24: One perspective: My eye plays the painter. Good background for for you and me to peep in.
Wherethrough a whole school of cunning painters can pick you up, take a day off
away from hangers-on. Painters will be drawn to your skill & art — your true image.
Your glazed eye for an eye, good turns both physical & in thought
              win
the day even as shapely models file by in your body frame —
painters will gaze on them to retrace your form but never know your heart.

The move-your-ass comment — I meant smell the juniper within a philosophy (moving spatial dimensions)
& (look inside!) a few hours forward!
Dispatched for 
chaos  

yet  
subjects of desire in another sense, an echo  
understanding from Q & A’s in visible  
almost august light.  
Minimalist  
& suddenly just theory  

awing in a wolf’s regime ..  
There’s brush  
fire aimed at mosquitos — shot  
through the throat, asking too much ..

Come back .. why not!
You and I nonetheless detect a rank trap.
We declaim no ruler can speak up without permission.
This declamation of ours advances within beveled language in dim light —
on no-work days. Contexts for exemption are lost on pure squirts in security.

Immunity, like politics, is always here, a gene expression omnibus 
as love is for love —

It’s lithium, you say. I don’t know. Hard to tell. I’m laughing under oath.
(To put it down on paper makes it theory.)

You and I are just one nuclear video from viral fame.  
Vanity is promotion.  
Amen to white boats opposing fearless innocence.

There’s a benign debate — where brightness bore in, grateful pre-nuptials stampeded out,


Drawing the unmarried into dark zones of odiferous propaganda.

And owing to your interest... this won’t establish a holy day, merely an avian sacrament.
Or only one of many noted by a crowd of juncos aft.
My terms are to settle down through the evening. Your proud examples gain longterm advantage spreading themselves thin.
(Hold on, I was handed this special instant.)
Keeping one’s posture simple on the corner of statue and utterly out of space, one is within earshot.

I am still there..

Only there’s the one I am for, whom I fail completely, openly.

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/full lives. Or not.

Microscopic levitation gets modulated. Had to be. Modulated is like coming out to predict your hard held views, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact explanations and multiplying love of what we were doing before the procedural took hold. Then we are off again, taken off, backed up in the cloud this time, keeping our data immune to causation.

Leaning in, wise and cruel.
In sleep my heart greets guests, offering immunity.
Going wide, immunity is madness in snow season.

Snow this soon is a surprise. (Didn’t know I’m a novice enthusiast, a manner of pity.)

Should I despair?

It’s snowing, nothing personal, wafting like foaming love over my awesome hamlet —

Further out the world is grown up with descriptors peeling off like spiders hustling always. Snow as hustlers.
There’s a method they share, I whisper to myself, falling for the freshest ingredients.

The American Songbook has motors for luscious hills, gleaming grains. Apparatchik elders’ fall is a warning, hiss-able, going monochrome in uglified loveliness besieged by entertainment.
We sometimes need fresh lexicon to wangle a way to reset the mind-body problem, irruptive words to determine their own landscape, items like primality and cuboidal glints of music, human commination over heaven, akin to the great abstractions around technical ambiguities. Never far away strove the steady salmon through jagged streams, eating air, rounding out a shiny net!

Hands are everything. You might say
It was past conjecture; ever since  
The atmosphere upsurges when the rules stick.
His eyes & yours fill with knife jabs.  
Your brain stores all kinds of pleasure. & his the same.
 
A genome led you to him..  
He smiles with no wisecracks about your bluffing kowtow & innocence  
 
— nothing to discredit or crib  
...no hell to pay!

...the rain keeps raising rules of thumb, bringing it all back.

The if-movement (aspiration) can be thought 
A nature walk you (like any of us) can jump in on or not — so on   
 
-coming then coming clean is another sort of closeness.  
Later, new police! 
[talk of paranoia...] 

I flash forward to your original brilliance.
& today I’ve never been more uplifted, more unnerved by an against-type chamber piece
somberly floating in odd intelligence, now audible 
signs of history, of intention, preparing nature for us.  
 
