Time after time microscopic honesty — we used to say — is the sanest practice for complete thumb control and body fitness. 
Let’s go thru it again, generations of ample volunteering and worship set these scruples up. They come back. Soon you relax your balance, honest equipoise for a good writer is common enough, even now. 
We went over our defensive appearances, for instance. Keep to schedule. Key is your keeping a regimen for hours at a time before it can wear off: So never let it. Curvatures in spacetime affix to our high expectations. If they pass muster they’ll undo any promise you have, had or you don’t remember in the aftermath of your hiatus (hesitation), revving up.

147: The impressive, impassive float seems to learn amour’s fever is a disease  
as desire is death, unwelcome overnight: 
“The float is radiant, jammed with wares,” 
 
had we anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I been  
eloquent as to the radiant as well as to the sickly, the bright
— we’d need no captions.”  
 
Mad, a lover’s discourse throughout anticipated that very base point, past cure, past care ..  
Why does reason leave now when there’s one move to go?  
Tho vainly expressed, longing is still well fed by our appetite to please.

A private-public distinction, extension 8, 
no longer limits outcomes for a buffered work force.    
 
Besides giving you empathy-like babble  
I rewrite over your agenda,    
 
A vapidly growing handcraft   
once I launch it —   
 
We got married without knowing side effects   
— wait, I forgot why I called.

Land use. That’s what the new world is about. Are we breeding steer or picking pansies? 
Just two modalities. Sorry, I have no other apolitical associations I can share. I ran through a dude ranch then tried raw energy.

Don’t know why the ranch stands there still in no summation after the transaction but before I turn away, circumscribed, all hat, no cattle.

117: What’s virtue? First, I have to repay all bonds as punishment, my willfulness and errors.
I recommend free time with ex-writers, video vignette note takers, engineers, others unknown, indistinguishable from applied scientists.

For now, after work we non-haters accumulate human octane wearing our Ray Bans and tailored tees.

To which (given time) ‘should’ = ‘want to’ = our bravo waking proof — scant proof without you, dear, dragged, transported far from your tri-level.

All to the winds since our inner bonds still tie me day by day under your august love:

But there’s also solitude, as conincidences accumulate as desert constants farthest from your sight.

So you get it now about dualism, you make 4 walls the rendezvous, hang a roof, lounge in queue for the motorcade. Your ride is brief —

A ruse, tho, can be your generic, long-living object that looks transparent, emerging as sleep. 
So you’re still in danger within the same maize-y wait time. 

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

127: C.V.: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating ravenous yawns in fair use, and there’s some age old false connection to an eyesore we dreamed up, borrowing a face beauty slanders. There, inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying nameless and profane, counting inventory, keeping faith from their esteemed orientation, mining the richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday or so they think: So many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs they flare up into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer! Blocks we’ve been party to after a late lunch. 
Hitherto ethos susses southpaw disproportionality, so lovers per lifetime meet their lucky doubles halfway, borrowing a face here, slanting a blurred promise we had there or we don’t know we had, in shame letting it, almost die down. 

Our last owner had an understanding with multiple staff. 
His happiness washes up in our candy-bar and cudgel DNA.   
O we’re 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 much of anything. 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. We’re summoning logical defenses to explain a Hail Mary pass and your first entertaining containment.

Feeling is feeling. It’s official.
Then it’s repetitive, suggesting emotion has gone too far 
& some at all levels will be disclosed, then not spoken of, 
climbing into casual spectacle, ritually putting 
our lives together & whittling wry self management into grift. 

55: A living record, a period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity — nor can we outlive this, against death, advancing slowly.
Not marble nor rhyme so move. Dropping my nor-mood... the fun workout once was of a soul, a tone cucumber, a hue not seen here nor in Lyon.
So why am I dwelling on posterity like a warrior groom?
My own lover’s eyes shine brighter than all the color coming into the poem...

You and I find room in this prospect — oblivious, uninvited, I bring guests — death and memory, statues overturned. I...

