You’re welcome, September (April). Plugged, tall, slim,  Aggrieving. 

We’re in public space, an elevator or the hallway. We think 
Mining data still has a more colossal future than trigonometry, many floors  To appropriate then publish recipes we began tinkering on.  Life wheels. We borrow the ephemeral Triumphs as April questions  Conventions, boundaries, and syntax. September exits. Yay.
Did you catch the interim report?   
Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of capitalist brokering that considers prototype approximates in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard. At first.     
Moving forward we have all of an hour to take in sweetness made for infamous exposure (in costume) indoors then out.   
Lights up — we take ourselves down a stretch through the libretto where we reserve dissonance. You deserve it.   
Sweetness is vacillating as usual after hours on clear nights. Robbers, cops 
Though fragrant, turn opaque    
And poof — still fragrant..   
..could rain.
Self determination for all in distress —

Dissonant sports metaphors seem prepared for a gullible ally, hon.
Like preparing the red matter.
(There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.)
Gadgetry from the future,
How can this be put?
Hey I love you naked —
We went from one thing to another, came back.

Buds to blossoms.
66: Simple truth, our work here in the desert is beginning to spin. Like the blind we’re disabled by authorities who wiretap secrets weighing nothing in, no credit, no ripped off melancholy, nothing but misplaced honor with a substitution agreement containing you and a more civil version of you in full force, pulled at from inside..  and..
Can we cut to the disgraceful part?  
Relax but beware, laws of cause and effect are disabled as traffic pours in and aims straight at you. And the other you. Tired with this, the other you will perfect the business end (doctor-like). The civil you and I misplaced our joy since sleeping on it.. applying love to our own flesh alone as well as losing control of forsworn holding skills. Simply tongue tied and tired of all this perfection, I leave my love but attend to you and yours, of course. And.
Here’s a thought. Stiles of cash stuffed inside passions, stacking up with such speed our national debt reflects the world as it is, advancing toward convenience stops and arbitrary stretches we don’t care about.

Well, most of these “pieces” are literal, based on trying to sit down and sing [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still wearing your headset.”

An air of inevitability around advanced codes has been shattered. Inevitability seems inauthentic in a heavy mustache sense. I am more than at war. Your holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. Realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”
An awful virus. Just an excuse.
Rhetoric as privilege dies. 
Came from outer space; was well radicalized before it got here. 

Freer speech in every direction — your known inclination 
for walking strong will accelerate, wild yet tranquil, excused —
ruthless in value, the boundless layers set in funereal trance 
tweeting under the bust of the rhetor, a civil, democratic ideal. 

But no one tweeting lives a commune of ideals. Freedom is personal 

As we go about hungry like other animals brushing up on ideas...


Music filters out thru the one crack in the bridge against the old
Sky. All the airports sink back in black and white marsh, snakes.  
Day to day sometimes in sunlight geographers breathe, “3 times furrows [..] we behold.”  
We’re going to be here as long as it takes.
I’m going to leave you in the middle of the city where you belong, you robot dog.
Sweetest of the geeks take their training to heart and join a special breed apart. Hoody dog, shoddy demeanor and default dalliance will get us to our destinations faster and more pumped. Something about / the “human couplet” / piques me all over and under. It’s a military formula, zennish almost, doggy enough striving to write as well as to rock. (It’s less lonely with an audience.)
A gridded compartment has decided most perfectionism is out of step while playing an aficionado of the vulgar to provoke both nature and disclosure. 

Those organized under its strong gesture shall triumph. The compartment frame knows this and taps our communication, a dissonance born of necessity. Our dialog reflects gritty highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence. Oo oo it’s discovered her voice.
130: If my love is rare, modesty is unimpressive.
Well, I do think my love rare — nothing like false equivalents on the ground. Nothing like the sounds growing on my head — I almost see your pleasing words spoken from your red lips, smelling them, eating and breathing them, too.

I love to hear you speak.

I speak of your hair, your breast, my master, not a god! your eyes, more delight, no such comparisons come to mind, nothing like the sun.