I write on my nature in my head. Let’s hold a séance! 
I snare us muse Joy to starve a fever. (Is it raining out?  
At a range in speeds & locales, yes.) 
Many rooms, each story (usually) with clay-toned physiques  
fighting the relative fight waving, receding on one another  
 
— most under an influence indoors & out. Outside is filthy. A foot of snow from the window. Laps of water filled with light snow, rotating in reverse as if catching up on how to purify their offspring & manage their own fever in lurches of nibbling torque in a day then daze.

Idiot sparrows, wrens suffer rain, finding things out,
Unleashing each other —

They enjoy themselves when abroad.
Who isn’t sick of us and who questions any backlash?
A vulcanized last payment received.

No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless:

The future would give more / no more
Than thanks, laughably... no thanks.

I thought of you.

I have no use for you.
I’m drunk on uses of empathy and bounce. Or plans change. 
Universality is homesick, having lived off the in-laws of physics. But not now, daybreak — 

Conditions look staggered, first up, off-ivory — wanting a universe to admire (me too).
Then a profane Rubik of dawn’s assured color range,
yet how far & vast connivance redeems all that
to put aside loss, cheek and whiffs of misuse. In concatenation, O dawn.

En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse w/in; pushing up deeply. 
Our lot’s in a hurry. Natant decapods added vowels.  
 
No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there is no threshold. Another one. Matter persists, w/o dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual and vital amid meanderings that are ordered appearances gone dormant, nearly kaput, or snap, running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in more ubiquity. Optics unravel in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.

Shopping sprees are migratory patterns.

They get disrupted but don’t let up.
It goes back to when no Murphy bed was sacred or chic. Tempus fugit. 

Take an interest in opulence & stratagems bequeathing us


sherbet, oomphy comforts & massive inflows of feel-


ing great! The brands are awesome taken to far corners, above


exposed plans of a bowling facility, now vacated forever last summer.

Looks as if we’re metaphysicists to inner antecendants.

Lemme go.

To Caspar,  
 
I think you asked for this over dinner.  
Ghost buds for twenty-first century renos in a whole range of sentiments.  
No chance, astrophysicist. 
 
So you get it now, assigning ghosts to our planet to feel cathartic  
is dimensionally impossible. You’re dull. Rather uneducated.  
You’re all shine and velocity for us, the living!  
Sap is flowing, Caspar, top gear, top speed.   
 
Grab a sawhorse.

My counselor affidavit registers our deficiency of pretexts. All the same, hunches count. (I’ve always been competing with another self.) 
 
Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for foundering within the social anomaly of treason.  
Rules commit us. Voters chose Trump. Yet this is the latest case. 
Everything I note here is integrated by law. Remember those days?

After you, a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.
Wait. There’s nothing.

I lower your voice to closest saturnal parity
plucked out of adversative brutality ..
Yet nothing is forbidden.
Finalists like you quit general practice — off to privacy
with little or no honor left, one laughed. And yet not you, your honor...

Summer’s actuaries record having a good time as vicarious, no
moving figures. (Vicarious isn’t strong enough.)
Inner, outer merge in our honor system, no shadows, o praise the light flow drawn
in odor and hue! After you.

Psalm make me sorry.

Nothing is unimportant. Neither the bray of birds nor their sweet afterplay. Send for Fr Pierre.
He lives in harm’s way. “A transit of showdowns.”

’Recursive perception’ —
For your birthday (bleak as mine, too) I came straight from the agency, this text’s agility welded to my regular dirty space in which I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception and Action,” which seemed all I wanted to think of, ambiguously, in pastels.

It was everything.

I am citizen physicist to an inner antecedent for scriptural deadpan.
Drowsiness may be our great escape or you and I may just walk it off, forgetting evolution optimizes what we already think. 

Your face, the trains I ride and furthermore. It’s good. Even if you’re allergic and our staying casual definitely perpetuates the appearance of progress. 

(The above interlude rules us both draining of meaning.)

Striking bells, lightening round.. 
Take a test. Brightness gushes out, but colliding transmissions are roughened by the screaming. Screaming ballet is euphoria — turbulent-urges and compromises. But do you understand the point of the test?

It’s anonymous either way. 

Tho before the diagramming mist rolled in I felt your grace, holding on with both hands.

