7/15/19

Follow instructions.

We got in surrendering our fingerprints

humming to each making a windfall. We

toast anyone else reaching first grade


w/in one’s center, letting months and years slide.
In a mean perspective personal history reaches for
the moon. How is that helpful?
With your one constant, you cut the rest off,

That brought down the red curtain, with a curtain rod staff.



Having it, you hobble


Away like a name dropper.

Emotions were they don’t belong.
Blues by Corelli.

Follow instructions — slippers, noodles, make us warm
As rouged physics majors of what’s next to us repair to an adjoining construct.
At speech therapy you wear wet marks under your shirt — there you go — sent, 
Slotted for long scream divisions raising heads and  
.. bright debate  
 
Drawing boundaries along dark areas of youthful propaganda. And ..  
Our dual-cosmos line of argument self-inflates as a weather injector, fouling the atmosphere into Beirut colors, pebble and pale lucent grays.  
 
At this point, colors burn up, each measurement raging over acres of matrices, giving more access to haystacks you call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.
Cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower.
Their work multiplied by pre-adapted 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.
80: ...cross-pollination of English and psychology wracks up a revitalizing soundless deep. I’ll assume you suspect I faint when I write this. Situationists use the shallowest fare and map it into the literature. When I write of you, I’m in worthless sympathy, humbled, worse, tongue tied while I try a couple of poses —ha — there are great, pure benefits spent by proud, broad-minded sailors afloat, grasping for governance, ocean wide! Wouldn’t you know they are an infinite series within the history of fame and gossip. (Or from another angle they are a series of the grasping but goodly proud, wracked by history.) You who.
Another time, we meet in this version north of the town offices 

shaking tidal vapor thru no wait, no  


fewer than ten seconds off the slopes 

— 
 


meaning above the steps coincided with the light  
 


clipped to the powder base patching this thaw  
 


— spirals discharged, wind heats the ground and trees open.
Dear foundationalist,

You’re expelled for a month, next week.. experimenting with yourself..
leaving a sneezing grid with non-rectangular doors opening to violent sprinkles & irresolution...

In passing, I would like to see or set up dozens of availabilities to pick up the dissolved thread to ‘our systems metaphysics’ and to pick up that needle of yours & your as it were point.

From here, we drive thru parched hills of desert flowers seen in films.

Another hay fever phase of experiment.
What makes chosen words dressed in black?
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority.
Most rainbows taste like batshit, but we keep licking.

7/14/19

As ‘you learn to draw, remind yourself...’ the brain is said to resemble Chuck Norris. Interesting esthetic, Nordic but not fatal — Chuck or a funny bone will go for the reckless. Really his movies remind me of marigold & allegiance to the ice ants swarming the ozone so I look away — The earth is not the hearthrob earth, but it has strength and balance and Duma unanimity. Each winter corrupts the exterior.... poplars attaining their ultra field and stream, doing a job shunned by most, showered with tips.
The light (you’re sensing) 
failed every midterm before —
too on edge over invisible proofs. 

Income bulking from your dad’s 
condo? You move 
to become walled-in there ..

Check out the view — baby flights 
of gleamed birds in the rough .. 
enough! 
Enough is not idiomatic enough in condo years. 
Too much room freshener for today’s estimating: 
still, seeming seasonable as subterfuge supplants higher
dimensional hindsight, requiring autonomy to hold off. Dig in ..

Edens of chiastic inquiry .. into no word yet..
how yet no such word impedes coincidence in love.
My cohort flock to travel benefits. It’s in the evolution of avarice, loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer the opportunity. Looseness keeps younger bodies moving forward. And that goes for the sun shining with its belle-lettrist metamorphosis in the street, damning grown-ups.

Rationed compliments ensue secretly, 
Honest accounting disappears like functions of context (text frame procedures) — 
Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to amoral schemes 

— Travel well.
Sonnet 93:

Better to live more as love may near
— supposing I’m in many ways a deceived husband. So?

A coterie of enablers cooperates fully. For both of us,
a love interest is altered to look calculated.

