Saturday, November 28, 2015

Everyone is resolved, the body is loaded w/ 3 seasons at a painting crossroads:
More relaxing filming bricks
and masked ducks or being w/ anyone who routinely
does things that would be awesome if intentional.

Filming or taping = [that is / that which is] painting / reporting.

Purple black teal — these axioms are exaggerated
yet feed-your-brain journalism takes control knocking many painters
off, gamblers bent on painting counterterrorism, cleaning up the future space, reporting that is that / which is ..

Friday, November 27, 2015

Like crustaceans we cave to forgetfulness.

Blinds drawn, our overly prefixed, scavenged opacity fills with sang-froid & riches of dark matter screening off the comic pedigree.

Before that, looking far ahead was fantastic, a civilizing process added to eternal space

Filling our eyes with unmeasured disassociation.

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Thanksgiving poem —
Chestnuts stand around in jobbed hoards.
This is a country with open arms,
Click opioids.

Close up.. Let’s agree you agree
Scrub jouissance good — reformulating innocence
Getting good out of recoveries, re-do’s, re-applications,

Clenching-tight, we’re a team.

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions
like unforgettable elements
to our touching and holding the
moment, surrounding it with
illusions of taking off for the

spinning or spun / upset / out of control yet
that’s how we fasten the starry messenger
to move around objects.

100% our touch.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

This is an impressions album. Or it was. Youth is so impressionable.

Ultra blurry, anamorphic, bound movement sung by writing it, but occurs in the latest form of repayment

— you
weigh nothing in and get no credit, no
spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in

                                        Downing, there’s a substitution agreement containing someone else
                                        and me in force, pulled on from inside.

— oh yeah, pulled awake more, more than once w/ a face of a poet. Or a filled out line. Or lines. Smiling lessons.

Monday, November 23, 2015

Will, you remember, Stephanie? A will from the past,
We’re thinking you heard its once-dying poet
Who cradled the face sorrow brings to bed,
Someone who could listen to bluegrass and lose it.

The wind smudging a porch. That sort of will.

We’re scared. / Good night to expose no non-accident or two that don’t matter, will made tactical
As we circumvent exchange elements; we’re remaking spatial morality into chance agency,
No view, no dash, no longer having to know.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

Rainy Sundays we break for the Beijing Olympics observed or imagined on the ceiling. Rationed atheism, a main event floating free, secret ballots cross wires in codes of conduct. Glue is the open door, the color of bone, an addiction to no one. Late afternoon to another.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

In Japan they have I-novels, sticky variations on Euro-American models. The I-novel cantilevers inside without. A flood of phone calls offers ‘relationships.’ No time for that.

The I is like everyone else, a nutshell of a wonk glaring, boasting bragging rights for having interesting things to read, packing up old love notes, crayoning hearts and drunken smiley faces, pledging boundless love.

Of course the I-novel is heavy. The I spent decades as a stealth pathologist performing autopsies on ‘live data.’ Subjects were mostly strung out on sofa sectionals of pulverized dots — big, jaunty shapes that swaddle their inner pooch, ducking your punch and closing the distance.

Friday, November 20, 2015


Again there’s no natural retrospective because nowhere
Now might the flow of ideas be so well hidden ..

Right. It’s past. Passed. What you say reminds me ..
It’s a bold contraption.

When can we enjoy sobriety, the doo
(implicative space)!

Pitches more to wade out above what’s sung

Above the beautiful, well pronounced.

That’s what we yell to joy, lightness, yes
Thrown in doo (where else!) :

Kyrie in fully sensory hellcat wrath.

Thursday, November 19, 2015

You contain only so much of me.

I live where you belong.