14: In my judgment
what I know is in your eyes.
Good luck can never bite. Except not at night. Newer urgencies
where prognosticators feel rained on, pointing to each other
so exposed they feign ignorance, aimlessly...

And yet bad luck too when a lightning rod derives its light while lightly
its chemical wind thrives for a second and returns to stars —
doomed as cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.
A nonreligion of men, a High Service
Sung along both coasts:

Our people are what makes us / great.
Love and heritage go down together.

The last nonpoem eases the dress code, a bolo tie display on 2 thru 8
For a race of giants (giants are made up pieces of one another in other names).

Love came up short for a few and drove them to forgery. Then shatters.
The taking of whatever works to swat the hand that feeds them,

Sharpening endurance,
Risking focus.
Weight loss by design. Classification = evolutionary collisions =
Their work multiplied by adapted preferences in a prejudicial vapor.
You think transparent rhetoric all-purpose, all calm, never resolved,
Because you’re only one sailor, one swab

In a climate of drumming opinions and best practices —
Your bacchanalia talked up while slotted in —

Sailor tattooed with an addiction to visceral consequence — swab
Reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, sailor.
In vain a head transplant brings on the knowledge affect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower.


At Maybelline you wear wet marks under your shirt — there you go — sent,
Slotted for long scream divisions raising heads and
Lines of argument stampede out bourn in heartbeats .. bright debate
Drawing boundaries along dark areas of youthful propaganda. And ..
.. owing to your interest, this won’t constitute a date.
Or only one of many as noted by spreading the plan.
My winning Lotto ticket.

The carbon steel of all day dimmed
Second after blasted second.
If you don’t look directly my way, into my face —
I can’t give it to you
151: Our berserk contacts squeeze topical structure into gentle shadows that are too numb to know what conscience is.

We learnt lightly, love is too young. Yet triumph in love is slathered over the poor and excluded. Axioms and other memes are what we are deft w/. So the poor-excluded doesn’t count? I can’t tell, I wouldn’t know. Who does?
When instrumentalists and the proud struck their alliance, we thought this is a gross prize although our ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspirations became more footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.
137: Love is a blind fool. Among the true and false. You can’t see what they see. You’re wide awake thinking it through until a subfocus gets lost. You can’t see, you grow accustomed, so to speak, directly oblique : but pointedly no name escalated or united w/ the width of what beauty is! And where it lies!

Bon équilibre, someone else won’t choke (and in a common language at that), one a 2nd person, your “someone else,” comprehends. What do you say? Why of falsehood, tell me, speak to the wide world where several are over-partial to my judgment. Why should my heart do anything?

Yet I give up these weak words thinking they seem right, hack at reasons to try more with the grit of fairer and fouler understatement, neither the worst or best.

And you know, that’s what’s wrong then. Over-partial to you I can’t see what the world sees..
Our dual cosmos doodad self-inflates as a product injector, like window-dressing or cultural exertion or weather wearing Beirut colors, pebble and pale, lucent grays.

Colors burn up, each color of stone perpetually raging with a claque inside, giving more access to haystacks we call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.
I might happily have lived in another state
Standing in neoplatonic darkness. A white bike
To follow any path out /

/ still I have a green thumb trying to cover
Dabs of marine titanium that oscillate
Blurring my root views for up to an hour —

Inky smoke releasing a genocidal collage of screens, like
Thinking in waves easily agitated, reproached, disappeared
In drumming opinions and worst practices —

So that services requested go off the board.
A white bike, please.
Hooray.. There’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. Here’s the last place you look. Stay with me. This is the islet I was going to take you to; it lifts, lukewarm, tender. Splash, preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.


I cannot stress enough
we’re suspicious of wormholes, tho

I get off my resonance to give joy.
The boat’s cortex held out. Together.

For what party in sleep?
Really, we get down to petroleum
In a bucket? Filled with cash bags! I can see some pulleys ..

A smoking outline that subdues us
edging our blond manes that distract scoutmasters.

Everyone has to wipe off while, boo, you’re impersonating a folk guitarist I outgrew,

So now you want to spend it all while you can,
floating to eke out an ornate living
In a snow globe, thankful for one small chest-hair.
And there I’ll leave it top of the scout manual ..
34: I have a base feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in my way —
Together, you and I defined arcs of ironic repentance but worked them out in a series of affable disputes. Just so, we’re still at a loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal but not wind smudging our wounds into rotten smoke. Why?