Nothing like perfumes of yours, as well — I love breathing in the scent off your cheeks. And yet thru modest words our love vibrates more like music than speech.
I feel socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing
The practical center
More than any single system,

A huge agnostic discipline
About attitudes behind morals.

You know this open and shut —
Take it down / or thumb thru

The balance left over. Inhabit the brim

To the point you realize
We know now — now less than nothing...
a view down a corridor of great numbers.
Obsessing over you the sky squeaks w/ common sense, folds into dreams.  
Travel lit finds it has a square shape, after all, bolted down in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for competing raiments.   
There is an interpretation to this nightly misfortune (all ours). A dream flight is tight. You can’t find your story in a void or crescendo: Where’s the cost?   
Well, all right let’s not.   
Where are domestic metaphors anyway? our rooms have even less to say..  
Tho, when I’m feeling it, going out and doing things metaphysically .. 
.. I get where I was.


Eurozone class struggle is more and more slippery. Or peach-dreamy. I’m not sure
discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income distribution,
honing you / shaving one into two dimensions on the surface.

I’m socialist by nature, maintaining perspective (the tatemae policy), I pray
while cashing in analytics but I’m alive
(lifting one datum off) to mine parallelisms (partisan gold), no one strain.

Atheism is otherwise the main event at the Hague. Secrets of satire float
free to find an informatics of doors opening (bassoon music) and structured
multiplicities (and an ear for sex).
Sonnet 135:

To commune sounds spacious, un-calm, bent to boot. In the same call you vex prerogatives, that is, your voice does. (I’ll table the large difference.) 
“The sea.. all water” 

— Your message is mixed but never better aligned for an abundant way or a will of mine. We’re rich together in our acceptance of death — death will be our hideout, learning the ropes, perusing scraps and hopes of coping. 

The unoccupied mind long overdue. The you 

I still reference in primary season. With your suitcase. 

I’ll pack for the gracious aftershock of your going ahead, reading, lifting, adding and reflective or reflecting? you in the foreground, all water. 
The Inuit, among others, are fascinated with pottery. 
Any dark ceramic with asymmetrical tenets is tacit  
but could be looking up at its light source, feeling talkative..  
maintaining maximum restraint to engage another psyche.
Irritating city.. reminds me, Eros is immediate, overwhelming, terse & of a Castilian order. A hundred décors in one & one metal rubbed by hand. Piano hands.

Bellwethers, fey bloodhounds are sub-jazz. If ripples reflect the instant barter handing off potential thru another, then you... ..this would be how vertebrates flatten lips, usually wet, blue and silver white

becoming day after night. O no thanks or so we have another Eros in common.

Cough, cough.

Tomorrow we leave, a sunset over anthropogenic clouds.


                  Far as we got any night they enter,
they appear as though they are with us..
it’s amazing how they simply pass
coming from the history of laughter, radicalized before they got here
                  proceeding within under a bust of John Wieners..
With each rallentando I feel cleaner, more nondenominational.  
I look up at elm crocuses flinging their odor, climbing their trunk.  
  Their air apparent. Also, I feel cleaner with you. Clearer of ignoble gases and flux. I do.  
Love is hell. Hell’s molecules will sue  
you — they’ll sue us both for our goals and coral glow —  
What a snit! Apart from our love I am ashamed now  
Breaking up with you feels like the flu ...  
You and I in radon decay — we hope — slow
approximations of my knuckling under you.
Not a koan
(how could

be un-impaled?)

— Religious type, agnostic,
both listened to reason while a temple friend sliced
off a nipple. It was the middle way,
enlightenment so simplified, you can spell it out.
Lightning over fog. Over ravines. Knower and the known, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

A sweet industrial morsel went for all 3 doors assuming no threshold ahead where materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no interruption.

