I’ve got to hold back. Not bob around.

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 evermore in dispute.

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

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

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

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

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

This is becoming 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, my feelings which move in time
While this lowest button erases...

There they go
When you say

Well stay well
Where they rang.

Anima to Anima, you couldn’t be ruder.

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 hands I cull from hearsay. Raising one exudes only passion, which if you allow I agree with, with intertwined wilderness raising two...

You don’t understand until I do.
The if-movement (aspirations) can be thought
A saga you (any of us) can pump off & on — so on

-Coming, coming clean is another part of closeness.
Later, new police!
[old paranoia]

It’s open mind month. Didn’t I show you? 
Squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one-off color equation 
of a deceptive simplicity 
in love, duplicity.  
Creationism = one boyfriend better than others, believing none.   
 
Separated from a source of meditation, let’s call it, you’d be sad too.  
The source is not sad. One separated from the source is.   
 
Or of course it’s obvious.  
Sadness is beside itself.

Pickerel babes greet one another in fluent

Pickerelish. Parents want to lose their young

but can’t, stuck in schools, diagonal peach cones & rods of violet.

(As with most fish

there’s salience to nodding agreement thought-

fully.) I get all my ideas from media

studies, yet inorganic brainstorming

like this is easier-to-sleep-w/-&-pulsate

-to.

My counselor affidavit registers deficiency in discovery and revolving pretexts. All the same, hunches count. (We’ve always been competing with our selves.) 
 
Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for foundering within the social anomaly of treason.  
Rules commit us. Voters once chose Trump. Yet this is the latest case.  Everything I note here is integrated. Remember those days? Remember those databases centered on surplus insertions while Kennedy, sober on the ground, kept looking up... (Reminds me when democratic ideals could get by on appearances.)

30: Losses restored?
Often there’s near loss of a precious friend — I think of you — words we had or not — all our words forewent consequences. Our moaning sessions went bad like grief, since we know sweet woe summons up dim remembrance of the past — wastes of time.

Yet I take liberties wailing... I have a dream of fairer housing: Free-range light and dark in the clerestory to our lair... where sorrow ends. Some of us are headed there. My treat. Would you like to come?

“Stages of violence yearn for their whereabouts.
The sneakiest conditions disperse — thinking of you (had I?)
not out of calculation; it began how far and vast

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

15: It’s a day of insight, full of youthful trust, a nimbus-wet pulse — tho I’ll never feel your perfect arms around me again. Never feel the air and my skin, or wake up in your sap.. your secret warm bed, I’m done, I don’t get a chance to look at you, comment, or try again for anything, not even for something I’m not. I can’t do any better than what I’ve done for love of you.

18: Allergic to verse? I begot a temperate art, set to make more mistakes, too many rough spots, too hot this month or one that’s past. I’ll say, all summer you are more than nature’s change in course, growing, untrimmed — owning the day for each moment — and knowing when to shine, to seethe.

And when you seethe through the heat of eternal summer, you back off.. ah
Whew. After, right away we look for you within all fair poetry, an art form
So fair as far and for as long as lungs can breathe.