For there can be no hatred in our eyes.
Tho, facing true love, the early light seems to
Urge us to go out, rehearsetoo much and get wasted, frowning, grow moody —
Eve’s apple was Adam? One love’s face? You and I cannot know.

What have we if our heart is in another place?
Hoping nothing won’t happen again, I cover my throat. Duly of course sounded. A few facts crowd around figures that are un-garbled when least derivative; ephemeral objective content triumphs. It’s kind of a snob racket. (C Bukowski) 

We weren’t exiled or orphaned, we decided to pursue other interests. Plus, it started again, as theory, pleasure is to ethics as the roundup waiting in any landscape, waiting for mistakes (1) and (2) jounce. 

Spontaneity backs up position vectors (thinking and acting). 

Woe is paralytic. I don’t detect a drop of broad mindedness toward any arched dynamic or versions of it — far better when and how you love or even when you nibblingly slobber over a numbed one’s body of rare happiness, feeling better. Hope of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest Dionysian. 
Dionysian = could pull off brocade, puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.
This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side.
I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
is a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over its mad body.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.
Parallels to our own variables show us the assassin self is uninvolved on every emotional level — even on the level one holds to show and act on others, the one bosses & ‘ritual’ overvalue.

7/13/19

I don’t get what you want, teacher
— our lives are directionless without a group, a clan?  
     
The telling problem with engineered simplicity,  
You annoy others (doctored meditations.. I’m 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.
I’m going on all nerves stolen from you.
It’s impossible to separate my understatement from your achievement; both are adolescent in a good sense, pitch. So that’s how cave and landscape can be performed. Next, a cool minimal database advances to burn out our swing — try (again?) 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 to me is finding and / or emplacing each close to noble attempt to be you.
Your immaculate body becomes numbers and detached frequencies.  
“Pronounce” it —  
 
That’s good.  
Now draw the strings. OK.  
— what do you know!  
Mayhem  goes off softly  
So hard to shovel, soft to fall  
White, rose, pale red —  
 
A roving shadow feeling like  
A thermometer — legends says,   
 
Crossing fingers blood standing’s  
More feeler than hand,   
 
It shakes the nombril ray,  
 
A maneuver crest high just dimming the drowned thumb,  
A sculpture with a cup.
Sonnet 94:

We can’t go on without thinking it over.
If I had had the foreground I’d be subsiding in attrition as it were,
I’d have heaven’s grace to weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken fewer notes I’d have less power to hurt
expressing “you,” “me” and, worse, unclenched feelings

festering into our very own subjectivities,
which we can’t pinpoint or supplicate, my lord, husband...

But may I live and die if fair ever turns sour
in these our summer to summer’s pitched provisos
and integers-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none.
For a recap, I color within lines. Drink? I take my latte to bed 
And set it on the stand, tagged and released. 
You wailed it, Yosemite. Morose I am.. and optimistic.
Love, A cool looking Japanese acrobat slow-motioned to us to go for the moody and unexpected. 
Doesn’t it freak you when categories are givens we don’t need to work out? Nevertheless. Some of you has given in — there you go, retreating, emancipating solitude, more sound-oriented than dance.   
 
But that reminds me, your drawl is immediate, overwhelming, terse and of a Castilian order. A hundred strum und drang in one = you, contained at the piano. The endive bloat for George Balanchine nevertheless.
When blood types were fresh no one faced blame. Now I am bleeding to see or set up the 1st position, be shown the dissolved needle and my as it were haystack with no frontiers, knocking the moment down with glances, nods, inspiring small talk.. yet keep it under wraps.

Deep-rooted. Soft-voiced. How now, my anapest.

7/12/19

Cloistered, possessive habits flatten into praxis
— tho it’s instinctive to watch who’s singing
I get no points jumping in or off.


It’s just synecdoche leaving not sharing to chance.
Undressed — except for slacks — anonymous like Updike but I turn  up   as Camus. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back) . . 
 
The bear, untameable and wild 
 
But calm it down. There’s always a dual nature to justify finding “resentment and forgiveness” within our not being sorry we can’t erase.   
 
