Who’s sick over us and who questions any vulcanized backlash?
A last payment received.

No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless ..


Absence of thought rules for higher authority. A busy, cool thoughtlessness that’s slimed, maybe.

It’s a fact eye contact is defensive but our checklists and strategies determine everything. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane senses. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.)

This is how contingency shows up in texts, making sense from alterations that are situational within a figure-chicken / ground-egg round robin.
I retract my falsehoods. At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice projective geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)


We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. There you are! but how long have we been planting thoughts with no precursors, no conventional frame for generation or gender balance? Maybe it’s a mistake, collaborating on curious travel so close to the fault line... so I grant you that;

Like all of the above and people going in and out of service buildings, climbing stairs, you’re one hundred percent normal running up debt to keep devotees heartbroken.

Finally, explain leverage inside a more collaborative framework.

Adoring you is a full service enterprise, figuring a moral politics where leverage follows its bliss.
You know, you look psychic ..

Dear Hightop,
To take part stopping the snowman mid-grin ..
There’s a container for every passion.

Passion, the big man.

Mmmmmmmm immersive trance spot, on loud

so the ambient workspace can hear,

feel it in stages striking after dark.

Within, without, intimate forces of light lower, after all,

just as there’s bad DNA

or much less awesome crap. The of of partial perpetuity

feeling the kill

whilst warming up together / alone in an explosive network..


Comp lit finds the sky squeaks w/ common sense, folds into dreams.
That indicates it has a square shape, bolted down in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for domesticity.

There is an interpretation to this nightly misfortune (which is ours). Dream space is tight. You can’t find a story in a void of crescendo: Where's the loss?

Domestic metaphors, our rooms have even less to say..
Tho, when I’m feeling it, going out and doing things in your face ..
.. I get where I was.

Poetics, a subset of epistemology, entails voicing new speech from old,


Goodbye, wallet.

And [...there is no inside [...] only what’s already here [what I breathe] outside, which is continually immature, impulsive...] [and]
I see the wind smudging a porch.
To observe what’s streamlined and compressed, aiming fast —
I’m scared. Good night to write up an accident or two that don’t matter, made tactical as we circumvent voice commands, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.


It makes no difference what we believe. The soul needs a hypodermic
Over water surfing coastal states to destroy its wiggly self.
We begged it rally for more than parabolic grinning under gods.

That was our 1st soulmate enjambment.
A private / public bond like Klee / Ibsen / Pitt / Jolie

Since forever unknown futures present new and newer phenomena.
Your every utterance is on the jet trail — quelling fear of pain —
That’s how being with you is in sleep and still you are unattainable —

Say you’ll be back. You never can tell.
Poverty is all right, but fuck extreme poverty.
Introit / Opacity?
How do you apprehend and fire this up?

How is an oral tradition colorless, sparkling, void of angst?

1st Mr Krishna wore quadratic conflagrations

morphine-ghosted by Thanksgiving’s

bobwhites in the Berkshire hush... off

to getaways & then — on 3rd Ave — a boutique

of collared, greening hospitality where Hellenic

banter might calm even Kant’s havoc. 2nd Ave,
living on a magnum of tax credits as bohos

tooth for tooth nakedly mauling stubble

askew ocean views over Onset... so

back home on shore with a hen of steam — verdicts

are trifles beyond Mr K’s excursions
in the body of missing you to kindle tomography.


Ah blizzard.
Can you come up with abstract glass threads?
The Buffalo of paradise could be Pasadena.. What?
There I died of Abilify and became a robot —
ever since I’ve been threatened with ..
silence in the eco-sleep aisle. Reading less now and more.
Donald Sutherland’s bio on me — on my mind, just to be clear.
Does or did he mention lutefisk — fish jellied in lye? Not sure.
Sweeping reductions were next.

One pleasure then is borrowing sentences to cut your rent.

The previous owner told us to cut it all off, gave us gobs of cash
and that led to holding our share of a volatile

augmented beyond constraint, driven
by the smallest shift in feeling you all over me at the core.

Back home we have Romulus and Remus. Appetite and style,
these work the night shift in classicism, romanticism too. Appetite
includes style but style directs taste, other pretenses of appetite.
A she wolf looks after style.

I never use that word now.


Feet on the desk, smoking is a failed manner of speaking.
If I’m on the mark, Beethoven’s later sonatas simplify to a significant degree.
He had to keep up. Or
it was simply beautiful.
A breach of manners can be a sentence. Or a fragment. There is urgency in ideas.

I live in an echo of a country.

In the interim we reached an agreement.
Sex would be redubbed genetic sleep deprivation.

I’ll admit this view is crazy as a soft thick quilt the sun

marshals over the property.

I should break my leasehold, ergo. Not really,

she said out loud, ahead of how I was supposed to know.

This was the first time.


Abstraction 1st, last, untold on both sides, grisly

Under-rendering as future photo realism

W/ a more learned tool up your sleeve —

Please find a way to display that.

Ya — you have passed the 2nd-cousin

Stage of wretchedness. Good replicant,

Good to double & triple, taking up any 3rd dimensional theory

To sever 1 head from the vines.

Further out all descriptors pine

Peeling away like spiders’ pants,

All legs, descending into moaning

Nonentities (the Ralph Vaughn

Williamses), still squinting tho not

W/in literal representation.


There’s a container for every passion.

Keep secrets of teleportation to float free.
Free momentarily. Here are volatility models from TV, vocalism in a sense. We’re beaming them up with known and hidden risks — fat chance shifting their weight brings in an even slimmer recovery.

All or nothing, counselor.

Conditions look rigged — like wanting you (I do),

not out of calculation, it began how far vast

connivance liberates one to oppose the square facts. 

Or plans change. Like pandering taking a guess, I might

replace similes and dash off with my loose footing

on the oily tarp, perplexed, taking it outside

Rubiks of a denatured octagonal gloom.

Like to outtake one is ample. These Rubiks are

sweet, their force takes one out of bounds.

Pond air playing Schubert for a bouclé, seared,

puffy, relaxing and succinct. One like Zukerberg.


How can we be considered modern w/ Trumps around?

Baby pickerel eat one another speaking

Pickerelish. Parents want to defend their young

but can’t. (Picture them, peach cones & rods of violet.
There’s salience to nodding agreement thought-

fully.) I get all my ideas from media

studies, yet geometric brainstorming

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

-to. Instincts tho are buried under cement,
sunk talking to each other, eh?
Hard to get out of the wrinkled valise —
(I removed the tongue)


Obfuscate more, the glue is drying to dry.
‘Polls’ down.

No truth merges presidentially / you well know
Bad news just walks in —

It’s ok. Just punishment

for obfuscating conscientiously, touching dual roles in the male human algorithmic — desultory of us to ‘read’ and re’read’ brutality extending to your one body always for the first time beneath infinite ceilings.

On mortality,

I’m a big baby. That’s b for clarified as black-and gold pelage, married and vulnerable, exploring reiterations of my own duality.

I’m alive feeling the swansdown of DNA. Soon I’ll be comically dead — that’s married to a duplicate database — sinking into forest behavior, giving up swans, fish, emotionally shot ..

devoted to seamless disproportionality.