It’s not enough I lose, I’m scared; ah, no relief as such, I won’t travel well. I have your brave face yet shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.
Your poetry is preliminary,

I reserve comment —

Don’t get the above wrong

There’s below to mull over.
Erasing the storied narrative,
Baseline coherence that were normal, believable

Then that

Waking up, hay-feverish, stuffed-up spirit
Standing far off across
Yours, just considering you

In the era or epoch of fake announcement..
That’s what I would be making — if I were to talk to you
Even a mote so that waking can go away

To keep from you forever
Nothing, seen forever.
Monkeys are ironic. They can’t help it.


Been reading about accelerating destruction in the Amazon. A chunk the size of Rhode Island burns down each year. This buckaroo practice results in rich farmland that’s productive for about four or five years. After that, the soil turns into dust and sand.
Carports for the farmers, then, are an interim step. Dust when it rains becomes haze and steam the color of moist bubble-like illusion.
To wield a conceptual brush is to terrorize, even if your motivating injunctions steer clear of violence or unregulated emotion. Terror here is poetry’s swift, certain, nontrivial insertion through a crucial hole and/or through self-negation in certitude and flatulent controversy, such as with Basho’s disproving human sound unable to transform animal to mineral, or with Duchamp’s counter-ploy to the rule, toilets are never foreground.

Controversy, like injunction, comes to us commonly or frequently as back-formation, a provisional ethos after the conceptual stroke. We were constrained by the profound assumption, for example, that a play requires a tone and the stage set in more than five words. We were tacitly sure of this, marginalized more from other minimalist affects until we read Beckett’s new direction: A country road. A tree.
52: I’m in lock-up because of you.

Therefore you and I are both scorekeepers. Ours.

I keep you among my jewels,
Blasted, blessed moods in ‘key’ to configure unfolding pleasure,
So I am rich, I hope, blunting your deceit for years...
The long time it takes, seldom comes in one fine day
A special instant so rare —

Until then, being had by you was worth it as it were

Like euphoria, an instant in doubt hiding finer points.
Speaking of solemn upper-lower class triumph and treasure,
We find others also keep to their survey, chest to chest, mine to yours.
For Tu Fu can I state my own fact as fact?
We’re nimbus-wet. The dark edges must be why
We float in clouded white without a seam,

Two very different outcomes equally square
What we hear.
We met at a fashion party, Homeric possibilities in extremes.
A couple of days reveling in delirium, haunting. Breaking the ice when it dawned on me:
That driveway could be the fucking beachhead steaming for real, along with amalgamated events summarized best, perhaps, in this question I’ve been asking myself?
There’s nothing linear going on. Everyone knows that.
Unless you want to.


This is my deciding moment. As a consequence doors open. I’m auto-electrocuted.

And that’s good, because I snuck across the catalysts. (It’s what I’m good at, wearing pajamas as weapons.)
My plan thus converts meantime. So you detect I’m pretending to be a spontaneous asshole, intimidating death.
Where’s the doctorate for driving off
in getaway hybrids?

It could be that lunatic yarn to move your thought around
modulating what the self comprises, a prime membership,
renewable once according to replicas. While ..
I’m neutral re: driving recklessly, sequences w/out words —
both types of daring and highway protection w/ outreach.

They say med school if you ever go is mostly laid out.
That means you partake in indecision (ever cool).
Switching phones, I look up to the crazy dental intern waiting to take me out.
Silence is oversexed-enormous but I practice it.

I’m sick of guy’s things.

Not running, walking rapidly, I cross the hall, the long one with the heat transfer ....

... come out the complex, take the duck walk ....
...go through a dedicated lot ....
... and into Q7 in one STEADICAM SHOT.
I’m a dental monitor, not a dentist
Un-sober gestures are precise. Bright eyes, sparkling motions. You should get a huge lollipop.

Climbing down the outside of pure hell there’s a new mainstream with an underground that merits a visitor’s gaze — we — some of us — avoid it.

It’s hard to plot let alone hatch a plan objectively, yet pressure is mounting full of smoke. Mm-hmm. Chestnut tones of half a political realignment are hemi-obscure now, at this hour of the fireball pyramid scheme — who votes to allow public squalor juxtapose obscene capitalist private milieux?

So let’s start at home with our infrastrcture’s rectangular coordinates, understand pleasures of the neck, chest, and eyes. That’s the bigger half.

Before thrills, yoga is fantastic. I’m 12 years old for years.
Perfect color is an egg-hatching moment, kairos, and from there we can move forward back to detect undertones that encompass our naïve expertise.

Yours and mine.
There are no nasty hues in their nesting place. There’s a flywheel effect turning conversation over to science and greed. A private-public wholesaling of prototypes that mess up the visual cortex — pasting-in blind spots crammed with luxuries that bind. The flip side — powers of color broker enduring benefits, tooth and nail radiance.
My boss sucks.
That’s because she has to. Some job titles are, as the expression goes, anathemas. Disquiet raising the roof. Boss, leader, principal, chair, honcho, prexy, director, officer in charge, master chef, head of the shift, muse. What does it take to earn and maintain these titles? Ideology.