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.
A man in drag wearing a gown I tie.
Your cool red bones,

A cold star, partly the wind,
Your superb gall
And me, I’m feelings which move in time
While this lowest button erases..

There they go
When you say

Well stay well
Where they rang.
One does one’s best and worst tautologies and still gets picked on — now in a major way. 
Business proceeds on spec — you stick in a little yoga. Then one runs after you  
thinking what a complete idiot. One is. One’s hair’s havoc, you’ll have it restructured.   
 
The contextual self, oneself, is fascinating, perhaps to squelch the nonpleasure of symmetry-breaking terms.
110: What are resonators for but to effect command of offenses we’re uncertain of or we sold cheap. There’s nothing but our affection left, my best of love. Love’s confinement a desperate measure, and it’s true in reckless hands, yet for silent partners there’s depth to surface and mostly un-despairing perceptions (grinding teeth, looking on truth) of what won’t be contained between us. All of the above.
Of all the varied and fabulous pieces by new composers I wager many are bursting with personae — because of what they rock to, also because many exuding confidence have gotten past graduate school, one’s corporation, a ballooning investment. 
 
One of the donor’s places resembles a Marine outpost with sweeps of property edging a subdued headquarters.  
 
Here technology’s refined flux appears noncontroversial.  
At sundown a leftist French brain speaks up, confined to a balloon:  
“If you’re anamorphic, within measures of comprehension, flux members too often adopt overheated lingo or low-to-overheated if you like.”  
 
Other balloonists, also French, shrugged to themselves in red embers; not really, they said.
Focused. Demented.
No shortcuts. Nope.
It’s regrettable, they say —
Twin Peaks doesn’t add up
under binge watch...

Not entirely, but it seems unforced holding to an ideally liberal weirdness.
David L thru Kyle M is an observer with an uncapped fortune,
reflecting what adolescents do when their backbones ice up,
raising all boats, all social levels.
Destroy and smooth nothing.
Mind control is a full canoe of alter-egos, disingenuous.

7/11/19

Achieving.
Onto what?

We’re a special team. We’re circumspect.
Our sharing mechanism (pretext) gives no voice
to repeated wandering motifs over a long silence
we back off from. Nightly


we face 10-to-life thickets of cloud & southerly winds
taking it to other investors who might stay offended,


the next step in the training.
We sometimes need fresh lexicon to wangle a way to reset the mind-body problem, irruptive words to determine their own behavior, items like primality and cuboidal glints of music, human interaction in heaven, akin to the great abstractions around ambiguities. Never far away strove the steady salmon in jagged streams, eating air, a glorious set!
Ode to the dead (maybe not yet).
A beautiful meal is a life sentence:
Everyone’s in place. One’s in place.
Food also knows where it belongs.

The stage brightens.
Is it dark matter was inhibiting our endowment?

Knowing the ropes to scale now
clearing the dinner club of lame comforts,

Stern, all the food pecked over, even down
to our own place, last place, last row.
What comes of the heart’s marquetry?
A clay-toned physique returns to land 
Shedding light tints in reverse of rotating surf.
25: No dying here, let those in favor never be removed. Prost!
A few words travel, ‘unlooked for,’ calibrated by our ruckus / doing-the-honors spoken (rather than speaking) in a larger-scale dialectic —

a painful war and public invite as outreach where all the jazz wears off. It’s triumph!

After, for a frown, a thousand victories once buried pride / the sun’s eye.

We’re happy we can boast of love in favor of love fresh from the book,

love whose fortune spread joy we honor most.
Dresses. 
 
Now she’s spilling bourbon over my a-line, all thumbs to keep our game up & running. Likewise I’ll write about it. As poet-jewel-thief wearing a dress, you might think it profitable to string her sentences together like paste rubies & artificial pearls deliberately mismatched, like John Waters’ suburbs, inexpensive & adroitly passé. Each sentence shines in gloom as ends won’t match up with beginnings, not quite, each sparkle dulled into an afterthought containing falsehoods but cinched by faintly plausible, recognizable style — sparkle doubled down, my other dress draped over bowls of Chesapeake crabs & crab traps, a near accident or an accident-in-the-making.
It went from cinches & dresses to pants & belt from there.
No variation. 
It had to be known to you v. you know.
Already short of truth, analysis suggests shorthand abstractions,  
buckeye elements surround international topics, street names 
more indirect than searches show.  
 
