but I have to smile
                                       The emptiness that was 
one fine day... 
                                         A uranium-brimmed scree 
insubstantial to dawn ‘disappeared’ 
into the leg o’mutton of oblivion : 
Voices in funnels, a trickle down of their futurity, 
Dropping your sights — now rising  
— the fastest way to earn points. And yet 
We’re surrounded,
I write poems for progeny  
(if not protégés)...

Our last owner had an understanding with multiple staff. 
His happiness washes up in our candy bar and cudgel DNA.   
O we celebrated, beaten but breathing in what’s next.   
We have a most advanced gene distribution system.     
 
Try to look better. 
Flames stink up the place. Hay on fire. Let’s dump all this way in the rearview where we can’t see. We will be leaving footholds in town, doubles of blurs in dizzy luxury, punching thru colorless straw and spheres in embers.
 
Hay savors just punishment! — regulatory propriety could care less, looking to nominal trivia — exactly what we recoil from, summoning logical defenses to explain a Hail Mary pass and your first entertaining containment.

To save life (a), a blur of messianic pronouns embodies subject matter; (b) matter is pruned and run through demi graphic filters. It’s moderato brooding, adding to a cobbled blow-up — (b) Here dubs of complaints dovetail into an opus of no ideology.. You operate in English but (c) you resort to braying tactics, but yeah.

(You might infer lack of taxonomy.) 

Channel whatever.
It reminds me of a nude midstream, harm’s way.

Discordant how I was scared in the dream
where we come back to having gotten this wrong.
We’re both wrong but it’s negative matter
only to some
one hundred decors in one & Dame MacFarlane at the piano.

The endive bloats.

Got it, I’m wordy-terse but I feel what I think.
Words are our feel-
Ers. The river purrs, purls — not its sound
But ours, so I read this
By me and not me, us.

I flash to a new place. And I’ve never been more uplifted, more unnerved by a microscopic chamber piece somberly floating in fun here and there, now audible signs of history, of intention, preparing us for a fixed melody with renewed power.

Unless there is anywhere else.

There’s audible glee not being perennially the other and oppressed;
the oppressed are what we avoid when we can be free

on the outside. A natural bouquet smolders
w/ the emancipatory normality of assumed dominance. A voice bouquet

in better Prada, with a louder timbre distorting the status-quo on otherworldly streets:
“Where are we going?” This or that way. I guess
so. Not particularly.
Those who still insist on fighting state power, let alone directly taking it over, are immediately accused of being stuck in the ‘old paradigm’: the task today is to resist state power by withdrawing from its scope, subtracting oneself from it, creating new spaces outside its control.

— Savoj Žižek

Re-examining my savagery…
doing what Pessoa said.
In another version I admit I enjoy teaming intersections. I’ll be taking sides, I told them at calisthenics. I’d prefer not to watch from the grandstand and de-harvest illusions of atmospheric beauty. But doing it I miss what happens. Walking away then burns more calories. Better to get a coach or two to work out with you, pretending they are you, friend, covering your lips with my gloved thumb.

Showing my cards I leave some change,
while my lover & swimmer leads me to a postmodern workshop,
a sure bet ad infinitum.
He smiles with an expression that never doubts my bluffing knowhow & innocence
... I keep raising our minds at the oceanfront, a replenisher, bringing it all back.

Trash is egghead poetics, boiled down beneath better trash that has a value P (portent) inside, spoken sotto voce stipulating processed conditions to make up — practice making perfect sleep time.  

Transition Days. Disabused of crayons to create a hint of scalability.  First step. Leaking or semi-announcing utopic content, replacing sleep we witness on the escalator.   

Go to the next line.

Emily, a Hoyle in a green dress, leaned 
In a hetero-inclusive manner  
Against a far wall,  
Perhaps not far enough, as  
She seemed distracted —  
Distracted, a word bringing pressure  
Into 4 fingers, my right hand  
Fidgeting with her necklace  
Which at that moment I coveted more than — sing it,are  
You trying to interfere ..  
& she was staring in the mirror — looking  
Not at me but past me, into a space  
— or a slot of a zonal precipice  
That might be filled by someone nice,  
A successful televangelist no doubt, yet  
To show there, fully, still on a gaseous journey...  
(journey, a roughshod term for predation & warfare  
Which could lead to fuller, calmer scenes thru the mirror..).  
This was years ago, according to Hoyle.

In this bronzer age of cliché
Men and women are spangled genetic machines. 


We know that. 



