1/18/21

The crisis to now: Form is not
object but double identity, an explosive
funneling a non-hegemonic pulse — and due to substitution
off rhyme gathers in the moment

You look fabulous, a strong monster
under scrutiny from your upcoming voiceover!

Some will have heard everything.
But that’s when we fundamentally begin to wander
Like adjunct pleasure twins once in a trance, just this once.
After glamour there’s revisionist power, a legacy inside us. Wo- 
lfed down improv crap — we’re pre-wired or is there a fee? 
Radiance now is in a lather. Remember deliverance?  
 
“What if it doesn’t work. Then what?” Everything works. 
In any time and place of our choosing: Act gathered, something there?  
 
True love brings on a physician practiced in the arts of relapse.

1/17/21

Concision in detailing method is a catamaran of process.

This is how morning began.



Getting there we wait in long lines for Twain. The Thai are hardly speaking. I turned to a companion and asked if he was interested in how poetry’s put together.
He thought about pure things as style surrounded by syntax. All in one at once.
Fact: eye contact is more defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense that’s forbidden. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making patterns to and from alterations sited within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.  At the same time I’m forgiven I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)
Concision in detailing method is a catamaran of process.

This is how morning began.



Getting there we wait in long lines for Twain. The Thai are hardly speaking. I turned to a companion and asked if he was interested in how poetry’s put together.
He thought about pure things as style surrounded by syntax. All in one at once.
144: You and I model language as living matter — the love we have re-involving impulsive energy coursing through particles of appropriated wit and spirit, especially given appearances and language given itself. Still. Never in doubt, you and I despair over synthetic transmutations of savage intelligence as if it were only that, as if poetry weren’t a history of subjugate pride and fiendish procedures.
Pound. Confused or colorful, often gaudy, a mazed creature, vagabond within a Dutch bordello (condottiere inflated), involved in deliberately ambiguous strains of professorial fat (think of Cathay). A motley mayor to his inlet, his weeded self, a speck of a noun beat against cymbals, a puzzler over a paronomasia offered by anti-popes and holy fools who wore down the degringolades and moving tyros at the head of modernity —

In the forefront of wooden tones, EP served his victims the mystery dead hand, uncertainty occulted and shiny. We borrow from EP, tracing him down now to throw him into erumpent, latticed breakthroughs he first walked into, then over. A discolored specialist for a mendacious tomorrow, a tomorrow indefinitely remote, not new, rantipole yet superfine.

Had Pound retroactively polluted intake of the high modernist toxins that aesthetic portends? Poetry released of all responsibilities regrouped, rooted in political indifference, self-abnegation, self-defense. Poetry no longer invoked to try history.
Realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio” 
I am touched by everyone now alive,  
softest jazz, lower right, his lips moving up, down,  
talking design shit.
His father’s image contains everything he knows. How can a bantam weight =  
feigner? his dad asked in freeze frame over the mirror phone.   
 
(Dad’s next book is staring out the window, saved-up.)  
Amusing I suppose. With regard to static and its ovoid, stasis  
in a compulsive battle over the ultimate smiley face —  
it’s not just who grinned first (dad) that counts, but also where  
and how. This’s my tongue giving his lips (the son’s) a brush up  
realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”

1/16/21

This could have been a sonnet lit from within
visual poetry. I never use that word now.
In better versions, cunning and pathos =
appropriating outsourced flattery.

No such matter to dispute where I’ll...

I’ll try for an overweight, imitative invention
from the horror state, what some call civil

disservice for un-streamlined intake. Soak up the view.
Dispatched for 
chaos  
 
yet  
subjects of desire in another sense, an echo  
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible  

July light  
Minimalist  
and suddenly just theory  
 
awing in a wolf’s regime,   
There’s brush  
fire toward mosquitos — shot  
through the throat, asking too much 
62: No remedy surmounts heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots a whole series, bright, tanned & then defined by sympathetic parody & indeed praise, contrary to less gracious remedies.

We have functional emotions, I think, grounded by self-love & this choppy vocab of possessive affects. There’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I’m reading the last place you are true, here in my heart, shifting iniquity to self-inquiry & I read you. Stay with me, for I will never stop.
To continue —

orphans make 1) bad syllable breaks — there should be no syllable breaks! 2) bad line breaks — just 1 or 2 short words on next line; 3) bad page breaks — just 3 or 4 lines on 2nd page. . BAD.

