6/23/18

This is not a test. It’s the blues. But who can tell if it goes well.
We’ll leave it at that.
The place was beautifully democratized with process.

Yet our processes blow decorum of law...
Also, it’s easy for you, suddenly, brief minutes for now, to have less to eat to soften your last interruption using little consonants in your throat.. but oft predicted, you’re holding firm. How many blue songs of parallel scenery can we communalists take?
I did my research. We don’t do pinpricks, I’m told.
I’m not adding bespoke grammar to discontinuous anguish.
That would be another season’s U Da Pothole
w/ puck-aged shadows, not today.
                     Lastly, I’m worshiping
a Shrek glass while a full loom of grasses
blows your cover including your swerve arts since liberal arts
are like the rest that could potentially be used
against and until such a time when it gets replaced.

That I think of you.

[Pause.]
Terry Eagleton’s formulations re text and production can be less daunting when edited to their central premises. 1) Production is the key. 2) Text is a production of ideology. 3) Text and performance are “analogous to the relation between grammar and speech” – a production of a production (such as a theatrical performance of a text, his example, or critical interpretation of a text, mine).


Speech is a product, not a reproduction, of grammar; grammar is the determining structure of discourse, but the character of discourse cannot be mechanically derived from it... In studying local color and relations between text and performance, then, we study modes of determination which are precise and rigorous, not accounted for in terms of ‘reflection’ or ‘reproduction’. We are examining, in short, conditions of production.
There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.

Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.

I lower your voice to approximate the closest parity.

Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?
The truth is a manifold vacuum. And we’re feathery.
Shorthand abstractions like these comprise unforgettable totems to our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off, spinning or spun, upset, out of control.

100% our touch.
15: It’s your last day of youth throwing trust out, insight and now telepathy — I’ll never feel his perfect arms around me again. Never feel wet air on my skin, or wake up in his sap on his secret warm bed, I’m done, I don’t get a chance to influence, comment, try again for anything, not even for something I’m not. I’m not.

I can’t do any better than what I’ve changed for love of you.
Hours..drain..blood.. Something came up.

Breaking news: As my body is now, Max Planck fellows are running off with radical research incentives for organizing treasures in a small package, tethered particle immolation. The dignity of boson appearances, confounding cruelty and love, alike, fed from memory.

Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn..
There is a lil automated palletizer of bread
with industrial KUKA robots in a bakery
in Germany where groove is still a verb.

The odd relay repeated.

6/22/18

Ornament is content.

The yews know how to exhibit theirs, contracting new growth to bury their might in content with our bed in it — the last day we knew the world as gluttons. Together and tender, flaming, increasing now
and then the yews’ memory subsides in green, turning dull in bright time.
Filming you again. Filming double quotes.
V. painting just your voice, a glass house perforated by action tones. Beating hulks to the punch as they pour the next vodka that makes us cry. A film with multiple data fields, a crew of stunning extras in malaise.

No ilk of valid colloids — No mimic measure, no ceremony “plinthing a drumbeat.” Also, no dyscalculia, no hindsight bias, on purpose no flavor.
High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long- 
stood. Waking up released. Populations drenched.  
A circus repatriated.
My job is moving the earth units until I get exonerated.
It could be evasion foregrounds my style and motives.

I’m a woodpecker.

And I have a woodpecker tone.
Disappointment
makes me tipsy.
— John Godfrey
23: My agent is a prick. Imperfect
actor, shortcomings balloon in ‘harmony’ & w/ use.

— where your epistemology scampers in transparent secrecy
in such abundance I weaken w/ fierce ideas to leverage your heart in the pluperfect.

My mien adheres to an expressive rule staying purposely
dumb, entered into by listening w/ my eyes to you first, always. It’s

more expressed where my rage offers you libation,
supports your tantrums from the underbrush. I can step right in.
One needs antic intellectualism. Lead-free prose. 
Four husbands.  
Simplistic, Manichaen juxtaposition.  
A solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.).   
 
Jousting snacks.  
 
New verbs like bishop-dave, firebug, Stradivari.
Worth repeating.



We weren’t orphaned, we just decided to pursue other interests



not to get re-elected to you as we’ll proliferate to here if you try, if you have the confidence and say it..

We wiretap the secret you weigh (you get no credit for this) —

Total lunacy.

No ripped-off melancholy, no spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in.

