negative space boasting of their willingness to find compromise. The dead always drop the ball. I’m now looking at the limo suv waiting to take us on. By now thinking for the dead is challenging but I have practiced warrior politics a bit. You, too. That’s a fact, just as outlaws & heroes are arbitrarily broken up by the parking arcade & ample doorways out where copy like ours gets re-acquainted with news. & it’s officially sanctioned.

Your wardrobe has experienced a resurgence. It’s beaten but you’re breathing through it like an unsettling fad preview in October of what's to come this May. Anyone can see you’re styled. You’re a crusader and victim in the crossfire. You can’t long stomach the fair use of what age plays at. Where’s the surprise in a seeming long time? The mutt of infancy regenerates here; there’s a beginning and there’s an end, don’t fix it. Try to work more. Then do better.

Walk this way. It’s remarkably ambitious, it’s just off the boards, like when water lilies kick off their ‘work’ boots and women rule. Snipers crouch, the explicit idea behind Burberry’s.

Physicalism (product brand continuity) adapts to schemes (a speed-up in thought control).
Government, absent your liberty, is not that impregnable. As background, your charter is one colorful PROCESS shot. A lethal-to-pallid vassal group locksteps to your scent. You yourself clothed less formally, tame, save motives for eagerness.

And this is what I did not want to say.
There is product on the loose.

Singalong has vaulted to the top of our shared agenda. Shared or snared, just like us. Leaving oversight to environmentalists has a double meaning to off-center the filing (and filtering) systems, other singularities. We have no limits to affirm our denials and retractions. Climate change may not be temporary. We feed our reliance on dire pleasures, earnest plans and, this most generalized I guess, investor interests (Fortune herself) turning back, almost kidding about ‘patching’ some climate potholes. 

The seasons like before are morally exigent, shivering in a synthetic valence, coming back, never.

Their thoughts praised us for our purpose —
Scribes were 1st to jot this down — who shall hanker after whom.

Like before, seasons work outdoors among diamondbacks. If you don’t believe me ask them.

In the change-up old seasons are repurposed having lost to conceptual deflation, stratagems. Add the rank

I confer on the notably next available beauty, living in the future,
because that’s how beauty works.

This moon diagram sports a resistant fragrance (our last fill of fish sticks).

Oh you know, almost unhappy

You and I supplemented photographs for objective matter, I recall.  
Garland fungus, students from Trinity in the foreground (by an arch to the old dyads).   
 
It’s up to pond structure to model our passivity re-learning the moon 
 
impelled by shore lists off books of birds protecting the hang of it. Everyone   
 
knew that. All the world is transformably alive. A little sick, even unwell,

yet your voice is handsome, calm, also scrappy.   
 
Further down the pillar, my kimono has been entered, explaining prehension, tongue in cheek.

Search regimes in a slurry, plump, downy evanescing into song. The slurry rises above its affixes and dead gardenias. It’s in its notation. Argon and lithium released — thrown in reverse come fall — trees light up then darken amid writhing lice. Better to heal resentment buried in colossal Orpheus, the spontaneous physique. With his gift of sullen agency compounded and uplit within percussive isolation. A bell!

Don’t care, don’t moan, lie only about what’s vast. One can shrink to be excused. Masking one’s vanity so becomes the challenge clinging to song.

The heart is sore as 
Whitman precedes Aimé Césaire. Drink up.  
 
Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam (a love poem (one of innumerable), one) aroma 
— Accounting disappears like functions of context (starched procedures) — 
Procedures where love not being is taught  
But fought for in reverse. Freezing one difference.   
 
Physicalism (neural drama) — here we wade slowly adapting to worldly schemes  
More fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Drink well.

You may have noticed I write on your face, a kind of praise,
fuzzy & lovely fragrance of roses, choosing you out
of many then forwarding you as backdrop for my dear heart’s old face 
We reach some element (full sail) within the (verse) set where perfect
touch is unleashed, and by either/or well taught. But the scenery is
suddenly beyond diagram while the crew is calmed down. It’s approaching nightfall.
There’s a dual nature of ghost anonymity that makes what’s inside us
disappear, a bright pulling apart at the summitry of our escape.