You’re a world-famous trance inducer. That’s it.
Montana homeland defense initiatives; ever higher heels; shallow buyers pool; bankrolled genocide; hideous poems...

Missing italics.
Beside Panker observation tower, from which one can see in good weather the far over Baltic to Danemark, the Forestry House Hessen Stein lies.
In former times vertikal foresters got their Ausbesserungen along with sailors for a Senkrecht. From that forest messengers with sailors on Hessen Stone glow.

Today one can eat excellently and jazz friends here come also.

1/15/21

Sir Fric and Frac. Remember them?

Fric just called, said “We were swimming naked, a word I often use to characterize my falsehoods. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed another human. I felt something strange but familiar.
To me, bringing this up this late in the afternoon is totemic.”
I fell silent and wrote it all down.

*

The love-it-’til it-bellows medium I write thru is about momentary truth-telling thru lies, especially. A range of conversation impressed into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences.

Proportioned asides.

A kitchen to heat pizza.
Wake up and work.
Core harmonic structure: call back when you want

— The world becoming flat and falling across

The telling (of)

(Instances of)

Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic

Streaks and — weird! — high wails of titanic fog, sifting down from

Rain ceilings (of)

The snow. The snowing. The across (falling),

It is (falling) across
Morton Feldman.
102: You’re the matter at hand merchandized within isomorphic rotations from green hues perpetual to earth.

You’re asking a lot.

Still our love was new.
Well, most of these “notes” are literal, based on trying to sit down [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still the matter.”

The access air of inevitability around more advanced codes shattered. I hold my tongue. Shattered seemed inauthentic in the a merchandised sense. You are more than a song of sex. You’re holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. This.
We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.
The odd delay repeated.
Evasion foregrounds style, motives — the harsh gets exaggerated.
It’s been a driftwood century so far, valuing hoax.
To commune sounds handsome, also calm, also a bit bendy. In the same call he reverses prerogatives — or his voice does. (I’ll table the difference. Each.) 
“Cloven, we are incorporate... ” 
His message mixed but never better aligned. Together, all across the call center (our hideout), learning the ropes, perusing scraps and parts of hope.  
 
No fins of infinity. Nope.   
 
Halloween patterns clenching exponents where attachment is rimmed.  
 
We have no major issues.  
No shady aftermath inter-scope.   
And to think a way out, we can blur the ground and yield authority to a bowl... really a vase. Sit and watch dogs turn smoky brown tracking vans in drizzle, tarnished from sight, playing against a stack of storm windows, within a composure for light a translator can’t reach.

1/14/21

Granted on a more personal note, I maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic for one more time.
The place was firmly democratized, sir. The beginning seemed and was
interpenetration among important parallel scenery et cetera running this. Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush nimbus-wet in devotion to their next decimal of the scenery. This might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads

and let you know when.
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.
Sonnet 40:

When you read this, my injury appears prior to who prompts it.
Not you.

We were informed of your deceit in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with new features and a few we move in any direction.
But not you.

Take all my loves, my love. You steal from me and vice versa since all of us are in use.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom
interest me only so far. More curious is why we approach poetry in English primarily in terms of understanding it.

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.
Not you.
*  
1) 

Reading back: Defense owns — there seem — accents — these: 
such on put days, our 
moving & light, puzzling in place 
of morning winter smiles .. a chorus 
Emerges which on canvas .. 
noises w/ filled silence .. 

*
2) 

Here’s a proposition. Start over. Compelling work toasts knowledge construction — in the plainest speak — as well as finds, explains & reforms infinitesimal times-spaces. Your optimism is required (a) to keep everything open for reform; (b) to understand we are beginning the work, always. 

1/13/21

Psychotropic bios diagnosed as bare truth- 
Stratagems. Siphon starters. Add the rank  
 
I confer on the next available one who is consonant and balanced, living and perhaps dying with one  
Until he goes broke — summarily I’m screwed of what beauty was.  
I center then on perception (for another purpose), sustaining losses out of irony.
I was going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension
of disbelief. There’s a flipping out dance scene like martial arts, sparkling pen-


umbrae, a pro ring barnstorming topmost
dicing / re-arranging rhythms pushed to extremes,
undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.
96: This is weird. A focus group from the groom’s side picked us both, agreeing w/ newer media that features young, wanton candidates, lower right, with your lips, center frame, moving up and down, sport documentation, more or less:

The groom was in the vicinity, being led astray...

Here’s the stumper.

Whatever base or ism, the urge to love is put down to error and class anthropology.