Taking chances put genetic lines of us in a lissome interpretive state (birth).
Function varies widely.

So our utterances are for sale. I’m intensely delighted, taut-
But-relaxed. Meantime I’m exposed, unspooled. Thus this is not a test.
I could see up to their clavicles, Marines and the police
Were wild one lane over, so I was arrested.

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

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

To that end, I’m more of a slowpoke when it comes to animal power and subjective transcendence, but I’m still not doing penance with you. I’ll stay free of hell olfactorily swallowing hard.

The complexity is engineered simplicity, both as affectation and prerequisite, since you have to give an aclinic license to some upper boundaries that annoy others. And magnets lying flat on the horizon seems very passive-aggressive. Internal ‘gears’ enlist nausea for personal advantage (ugh), which I waive anyway, as if / as though indulged opposition were some urgent treasure I can share with anyone else.

Next question, true or false. Is the last part more than ok? Technology keeps humming to utter fulfillment. The cigar and its plantations. It’s a manageable stretch from there to when you left, even while I ruled what went between us out. You hadn’t left a name, either. And yet, I stood closer, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. Utmost to misunderstand.

I unholster my arms & dance across water.
Not crushed yet, the narrator loses color,
since the jug's unlocked & to no product hewn.

I’m still not finished, he says, like a whining bitch. We
telepath only in the mothher tongue, careful with swearwords.
The jug we’re addressing is not sentient, hard of hearing.

The jug’s just a backstory anyway, mordant or
morbidly overstressed around the speakers’ bureau.
The bureau deploys Aristotelian systems going forward, systems extremes
that cannot be overcome by or within synonyms.

68: Flowers shorn off bowers, what beauty was —
I’m losing my head over you
as if I’ll inhabit my death head before you go or even around you now..
‘Without all ornament,’ I stay abreast, knowing whether nature’s
bastard signs are still vital, not recreational, charting a map of nature’s full store.
As if before golden tresses Arvo Pärt appears chafing: making no summer of green, of flowers, reborn from no second
life — oblique as the antique you ‘of yore’— now I myself, truly in attrition, missing both Pärt and you, composing tho still around you.

Your beauty stays alive and new to me.. a second life, new as roses, as ‘a second head..’

Giving in to temptation, she reinvented herself. In sum, she’s erotic with no social conscience. Lantern jaw. Not a jaw, but a chin that extends a fuzzy glow like a lantern that shines onto flab, a short neckline. Right. She’s got a weak chin. No jaw. A double chin.

No character but a gray, cerebral mutt.
She designed herself colorful, simply drawn, doglike. So she did have character, despite her fanciful, perfidious mien and no jaw.

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

Writers freely consume their own slapstick
when there’s a conceptual contingency to max, along
with requisite ethical structure to examine anyone’s taste level.

Now you know what to expect.

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

Let’s not. I proposition you.  
Empiricists map folks for amoral purposes, we know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n caprice.  
I will follow conventional physics, tho, and change nothing empiricists fall into.  

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

(The Chief of Staff so responded.  
Suspiciously correct.)

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

The incision continues in this vein. A disheartening bone piles like axioms, each supposing it’s done for. I wouldn’t rule it out, completion is a known factor.

I am here as abstinence is crumby.
The erotic folks get stopped, adjust themselves through the Apple store, more space than you & I need. But we can complete their arc by experiencing their subliminal accumulation. & I give up to appease you.

Follow instructions.

We got in surrendering our fingerprints

humming to each other. Our hums made us a windfall. We

toast anyone else entering first grade


w/in one’s center, letting the adult night slide.

The Globes

A scent of snow and sunlight, of loss — but what sinks in conclusion underlies the twisted and grouped maximum sciences.

Hyper-manly references (sailors, bunks, ballet) are scooped up from one segment of the sensate scale, motivated by an ambivert male persona more than all sex or proclivity. Joe Ceravolo is presented to The Golden Globes as he insists one comply with his reasoning (Supply it flowing out). That insistence enforced by repetition at the end, “in this rice Spring.” Let’s try slides of warm(ed over) rice piled up in a good grief of regrets, long regrets. What slushes to the surface is Ceravolo’s compression of physical acts, audacious desire (Supply me), and inconceivable, hoped-for spectacle (because there is in this rice Spring).

Spectacle, desire, necessities at The Globes. When I find them in another, I know we’re getting close.

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

we have come to our senses putting up fresher signs of interminable equivocation.   

Apologies to your mate.

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

A huge agnostic discipline 
About attitudes behind morals. 