It had to be known to you going blind.
Minor formalism otherwise holds the screen for the overweening moments, 
winning or won in an upset, out of control yet  
surrounding our aggression with our touch.  
 
Ouch.
We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.

7/10/19

Talk to me,
they said.

Avoiding refined flux appears noncontroversial.
At sundown my history is fundamentally confined to a change agency:
“If you’re anamorphic, the flux (within measure) too often adopts overheated lingo or low-to-overheated if you like.”

The remaining agents shrugged to themselves in the embers; not really, they said.
Rant:
If we hand Athens back — it’s about letting you go bold,
taking cannibalism out of context,
giving you your Sprite.

Let’s drink to downsized colors,
off atmospheres of active enlightenment
then falling over, breathing while your
rescuers get authenticated.
“Great I’ll hold...”
2 out of 2 observers were cut off, casually substituted.

Forbidden now for hipsters to talk. This could be another’s
call, since you in the sciences never act against self interest.

Classicists do tho, placing wagers on the original and copies,
claymation v. intent.
The soul is a hypothesis, a sweet flying
iota of consciousness surfing terrestrial states,
this both to find and destroy itself.

We begged it to go faster and keep at it,
stick with a sublime subject or object, rally
for more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can buff it up perhaps you should.
Spacetime. Slash pauses.
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /
not while evangelic angles of light are making a fracas on our way home.
Vaccinated, I have a merciless itch.. what is this collapsed satori we travel into?
Other instances of ourselves / Passing the “casting

of cities,” thinking past us. Way past.
A normal 2 years B-4 messing with U. Why wait?
48: One only care, a trifle..

Save where you aren’t / tho I feel you are. Careful..

Tho a treasure you are left the prey of
Tomorrow’s falsehoods before the fun starts.
But you thirst for it all, all arms.
I feel you in my breast, my dear care — you and I play a
Thievish long shot in comfort for the true prize, our pleasure
Outlasting grief over how we come and part.
Blame for mocking Plato — he thought a musician would deeply apprehend radiant, interactive forms (and defects, among a few variants), soberly, liberally studying floss of beauty in breadth, alert to surface details, part of the work week. It’s all hideously exciting if you’re fair, unstained and the sweetest. 

Justice for all as the crow flies only looks calculated, Plato said. Liberty with caution, minuscule, exciting.. again. 
We come to the marketplace in ease, partial self enhancement.
When we wake up I’ve moved to your city. Dah!
I owe you so far for not murdering me O hand,

I’ll calm down, we’re almost rich and supposed to destroy ideas ..
I will have to underestimate furthering research,
Solving the perfection problem, but not remorse.

7/9/19

Because I’m a particle animal I can do it all day.
Rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl
A sparkle to live autonomously altogether, no vision...
There is tho nothing like no despair.
Errant is not mistaken for arbitrary.
In a way our two universes just feel like games..
2 side by side arrays for time & harmony within a philosophy (moving spatial dimensions)
a few hours forward.

Our universal inference, compressed form, a ‘crown’ of contradictions
veer toward approximal rhetoric —

Can waving time like a moony branch
supersede nature,

a piece of research asks. Why open
(structures are arranged by) atoms (holding on thru chemistry)
under quivers at the edge to sleep?
We got a grip on. 
Times are an outrage. Good times, bad, treason’s treason.  
We’re tracking themes thru anxiety —  
for prejudice damn well plays w/ a formalist bias,  
a tradition of selfishness I’m loosely not interested in.   
 
Tax breaks for the wealthiest keep it humming.  
Due process is to look, also   
 
(we note now at the end to factual conservation)  
to be seen.
Ornament is content. 
 