Either/or? My/your silence cheats at hearts —
unless we’re in love to win over all sparkle to figure it out?

Growth in visible imitation took up time —
Work through naïve discourse —

Keeping methods observable as everyday mayhem —
Calling this ‘transactional’ form for action
Unlocking — on sight — your pervasive hesitation.

I’m utterly pro a more open openness with plenty of recreation.
(Humanist discourse is indirect diversion.) 

I’m also out on the deep end in my makeup where consensus drifts in and out like influenza. (Harder to stay immune now.) There’s a leftist glow in radical argumentation like an avalanche that fucks over ideas from the machine age. 
Word of you travels, calibrated by the ruckus-like paean spoken (rather than speaking) in a large-scale outreach and dialectic — spoken because we both wrote it down to shun sickness, sick of welfare, 

licensed before comeuppance, soul dad —  

Make that a shortstop outreach where all the jazz wears off.  
We’ll sink together deliberately mismatched, true needing yet ignited around the tips by deep compatibility, a healthful state, when we purge  

sea brine and air cutting up the time outside, driving it to a crawl, into a room where we’ll talk.

Too many frail variations like this citrus ring where sawdust
fell..

Wild bats tore past our recondite quarters:
lamps buzz over daubs of sound, swaying in a lotion
of glows to countermine the bad reviews.

His neck however and his vulnerable collarbone burning
to show their softness. His hair seems funny and comfortable, cinnamon.

In my illusion of minimalism, hammering steel,
I scored a first wormhole on schedule, a hell of time. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down. Its humble salve
spread over us both, appearing lost, scattered trying to remember.

Simply put, to divulge where wounds from speech are left
open, which sort hits or fits, kind friend .... mimesis
within nature, uppermost.
How is conveying sorrow possible, otherwise?

I really don’t know what I’m buying.
Materiality, tho, can’t exist. No dissonance, a new status quo that’s 4 ever and sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness — unraveling our optics, dissolved into attitudes about that first time behind all the good times 4-ward.

Concision or hue in healing of method / means
can be objective and still lack
music, still veiled as aspiration.
It’s in the eyes
..a couplet of process fantasy.. this while I’m doing only one thing
at a time on a crazed errand-stream to a bachelor of arts.

Show’s over, Blinky.

There are episode interiors silhouetted in un-analytical projection screening
an ‘official’ episode [how to leave you] :
However I believe we’re well past midway nearing the accordion fold.

The fold apex is interpretive search,



It’s been a while Sophocles wrote. 

I’ll assume you suspect I know you know. It’s in the literature.
I wanted to regain our friendship more than anything.”

Is this in the test?

You are in the settlement.
We were sitting there, and
I made a joke about it.. how
it doesn’t dovetail: time,

one minute running out
faster than other time ahead
it catches up to.
That way, I said,
there’s no waste.
No waste in the settlement.

To come back to
the subject at hand, you,
looking like you are seen, 1/2-
turned around, barely moist, reading me.

Spacetime, slash, pauses.
Totally never-dead, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /
not while angles of light are brawling over taking us home.
Vaccinated, a merciless itch, what is this collapsed satori we travel into?

Divine response, heavy-lidded, an escort’s sensibility (as if I know any —

Bad behavior, showing anger, both are more easily understood as work. That’s how you hang staring in the mirror, ant, your middle name can’t balance until you throw away the best part, mating.

So this is a cut (preterite). For a moment I stared at the door. Seconds later I was reconnected.

How was it to score the soundtrack for an ant sequel not put into treatments much less composed?

There’s a term for attrition of affects, eyesore.

And there’s a hypertonic struggle to housesit too much information. You know it exists. Human body fat is worth $100,000 a gallon.
A life is charged for care. I’m otherwise a coffee head! But let’s pare it down.