These could be so

as Buddha and Buddhists are only disparities.
The no-fantasies plan, weeks running backwards
After the announcer’s ecstasy — there are no water edges or dikes
Yet / or even a rush of civilized dichotomy.
Music filters out hearsay against the sky.
All the airports sink back in black and white fjords.
Day to day sometimes the sun’s light goes for more,
Going to be here as long as it takes.
55: Nor aside, a period sonnet doubts purity, softness but addresses enmity  
for a living record. Nor against death can we outlive our doom advancing slowly. 
Neither marble nor rhyme so move.
 Yet the fun workout once was of a soul, a soul a tone berserk.  
So why am I dwelling on the ending like a warrior groom?  
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than all that, still brighter than all the wealth coming to me thru this poem...  
You and I find our own contents, oblivious to all posterity, uninvited — statues overturned, and we brought guests — death and memory. I...   
Even closer now to death... I burn with quick fire for wearing out memory’s sluttish velocity — I’ll not speak nor ask (or shall I ask?) more, should I?   
War wastes time, a powerful judgment at rest once at work.
In this lunar diagram one fragrance was my last ounce of politic hope.
Oh you know, one’s unhappy. 

We supplemented photographs for topi, I recall, 
topi of garland fungus, students foreground (by an arch to emptied parks). 
It’s up to pond structure to model one’s passivity learning the moon’s
mother tongue, stray vowels discharged by shore conditions
and savage birds in flight.

Protecting the hang of dignity threatens it.
Everyone can swallow that. Everyone alive. A little sick, even unwell,
a man’s voice is still extremely handsome, calm, howbeit scrappy. 

Further down, a kimono is entered, explaining prehension
without perfecting one’s tongue in cheek.
Once your public is mounted on tiptoes you can
add your own awesome content! 

Your first lover, dull, expressionless.  Tho

he could heal you thru ballast. 
Then forces of narrative came
seething, your breath unfixed 

from the floor as it circles midair as if it had a right to. 
Large blossoms are about to push
Also we see their ETA
We won’t be a second late — your ex boyfriends 
understand we can all meet taking on a form of you. 

That’s the gist.


Squandering the opportunity —
I didn’t have to what the hell?
Living requires
alternative means for the puzzled trot,
the smell of being in a raw shoot from every progressive angle.

I'm winding into a reliance on hardworking pleasures, broccoli, incense
and venue rumbles, open plans, open slots
just turning up.
I am citizen physicist to an inner antecedent for shorthand deadpan. How drowsiness may be my great escape or I may walk it off, forgetting I’m oblivious.

Your face, the trains I ride, it’s all good. And staying casual definitely has legs.

Come midnight Frog had a big smile. Anytime I teased him or cuddled him, his four appendages went as wiggly as a frog, silly, a smile across his whole face, black button eyes on top of his head because the night is not over — all smile and eyes in front, green in the back. When I held him he was a jumble of cuddles and inertia. His legs flopped around until I stopped.

That way.
It once read, in criminal matters, you’re my business.

“I heard talent & beauty, money come with their own harsh light; by your putting them to rest they take ‘full effect’ with no attachment to addictive capital, arresting.” Leaving you. Gasp.
Is this documentary or did I make it up? —“when you remember wit & austerity read each other perfectly from the start — seems mathematical to think about transmissions of all kinds favorably.” Tho programmers have a fiercely vandal-like approach to appraisal under uncertainty.

So this is an edit, keeping watch. “That’s as close as no personality has to keen, restless pulse.”
91: Who owns property, names, anything under formalism? Boasting of birth,
of skill. We grew up 20th century, 100 years before joy in wealth
felt better in one general way, as adjuncts measure it.

Some glory now of hawks or hounds, of all men’s pride. Your love tho is of more delight than dreams of pleasures

that don’t exist — here we go — your love appreciates in value.

Love’s body force is better, richer, prouder, always tops —
the best is having you, finding this joy above the rest.
It’s about time for the moody and unexpected.  We mosey back to right about where we want clarity about motives.  We’re in no hurry.  Snow and sun? We’re expecting something.  Ice or melt go missing but not lost.  The reader note went on, One afternoon while relaxing one poured over a confusional book. It reads we are at the dawn of epistemology raising consciousness we can’t get from career studies alone. It continued, the mood wobbles. It does. It vibrates. But nothing’s lost that’s unexpected. It’s about time.
I will think in porn titles.


For Tu Fu could I state my own fact as fact?
We’re nimbus-wet, I had it. The dark edges must be why
We float in clouded white-out without a seam,

Two very different outcomes equally square
What we meant.
Tons of special forces in silhouette .. polished in water .. on day one we’d .. imagine them in caress finals.