The yews know how to wear theirs, contracting buds to bury their starship in content with our bed in it — the last day we ate the world of bad philosophy.  
Together and tender, flaming, increasing now  
and then their memory subsided in time, turning dull in bright green.
Things started to leak last week.
I can’t disagree.
Call it one ocean if you want.
101: It gave me hiccups when our best senses cooled down — praising silence long truant, still overdue. Beauty needs no pencil.

Both our senses I reference, truth and beauty, in primary season.

And I’m back intermixing, fixing and lifting text, you in the foreground with answered memories. (“Make answer, Muse..” take everything.. need nothing.)

We grabbed the narrator (we couldn’t rule him out), staying blithe in the twin column.
You & he wonder about summer’s eternal
possessions, the buds, shade & one day
staying chaste .. It’s on the house. 
It feels great out ahead until there’s a threshold. 

By the same rule there’s too hot
a reliance on eye pleasure, a threshold as well as disaster 
Optimizing the center where death lives.

Which path did the photon take?
The answer takes more than studied ambiguity
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still.
No orgasm. On second thought, call me. 
 
I want to remarry in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?  
Marriage makes me horror-struck either way —  
Aghast in wake of our previous melancholy.
Pleasure is to ethics as unknowing is to epistemology —

7/8/19

A shrine of axioms supposes its completion, honing everyone to the surface.


Late afternoon to another.
Sing: I love it when prose or song digs in and flails.
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.
You are now failed. Don’t call before you go on. 
 
de Staël turmoil, under pressure for the ‘rhetorical’ surface,
experiment and critique to improve and integrate the soul. 

In one text, we’ll set up a bighearted appendix   
like a safety school cafeteria menu.   
  
Unknown to you, I’ll be chancellor of the swelling enterprise   
dividing my feelings into vendettas.
Beaten gulps, pouring vodka that swirls in an action clip with multiple data fields and a crew of deft extras in malaise. Their theorems about pain are supported by one or another grabbing ropes, showing pain.

I’m told you’d prefer not to watch. It’s better using your own voice to ask a friend or two, pretending they are you, falling mute.
87: Sodajerks. Their stock was luminous. Adding

that noun phrase furthered ambition (we’re sure it was theirs), amusing
vim shaken from the inside. Each had a skeleton curse; the sparse lot growing
fewer. (Youth, after all, is the determined object of love.) An emotional matter
language models for 3 dimensional farewells in waking you
then not knowing.
First question, true or false. It’s the one I ask myself. Technology keeps humming to a manageable stretch to when you left, even ruling you out. Out on the sidewalk you hadn’t left a name, either. And yet I stood close to you, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. To understand.   
 
Fricative efforts add a bunch of O’s   
 
— language & body mania, aqua ions show their molecules in bulk, imitating an obsessive personality. The rapid strength of bonds between metal & water molecules is their primary dissolution.   
 
What can I declaim? Repeating prose clips may transit through a few (of those) loopholes to confront loopholes’ necessities, maybe.
Pierre Bourdieu threw a projectile that applies today while top donor ‘families’ are in control — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of capital distribution are streamlines like assembled heterodoxology vis à vis subdominant esthetic fields ballooning, caught up in baggier ideas.” 
Speaking of higher consciousness, Bourdieu came home to his Cajun kitchen then 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 like hours ago — and now — Republicans circling the wagons while checks and balances are nasally inspissated through fear.
I don’t know that much about you, but you remind me of someone
who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far away or far off, quelling fear.
Half a day goes by and still you resurface.
You are unattainable.
You are hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.

7/7/19

We have 9 pm poems and 4 am. Noticed?
I’m keeping with it like a Javanese statistician.
When information is relevant to collegial policy, communication goes private, decisions could be galvanized within a single metaphor for hot caffeine.

We want to remarry in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?
Marriage makes me horror-struck either way —
Aghast in wake of our previous melancholy.
The gear managers inserted a bonus to exchange and it’s not so bad — 
an innate physical act of fondness that ends in a draw sustained one  
by one getting up, stretching for an hour.   
 
Whilst I’m driven to de-humanize sweet totems that “look pretty close” with my eyes  
now closed, with you, I’ll possess our language with no lexicon,   
without conforming to a belief system to insert a hyphen and assert our memory.
I’ve been on a nihilism binge; this is while I’m doing only one thing at one time on a crazed errand-stream to a structuralist’s degree. 
 
