We’re fidgeting to mind our semiotic manners,
lit by mid-lunch clarity, sporting, Floridian...
an enclosure with no pulpit, without dogma...

spreading out in willful overloads of language design,

Skilled decor. De-simplified or notional contracts
in contretemps between science and who knew?
ironic technologies with no precedent...
a corporate hold across a matrix of manners and adaptations, restrained praxis and hermetic syntax.

One needs antic intellectualism. Lead-free prose.
Four husbands.
Simplistic, Manichaen juxtaposition.
A solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.).

Jousting snacks.
New verbs like dave, firebug, Stradivari.

Madam poet reads her singable pieces uninflectedly,
a dissonance that plays to mock solemnity (“sing me, song”)
and tuneful reproach (“play dough of god”).
Combing through my notes there’s a world of disputes,

Churlish puffins and other problems to shatter the continuity

Of my exploding goofiness over lunch; of course I mean exploring.

There is no circling the rink.
No complaints or sworn declarations,
Nothing frilly and glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;
We’ve lost your name card and your name.

This would be my most empirical debacle to date — a bumblebee
clocked into life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
is a flaw like smearing vetiver over its mad, abstract body.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the air in lithe shorthand coupled with fast
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.

What makes chosen words dressed in black?
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority.
Most rainbows taste like shit, but we keep looking. Bullied into autocracy
Hell is too big to fail.

Meanwhile the loyal opposition fast becoming influencial in the field is fired.

The ousted president drops to his knees.

Tensions were apparent.

Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to a co-op, wrapped in steam.

Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague exchange, like our national plebiscite, maybe better to pump out to fog’s grasp.

Waves (all the best of them) beat my eyes off. Don’t care, I still see and lie about what I believe is fact, clinging to both. Structured improvisation takes a volume of time, only now it’s coming back as bone substance.

Like The Inferno and Nerves and every shined thing since, we are collectively involved engineering the tide of speech desire.

One doesn’t know any more
or if there are good times ahead of war.

Terry Eagleton’s formulations re text and production can be less daunting when edited within their central premises. 1) Production is key. 2) Text is a production of ideology. 3) Text and performance — a production of a production (such as a theatrical performance of a text, Eagleton’s example, or critical interpretation of a text, my example) – texr and production are “analogous to the relation between grammar and speech.”

Speech is a product, not a reproduction, but of grammar; grammar is the determining structure of discourse. The character of discourse cannot be mechanically derived from it... In studying the relations between text and performance... sigh... we are studying a mode of determination which is precise and rigorous, yet one that cannot be accounted for in terms of a ‘reflection’ or ‘reproduction’. We are examining, in short, the conditions of an a priori production. 


Voices say, personalities, like voices, are loaned to us.
Early winter colder rain or snow draws us audiophiles —

Minus wind, light rain or snow construes visible silence,
plundering contexts with non-rhyme, much asymmetry.
Rain or snow’s great undercurrents cut straight thru reconstruction,
roughing up shadows turning over in a reserve of self-abandon

Turning shreds in searchlights for a soundtrack over time.

A petting zoo cannot stand for practice?

As a curator of sorts, I have to ask. A lot.

Your space calls for more.
Defy self interest.
What’s left is alpine only in one direction,
but metabolism will live on / off anyhow, all
along with clumsy, fearless tempos,
a framework for rants surrounded by cool ceramic
wallboard, balmy altar figures.. worth conserving or not?
Swimmer:
Our models are you & everything I can live by w/out being
sequestered or bitterly charged for my shortcomings.
Ballooning in harmony around some parts of sky

I understand as profuse clouds. Understand as in take in.
Huh? Is it the fire? Up in ideal sparks’ glow

made indispensable for smearing a light force
that travels down in a tiered border-like scrawl?

A warm nearly winter day.