We’ll correct everything near the top grade filling in with capacitance-assistants. They’re converted

Theorists of a visually astute world culture (secure camaraderie). They propose and maintain bestiaries wholly populated with tests and variations. Details outside. After dark trails. Tons.
I promised you a ham 4 quilting bombast.

You live within politics & practice warfare
to engage another’s psyche, smiling, you blow yourself up
& you’re always wrong to prolong your appeal.
A headboard with no utility other than book nooks.
Can we cut to the scary part?

Materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo that’s 4 ever, sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness, unraveling optics in dissolved attitudes behind all the good times 4-ward.
97: Before apologizing, winter is fantastic, like pre-summer for wanton beginners, a civilizing pleasure messing up eternal categories, removed by you. Your absence offers waiting rooms (decoherence), libations & it supports how I feel from within. & speaking of the pure land, it’s freezing. Barely recognize the place.
A blue feeling about a teen heart is breaking over the lazy and dead. I’m still not awake, a bad idea. An idea with particularity, again. A feeling for the bread before it rises stuffed with controversy that blasts in space, our fond way in,
praising doom on our own dime.

I’m that slaphappy-proof to diffuse your eyes from posterity. Where your eyes go is the whole body muddled cool from so many substitutes for meditation we can’t breathe.
Didn’t they tell you  

thinner tones & soft muscularity are proof     
— our brains are stolen; after that ordeal 

we wander back home muttering “TV,  

TV,” a mildly eccentric suburbia  

waiting for a payday of awe-inspiring relaxation.  

Talk? You hoped we might &?
A la Depeche Mode, We’re trained in several logos and media  
Hey it’s obvious as that mobile device you’re still holding.  
Hands down. We live on the ground, off the land.   
The culture caught up to our light sprinkles of sexuality.  

We chew to 1 side, noted by 3rd genders;  
Superego abstractions hanging out in their unusual white corridors  

Suggesting we’re still trembling from the  

Physical chew off, just a short chopper ride  

From the first bank and trade. It’s sprinkling, adding up feelings  
With a so tallied mother glossary, 1st-  
Order noncommercial phenomena pitted together as cognates  
Still coming to seed and adornment,  
Half-audible ricochets, feeding us like a lawn.


A fop sur la route is a Parisian invention, an essentialist’s incarnation.

Steer clearly. Highway safety — bow, I love what we do better

Like switching work bags, mixing it up then. We should be mortified but impressed.
(This siegecraft apparently works.
For my driving, I’ve hired a fop strategist.)
We call that yeah
Parentheses to explore..
Since you brought the pizza —

What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us both along with sociopaths to raise your stature, fabulously?

That aside —

My sexual preferences now are for art business and cosmic history.
I really don’t know what I’ve bought.

I was sideswiping beside you, beside maples and different offshoots, no contrivance or Schubertesque opposition. It felt like what heats up under prehistoric pressure; our roles were to fill this in, lengthening ancestral menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus language, thought, attrition.

So I have put back late drafts of infectious provisos and integers-to-be, no rocky shores to fix. Schubert had blond hair, you know, and rimless spectacles, no concupiscence and no comeuppance.
Credo: You’re good doing this.
Report to command centers for the new pricing, lest
Misery looks a better way. Go. Fees balanced. Get out!
After.. there are instrument
Channels (word flares) for expressing enzymes with love.
We never saw you before.

Suffering coincidence.. you’re leaning into wailer muscle, undressed
To hit the meaning of just whose future is come..

One to admire oneself, one’s distinction.
And there are a lot more ones ahead.
Sonnet 86:

The future reaches full sail bound for higher intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to surprise ourselves and grow, that is, write estimates of verse.
I thought of you giving us cohorts sweet aid, other fair gifts.. Astonished, we see our pride flies away along with others’. Out of control dreams work around a crowd of familiars whom we teach to write.