Have we ever done anything but tamper with the weather? Oh, who knows? Oh, Ladytron. You seem so fake-excited in the sprayed periphery, staying in balance inside a soft radical vapor of bigness, loosely demolished.

Dutch people go Dutch. I go along. 

I’ve moved to the Delft coast, Rijswijkse Waterweg, dunes of Irontown, because my ideal climax is at the salt edge, just across from Spread Eagle where I’ve bagged the dainty, ultra built new guy who lives at the priest’s house, along with the priest’s teenage sons.    

[Very few sons of priests hereabouts.]

Can you place our names? I, for one, have a single conceit for the alter-ego, his asides and decorative indeterminacy. In three parts: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating public domains in fair use, and there’s the age old hand hath put disgrace we dreamed up or could dream up for the face (anyone’s) beauty slandered.

#2: Once inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying, keeping faith, mining the richest character veins, designing solid speech that triggers satisfaction dusk thru midday, they think:

So #3: Many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs; they flare into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer! Blocks we’ve been party to after we couldn’t wait. 
Hitherto ethos susses southpaw disproportionality, so young loves per lifetime meet all their others halfway, borrowing a face again and again, slanting a blurred promise we had or we forgot we had after a few hours, letting it die down.

How the cosmos is unexplained, parts one and two. In the mentalist first part, taxonomies are set in complacent symmetries, dimly lit by the prophetic overflow while astronomers stand there from a famous university with nothing to give back. 

In the covert yet untragic part, forfeited specialists use tightly predictive diversions to gain advantage for incriminating thoughts. They march with different cause-ists and assonate speech-act solons halfway; paternalism indulged through wisecracks. But most of the others, bullies and tribespeople, are reformed as divas and idiots in the minority as they age — and they take the bullets; why? 

Poor rhyme:

I’m being taken down. Something about distinction in my music, which is chopped inside vague foreboding .. ... 
Oppressed, rejected, sure, I’m in there, but personality disorder is a binding element of hip kerfuffles and perverted dalliance. So put me down for ingrained revalidation of my fears.

The float seems to learn fever can be unwelcome overnight: 
“The float is radiant, jammed with radiant things,” had 
 
Simon Schama anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I been   
eloquent as to the fair, to the bright, we’d need no caption.”     
 
The float throughout anticipated some base point ..   
What does there’s still a move to go do?   
Keep nursing desire past cure — a psychic point 
or three feeding your appetite to please. 

Logging a spigot startles the system on and off. 
Seems our past was swinging but the motion is confined by a simple verb.  
 
Listening up to bear the fruit on the horizon,  
we got used to the pari passu beats.   
 
I’m just a positive nucleus with variations.  
I heard my cat meow ten times and then more,  
‘license and registration ..’ 

One main test: You can’t waste time.

It’s easy going out and doing things you don’t know. No repeat parts.  
  
A severe tone? Start playing. Start writing. Dig in.   
  
The charge there thrills in peeling back from nothing as well as failing to resist your moment. Or ex-moment (now).   
I’m leaving you everything glazed or less remedial, along with fragments in B-flat, thinking them over.   
  
I saw remorse somewhere?  
  
(Should a lad be given a pianist’s shh?)   
  
Run for our false lives. Or not.

What’s my business? Aperture systems led me to holding volatility models
from tv, vocalism in a sense. Hidden risks shift weight (merge accounts request). 

There’s due process replicating our facial
Comfort in raw push-pulls ..

Touching on other behavior in a wily, rough
Translation .. (desultorily sexual) to read on, reread
Brutality extending just to your cheek by jowl for the nth call;
More intuition — “rhymed” with near-virginity beneath disappearing into

Molecular
Effects.

For all appearances nothing lurid is due at signing. Default 
Swaps in reconnaissance at the blank enclosure —  
 
You appear ok. Lie. This was about something else. Banker,   
 
Never weep with your pant legs up,   
Since footwear permeates antinomy  
 
And since the more I hear and see just for hate... 
 