I work here but not much any more.
Cascading circumstances.
My travel limits are pointing to a chimera. Not a destination.

I’m having an up-
pitch dark brainstorm so obvious 
why stop  
 
Only, let’s call it implanted intelligence,
O baby  
all the way unnhh..   
 
O yesses encompass in advance  
shimmer  
— crash. Al-  
 
So let me see..  
dreams get drawn on a map  
that puts us on the map.

Blatantly un-shipshape seems the new daring..
I have no idea —
The bemused, deliberate downgrading of the presidency
More than fair warning.
We should seek co-equals now, an engaged handshake, clear speech
To thank the whole body electorate,
So we learn that or relearn it.

An organizing force under command matures into familiar splashes of
watercolorist anesthesia: Takes my place being places (an event in tropes) —

Meantime, ping. We’re here for discovery via inflection in lap pools of
condensed matter from excursions in the aquatic world.
The named oceans are dated, right, left
Pouting, getting better! When they come to — there will be perorations re-
framing rainwater within fairer scents rimming sunlight in suspension, ripped,

Amputated chutes!

Grape vines burst out, nonlackluster. Though I love grime, the force’s guilt-
making — carrying me thru, unphased: Guilt does this to deplete me of hope.

1st choice for a sonnet is to solve for x. Be funny and coalesce.

Dear multiple choices from eternity: Send a message I can wolf down. Convey
a sense of urgency that’s superfluous. Then put force off.

The mind just calculates sitting there. It wants to be best friends. It’s saved us a burger.
An idea of glimmers, aroma:
The moon beneath pink brightness out back, grill in place, waiting —

Docile or not,
Look away.

                 ... my speech is streaked w/ extra
sensory blather —

You were good to give us storylines, battle scars, vanity, thrills, sky
dogs, paint & sloppy intercourse under conditions that surround ourdesire
to laugh down time for love of you.

You put a question mark after feeling genreless — in a screenplay, it would be a pick
-up line.
There is no personality, only successive time frames, so why beat anyone up? We can read back over found work but never go back to walk the innocent-seeming turret and loggia built by others’ labor, enabling and overlooking our conditional first day together...

I’d like to thank the Academy  
and ignore X to reinforce ignorance. 

To reverse devolution we’ll rush back 
to hear more about causality proportionate 
to a principle that cannot be considered in terms  
like suspension of liberties and financial slaughter. 
 
The impression building is that every financial move serves Euclid’s purpose. Then. A higher purpose according to analysts, in a word, a metonym for dizziness everywhere according to boundless malfeasance, heading toward final devastation.
 
Oh, tech services, tell us a little more about your miserable ontology affecting checks, balances, and mantra logjams — How did stakeholder views crumble into unlimited resources and potential instrumentality to pantomime the common numerator undercutting American literacy?

I can’t win, it’s the end of inattention. 
More bounce for the retina to unscrew my internal hysteria pouring up but
embarrassing, rocking like breaking news, losing both death and life, dropping your 
rogue’s whip down over my heels. 
 
Aren’t we supposed to feed the bad dogs? Yes but summer, winter? Minutes after my work is filed, neighbor’s dogs stand in line for a treat, free rein over the sentence.

A pulse of light of precise duration = head turns, alternative explanations but none good enough for clarifying experimenters’ state of confusion.

Confusion is rendered official. Firm argument and beta testing of dogma and contradictions, transforming un-gated minds turning toward amplified democracy. Sultry outdoorsmen, sailors, all on deck.
 
To get back to the cosmos, our taxonomies stand tiptoe atop a few hustlers with ascending ideas, forgetting the battered below lined up on broken mosaics, raw necks pounding from overtime  
 
like ex-royals.

After vowing hate I bear you love.
& what of it?
I’m like everyone else who grew up refusing novels, a nutshell of a wonk glaring, boasting bragging rights over inexact outcomes, crayon-ing over lucky, boundless love non-judgmentally!
& of course I did time w/ “live people...”

Here’s my favorite.

Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises.

(That is, artisans among the audience rise, impetuous, some from costive stock, unflappably happy, even brusque.)