We open our front door and see what the state’s strength translates to. The shortest path ignited by havoc, honest and exhausted gazers. Geezers and young geezers. From it’s-not-the-same-now all the way to a nanoscience of celebrating honest betrayal. Sort of addictive.
Anthropology won.
Pull over, this is serious.

Muted desperation, the flip side of formalism, the in-your-face improvisers hold our attention. [‘We’ = a match in perseverance.] Hannah Weiner is perhaps our most performative, non algebraic example. The young John Wieners (and I’d stress the elder as much or more). There are texts and opuses that look unplanned and freely improvised. Can algorithms be improvised? According to code, of course. The human names are familiar. O’Hara, Ceravolo, stretches of Notley, Mayer. Sometimes Spicer, sometimes not. The wildness of not knowing where each is taking us would be a common satisfaction. Today’s practice comprises the layering of plans and improvisation; post-Coleman we speak freely of fake jazz and listen for positive results. Similarly, the fake improv of atomized procedures — to point to a solid phenomenon — allows for a number of false questions — Can algorithms be improvised? — along the way to sketching a counter addendum (nachträglich) between plan, no plan, a bicameral entry to inquiry about where writer and the writing are going away.
Your search had no results.
The time is split into categories of use for your work and for the sinister about-face of a system download added to our labor.
A life sentence for causing a ruckus.
Call when you’re ready.

1/12/21

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.
It’s alpine only in one direction,
but metabolism will live trailing off anyhow, all
along with clumsy fearless tempos,
a framework for rants surrounded by cool ceramic
wallboard, balmy alter 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?
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.
147: The 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 base point, past cure, past care ..  
Why does reason leave me now when there’s one move to go?  
Tho vainly expressed, longing is still well fed by our appetite to please. 
Sway your head. That means dance.

Don’t hold it in. Talk to your doctor.

Read this. I do.

It’s half in libretto.

Try something cartoonish. I’m whirling around, pens and markers in hand in roughly 4 minute stints. Learning something about what I mean, high jinks soar belying despair over entropy, a quiet smoke, losing gravity!
One presumes elements are strung together out of desperation and a deeply ingrained exposition to demark the unknown, much as technology funds science.
Pantoum: given a key, you lose it
  — shifting your attention but staying in touch. 

I forget functioning ghost towns caked with tire tracks; 
I draw a blank on jailhouse interiors and decades of Tonka trucks... 

[...there is no outside [...] only what’s already here [what we breathe] below, which is 
Immature, impulsive...] [as above] 

— I forget empirical relationships the most, the visual force of 
                                       a “mottled taxonomy,” 

Complaints and sworn declarations, 
I forget missing you. 

1/11/21

Thru drizzle stepping over water balloons floating
In a once swimming pool.. spurts of views down
Walkways and stairs set apart and fronted
With balmy music waking in dimming brightness
Without memory of how I got there, you.
3 acts to living comprise the intervals it contains minus select channels —
life like deep blurs formally at odds, one segment, 2 new episodes.
Life in split seconds joining a bigger movement in time w/ no data.
The last dialogs are libertine laced w/ Frankfurt School brio & science fiction.

Your writing here
you’re reading at another
time coming at you later yet now.
23: My agent is in a rage. Imperfect
actor whose shortcomings balloon in ‘harmony’ & use. 

Imperfect — for love’s epistemology scampers in secrecy 
in so large abundance I weaken from fiercer ideas to leverage your silent heart.
Listen to my eyes, please. 

My dumb mien may adhere to expressive rules, 
pleading w/ you, entered into by trusting you first, always. It’s always 

your clear refinement where character offers libation, a rite
to love you, and I act on my own to speak —
To wit, from your eyes I can read love and you can hear it now.
A beautiful writer is stunning, front and center. When
distracted, s/he hears “Continue − to enter the contest area − Continue.”

Some say, not going to lie, both of us botched a radius of this, destabilizing
‘oppositional’ temperament. On our side, we’re doing well, considering.

            To consider the green wooded radius is greater work, cuts straight
through any restructure, throwing out hyper-nonliteral depth w/ gutsy, landscapist abandon.
The budget cuts (last line) are background to double-rhymed ambient scores.
Entire sectors feel it’s the end of capital, epic sums expended in slender career arcs.

            The floodgates and instrumentation get redone for full
combat. We wonder about other churning bits of our lifeline.

It might be some freedoms are on probation ...
according to decision theory now. / Not only for continuing,
the problem has been how.
Don’t care, don’t moan, lie only about what’s really
colossal — masking your vanity becomes the tortured challenge clinging to verse. And.