Then thank him — 
 
And bite your lip   
 
Finally & meantime.

Strategists at the barricades have been taking icky notes as the weather cooperates,     
  
  Where reputations precede character, seeds of apprehension remain.       
  
Who will advocate for peace to empower heavy sleep & exchange?     
For example.   
A {most-  Ly random swagger for the catch)   
(Qualified} crew enforce sampling  
Coerced by the life of the owner’s party speaking.

Cupid is a hired gun who goes anywhere. Cupid’s id? It’s a violent,
explosive culture so we need straight talk.

It’s a gay culture so we need that. We’ve been up
for two centuries fighting overseas.
Head-on war is a mistake (Diane di Prima).

Defense owns — there seem — accents — these: reticence such on put days, our moving and light, puzzling in place of morning winter smiles .. a chorus Emerges which on canvas .. noises w/ filled-in-already silence ..

Top of one o’clock — I saw your approaching motion  
my once satellite du monde in demi vacuum.  
Now you’re smiling, shhhhh — more observant, with a more observant love. 
Still flush — yes, feels.. not useless. No matter. 
It feels like impossible.  
 
Likely, shhhhh becomes welcoming  
hands that boss, get it done legally — 
 
parliament  
maneuvers. Explanation intact.

Commune-wide, Kung-Fu’s math disappears like factions of perplexity —

Defining angst beats up indulgence. 
You knew the side effects — 

Internal ‘gears’ regulate caution, rushing in nauseous effects, which are natural for you, to your wordsmithy advantage,

No substitutes for new meanings have been approved. Staring into the candle you start to think, 
This is warm beeswax, hardly a domain for definitions. 

Photons rebuild the world, leaping out of windows 
Moving in our direction with startling humility and alacrity..  
 
Here I am as genealogies of sophists file off.  

Rebuilding our democracy requires transitive honor tied to esthetics that numb.   
 
I am the underdog here, emotionally maligned, an amalgam “I” and “am”..
My own revels and syntheses meet me halfway in assault value.
Is this a document or did I make it up? 

A true celebrity shows us the assassin is uninvolved on every emotional level — even the one one holds and acts on by serving others, one one’s bosses & ‘ritual’ overvalue.

Solitary dark
                    the air pushes..aside

— tilting your head with no untoward parts, transfixed silhouette
— the Demon Puff in his plumage / language.

I was hit in the face when he turned himself in.

I knew and now know I am unhappy and, like most everyone, not —

the boat’s cortex holding out ..

A nonreligion of eternal cold, a High Service
Sung along both coasts:
Our people are what makes us / great.
Love and heritage go down together.

The last nonpoem eases down the dress code, a bolo tie display on 2 thru 8
For a race of giants (giants are made up pieces of one another in other names).

Love came up short for a few and drove them to forgery. Then shatters.
The taking of whatever works to swat the hand that feeds them,

Sharpening endurance,
Risking focus.

I can see your voice, binary to binary autosuggestion.
When it gets dark it happens fast.

We wanted to go to
This point, stabilizing the office — over the ocean
W/out ‘water- or personal-contact.’
1 enclosure without a pulpit, no dogma...
outdoor passages to enter then exit sponsorship
spreading out in self-willful overloads of idiomatic design —

Skilled chattel, de-simplified, or notional contracts
between science and who knew?
Ironic technologies without precedent —
A corporate hold across manners and adaptations, restrained praxis
and hermetic syntax, all noun phrases.

Nice beachfront but there are so many fewer nouns
and fewer bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little) —
it seems immaterial — immaterial, 1 of those 2-headed enigmas :

nothing much and — hey! — another ghosty noun phrase —
giving away to how far the modern quill doth come too short, an eerie surfeiting metamorphosis.

I have aged for you. You may have noticed I’m on the side of folding in meaning that has no purpose, just sheer falsetto.