Somewhere I float in. I’m late for the prom fitting, weeping inside. Funny place
for a dance, Mr Baker.

Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping neutrality (plain v harder) w/in the present gloom of purgatorio as good possibilities blow town, including the best halo effects and feelings. They’ll come back like sight for the blind in the dark. 

It’s nice finally to shake the physical world’s geometric hand covering our breathing. Geometry is of nature and sightless throughout. Today, every day open censorship is tangential to being here, right over here, filtered, unfiltered as long as it takes.

Achilles, what can you do or not do? Are you sitting on the floor 
listening ? wearing nothing but  
eagerness for a motive to  
hear what we were afraid to be?
Foundational bias underpins Achilles’s argument for or against not being sure.
A signature concern throughout the night is the cosmos’ experience. The bigger the better. Peculiarly, one other point — so many writers simultaneously figure out the brute’s foot and heel, studying nature and truth within supposition and guesswork. Achilles becomes enamored of writers turning toward stage experiment and utopic closure.

For then a separation point emerges. Harsh.

Bathing in enjambement, my naked duty —
‘worth the trouble’ — called out in a tremblor voice to children
blurring the terrain,
a stenciled closure: he shouts,

Let’s search for reason in nature’s chaos...
No one writes like this, pulsating — it’s wonderful.

A miracle.

I aver I’m writing on borrowed-spores. Again, I don’t know much on pollen, I’m playing borrowed-writing.
Any point of contention is biting now but my spores go 85, 100; it’s slow. I won’t do more, not even for track officials powered with centrifugal disclosures, facebooked from their past. So forget Neptune,

forget public boasts of triumph — I should add my visual gamut is fast. The instruments surround haves and have-nots of guitar spinning all ways in gelid hilly winds.

Your bromide is familiar. Let me text this. You’re gaining attention for the wrong infinite reasons, dummkopf. Stay where you are. Exploit the familiar, even an inkling. Glow fast.

The cosmos is unwilling to go far, now or later, this way or that — what we inhabit is neither a stoner planet nor merely a plywood-and-particulates object flown in time (w/ fewer and fewer court intrigues).

There’s so much history.

Shadow sensory awareness, a chosen medium.

Flowers are em-poisoned by design, grateful astrochemists oozin’ adrenaline

for the audience, saboteurs of the heart.

We already have what we ask for.

Vainly but not fast in never induce italics:
We gave it up at the Office.

Driving this point is hardly ever for the 1st time
disappearing into immense molecules like our other words, just molecules ago.

Sitting down delivers the good news, stateliness while steering already had its faint say. Now we can text and ‘drive’ over time and zeta functions mowing down hedgerows like highway dividers along an infinite axis.

Knowing we live forever like offspring of coordinated affects
He thought about SciFi from the Seventies and Eighties
Fighting the relative perpetual fight to prolong
All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum
As if meeting death half-way hapless (though deceitful)
The kind of greenish pallor you’d desired

He thought about SciFi from the Seventies and Eighties
As the clay-toned physique turns from the window
Designating it before we understood the beloved’s desires
His coat with the fired bullets, effluvia
All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum
Temporal as this shitty two-room with its simultaneity

As the clay-toned physique turns from the window
A bright light credited to chimera in a purified labyrinth
At the end of the brightest fluorescent tube
The kind of greenish pallor you’d desired
Fighting the relative perpetual fight to prolong
A silver psycho-mist hung along the streets

A bright light credited to chimera in a purified labyrinth
The luminous tints of reversed decisions, rotating surf
The kind of greenish pallor you’d desired
All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum
A new missing link held out to her
His coat with the fired bullets in it, effluvia

Temporal as this shitty two-room with its simultaneity
To grow another heart in different tempi
At the end of the brightest fluorescent tube
As the clay-toned physique turns from the window
A silver psycho-mist hung along the streets
Designating it before we understood the beloved’s desires

To grow another heart in different tempi
A new missing link held out to her
The kind of greenish pallor you’d desired
He thought about SciFi from the Seventies and Eighties
All of his life as if he were a mercurial quantum
Going hippie to set a theory born of paradox

A new missing link held out to her
A silver psycho-mist hung along the streets
As if meeting death half-way hapless (though deceitful)
Knowing we live forever like offspring of coordinated affects
Going hippie to set a theory born of paradox
The luminous tints of reversed decisions or rotating surf.