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

The balance left over from a computer
Of pure tides.

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

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

Descriptors peel away, earning extra penumbrae with trace synonyms.
What a night. No problem
Expunging the storied narrative and

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

Then that

Rolling out of bed far off across

You and yours, just dreaming it up

putting you in mind of an imminent photo realism.

The once conservative invention of worship is over. 
A wall of calm thus put up. There are no facts in the future.
For now, love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing adult ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering political parroting and consensus. It’s not known why parroting caught on. We’re mostly redistributionists for sure, youth symbolically living to do it over but scale calm up. Everyday politics is practiced by young and old in anger, useless bruising rhetoric, forcibly asserted. 

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

This is my 1st stab at tantrics,  
boiling sanguine, sad going through a pinafore of latitudes, so   
I vet them. 
  Perfect, we don’t see we’re getting our drawings from other repros   
and no matter.  
 
All we’ll have to do ... 
Choose love as a buy or rental option, both equidistant from love’s defunct model of phenomena (that travail and make surprise visits w/in quanta. Too early to tell.)

Choosing love creates an entire platform to spin off slower tangential constructs plucked out of a big pharma. And of course tantrics.

Greyhound hurling on seesaw feels relaxed, as
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. See more clearly, is it a pigeon?
It’s a true albino!
Incandescent, I was thinking. It’s hard to pick up detailed ornithology,
The same with determinate meanings of most jazz —
Also, choosing an end table for instincts and learning given the scarcity
Of purposed thought. Then there is rapprochement

As I’m happiest procrastinating when a hole in my cohesion is closed.

Turn here. There’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, submitting
To the coming onset of your own making.

I can’t take vicissitudes. We’re staying in.
Appointment by haircuts.
This was a no-no but we always will.
New wilderness outdoors traces
a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed,
cuddling escalations in body movement, ledgers of faces.
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.

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 deformed experience. The bigger the better. Peculiarly, one other point — so many writers simultaneously figure out the brute’s forefoot and heel, studying nature and truth within supposition and guesswork. Achilles becomes enamored of composers turning toward stage experiment and utopic closure.

For then a separation point emerges. Harsh.

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.

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 turns in 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,
odd intelligence, floating in 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 a muse, Joy, to starve a fever. (Is it raining out?   
At a range in speeds & locales, always yes.) 

Hands are everything.
It was past conjecture; ever since  
The atmosphere upsurges when the rules are retired.
His eyes & yours fill with knife moves.  
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 &  
— no hell to pay!

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

Idiot sparrows, terns suffering rain, finding new things to lose,
Unleashing each other —

They enjoy themselves when abroad.
Who’s sick over us and who questions any vulcanized backlash?
A last payment received.

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

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

I still thought of you.

The other day I walked into a bar, the old place, saw endless tunnels, gadgets and immoral lighting that interconnected w/ music underfoot. My fingers boarded the apologetic apparatus, some of it; there it was thudding thru walls... Every eye rolled, doors slammed. After worship, there’s little but taut necks guided by the star beats. Yesterday was bright as is today. 
 
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. Yet 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.

High sensitivity equals high urgency.

I felt something.

The hollow inside is mixed up, the survey said;

overlapping symbols’re happening way out in the ocean. 

Your ocean. Your breathlessness. My Weimaraner

tilting sideways and holding his whisky, destroying
our bed, our bad faith and consequences.

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

I lower my voice to closest saturnal parity
plucked out of adversative brutality ..

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 figure. (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.

’Recursive perception‘ —
For my birthday (bleak as yours) I came straight from the agency. This text’s agility welded to my regular dirty space. This is where I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception and Action,” which seemed most everything I wanted to think of, ambiguously, in light-toned subduction.

It was everything.

I work here but not much any more.
Cascading circumstances.
My travel limits are pointing to a chimera with no destination.
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 my test?

It’s anonymous either way. 

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

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  

of all maps...

An organizing force under command matures into familiar splashes of
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 to aquatic worlds.
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 off all force.

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 outdoors folks, sailors, all on deck.  

To get back to the cosmos, our taxonomies stand tiptoe atop a few hustlers with ascending ideas, forgetting those battered below, lined up on broken mosaics, raw necks pounding from overtime    

like ex-czars.

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 my prom fitting, weeping inside. Funny place
for a dance, Mr Baker.

Bathing in enjambement, naked duty —
‘worth the trouble’ — called out in a tremblor voice to children,
a blur over the terrain,
a stenciled enclosure: our caller, a composer, shouts,

Let’s search for reason in nature’s chaos...
No one belts out a coda like this, pulsating — it’s wonderful.