Solved for the resplendent spelling, but not remorse.
Now it’s a year later, a fine day emanating will go,
good news tho.
Typo, I’m late; it’s fitting, weeping inside before you go away.
Not at rest, circumspect. (I’m just beginning..)
Well, most every worry or mistake is literal, based on trying to rewrite
hellish varieties of you getting fingerprinted from eight
perspectives, from xvith-century Italian drawings..

..The stars are out of their miniseries
one boomerang day after another. Every day’s
important, I see. I remember your aroma, &..

..Before that yoga is fantastic, a civilizing coterie added to sempiternal space &
entered into w/ a worldview w/out achieving access to felt qualities.

Having only a sec, Are you thinking of me?

I used to believe so, along w/ all the grossular and pine boxes keeping us apart opening to our former lives, winning-losing before comic, breezy violinists w/ silver hats — Superangels w/ instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge.

Time’s up.

Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — I don’t care.
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you what we’re doing.
How there’s a piece of karate, fragile backs we erase, how
there’s turbulence... something else active, pointed. Your
push reaches a piquancy where time management is unleashed.
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting one’s own
brow.

As Isaac passes from consonance to desolated marsh,
walk along with me. / Where to?

To the battlefront. Nightly sex skyrockets (blasé for improvising


at first, then it coils over & feels there are authentic possibilities) ..
We admire our parents (ghost punks), friends, enemies’ enemies,
strangers, also, why not? Attempting authenticity in insoluble
speech, I feel them, their pretty itches. How

deep blues and silvers with biological shades form vowels.

Consonants have already taken shape from older models,
losing what is always present up to now.

We fell in love and enjoyed it when the vertex saw you off. Later we got dressed for golf, and congregated in the face with peers.

Better now if we didn’t digress but file out a shade apart to trail so many copycat champions of democracy.
Heaven is in the heart with its egg drop of credos, documents, from which large scale dull instruments are tossed upon the freeze.

Say you’ll be back. A blast of cold air
Stoked by an invasion of intimacy.

Long day, maestro. I’ll butt dial (this still happens) you,
egressing. We’ve achieved very little even with our arguments intact,
noting there’s pride — I didn’t take any — pride in our measures
— to section our mountainous itches and engagements
— to go over, mix more with money types,
top cashiers — it’s called freedom of worship.

To want as well as have nothing
I shouldn’t ask did I live like that fly on the wall?
Surface depth. You shouldn’t expect to rework this at all.
Self restraint & perverse incentives, an unknown future’s cart

Before ew teachers, new stratagems, even newer phenomena
To run down & over — any & all mayhem will be unannounced (achieved)

Or they won’t be since we talk thru flexible models &
Already what you say takes us off the jet trail! quelling fear of pain.
But.

But you never can tell. I won’t.

We can’t compress enough or too much. We were one people at one time. We also = I. This is how the toy psyche writes more conscientiously touching on a couple of endearing dual roles in an algorithmic translation; desultory of us to read and reread pain extending to your one body and infinite ceilings, howling for the first time.

Next, a glistening database is advanced by textuality. The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity tracing out how to refine / displace your contempt.

[..]

Classification will be adjoined by evolutionary adaptation passed on to descendants.

If we’re lucky, Euro notes will rule our major commitments, puns of data solutions on the punishing ground looking up. They’re bearing full dark 18th- and 19th-century ideas.

(I don’t mean that as deeply before we hand over our new theory.)


Finish a stretch and the clouds get confused. Confused the way

A rusted barge dries in the sun painted orange.

Ok, this is no water view. Clinically proven.
But theory is something else.

Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping the gloom of purgatorio as perceptions with different possibilities blow town including the best halo effects and feelings.
They and you’ll come back.

It’s nice finally to put a face to the humiliating, hand-covered breathing.
Today, every day your open censorship flourishes,
filtered, praised as token austerity.

Cliché inflects empty chit chat.

More serious is only the dreariest aspire as such in the abstract?

There’s a key to forget this mess when we mask how often nobody gets a hearing was mentioned —
disproportionate to the vacant bits transcending that of hearing itself.