On the other hand, I can’t forget this is for you now.
There is nothing like an emergent zone of autonomy to find a prosthetic artifact like lack of despair. Except when you think it over.

6/21/18

We’re all buckeye strong. 
Very disturbing.
52: I’m in lock-up because of you.

Therefore you and I are both scorekeepers. Ours.

I keep you among my jewels,
Blasted yet 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 coming in one fine day —
In time a special instant so rare —

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

Like euphoria, an instant in doubt hiding the finer points.
Speaking of solemn upper-lower class triumph and treasure,
We find others also keep to the survey, chest to chest, like mine to yours.
31: You remind me of lovers gone. The morning crew, weathermen
Waving arms over their heads in all naked patterns —
This was their 1st stab at tantrics, due many now.
They merited love trophies — now yours alone.
You have all of mine,

My tears buried in view of you. They’re inside you,
Removed, disguised as glare hung from all my loving in you.
We are a color of cunnilingus. I noticed, though, you and I applied for pharmaceutical assistance, an oscillation gelatin called Sparkling Affront.
Nothing was more or less than arabesque, forgetting our place in the secret order of failure. We once left a lavish record of the male-female hush from hand to fingers to mouth: in epic hock, half-buried to our hips. 

Our temperature raised the magnitude of repetitions into a shriveling median in the after-life or its meandering dissolution ... 

An obtainable conspiracy, altogether, surely no hoax.
Song: The sexes are divided. I’m a wielder of ‘cynicism,’ a goaded identity. The whole 86 floors just snowballed.



Huge finesse augurs repression and destruction in one immaculate fictive symbol.



Jonathan stayed and worked with the new ones coming in, who were all “Could you be a little more specific, doctor?” while they were arrested on the beach after a session of folded-wing snap rolls.


Time to release the affinity shapes. But I’ll stop now.
I’m

petrified by merger talkathons —

6/20/18

East of here: There are ideas w/ smarter definitions. We needed the smartest drywall too, to excite ferns and moss growing, other side — every- thing about the yield blowing in its whereabouts news of perpetual unitary joy... I liked getting you to this point in our ongoing.
Hot wind becoming sullen backs into a slurry, plump, downy evanescing into fluff. The slurry rises above dropped affixes and gardenias. As if. It’s dead-on in our notation. Helium released — thrown in reverse in spring — trees light up. Better to heal resentments buried back in isolation again. Hot wind dumps more camouflage for everything in open trucks falling off or flying up like 2 sorts of woodpecker that came while I was there.
45: Libido and swift words send messages and return them — coming back as first thoughts even when quicker elements, my breath, say, my fire are both with you (wherever I am).

When I don’t hear back — I’m oppressed, no longer glad
or assured, merely present-absent, melancholy.
It feels by this quick account I’ve set my desire back, too far away from me, from you.
85: Takes substance and breadth; the going price reacts to audacious desire

(a spare cigarette case, may I?) looked after in polished forms and
No thanks. Just piano and voice. Piano and your voice. Words come last. Let’s
Practice being still. The big meal. Inductions to other habits; hearing your breath

I think good thoughts, speaking in effect, externalizing dumb ideas.

The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of wool

Like praise warmed over by spinning in freezing wind. “Amen”

— I cannot phrase the scent of snow and sunlight, your utter loss

— my tongue tied crying, holding you in my thoughts.
Let’s bring it. I even agree if
Conditions look not upper great — wanting you (I say I do),
Not out of calculation & how far & vast connivance

Take us. I’m holding out.

Daybreak now —
— everybody under lunar waxing
credited to whipsaw. Just a running joke transposed
from the window, licked, healed, eyebrow roughened.
Aren’t we supposed to feed even the bad dogs? Yes but summer, winter?
Minutes after the work was filed, dozens stood in line for a treat,
free rein over the next sentence.

6/19/18

Peace, justice, ecology, all uplifting.  
That’s not to say there’ll be any food. 

But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently.. just a cloverleaf...
Sing: I love it when prose or song digs in and flails, goes 
down. That about covers it.  
(One’s destiny is that emotional core between personal and professional.)  
The larynx becoming free is a moving and intimate narrative.   
 

Got to run, prose.
43: There is your dead-of-night agreement to let me in. Iron clad. Skull with putty.
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down to earth in dreams, darkly bright, best seen directed by dark.

The more you put on earth, you know shadows, Hades’ colorations are evidence of imperfect unseeing, but blessed (made more adhesive) and happy when looking on you.