To vanity, tyranny’s conditional surrenderer. 
And I was thinking of god’s shoplift energy .. 
Hold on, I was handed this bag of sentences. 

And this is what I did not want to say.

1/10/21

I am is still here, the body’s purring could not be put off. (One dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary). 
 
Wrong. Constantly wrong was once correct. (Seriously? But what’s with identity. What about it?)
[can’t stop it...through 
language [going in] [out...] cheesy time lapses in which [animating backward] speech & narrative continuity become incrementally  
 
transformed into deep structure affixing Old Norse phonemes to nonobserving verbs.   
Now my head is cleared.   
 
Still if we had grounds I’d subside higher up having you weed out caution.   
 
I call all this you leaving me. 
Can we construct the weather to circle bright light credited to seven chimeras in a purified labyrinth?
Yes, I think we can. Those seven now under the weather thrill to sleep, resembling one another trembling.

Pine assembling.
I am is still here, the body’s purring could not be put off. (One dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary). 
 
Wrong. Constantly wrong was once correct. (Seriously? But what’s with identity. What about it?)
[can’t stop it...through 
language [going in] [out...] cheesy time lapses in which [animating backward] speech & narrative continuity become incrementally  
 
transformed into deep structure affixing Old Norse phonemes to nonobserving verbs.   
Now my head is cleared.   
 
Still if we had grounds I’d subside higher up having you weed out caution.   
 
I call all this you leaving me. 
51: In motion, no excuses — war is unjust when there is only one side to wage it.
Gleaned from what war is, my desire keeps pace.

I’ll be an angel investor in spontaneity, no need but love, for love.
This is strictly, deliriously our business, self-realized adventure
losing daily battles, no excuses.

What time do you get off work in poetry? Should I know?
Speeding up when swift extremity can seem but slow

I hastened to run toward you
as though mounted on the wind before even starting ..
Like dozens of others spin
-ning opaque data sets, it’s probable
I’ll never make chicken
or any designated soup for you — I never make
chicken soup but if you ached for me to
I would.
You come before vegetarian salvation.
I’ll never make
that either.
To paraphrase ... you can’t predict 
How or even what you’ll be taking from your background experience; 
there are too many of you.  
 
Favorite singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to having sex.
Learned consensus becomes early performance; both puerile in the present tense,
the deep pitch shows up invisibly,
unspeakably, as libido constitutes foreknowledge, glistening aimlessly.

Bruise will stop by later. 

1/9/21

Don’t care, don’t moan, lie only about what’s really
colossal — masking your vanity becomes the tortured challenge clinging to verse. And.

To vanity, tyranny’s conditional surrenderer, 
I was thinking of god’s shoplift energy .. 
Hold on, I was handed this bag of sentences. 

And this is what I did not want to say.
[adverb here] I can’t face facts. I invented the elbow railing
thru intimation, insinuation, innuendo. 
It was something I ate but stronger in [noun phrase].
Never believe quite a theory, never say it’s conjecture.
It costs a constellation or a bundle of heart, faint of. 
73: One will die; one will see all sunsets fade to ashes then black. 
But I’m leaving the night choir behind. Awake, still making love with you at day’s end where yellow leaves shake blowing past bare boughs and dusk, glowing, seeming content, consuming, consumed to expire.   
 
Death is a nominal fallacy like twilight now: To love you as if that’s true... and stronger — this is my late take away. I don’t understand cold fire any time of year even in the west, where the sweet birds sing, by and by sang. 
Planet Earth is Maoist hell — ringed with grassy estates where a blind woman can tiptoe or fall further.

A blinded poetry executrix kind of dumps on me. (It’s a leftover from Buddha’s show-and tell, a truly exaggerated enterprise.)

I never dump back. I hope her loss (me) helps her become a better entrepreneur and public intellectual. Or I wish her savvier gurus.
Here’s another centerpiece to explain how flowers are cut in plurals like progressions.
Iconoclasts count on progressions in a series, along with any allure of falling cornices
(they did).
Literally nothing was granted.
But it’s a poem.
Now months later, it’s good news
Also, since you wait to listen, not empower others.

Everything belongs hiding in plain sight, fallen unhinged, no limits. Not a one is
the point... an ornamental one; our brain / body fiber pierced 24/7, point two...

Terpsichore is still ascetic, improvisatory, sherbet hued like Erato, a voice of suspicion, hisses.