A rationalized miracle.

I aver pollen eclipses stain both moon and sun with borrowed-spores.
Again, I don’t know much re: pollen,
I’m playing with borrowed-writing.
Any point of contention is biting now but my spores speed ahead 85 to 100;
that’s slow in a chilly gust. I won’t do much more, not even for track officials powered with centrifugal disclosure, facebooked in their past. So forget

Any legal plaudits, forget public jubilee — I should add my power gamut goes faster. My pollen instrument serves haves and abandons have-nots holding guitars spinning all ways in gelid hilly winds.

Your bromide is familiar. You’re gaining attention for the wrong infinite reasons, Jungfrau.
Stay where you are. Exploit the familiar, even an inkling. Glow lost, fast.

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

There’s much history.

Shadow sensory awareness, one chosen medium.

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

for their audience, saboteurs of the heart.

Fair haired singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to interminable sex. 
Learned consensus becomes early performance; both nonpareil
in a persistent sense, the deep pitch shows up invisibly,  
 
unspeakably, as libido constitutes a knowledge base, glistening aimlessly.   
 
Candy later.

Thudding airlines: The prosecution collapsed 
But we hand over our sack of warrants.   
 
In the end the evaluations are in. Jumbo on   
 

Justice, liberty, rule of law...   
 
Time to concentrate on that killer c.v.   
It’s about warrants for words, Might (Mate). Future thickets.     
 
It’s so much satori — Enablers will cooperate fully.   
For you, a love interest can get —    
 
Back to work, first it’s   
 
Urgent we go out and get wasted. 
 
The mood then passes from desolating satire to 
Constant put-downs you parrot like executive control 
 
— Holding firm in the wilds where fireworks will be slowly ignited   
“In slumbering gaze” parallel kill and be killed, united obliteration. 

Nobody trusts perception, eh?

Tho moral bases are a panorama your joy leads to a ‘representative’ fantasy or a
real facsimile apposite whom you perceive, blocking open
view, requiring accommodation to time
squeezes that appear on purpose, tho cyclical.
Conflict tho evil lends focus to self regard
and moving on — moving collegially, a potential utility of bachelorhood.

My leaving office is double edged as I’m prone to off-center my traveling light and affirming any retraction. I’m tapping down a reliance on hard work, pleasures, plans, and this most generalized — one shoulder hitched higher. I’m ready, set to name names but allegorizing ‘companions’ — it happens.

It’s nothing personal. Hands up.

On the corner of statue and cape, there’s
a play friend who just passed an easy show of hands
beyond orgasm overdue an hour ago (one mild altercation took it
into shades of de-constraining tease).

A heyday of hands.

There are statements of facts
And those of law. Their truth
Levels go down or soar — depending on
Outer linear order and your age.

Each generation gets torched through the pass, those that would,


Externalizing struggle beyond their years. (Like in the renaissance.)

In today’s federalism we’re feeling besieged and called out
within the meaning of no revolution now.

What’s missing is why is there feeling?
It’s a state of mind according to my heartburn.
Global warming heated a decimal of my pablum.
Where should I hurt?
Once or more. A few more.
There’s no torture unless it causes organ failure.

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

“Indebted” you may think sounds offensive and depraved — down where
“forgive me” and “accept me” weave around power lines, owing.

So we stay focused. Demented.
No shortcuts. Nope.
It’s regrettable, they say —
Twin Peaks doesn’t add up
under binge watch...

Not entirely, but it seems unforced holding to an ideally liberal oddity.
David L through Kyle M is an observer with an uncapped fortune,
reflecting what adolescents do when their backbones ice up,
raising all boats, all antisocial levels.

We’re a special team. We’re circumspect.
Our sharing mechanism (absent pretext) gives no voice
to repeated wandering motifs over a prolonged silence
we back off from. Nightly


we face 10-to-life thickets of cloud & southerly winds
taking it to other investors who might stay offended,

Yet “a solid base” cited in the last run of artifice foaming dissent —

It’ll be there where I leave it — under an emblem for downward spikes in bonhomie —

Non-linear process (formerly progress, of a kind), implicit co-branding of public domain utterance, hysterical strings (upon strings) of surprise, skilled narrative downgraded to parish bulletins, text-snatching and re-assembly lead on. In “Was That a Real Poem or Did You Just Make It Up Yourself?” Robert Creeley observes, “As a poet, at this moment [1974]...I am angered, contemptuous, impatient, and possibly even cynical concerning the situation of our lives in this ‘national’ place. Language has, publicly, become such an instrument of coercion, persuasion, and deceit.” Sure, though keep in mind that sentiment, along with this very sentence, is a set of ad hoc thematic pointers.