No interviews today. Triumph* is creepy**.

*Creepiness, unlike triumph, widely construed as inaudible tendencies toward plundering contexts to alter asymmetrical inference.


**Authentic triumph, group or personal, cannot be construed.

The enigmatic eaten alive by song layouts.
The strategy goes on because it’s clear.

We have decent rooms and vegetarian board. Living large is a rancorous art. By now I hope you’re opening up to a former way of life stocked with colorations of air as in a plush, intimate drawing room augmented with coarse bouquet. Like Elizabethans, say, we would see there were lots of tulle and offline making of amends. Music sounds an alert for changing before the weekend, uniforms with some breathy, lithe, spooky edge. Thursday.

BF Skinner watches a boy develop — to spy on sleep when he can’t dream... parking lots have a word with him. Children are the future —

Keep them distracted.
And back to you. If you lock your room you can transport anywhere. Ask Caligari. Bright blues in white, a looming sluice through the discomfort zone. Here we go...

I don’t deserve lots of friends like him or you.

Lots of us are gifts  
and land across our example   
while we watch the wind taken   
that the waves under you lift  
Tho see-thru as doves   
which today are nothing more,   
swept with a visual certainty   
no matter how we change in love.

Been holding our tongues. That’s how it works. 
 
Non-interference in charge, an authentic kindergarten where bourgeois language, dance skills and charades get raised and genetic quest is first and forcibly asserted. Working against deadline shaped the last phase of withdrawal from our deadlock with future attributes. Oedipus meantime, our co-founder, targeted a fan like me because of sectarian obligations to familial platitude. The patriarch’s camouflage is in plain view, the better part of tottered winds over centuries-old middle ground.

My eyebrow arched, ‘That’s my room when I was a kid,’ I gasped.

The view outside, apples, Fuji oak, null passages in fog; your cheek and forehead are evident. I then moved us to the rubber towel, leaving everything else to chance, a luscious, noiseless bonding. When I put a few highlights on your lips and we drank, it was like no milk ever tasted. All we want now is to grow up in sleep, trust and telepathy.

There is no name but then it’s absence and torment. My life is built around sane choices w/ an acceptation of a person, even though in a few seconds, I’m in memory * of that person to come. Haw. 
 
That a fact?   
 
Some don’t hear clearly when one’s “voice” joins others’ to deepen ultimately anonymous expressions of desire.  
 
* The memory part is often vice versa.

In lounge lighting, both our eyes drift as if you’re

spanking me underwater. & I see why snails

build their houses near the sea,

& why we & they stand around & tank, coltish to the end. Complicated.
& we & they gain weight because we despair.

I wish you had taken that job singing of thingness.  
Even so, if you could eat only one food for life, what would it be? “Take notes,” you called out.   
You were holding back first throbs as you forced another’s from the inside.       
  
I miss the walled city where an operator like me 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; the elevators refuse to go with operators in them.    
  
(Ok, you there? Bye.) 

After glamour there’s revisionist power. The virus already inside us, wolfed down improv crap we’re pre-wired to reenact or is there a onetime fee? 
Radiance now is the lather of capital health. Remember free deliverance?  
 
“What if it doesn’t work. Then what?” The virus works. 
In one or any time and place of our choosing: Act gathered.  
 
Ideal love seems a twofold pity, a physician in black, giving value to new ways of relapsing.

An abject bond forms at birth, delays our death.

There are four ambient music cartels as well: Doggone civilians and industrial dwarfs striking poses with all their operatic powers. De rigueur for now is writing over known injury to outrank putative limits in the mourning of thieves.

I won’t do your religion now, good day. Just piano and voice. Sunken gardens with a fountain of moods for each of Four Graves.

We just saw [a few feet minutes from now, however]
your address changed. We both had done it differently before
you discovered the user charts; the parent corp. was yours before
you took me over. You’re not getting too delirious, are you?
Just for a stretch of language? ... to some extent you’re
lifting me from sleep where I rewrite chain letters you refuse to answer...
Too delirious a stretch, for you?