You want in? Try eye accessing cues, carve out what rafter was last seen strapped at the top. A name for emphasis might be imagined.

A serious pronominal.
There’s a discontinuous method to share.
There is an automated palletizer of bread
With industrial KUKA robots in a bakery
In Germany where groove is so a verb.

An odd relay plants these thoughts.

We don’t do pinpricks, I’m told. I did my research.
Since I’m not adding bespoke grammar to anguish,
This would be a special offer, today only.
Anyway, I retract my falsehoods.

You’re a mess, honey.
                          — Touch of Evil

Something came up.

Little or no, nothing. There’s so small

an exchange to transact, no product, only

an exhibitionist’s subtopic within the power den,

to prove repeated effort protracts pleasure.

I like it when prose or songs dig in and flail. 
That about covers it.  
( It’s that emotional core between personal and pro.)
Becoming free is a moving and intimate aria. (Like “Summertime.”) I got joy. I got sun.  


Gotta run, pro’s.

This tune’s one constant is 
 

a laptop lies naked on my chest.  
Dibs on the effect of my discourse, clammy & pink  

on the brink of aspects vanished in air.  
 

Ideas rather than ‘aspects’ conquer errors 
of the moment lost 
 

more to transports of desire — an ill that’s not  
 
an ill — a gaze upon the sun that leads precisely to a dare, 

not a death sentence.

I went to hell with you.
You gave me hiccups back when, year seven, floor six. Now my senses are restored. The unoccupied mind long overdue.

And I’m back in my vertigo seat, reading over and writing my disciplined boilerplate, my editor’s marble thought structure swarming with hellbent pleasures.

Attention.

As you advance, there are four surveillance cultures from which to plagiarize a response, while materials become more complex, building on what’s been put on the record.

Is that all you’re having for dinner?

One will need a clearer message for individual agency. There’s no humor in discretion. Wind in your hair makes us sick.
We can provide hacks for frenetic formality. And when you come to a three-syllable term you don’t know, you can just reference your dad’s manual to nab the one-syllable crib.

— since we polished the text, handed it in, don’t expect me after all.

Even if we kiss later, it saddens me to inform the boss
You’re not serious, never are.

As you we’re turning state’s evidence holding on to meet
                          even newer phenomena (‘stolen parts’
To run over) — any & all mayhem coming unannounced (achieved).
Or some of us won’t since we separate thru equal flexibilities,

Already saying goodbye takes us far up the jet trail! quelling fear of want-
Ing pain. You never can'tell. I won’t.

I’m losing a fortune in the arts... 
While I keep my mouth shut & listen,   
Escalating with all my sharpened implements to inhabit received logic.   
I’m retracing what I think you see. I’m   
Mastering every vegetable color, finding new names,    
 
Pushing the most oblivious among broken arts,   
Tai-chi of self-watch. There. And these    
 
Steps entangle bosons of mine, yours and everyone else  
Rushing us on to long careers in revision & redefinition...

Favorite singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to interminable sex along with
Holy orders.
Learned consensus becomes early performance; both adolescent in a trophy persistence.
The peep ditch shows up invisibly,

Unspeakably, as libido constitutes knowledge modules, glistening, fickle.

Holy stops by later.

Hi cute girl in black hat that works here, your copy looks great. Fieldworks in evolutionary niche construction.
De-processing text in a wartime between paragraphs v bullets — guess who’s won and wins?

Tiny, simple copy, the better to clobber you in short iterations. That ze plan.


All of Holland Tunnel v one garish tulip brocaded with energy.

You are man-y crisp, a color too blush orange for anything that can happen if you insist you care.

Dawn. I thought I wouldn’t get back to sleep

I was going to call it “Draped Profile”
When held from both sides.
Distinguish the feel. “Pronounce it.”
That’s good.
Now draw the strings. Ok
— what do you know!

It goes off the air base,
Hard to shovel, soft to fall
When white, blue, rank
— lavish as to give us each pause..