Casting spells. Constantly interviewing me as I do with every other employee, affiliate, colleague, member, collaborator, associate sans souci. Muse first!


Encore... A poem is a picture. Have a Shrek glass of water after sunset, a big help defining bird properties degrading, shaken to a brink ..oops.. It’s a picture like hydrangea in labor (staging nightmares) ..in this one I’m emotionally shot with depth as a thespian-rapper rounding off contrasting demands of flimsy seriality and sequence. We never meet on a Ferris wheel.
The prospect ices.

All the lapses are angly in winter, no lie.
One thing is the climate’s performance yesterday and the morning before that. After you wash off, you understand when to pause and leave it pointless right here but you really care.
71: We don’t remember your life, your name, I no longer mourn you.

Like a surly, vile freeloader / poet, I overhear captions in robot clauses... giving warnings. It’s vile — compounded when I think you read this line into my thoughts. I’m the hand that writ ...and I negotiate cash for rapprochement after I am gone. Hey, don’t worry, my next line is not incompatible with yours, for I love you so.
I don’t get what you want
— our lives are directionless without a group, a clan?  
The telling problem with engineered simplicity,  
You annoy others (meditations in telling).  
I don’t mean rampage in a civil sense,  
I mean surgically knocking other chanters  
Off, throwing knives, wrecking them  
From the inside, slicing up!  
I was kidding I’m not religious.
Eden. It’s drizzling in one panel. I’m a folk musician brokering low interest loans. I talk thus in a low register. To effect a good commission my face sports two layers of sleep relief. In one direction the focus is lost. I grow accustomed, so to speak. In the other I’ll let the snakes speak with English subtitles. Assembly required.
Clouds are in slacks by the fridge.


Beaten up hulks pour vodka that swirls on action tones. A film clip with multiple data fields and a crew of deft extras in malaise, one supported by another grabbing a ring to a rope, expressed in pain.

I’m told you’d prefer not to watch. Using your voice, better to ask a friend or two to make you hurt, pretending they are you, falling mute.
Artifice, craft, life are short and drive you all over.

Making out, I can drop the questions and shoot for craning my mien, through whose squint everything is scattered. (Behind artifice there’s an interaction lab.)
(Behind life, a free agnosticism. Easy sway. You’ll be taken up on your offer.)
136: I am nothing. What’s my business? Blind soul systems led me to O you

— whereas my epistemology scampers in secrecy, the password pilfered, your soul already knows it’s admitted...

W/ several newer proofs that would leverage you right there in the pluperfect, had your love held me by my name.

Therein, a civilizing process today to staying purposely
dull, entered into too by spotting it first. It’s
a clear refinement where character offers liberation — my sweet nothing

for nothing will hold me, nothing
supports the love-suit from underneath. Only you win that job!
You’re my own nothing boss.
to dead poets..

Been holding your tongues. That’s how it works.
Non-interference takes charge, under which an authentic kindergarten language, dance and charades get raised and quest is forcibly asserted. Working against deadline shaped the last phase of withdrawal from our deadlock with future attributes.

Meantime you targeted a fan like me because of familial obligations to ageless platitude, your camouflage in plain view, the focus of stiff winds over centuries-old middle ground.
Truncation covers about half of winners and victims in crossfire. How you answer — anything you come up with will stomach fair use doctrine — what the privileged young play by, but the next resurgence is an elaborate gerrymander where ambiguity vanishes for a seeming long time.
History is old as mutt.

As the past tense broke, rich mutts of infancy regenerated, feeling there’re future ticket holders rising to the occasion with pretty good probabilities, because they win at the beginning.
I once had an idea today was over. I forgot, man.
With less & less destruction of our marriage, we constitute the Non-Group taking part in the co-ritual to outlast time.

Over & over. Today again.


Song: This isn’t a black or white issue.
Someday I will have a pomegranate thermostat.
It won’t be torture unless it causes organ failure.
I still think in porn titles.
It looks generic, anywhere.

Paradoxical tissue is still not perfect, having that living unlocked, scrunched for breakfast body purity up to a point.
Conversely it dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for consensus over these flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions.

They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole sector before repro-ed onward..

offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.
77: Beginning to get the picture. Beyond the blanks
you can taste love printing out its progress to eternity:
Our love (a winner when you take a look) is a time share in choreography.
Joining you, me — my writing learns & shows a shady stealth of other men — committed to your writing now, delivered from your brain,
nursed on your beauty’s imprint.
I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Resentment buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous,
drumbeats through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right, clinging to my male sexuality

without a theory of purpose or the gift of agency to promote my case, as masking vanity becomes a fund raiser’s challenge.

