Just theres the royal we (a pain) in game theory to pla
Y. This may be an insight —


Now you’re giving me the finger. Technically. we’re not there yet.
You, my man, woman,
Pastoral you and all it initiates take humane power in socialist space. It’s rare.
Home base, hierarchal Finland: say it’s working through the population.
We’re the entire crew. The socialist’s way.
I hear Carol Breakdown is hard to get.

Takes substance and breadth, not at this end;
the going price paid is any / all of your audacious desire

(a rare cigarette case, may I)? Reversed decisions rotating surf, mercurial quanta
Shift, soft, whispered, could occur. You’ll want circles and circuits redressing
The boat’s cortex attention to holding out to
Say when. Pulse, how did you say when? There’s reform, learning windows..
A new level of storytelling nationwide.
Often there’s a new plot — those words we had and didn’t have were consequences. The milieu has been bad. Bad is good, since we know enmeshed values constitute our pit bullhood.

But I take no liberties writing you now, bubble footed in dark briefs. I have a dream of fair housing: Free-range light and dark in the clerestory to our lair… Some of us are going there after work. Would you like to come?

We go out with babes among cosmoi.
Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment is cut back,

Reminding us of a few contingencies we picked up off trays,
Bright boomerangs that tantalize in the feasible, wanting nothing and showing
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.

And some of these babes are both dead and alive. Chew on that, Hobbes.


Starting at the bottom of the pack, the fun strata, the face is inside a very powerful camouflage (instructing us to use it). That’s what I heard.

God bless you. Someone’s sneezed

We’re in public transport space, an elevator or the hallway. We think
Mining empirical data has a bigger future than blasphemy, many floors

To overhear, appropriate then evoke tall, slim formulae, aggrieving but wha...
Ways women around Marie Antoinette became modern: Oh, many. They were early risers. They dressed not merely for success, for career survival. They avoided work that was intellectually focused. They peered back and soaked up the landscape. They were gossips. Bless them.


The hollow inside is mixed up, the survey said

overlapping symbols’re happening way out in the ocean.

Your ocean. Your flamenco in transition.

Our faith and consequences.

A violet mist. This is prison.

(You have the evidence.)

Losers = worshippers of their detractors.
Heaven is in our hearts with an egg drop of credos and documents, from which large scale dull instruments get tossed.

We drink to your mistakes.


I swear even as you continue and travel further
As soiled oceans rewild deserts
All our props are dextrose contingent.
Or I was wondering about invention of the planets, sympathizing
With a numbers guru also the director — one of them.
Often that’s a normal baritone and determinative section to sing.
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, dragging human

footbinding into the light,

present day fireflies earning more in sandbars
speaking their minds to hollow
the new & smoky fabric of kites:

& trees droop silly
looking up, they’re Spencerian: stranded
leaving war to the professionals.


They’re probably wild Speen to Pinehurst
A perfect Bose wave, 100 percent juice —
The dead never see us.

These things we depend on ..
A rhetoric gone terribly right, and so
We draw together

If we’re to make a life together
They disappear, not changing our company,
All that pulls us apart.

When it’s just the two of us, paired, oh
Clearly the thing to do is institute a policy
Filling speech balloons like Supermen ..


Exquisitely handcrafted

meditation retributions..
As luck has it, sections of Alien Tatters (2000), a pre-nine-eleven work, are prescient or more recognizably urgent afterward: Then the top comes off of terror. You age. All the same pictures in everyone’s possible. They stir up the common in search, not to find but to wait. Images are waiting. Sentences are narrowing. Clark Coolidge tapers and tightens sentences to embrace “self-hung trouble” — “I know it looks like I’m not sure of anything,” not sure of monkeyman and his music / poetry that “kept turning me, the one with the three reasons sealed in a pod.” As luck has three reasons or meanings, when Coolidge observes, “..don’t want to see Abe lit...” does Coolidge include one possible meaning spurning the modernist Japanese novel? it would seem so, “House is brain, remember.” How do like your dimensions? “What are your answers, pendulums?” Paragraphs of sentences. Sentences of captions to the late skyward paintings of Phillip Guston’s: [...]I’ve doffed my alarming with plugs and caps, And this’ll water your eyes. I don’t see saucers, I see servants. Or By that time the tower was broadcasting nothing but shrapnel. How could you bow down? But how does meat dream? Notice how they tend to keep the cows toward the center? [...] Five expansive pieces, the longest, the title poem in 50 parts, and a brief afterword in which Coolidge owns up to a “fascination” with UFOs. “ ..I was calling out to them [...] You guys listening?”


Mind and body worship is vicarious before conforming to a belief system.
I’m too ugly to be molested. It’s true.
But I like meeting new people and having life changing sex
That would be the interior storm window into no progress.
Hoarse for weeks.

Like nowhere else in one place,
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a stream of gasses embossing / conjoining an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brays.
All our neighbors are mirror bees. Music up. Am I not one?


Lassitude let me see history is still standing a little
Psycho with a laser within
The horseshoe Renaissance broken open
Lay before my head cold rumbling..

A run on

Myrmidons at their high columnar booming tide
Kept there. Were there.

Dawn in the language of dunes
Lounged a soba color;

Doctors collapsing, sank
Into rectangles —

You know what I think?
Damn sumbitches


Retour lorsque nous sommes sur notre propre,
comme le seul barde de notre époque, il l’a dit, un visage

.. ébullition triste tout ensemble.
Pas très joli mais il est en version imprimée et autour

Un retour à romance jusqu’au tas. Rythmes environ envie, la fugue-sonate
avec humeurs de tous les temps qui sont truquées
A une pratique complète concernant une trêve ou une question énorme.. où
les saisons d’automne, aux printemps, tous solitaires, sont en mutation dans l’obscurité.

— absolument personne — personne ne reste à la maison
on est ralenti, à fournir le rythme —

Un prélude à chanter seul
dans le cadre de la colère d’origine afin de confondre tout.

Back when we’re on our own
as our only bard put it, a face

Boiling sad together.
Not pretty but there in print & around
A back to romance pile up. Rhythms about envy, fugue-sonata
moods for all time rigged

To a full practice in one truce or august matter; lone
autumns & springs changing in the dark

Chez nobody who’s stayed home,
slowed down to fill in the pace,

Prelude to singing along alone
in an original anger to confuse.
The local is inside you, sang Pete Seeger, Bob Creeley
when I tossed my head and rode
one foot, pawing the ground before a gallop.
As for my consultant, he shook
the bed, broke his baby toe, stubbing it
So much as ‘the way things were’ stay the same that one day.

Next, I spoke of how we ‘always’ have dinner
on placemats of woven straw, eating salad or a side.
A string of eucalyptus pods by the window to discharge
flies. Afraid of the beers.
It is possible to get homesick locally. Of course.
Once there was a saying — no clue — to have this out-of-horse experience.
Spoken or not, we are more alike, so that we are bound together,
we come from the same place.