Once our brains ripen, we won’t concede — neither to calm of victory nor to fear. At night, tho, I lack a precious affable character beyond my mortal self.. both that and a familiar’s ghost-morality strike me as too precious then — like enfeeblement, like death, like filling this line.
Full employment. Fully refrained.
We like new taps on the shoulder in a way when they leave imprints. Like how I graduated from this shame, this ceaseless pride

in the going battle between the sexes? (The rich won.)

Can you place our names? Or I’ll trade you. I have a canoe for an alter-ego, asides and decorative indeterminacy. With various hats, I reached out to anticipating mind control as disingenuous.
Hate altered. 
So we’ll carry on. We can’t do better. 
True physicality fills our minds on other matters even as  
Our faith hangs down to the ground in a sensibly mixed fellowship. You can’t throw self consciousness out. It helps, after, there’s a mating dance to appreciate what we are stalking — working on it.   
There’s animal hustle, along with cargo rips in funnels of spacetime where uppermost thoughts burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth... yours, I think, accompanied by our addiction to uncertainty.   
Come here often?
Dante nibbled, in mumbled tones... under a huge, ampersand-shade of grace.
There was a terrific wine list — and that made for light
cocktail perfusions. He had at strangers shedding their catwalk ambiguity.

And we’re moving back to then, minus grace, wearing raiment emotions, passing drinks around —
The current is pre-baroque, making up the news with — and about — excess freedoms of democracy.


Hail, love, I was in hell with you
Having seen again all the mud we throw.

We’re not living there now; it’s too far to drive, leaving us out drenched to the waist, hanging down on the sidewalk looking a little ‘filmed over.’
The now is? I don’t know where it went or was. I wonder if we’ll show up there.
These questions are battered about.
Doing composition et al. change
While our frayed honeymoon was a pleasure, felt normative.
Pleasure gets exaggerated but there are three pleasure substitutes. Here’s one, an itch to borrow sentences to raise your consciousness.

Another is coming up with filaments like attrition of affects (watching your watch).

Third, after a honeymoon deflections accrue.
We defied the polls and voted against our interests.
Later we’re taught the integral self can level with all the others
While sadness is a public health scourge.
So protesters are hired to raise contentment ratings.
To deconflict our strategy from human loss
In no time we put six 27-to-46 under water
Then we ate cupcakes. Impression seems

Today one can eat excellently here and tempered bluegrass friends visit.
They are real actors, not people.
128: How often the ear stands tacit partner confounded with sweet concord. To be in concord .. (I know jacks about this ..) 
To be in concord, how often envy falls off — as tho entr’acte — wiry but fluid motions, a nimble boldness to harvest for a saucy change:

Blushing to be tickled I kiss your tender, inner palms that sway in and out, 

Either side of my lips, poor lips, more than nimble, blessed, tickled! so dancing for your fingers to kiss and your lips.
The focal point of early versions is the entity with many comforts and drills. Isn’t that a calling?
It was at the rational start. I know that. Taking chances put us in a lissome interpretive state (lissome as a turbine at birth). Function varies widely. Scent of lilac is the geyser of zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.
We went nowhere. Propositions became a poor promise.

At first random, as noted last century, there’s a rustic perp to experiential style and muddled cool.
2 million years a species, dream on, we know the $ is good, sexual liberty never expires, but the cool gauge has to be slipping

while I’m not going anywhere; Spartans hate to travel.

Do you write while you edit? There’s a term for attrition of affects, eyesore.
Here we go. I got you.
Here we are.
I got you.

My back!
I got you. It’s okay.

You sure that’s why you’re here?


The status quo models verse as living matter re-involved with impulsive energy coursing around flecks of appropriated ideas, especially when it comes to appearances, tones and language use itself. I might call this artful transmutation of intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t a history of folk enslaved to procedure.
Rightist verse, M.R.I:

It’s meta-conscious. On the surface it projects text as selfie, “poking” materials, assemblies, audience. Selfies however adhere to reticent schedules.

Pedagogic systems administer exams of dominant samples. Absorbing their data is high achievement if it’s duplicable.

Conservative epistemology’s key reinforcements:

It’s all about people acting in a way.
Maintaining a skillsets bias.
Honoring calculable hierarchies
Rhetoric like this often dies off.
Came from outer space; was well radicalized before it got here.