In the process something like an orange cloud enters the locker room of the essay. This is the middle section where Gustave Flaubert is transported to the essay’s ‘character’ to do the interfacing, theme propositions in your own words. Mis-formed as script.

Flaubert did not have a script, much less digital media, and the word ‘hysteria’ does not occur in the text of Madame Bovary. For his time, how informed he seems in connection with emerging appropriations by psychopathology. It’s an early manifest of a viral cloud in our terms. By now every sentence in MB can be re-assembled into a poem, waiting to speak out.

Stan the man, a legend;
it’s “OK” Stan explains,
we’re all Buddha’s fault.
He isn’t kidding.

More than a god, a three-in-one pet, a god’s pup
fills in quantum entities on a not-
fully-occupied terrain, terrain, I repeat, “on
pause.” This is spacetime —
Whew — you think of puppy paws
as your head fills up with the stickiest
most adorable pup gifs piling on
celestial dissonance as street lights hum

and flicker

as ……

well as

emotions
Stan aims to lay claim to and
defend as his own.
Soon. Or later than that. At once.

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

Burying the syllogism for life.


I’m picking up your agility pouring seeds, turning over new seedlings —

I should add I don’t know anything about microspores, also
Heavy pollen, nothing! I should add I’m living on borrowed-spores
It seems. I haven’t got back to tranquility either! — not even a truce..

Making up a to do list! blinded by periodic breakthroughs
Tho a pragmatics circumvents my will to amend things —
The focus is on nothing we won’t do..

Burying the syllogism for life.

Cloistered, possessive habits flatten into an axis
— tho it’s instinctive to watch who else is singing
I get no points jumping in or off.


It’s just synecdoche leaving not sharing to chance.
Calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with top notes we won’t inure, some jittery appliance in occipital brushfire, active against the ‘human grain’ under our governing bodies.

Sex has nothing to do with sex.

I thought you knew that.
It’s a joy problem, love let go on a technicality,
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch

— bantams and partisans together in calculated terror
Toweling off ready for their next bracket.
Boxing’s hospitable. No one’s that stupid.

Back I said, a piece of non-advice.

Innocence wrongly revealed concerns ethics, no intent. Spinoza moves against his own young interests.

Adoration had a poetic scent then. Still has.

Reputations get worse preceding disgrace, even when apprehension remains deferentially. Creature masks are conditions in unreasoning reprieve.
Who will advocate toward peace, for the tranquil
to empower mergers & exchange?

Without our cloaks, can you place our names? You’ll miss the point.
We’ve adopted a decorative indeterminacy wearing our terminal degrees, while anticipating how equivocal we are about Bedlam.

Unlike a head in the head, a bad faith supreme court is traded from and through the top. Time to find fortune underground, in smokey ransom north of here. As noted last century, there’s the rustic perp, a leading indicator for a doorpost modernism and muddled cool.

Received pronunciation foregrounds style but
We’re both bat shit over historical fantasy, received. Well, I enjoyed it.
Bowie’s on Netflix. What does he look like? It’s ok to impart?

I admire his marked snaps of skepticism, obsequious, sharpened anomalies.

An etude-like celebrity.

*

Boo hoo.
My friend ran away with his silent partner
who stole my identity. I'm trying
to look at it from another point of view.
The current balance resumes its teachings. Can-
dles out, pie for the asking, grace
to be white boats opposing payment due.

Destroy and smooth nothing.
Mind control paddles a canoe of alter-egos, disingenuous.

Time runs out.

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


I model your bifurcated attitude
yet

everything I do is sin. One after another piles up if
or when —

This is when.

The 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.
Go-fund-me off that.

RNA itemizes facts.
Do you like spiral dares?
Penitent, bubble-footed in stretched briefs!
None of the above!

Husky and never satisfied,
we are flabbily enraged
by fear and finding-it-out tools.

Retribution has those to spare..
tasked down from behaviorist beliefs.

Flashbacks bien sur
pertain. Wide reflecting pools to the future, just an adjustment of thought.
If we introduce a more devout
machine therapy, we can escape thought-

train derailment, evoking your heavenly drawl
in and throughout our rescue room from disillusionment.