When the no-pause button is whoosh
In your face all shiny.

I channel my absence from you. 
It reminds me of you in harm’s way.   
 
When I am feeling discordant, deathly, misled, 
we come back to getting it all wrong.  
We’re both off but off is negative time over space,  
only a fleeting year more or 
less or more spasmodically, our time restored removed.

(The lord’s will tilting my ribs reflected aphids
gathering along a wall, also unanswerably,
along the hand. Whose hand? Those were
my sentiments. The last ones.
I’m pretty sure.
If I weren’t sure I’d take it back.)

Louisiana, East of Eden: That time of year with smarter definition. 
How’s that if your electricity is out and your phone’s won’t work?  
We needed smarter drywall too, to excite the twilight in the bayou,  
ferns and moss growing other side after sunset, every-   
thing about the yield blowing in its news  
of recurring unitary joy...   
 
that must expire.  
 
I liked getting you to this point, nourished by you. 

I don’t know that much about you, but you remind me of someone
Who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far off, quelling fear.
Half a day goes by &
You are already unattainable —
Hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.

Pull over, this is serious:
Poetics process stuff. Ketchupy. 
The coast is never clear, fat boy... 

A whole new side to nuts & tightening bolts, narrow & hollow in the center — inflatable as you lay back in a blank whisper, clearly in the nick of it.

Thanks to strong interference we accept multiverses.
It’s like saying pardon me to a wave from fields —

A warning looms to live on 
to next season, the most indivisible of 4. 
The fiscal thrill of a principle’s often-quoted exponents. 
Your will bending other lives. 

I never imagined keeping count of others or their waves
but it’s on my list. My list of lists.

My area is interpretive search.
You’re always not talking.
I get your point (approbation without the tedium of argument).
Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam,
Accounting disappears like functions of context (procedures) —

Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to amoral schemes
More fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Travel well.

You’re really this tall? There is no wrong answer. Your current voice sports a staggering pedigree, too late to make it sparse.

Even your restraint is watered. You’re too qualified and thrifty to feel anyone suspended — Mayday!
I told you I agree. Enjoy your timeshare, a revisionist’s afterlife to the future, unobstructed, puckered in ab exercise.
Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush their devotion to their next decimal of the property. This might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads

and let you know when. Tomorrow.

I used to have an ersatz power dependency that’s reasonable to regret. Even today. 
Now we think it’s polite to say ‘power,’ not ‘ostentatious pensiveness.’
In robotic culture there’s an i.d. crisis 
as when who knows we’re taking these steps   
 
for whose agenda? Eat and lose some weight?   
 
How may we help?

Ridiculed by sycophants & inferiors, RM Rilke talked to whom?
I rank his output very high, filled in with expressionism
off the scale, 9 plus or more to exaggerate
(if I could, hmm).

Duino. No lacunae needed, Rilke’s asyntacity sets an extreme standard atop
maximally tall orders, looking down over his sprawling,
immersive, dark & smoky project-for-good, 10 or higher.

— Empress Eugenie

This is our ur-season & with these search tips I am free to cut nothing off.
Not even a con anarchist.
Under pre-season conditions, your questions washed over time —
For starters: Did I test, lease, defame to get the best?

& the answers in a day wherever that is if ...
Is it time or times?
Personally, I maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic one more time.
The colony is firmly democratized, sir. You sir.

Other voices from the porch to violent finches in the sky,
The season seemed & was interpenetrations of parallel scenery
Et al in all of this.

No yet also yes to scoping life as a masterpiece, addressing a defeat as is or exposing every itch up your sleeve. Yes or no tempo of glyphic turmoil grounded into coinage and torpid incision in not one vowel or all 80 of them — 800, yes or no prophase for pensive description. No to yes there’s all right or all wrong, both disposed to insatiable shine.

Hands are everything. 
That was past conjecture; and bringing it all back  
The evidence upsurges when language goes away.  
His eyes & yours fill with labor pools.   
Your brain stores all of pleasure. & his the same. 
 