It’s much clearer in the light. Yes. Quick. This is a speaking animal in heavy sleep, you remember —
all days are nights and nights bright days. Time’s up.
It’s pie for the new year to set yourself free through what you don’t know — that takes a kind of unfinished aplomb, needing practice and achieved overviews. The verbatim relishes living among a slew of lucky design ideas orphaned to an alien ethnicity, busted out of place, in the wrong skin and age. 

(Welcome home.)
Ambience is a novel with your logo.


Amusing to read from sobering, antic design. Likewise to write it, at least for you and your author. As a poet who rolls with deadpan offshoots of good taste and reason, you might string sentences together like paste rubies and artificial pearls deliberately mismatched. Sentences would shine in meh as the wily ends of ideas fail to match up with new beginnings. Beginnings are lit up jewels of propositions before each gets dulled into falsehood yet contextualized by the faintly plausible, as if draped over a bowl of fish hooks — jewels, hooks — an incident in the making. You and surely your author might throw a personal datum in, offer the bowl an opinion (not yours for real, clearly) a bonne idée around sex as a gross linear process or, similarly, around the death of family, so personal mentions achieve the same (but no higher) level of emotional force as boilerplate for standard FAQs or photos. This produces scrubbed sober reportage typical of social democratic atmospherics. The arbitrated décor of your short text can then be looked after in “poet-novelist” ways (as this is a mock-up toward an after hours bildungsroman you are attempting). Your author’s ways include weighting the bottom of many pages with partially extraneous footnotes — beginning with number 31 (footnotes 1-30 are fully extraneous) — as well as mediating random elements, mostly unfocused snapshots but also font variations, lists, and a couple of equations. Humor is allowed. Humor justifies the enterprise but it is only one facet of shifts in planar and tonal assessment. Process description, your American ethnicity, John Cage, touring Germany, attending Carleton, “a face derived by software,” all these are data sets fit to be twisted, falsified or erased, as your author fictionalizes with what you see as temporary accesses to abstruse info, including fuzzy photos in a book.
Gas, food, lodging. You’re on your own.
A soulful lab mix, appliance and beast.
It’s nice to win over 90,000 grammars, all those associative halos.
Your novel is a conference. Believe nothing I say.
The back office is an eyesore, assembly required. It makes itself think...lets itself think... (It’s a coin flip.) I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems. Thanks for the memories. You ruined everything.

6/18/18

Pierre Bourdieu threw a projectile that applies this new year while top donor ‘families’ are in control — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of capital distribution are stopgaps like assembled heterodoxology while subdominant esthetic fields balloon and get consumed by baggier ideas.” 

Speaking of baggage as distraction, Bourdieu went home to his Cajun kitchen and added, “We gain as much knowledge from our shortcomings as insights.”   
 
The shortcoming between having things to say about ‘tastes’ back then, only a few years ago — and now — Republicans circling the wagons while checks and balances are nasally inspissated thru fear.
That slap in the face harder to explain now — a waste of energy on a streetcar..  
 
Traffic jammed under the apartments — tropic action — wallops 
W/ a cruel lemon sliver caught in my nose, pairing up past reason,   
Tangy..   
Romeo and Eurydice. Just a wedge. 
104: You’re fair to do this, my friend. Etc.
I saw both of us stop the actual dial, reset the pace. Still

you and I may be burned, turning toward seasonal
purebreds for fresher figures, new times and hot pricing, unless

Your turning from deception and envy is better.
Burn for me, friend. Hues balance in your greener motions

Since.. I have seen shaken fear and beauty from your eye.
I eyed your figure before you were born to me.

Perfumes of April so stand as axioms this June — in cold pride
you’ve already processed.. stolen for future use.

You turn summer into spring’s first age —
to me, such a future never can be old or done.
Making love is war. It’s not just money: 
I’m afraid it’s a Little  
Dipper: Emma, you’re handsome!  
Hold on?  
..membranes are functional! It’s an open   
 
Darwinian algorithm to back more  
nano-proposals, say, walking in, “hey..”   
 
No excuses, now  
make this a rite glistening of the wild...
In a mean perspective Bartok reached for
the moon. How is that helpful?
With your brand one constant.. you cut the rest off...
Remembering you forgot your killer monologue.



Taking your curtain call, you hobble

Away like a name dropper.