Fizzy yet salient points soak into the beach hanging out for the escape clause (always the last place you look)!
We reach elements within erotic catalysts where touch management is unleashed. But the scenery is suddenly beyond diagram while the crew is calmed down. There’s a dual nature to anonymity that makes what’s inside disappear, a bright pulling apart at the summitry of escape.
What’s semiology? unless we un-gnarl affects to figure it out?

(I don’t remember whose or how.)
A note on aging.

Smacked down by a coordinate from outer space,
Keanu Reeves is not reckless, iniquitous, or anatomically complex,
though monotone to the gills like a slower yet more self-subtracted Rod Serling.


To resist extreme sobriety of the autodidact bouts of hedonism are recommended under the guidance of loving doctors, nurses, others beyond family and school though you can try your luck there too.
My last friend is
my most erotic partner. Joy’s a start-up
But has nothing to do w/
My opposing ideals of corporations —

Our music brokerage remains in aerospace

Within no sound where there is none
Other than the last
S’up? nothing else —

The more he says it the pushier he gets.
You bet monkish materiality does not exist. No dissonance, no disruption! There are appearances, such as separate questions and baseline boundaries in self-abnegation.

The book covers a lot.

An interesting interview had to be done in depth, ‘staff may be prosecuted,’ toughing it out.
99: Stay on the hunt, tough to please, speculate (ouch)

even as vengeful tectonic plates jump over
our fears, shame and despair.

Annexed to you, a purple violet seems grossly dyed, your soft cheek
raining havoc for lilies.. marjoram, my love’s breath, your breath. (Uh.) Here’s where you and I lose the scent. Ever

-yone does. Clouded (ouch)
flames ennoble the sky to blush through

my love’s veins, your hands, both of us in thorns
condemned for pride, going on all nerves stolen from you.
It’s impossible to separate understatement from performance; both are adolescent in a good sense, pitch. So that’s how cave and landscape can be felt. Next, a cool minimal database advanced to burn out your swing — try living on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent.

The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity or trance. What matters is how to find and / or emplace each close to noble attempt to be you.
Bliss. We were looking it up.
A battle between two distinctions
among few rules bringing up few others,
times no more of those brain-states from Asia.

A marsh is now interesting
(as well as vitae) for the sea. For the eye, nothing but applesauce then shellac
the sea brought in without consent, leader of the pack of rule breakers.
Favorite restraint = get it done / don’t talk to me.
I wouldn’t say “favorite.”


I was game for coming back, a cult classic
giving less weight to fantasy —
less to breathy folk components,
listening and showing we both are here, one part

another I guess is where we part ways.

Holy shit.

Bye, Weltliteratur...
At least I have my rectitude and pancake mixes...
At some tiny level there’s spontaneous disintegration of what’s on my mind until I find myself in a half-life where speech still matters.
By way of a PS on bohemians, Schuyler (ravaged of course) was more of one than Ginsberg, unravaged. And Brainard (ravaged then unravaged and then ravaged) was a big boho. Auden? Think so. Jim Brodey, a boho. Less narrowly, Harry Matthews.

Back when there was a hell, each vow deemed sufficient and inclusive for a new occasion or faith.
It’s easy, too distinguished and uniform now.
Once back in the day the fair-minded had more complex appetites,
when giving eyes to blindness they brainstormed over innocence —
truths, lies never happened.
In a larger context there was the most recidivism in fashion.
Dante nibbled fast, in very mumbled tones... under a huge, ampersand-shade of grace.

There was a terrific wine list — and that made for grace twists, kindness,
drinking perfusions as he had at strangers shedding their platform shoes.
Everything I note here is integrated, resonating
within symbolic thought that’s both magnified and askew.

The float is radiant, jammed with radiant things,
a collective but no modernism; had you been eloquent on the spot
we’d need no captions.

What does there’s still a move to go do?

We got the feeling, the only naked part.
This is your and my feeling failure now
in a city of kowtowing moguls who pay for it.
Moods are out on a late lunch given our place in biology.
We bear no responsibility

foundering within the social paradox of violence.
If you admit you rejoice in tricky intersections you’ll be taking sides.
To Caspar,

Simple imagery and endowment like yours in the twenty-first century are glazed over fast.
So you get it now, assigning you to our planet to feel cathartic
is dimensionally impossible. You’re dull, slow. Rather uneducated.
Shine and global velocity are notarized now for all the living!
The best sap is flowing top speed.
I bet in the future we have no mail from the here
and now. We’ll be on site.