I won’t cry when it becomes everything without a message.   
 
Greyhound hurling on seesaw but feels fine,  
Any footage balances when pushed, so it’s  
Not so entertaining or serene. A maelstrom lights  
Up the foreground, no questions asked.  
Pit Bull sits tangled in tree w/leash & kites.  
Corgi spinning in washing machine, a hairy fox. 
I’ll trade you all the noise in my hands, still shaking — scared of leaving you among the spoils..  
 
There’s a tradeoff, my trade. In the din hostility shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing for stopping messengers’ tears as the door from nihilism leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.
Never disagree
with inferiors. Never.
Never field questions
about meaning what is not said
or saying what is not meant.
Sonnet 7: 

Outgoing at noon, attending on what? I’m not going out. I’m mouthing off about new-appearing sights with or without you. Just look how my eyes are scripted by high pitched infantile alienation, falling over you. Again. It’s not too late! New optimism apparently pays serving your burning head. Another way we’re both blackmailed over there is nothing low, nothing sacred.
Failures in love are heinous, antique, never in 2 places enough needing permission, shuttered, untainted & bleak, drear & just dumb. 
Translations = ‘live serious & young’ ;
‘articles have been written on...’ = ‘long-lived, still this croaks’ ; 
‘snow falling backwards’ = up & up / course untainted ; 
 
‘the world of secrets has its own’ = patterns to succeeding circumstance. 
Refrain:

This is the last time.

No punishment without a reward, reverend.
Only your own revels meet you halfway, morning blurring promises in
Aftermaths of the hiatus, letting your adages cool.

What are we thinking?

Is this a document or did I make it up?
Frozen water on Mars is the smoking gun.

Another question. Smelling coffee gasses a decimal
Of where should I hurt?
Once more and be done.
Clouds are in slacks by the fridge.

7/6/19

The president and his wife are a couple while we’re cruising at altitudes of theorem.

Quack probabilities dim until you restructure our credit history, nail it in clear plastic. Where does the political economy have us bury it? His and her turf — also yours and mine, since we’re all for one as subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy..
Let her go, let him do want he was elected to do..

But not tonight...
Prayer: I can steel myself to make something up and call it mine... 
Seems asinine, puzzling. Renascent:  
 
I might add, seems textually modest as respectable Eurocentrics undress for survival, avoiding careers, soaking up the city among savages of their own design.  
May a zealous counterculture dart sweetly to life! May it help us solve you and me for X! when we let them.  

Own a bolo.
Midmorning dining, rambling
like deer in bed, shiny
children faultless in smoke, we know how —
No jitters, the heart wrapped
in flames from passive groans
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches ..
opera .. and shush.
56: Lament:

Prose enters a poem. It has a work permit, a blunter edge. That’s why
The place has been wiped clean of unforced errors. A sad interim:

The poem essay invests in spontaneity gleaned from what icons blur;
Hey, there are no middle class essayists. Yet, we can rubber any room —
My advice for exploring ideas, renew your force, stick to the sentence.
Come daily to the return of love tomorrow today.

To go along continue needing riches, sharper appetites as it were.
Rare thanks for the view.
I usually snooze after a bonfire of love, not one note of cynicism vis à vis whom I adopt. It’s better after I begin to wake I’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun is great. I merge at the top, asleep... Moreover, I landed. A roundhouse in the sun... I said. The left knee just there when it took a variant position with scratches — an honest hermaphroditic itch countermanded in ambiguity until it goes away — released at last into newly impartial states, witless after a while still asleep. But not dead.
The once conservative invention of worship is over.
A wall thus of calm is put up.
Love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing adult ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering consensus and political distance. We’re redistributionists, youth symbolically living to do it over but scale it off. Everyday politics practiced by young and old in anger, useless bruising rhetoric, forcibly asserted.

Cultural obligations shape who youth are, you know, a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance with our future attributes.
We’re in business —
go online.
(Leave us alone.)