He called the youth a positive word.

Reading and living
Ontologically under-simulates his senses. The youth’s.
He should be furious w/ the world w/ dogfood boxes, be
Angry at keyholes, too, w/ their conservative
On-second-thoughts to earnest alignment as his sure timing slips
Under the prowess of floating discourse unquietly
Into apothegms, into sidesteps of fine voice,
“A voice and nothing more.”

Antinomy in its own time... Something after was pouring out, dazzling its double structure toward filling empty assembled boxes you were bound to organize. 

Losing light downstairs. Nonetheless you were rushing then pressing for more optical symmetry. An interim for you, pushing up and out. We got laid before. There is little point now to hold back (or cremate) any fixed melody tonight unless my time grows on trees. 

That thing? It’s a slide knot. Or a kind of travel document. We have functional props for digging up emotions and this much-circulated vocabulary of affects.
To learn something about what you mean is to let fine fettle overcome despair, swamp entropy. For a quiet start, take down zero gravity bans. But you don’t keep any larvae. They’re apart. Their cloying song goes out mutely and you feel a need to ache in their baby blue blather, calmly accruing intimacy. Hey —

Never stop prospecting.

The dharma of learning penmanship is monotonous. 
Reënter the Style Of 


My Dreams .. Lubitsch films  
 

that don’t exist — here we go — appreciating in value.  
 
Planting ideas (marry me) restores our old faith, popularly   

escalating visionary disappearances  
where our purchases speak to taking the edge out..
 
 
Tiny discourse like this runs late (even when we were kids);  
this is my youngest scouring moment  
favoring the specimen objective 
or other nominal for adult achievement.  

I joined the Actor’s Guild. Within a week I lost a pound


& my office parties became off-key fantasies. Flutists


scaled for kodo, on a familiar toepath of scents.

Come again, I will say,


thinner tones & soft muscularity are proof
— our brains were being stolen; after

we wandered back home muttering “TV,


TV” — a mildly eccentric suburbia


waiting for an awe-inspiring payday of relaxation

& thickening plots with ‘heavenly touches.’

Time to come? I hoped you might &?

Not to arouse undue hearsay, your wellbeing was my concern. It isn’t safe yet. I won’t forget. 
And that goes for this gala rehearsal. Proud exclamations to postpone further vaping, advancing a counternarrative for co-stars stepping slowly waving gold torches in flames, pressing the troupe into feeling nervous in observed time. 
 
I was going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension 
of disbelief, a flipping out scene out of martial arts, sparkling pen-  
 

umbrae, a pro ring barnstorming on top 
dicing / re-arranging pushed to extremes, 
undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.

$ transfer: I’m asleep.
An only hill / a huge stage
I’ve been searching
Awake most nights, debates that decay:
A clean face in the morning − caped
W/ sounds. Sounds caped w/ light, the best.

When I hear dogs and woods in salt air
Together, like them and like us.
Can you dig a stillness? Can you keep an eye out, the ocean over.

I can’t take vicissitudes. We’re staying in.
This was a no-no but we always do.
New wilderness outdoors tracing a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed, cuddling
escalations in body movement, ledgers of age. Lucky you and I live on, fudging
abasement in clean confinement serving a purpose within
supernumerary states of being (confined). Nevertheless
gastronomy is to breaking the ice as ‘fucking / sponginess’ is to bacchanals.

Whom will we discover? How?
Do you both laugh? Per rules,
regs of sounding it out, for x
it’s overdue.
You’re back in vertigo yay

yielding authority with no mediary.

Like a minimalist practicing karate high noon
: any of your fix gets exaggerated for good :
                  What’s this the (x) about?
You say yay. (For x.)

Greyhound hurling on seesaw feels relaxed, 
Any footage balances when pushed, so it’s 
More entertaining, not 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.

Uma Thurman’s son.. me..

Let’s file it down.
I’m sipping Tropicana on your behalf.
Taken to your path. Walking in sheer
All the time, staggering!
The fit has to be good.
I noticed you work away from me making your poise smoke.