A genome led you to him..   
He smiles with no doubts about your bluffing kowtow & innocence   
  — nothing to discredit &   
...no hell to pay! ... light showers keep raising rules of thumb, bringing it all back.

Generation service portions are out by tomorrow, morose before the cart.
A vapor’s surveyor seems all for it, bo th arms..
You’re welcome to celebrate, Mme Speaker. Is she?
“A poem with a few pict ures explains better”
Even if our surveyor’s other car is a broom?

I — ma’am — constitute the unmarried undecideds playing along,
a wild shot in a habit to outlast various deliverables mounting a central stairway (death spiral).

Repeat this until approved, 
“I don’t know about you O astronomy”  
But in a tone that’s affirmative  
Like the jeweler’s tone words for whale  
-bone / measured blues − while  
 
This stretch, like all happy comebacks, tells a story of the future dropping hints of a larger, full-mouthed I-don’t-know − was it something to do w/ a heap of focus to one side, therefore blocking another? Do we lead a life another sings w/ you?

I taper our next stage with visually inevitable things and select for keen gameness. Today a screenwriter would work with genres and forms and play something interdisciplinary; I see. Um, ok, yes, ma’am. I’ve misspelled some signs.
I have not fulfilled norms set by stop action. (Politics and dignity of appearances don’t mix.) Nothing personal, I cry when it becomes subsequent, crediting the surface with no message.

But now —


When struck a lightning rod emits a ballet in dust and after that a solution,
a chemical substance that recuses itself and returns as a cognitive coloration, a hint there is a small commotion in the back of matter. Like with one who is loved.

Still, foot hills stew out back under the sun in blistering speed.
Front and back: Ants everywhere climb blades of grass, over and over, seemingly without purpose.

Hollywood has always been a wide-open town that devours its athletes.

I hate being made fun of.
In the interim I’ve written hate jokes,
All natural as parfait clouds beginning to part — over 1000 —
The aerodrome softly moans .. it could be roars of laughter falling into introspection

slotted for long silent scream divisions with fearful levels of id emergence
— And owing to your interest... this won’t constitute a date.

*

How can I neck you into warming
up tomtom heartbeats, migrating
to far boundaries by hand
to hand in a laughing matter?

Trick question.
That’s how comedy for squares works.
If it’s a question today,
Tomorrow, what’s the transition?

Reciprocating.

There are three pleasure substitutes.
The frayed honeymoon is first and,

second, it’s normative, blushing
with its little chant of guts and neurons.

After a honeymoon deflections accrue.
Third, there’s a genie that needs you

& sidemen
who adapt what’s spindly

talking to each other.

It dawns on me
this is taken up as a whole habit
before it’s moved onward

— it’s not utterly offhand.. rather.

Tonal jumps signify charity in a geometric
float off.. .

repurposing one’s ego, raising stakes
according to odds makers for daring.

Don’t show us
your simple skill. Make it work.

This is god’s country.
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 not afraid of showing the much simpler, formless inexact I degrade and dissipate into highly animate raw munition. My fingers are supposed to cohere in two fair hairy hands I cull from hearsay. Raising one exudes only passion, which if you allow I agree with, with intertwined wilderness raising two...
Anima to Anima, I couldn’t be ruder.

“Stages of violence yearn for their whereabouts.
Conditions look dispersed — thinking of you (did I?)
not out of calculation; it began how far and vast

signals liberate you to oppose other facts,” you wrote.
Or plans change.
Without speech sex is peroration.
That’s a normal reduction or formula for my song,
not a word on process.

I’ve got to hold back. Not go down.

This is in response to the commerce-vector coursing through pop concepts, bringing unique comfort to support our cushy position in the food chain, which is in dispute.

I adhere to the same late-filing rule as you. We are keepers of years at night.

Love is moaning all right. I’m almost a novice enthusiast.. years from now.
Then, inscrutably I shall break down and sob.