Emotions were something else, they don’t belong.

Follow instructions — slippers, noodles make us warm
‘As rouged scholars of what’s next to us’ repair to an adjoining display.
A starry equity or neurons? Words are beta worlds
that heat up while young at the edge yet a lost cause.
Vicarious is not strong enough.
And titles cost. Avalanche, a virus.
Cherries Hamlet.

6/17/18

Hail, love, I’m in hell with you
Having seen again all the mud we know about us.

We’re not living there now; it’s too far to drive, leaving us out drenched to the waist, hanging down on the sidewalk in blue and green concepts of mud looking a little ‘filmed over’.
The now is? I don’t know where it went or was. I wonder if we’ll show up.
These questions are battered about.
O ouch. I’m not sorry.
This is my first try in three dimensions.

There were more debris balls thrown so we ordered an atemporal zone of grace — w/ the emancipatory norm of curiosity —

Set it to limitless, w/ its winners & losers, a humanist quiz.
Facts are a marketplace; figures look good when least derivative, swinging fiesta-ly. Volatile objective content triumphs. Right or wrong it’s kind of a snob racket (Charles B). 
 
It’s profound and prefigured... mark how the Frankfurt School’s defenders get nested within the keyboard to flatter contingent values within partitas, quieted down, trios and quartets for others’ voices from inventory.  
 
Our nervous system can distort music abysmally, Charles might say, ignoring pain to emphasize changes in radial evil neglected by the super ego. B is for Bukowski.
154: Once asleep I’m sick of true love, disarming love; I’m diseased, too hot a votary of yours.

I’m sick and so I take a vow to a life of heart-inflaming desire — never touching you..
Trompe l’oeil conditions I now know approximate maiden hand abstractions.. (tripping by..
each taken up hot as a brand) ..and so well inflaming we can grow

mind and body worship by your side, worship un-quenched, a general practice that warms us before perpetuating our healthful belief system. Or

do I prove a chaste remedy never cools, but heats your heart for a cure?
Our supply chain deals fatalism whose allegory
can shape and twist any desire, except a ready
-made means to change the supplier that feeds us.
That tells me
I love needing what tv does.
It feels great here. We’re on tv.
Flack? You gave me flack the moment you cried — Before taken whole.
Before moving on,
It’s typical, offhand.. rather:
My point if
— I’m probably not taking this all
In for the sine function that it is.

Let’s file it down.
I’m sipping Tropicana on your behalf.

All the time, staggering!
There was a boom in robots once.
Then Alexa came along.

6/16/18

I remember those breasts..

A geometry that respects the brain,


Fred Astaire kind of shit.
When I win, I’m

Drifting toward us,
It’s a back-drift

Under your blanket. I’m

Over you now. I’m half-awake


Falling asleep in the speaker’s presence.


It’s deeper than that really.
Impulses to conceptualize or collectivize contexts are fabulously auteur-like;
sentimental to the core, even if in fact especially if sample texts (poetic treatments, meta-essays, e.g.) argue on the surface against individuation & sentiment. This is self sentiment affecting triumph.

The war rooms (ivory/media towers) in times of blanket authority — assumed — instantiate slaughter of memory & varietals of ‘superseded’ texts, schematic petals or stems from where the other goes after s/he drops a thread.
Nature is too loud for poetryts.

I’ll stop here, because I know you dislike machine habits:
Des ert-wise, how’s it going?
Well, you know, for a few weeks words like ‘trounced’ came up.

I lost how small I get.

Here are today’s avoidance words.

More bloom in the rubble.. sands mint white
Sonnet 6:

We radicalize to what we know best.
Beauty is a 10 and like usury always a gamble.
My tongue in your ear refiguring 2 pair,
distillation, defacement. A fair hand, a treasure 10 to one.
Happy to pay or loan you the rest, and glad
you’re a willing fan, departing before

the winter leaves by the yard .. you’re much too fair
And brush your hair? Brush it back down.
Let’s say you’re a man in your teens — that’s how it seems. Also, you were a near-death nut, now coming back to life. You say you saw strangers, that is, the appearances of strangers that fade away, persuading you
it’s for good reason there’s oblong smoke.
You read in the report one investor came to deny he forgot
he saw angels act like strangers, glancing back

as though we never knew the ‘aggressively disposed of’ on a first-name basis
or we forgot the name of our buyers who were reluctant to pay.