Freer speech in every direction — your known inclination
for walking strong will accelerate, wild and tranquil,
ruthless in a sense, boundless layers set in funereal trance
tweeting under the bust of the rhetor, a civil, democratic ideal.

No tweeter wants to get ‘under..an ideal.’ Freedom is personal.

And we think it could be worse.
25: No dying here, let those in favor never be erased. Prost!
A few words will travel, ‘unlooked for,’ calibrated by unlooked for our ruckus / doing-the-honors spoken (rather than boasting) within a larger-scale dialectic —

a painful victory and public outreach in your glory. A triumph!

After, for a frown, a thousand victories once buried pride / the sun’s eye.

One of them. We’re happy we are in favor of your love fresh from the book, also

one for the books I read and love, whose fortune spreads your joy we honor most.
During the break we reached an agreement,
so the ham’s anger has hatched.. while no choice
enables the passing tourney among tense Fu dudes
to nuance 3-in-1 innocents to proceed.
Staring you in the eyes 
In my illusion of minimalism  
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,  
I should say the accretion settled down  
Inside us, lost and scattered trying to remember.  
After all that, it’s a misunderstanding of gym etiquette that gets you ashore with one* shoe in hand, mine.

I’ll find you.

*that one shoe = two I stole from you.
Misshapen drops of fog storms — major rain —

affable and fresh earthworks must

carry the air out in fat, thick layers (thick in spades, hearts racing).
We can see our excess atmosphere conning our right brains,
because we share weather it has importance —

... here’s where I freeze. (Every-

one does.) You now me.

Clouds yellow, experimental at night

— flakes wash themselves now in dissemblance like kittens in lust.


Classics are for romantics like the Raveonettes.

I digress: y+z (1-x) is a blind patch of petit point. Kissing is sick. It’s bad for you but wasn’t as destructive as the filching of imitation.
Anyway, kissing where you are is so blatantly filled with what it spreads everywhere completely negating its purpose.

So why does it get processed in your eyes through history?
Maybe I’m a critic who’s decided to blab about all the wealth we have coming.
Each year corrupts the interference ultra-field. The elders have rules. Stay funny and
comfortable is one.
Another is also fancy, more or less fun. Insert / handkerchief.
Shave twice a week. Does your dad look happy never to see you thru the eyes of men?

What can we do without sleeping around in our active subculture?

Last, best, fair in determined love. I wanted to ask you about immaculate being, rondure
and going out. / According to slung
Allegory, it’s called Stepping Up, Giving Ourselves, Keeping Ourselves.
Rhapsodic justice is made to look cautionary. It’s easier to have a set of spring-summer rants ready to throat than break our rules and brag too much, too enormous a bliss.

By caution as usual we mean caution to the core.
Discourse in a hammock, wanting to be nearer. Caution preserves protective access
to the core. The equation can be reduced to healing power = unhealthy options = smoking, on fire.
95: Hidden pretext takes over. A story of dispraise, an ill report but in a kind of praise per the report.
What would be less fantastic? An enclosure of stainless vice. A full shelf of great privileged, lascivious plans.

Naming your name tells the story. How sweet — you’re every blot and sin in one, widely preached against, seldom commented on against ill odds, for shame. One spots your pieces of sporting nonsense, beauty’s manly tongue negated, verbs rounded off randomly, veiled, knifing my love out..

Auto-electrocuted. But calmed down. No more tv, sore thumbs. There’s a dual nature of justice going around in “resentment and forgiveness” with high notes we won’t erase. A muggy, fantastic soprano, jittery, active against the grain. She reaches a point at which touch management is unleashed.
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.
Can we straddle the divide between convention & sorting through unattenuated sense-making? 
Between waiting, not wanting, untrimmed desires crowd out an undercover, captive thought pattern shaped through long derangement oiling up baby..

at the eye’s edge of clemency.
When you got up your voice was 
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling  
Flat into dust in 4 motes.   
I don’t know how motes, much less how 4 rush   
And flounder into mountains. I only heard   
Vibrating = Sturm und Drang,  
Dust controls anger / how severely narrowed minds are wed.