Even now in our eyes, we find fire for wearing out memory’s velocity — ask (or shall I ask) shall I?

Nor wills posterity rest.

No futures present new phenomena —
I have a tiny soft view of holding to their path, a core harmony purring yet often put aside.
3-D models are mindless taking chances. Anyone we can engage in transparent secrecy is charged by mental concision.

Rationed compliments ensue and float
several kinds of math.
The math is fascinating, I think, to squelch actionable conditions for surplus misuse as power we might have had. Had the self taken itself un-nostalgically?

— an idea to perform w/ just one note in the future perfect.. where any disrespect feels like eavesdropping.

31: You remind me of some gone. A morning crew, weathermen
Waving arms in endearing hidden patterns over their forecasts —
This was their 1st stab at tantrics, due many now.
They merited love trophies — yours alone now, all yours.
You have all of mine.

My tears buried viewing you. They’re inside you,
Removed, disguised as glare hung from all-in loving you.

Early nesting process stuff. Ketchupy. 
The coast is never clear, fat onesie...   
 
A whole new side to nuts & lightening bolts, narrow & hollow thru the center,  
along with holding on 100% — inflatable as you lay blank in a blank whisper,  
clearly in the nick of it, spoiling for everyone.

146: I’m talking to you in American. 
 
Our futurist savior went missing... No more dying then? No lie.. I watched us dream within recuperative economics, weeding and planting over a long radius, destabilizing some of the latest molecules that eat up itty Taos. Our body losses. Our Taos. Along with cooters and rhombus-gatherers, all doing time respectively — great work for the power preserve. A ton of cuts to molecule restructure, with chops on key language turns. Our biggest ideas — not from Asia, but from over time itself, on lease. Enough time for epic sums of cuts along with 21st century instrumentation reduced to dust whirls from open combat. (Maybe some new futurists / feminists will clear the air. Gulp.)     
 
Don’t know. Not going to lie. (Ideologues often get stuck on any ending with a make-sense line.) 

Fair haired singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to interminable, amorous 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.

83: Life with Mr Juice came up short — charm 
-ing & familiar — unfair tenderness in a paper sack. 
Hostess bike spinners & fake license & plate. 
A poet’s Chase debt.
I found (or again I thought within the stillness) 
Of your eyes nagging me for more .. Admit you miss late modern jhuzhes & doing away with text devices. 
You miss the first drag. You miss rendering 
 
Mr Juice wearing new credentials 
Your entire inner being (when others would give only their lives...) you, like me, have nothing set. 
Have you read, poets’ praise & worth get ten percent of their daily 
Calories from pot smoking — sleeping to excess.  
 
Mute poets hereon become slack. 
Thereupon, as Juice imputes to me, I’m barren as I am dumb.

Pollution control. This medicine causes confusion.
Yes, we can fudge an alphabet from a dirty grid of numbers and circles.  
We can whip up an alphabet of symbols within other system alphabets  
helping us read from grids, other notions and more homonyms  
 
as well as take on upgrades for discoursing in colloquial physics.  
Yet a steel door stays open. Here are the last letters of bliss.  
We best defer to the upgrades to shake them off.  Back to the distracting alphabets.
Deep blues and silvers with biological shades perform as vowels;   
 
consonants are shown with senior upgrades,  
slurred with what is everpresent.

83: Life with Mr Juice came up short — charm 
-ing & familiar — unfair tenderness in a paper sack. 
Hostess bike spinners & fake license & plate. 
A poet’s Chase debt.
I found (or again I thought within the stillness) 
Of your eyes nagging me for more .. Admit you miss late modern jhuzhes & doing away with text devices. 
You miss the first drag. You miss rendering 
 
Mr Juice wearing new credentials 
Your entire inner being (when others would give only their lives...) you, like me, have nothing set. 
Have you read, poets’ praise & worth get ten percent of their daily 
Calories from pot smoking — sleeping to excess.  
 
Mute poets hereon become slack. 
Thereupon, as Juice imputes to me, I’m barren as I am dumb.