The new world has been well-informed, laying out bike paths that emit
repetitions in the bushes. Tremolos — we just don’t know — beautifully made.
The pattern is expanding.
The polls are now tightening.

Your proof is the topic sunburn that we can take indoors to paraphrase with little experience.
Give it a chance. Even interrupted our conversation never ends —
You’ll be taken up on your offer.
We’re enormously self-disciplined torpedoing expenses when it’s cutthroat & officially sanctioned.
Getting a pulse, fixed pupils, dilated. Don’t try this without the others ...

6/15/18

Statement of purpose —

 Just because we attribute work to personality doesn’t mean I’m not a brute with a hammer in my hand. My nailing us together takes a moment of your life.

Whatever takes substance and breadth, I’m not doing it!
A hobby becomes the color of dreams then addiction.
Can it hold the same seasonal affect?
I know what I need, blindfolded.

My life is the intervals it contains minus your presence.

Which is a way of drawing in regret.
A futurist has a softer side.
His life is his poetry, which appears as a biopic on my writing poetry about our lives.
His life then is built around sane choices w/ a sense of a person, even though in a few seconds, I’m in memory* of that person to come. Aw.

That a fact?
Some don’t hear clearly when one’s “voice” joins others’ to deepen ultimately anonymous expressions of desire.

* Any memory part is mostly vice versa and simultaneous.
151: Our berserk contacts squeeze topical structure into gentle shadows that are too numb to know what consciousness is.

We learnt lightly, love is too young. Yet triumph in love is slathered over the poor and often excluded. Axioms and other memes are what we are deft w/. So the poor-excluded combine 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.
Creature masks are prerequisites, in reprieve at the School of Nobody 
Teaching can’t be taught. You live within practice 

To engage another’s psyche. 
 You’re always wrong to prolong your appeal. 
To vote is an act of federalism.
Voices in our heads are social media. How far is it to the casino?

There is a civilizing process to telluric space


entered into by putting some wheat germs in.

Before the kill, yoga’s fantastic. You complain I’m brusque. It’s urgent.

Beads of moisture are in a pickle. Who isn’t?
I miss knishes.

6/14/18

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

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


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.)
How far? Rub it in.
Think or don’t think of it as conspiracy of/in the sun

in/of a square committee afternoon.
Space time. Whole minutes, days. Slash pauses.  
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /  
not while angles of light are brawling over taking us home.  
Vaccinated, a merciless itch, what is this collapsed satori we travel into?   
 
Passing though with amazement the X+1 “casting  
of cities,” thinking past us, pressing against me.
146: I’m talking to you in American. 
 
Christ is missing. No more dying then? Not going to lie, I watched us dream economics weeding and painting over a radius of death, destabilizing temperaments like worms eating up one’s itty soul. A body loss. Looters and rhombus-gatherers, all doing well respectively — great work for rebel power, cuts straight through the soul’s restructure creating more chopping patterns to abandon as dross.   
The chips mount, background to soundtracks muting the key words. Entire sectors of us feel the large cost’s about time, so short a lease, epic sums on new slender, fading glosses. The 21st century walkway and manly instrumentation are enforced for open combat. (It might be feminists like us are on genome probation.)     
 
Is this that world’s decision theory now? Don’t know. Not going to lie. (Ideologues often get stuck on last lines.) 
There’s a term for attrition of affects, eyesore. 
 
And there’s a hypertonic struggle to housesit too much information, pliable and glossy. You know it exists. Human body fat is worth $100,000 a gallon.  
 
The good gold. I fall into it.  
 
A life is charged for care. I’m otherwise a coffee head! But let’s pare it down.   
 
Have we ever done anything but tamper with the weather? Oh, who knows?  
 
Oh, Ladytron. You seem so fake-ignited in the sprayed periphery, a three-dimensional muse keeping her balance inside a soft radical vapor of vastness, loosely demolished.
Did you watch the report?

Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of industrial knowledge that considers prototype approximations in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard. At first.

Moving forward we have all of an hour now to take in sweetness made for infamous exposure (in costume) outdoors.
Lights up — we take ourselves inside the libretto where we reserve dissonance.

Sweetness is vacillating as usual after hours on clear nights. Robbers, cops
Though fragrant, turn opaque
And poof — still,
It could rain.
I’m a little I guess confused

I thought you might understand I mean

I'm surprised, do you know


what I'm saying? I guess so


not exactly.