Anyone can wish for ‘portal trans specificity,’ Me? I replace all the markers to get inside a face. Your face. Your brow sports a few layers of sleep relief, accruing intimacy. Meanwhile we form a new team on portal strategy, yielding larger holds on dispossessed cynicism...
Sonnet 100:

We have spoils subtracting song
— idle work converted to argument
that sings to the ear.

Worthless to speak of darkening power, but surveys add up.
Numbers and verse surveil life everywhere. Time and again
you return, lending my base subjects light — you’re faster than time.

Return! you, your fame and skill redeem our fury within what time spent,
if not, a despised waste of life in satire and base argument.
1 enclosure without a pulpit, no dogma...
outdoor passages to enter then exit self sponsorship
spreading out in willful overloads of language design —

Skilled decor, de-simplified, or notional contracts
between science and who knew?
Ironic technologies without precedent —
A corporate hold across manners and adaptations, restrained praxis
and hermetic syntax, all noun phrases.
What’s a bleb? It sounds small.
Jumping ahead. A decade from now no one’s big and famous. 
We’re forgetting nothing moves the needle. This argues for problematics.


Should we have 
a message?  
Possessive self-possession. Without a bleb or title.
The School of Nobody takes 8 lives.  Nobody wins in a debate over no- and not- distinctions: for incorrigible voice matter is always interesting  & moving to work for meaning in two instances of no stages. 


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 versus certitude and flatulent controversy, such as with Basho’s proving human sound able 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.
Flashbacks pertain.
Large reflecting pools in the future, it’s just a thought.
If I introduce vagueness as a more devout
machine therapy, we can escape

thought-train derailment, bringing on experiments in graphemic parole,
rescue room from disillusionment.

Fungibly discerning not wishing to die holds a semantic randomness, otherwise empty space.

There’s señor that needs you. He has no interest in real physics... I wonder if that’s true — Our thoughts knitted together like mica piling up, shouts ricocheting through voice tracks from the underbrush holding our breath, bounced, kicked and gloved by catalysts.
Sonnet 86:

The future reaches full sail bound for intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to prize and grow, that is, write great verse.
I thought of you
giving us cohorts aid.. But no, we see our pride flies off as it works around a crowd of familiars whom we teach to write.

Once our brain ripens, we concede to neither victory nor fear — at night I lack a precious affable character beyond feeling mortal myself.. both that and a familiar’s ghost morality strike me as too precious, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling this line.
Falsehood is an actuarial stat, a subjective state and quality of the frieze in progress, not an elevation or height. 
This is a true/false dance question. Fibber Perseus v ‘radium’ Danae (his mom). Which are ya?  
For one draft you as Perseus can place big futures and puts as taller mouthpieces enter the salon rolled ‘into’ B flat major, ‘into’ spools of more of her opposites — Danae’s tendencious pedestrians, 1st- or 2nd-years, sweating lead colors.   
Danae can’t help smothering her loved ones. In her wake birds assume instantaneous velocity.
RNA itemizes facts.
Do you like spiral dares?
Or to be bubble-footed in dark briefs!
None of the above!

Fat, never satisfied, we live on the edge, they say,
we come from creatures far back, slowly calmed
by fear we were of a kind they were to others, lacking
redoubled patrimony and finding-it-out tools.

Distribution adjustment @ sports.com has those to spare..
tasked down from behaviorist beliefs. Hi, they say.
Well, I knew m’lord was a prevaricating, bloodlust child — the writs of Rolfe d’Hampole had warned — unceasing sycophant, his incarnadine shadow spilt down dim stairwells to redden more, divagating before olive branches in nightfall, exhorter of few changes, hardly any.


There’s no portrait, not even a good i.d.; the lion took  
the eagle’s wings yet kept his own name. 

Then he had an idea. O
there were reproofs he keeps inside him just the same. 
I notice the lion hadn’t said even half  
a word before he took off.
All experience is seriously correct.. 
But what is?    
How can it if I tell you what I’m?    
A blind accident, 
I’m in no hurry. A life was charged   
now curled up on the menu.     
(Have to go.)     
Here I was, preaching to your eyebrows.   
(Cave safely.) 
Things started to leak last week.
I can’t disagree.
Call it one ocean if you want.
Dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflects gritty, blind optimism and violence. 
Are you healthy enough for this perfection?   

A little off, ok — speaking the usual way subverts expectations.  
Stencils of our doctrine line up behind others 
As good critique pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.
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.
Foolproof intensity is an egg-hatching moment, kairos, and from there we can move forward and back to detect duller undertones that encompass our naïve expertise.

Yours and mine.
Dull, but there are no nasty values in the executive nest. There’s a flywheel effect turning conversation over to science and edacity. A private-public wholesaling of prototypes that mess up one’s visual cortex — pasting-in blind spots crammed with luxuries that bind. The flip side — tooth and nail radiance.
Half of the unknown universes have astrophysicists.
Our prospect ices. Breaking appointments,

Time lapses are at acute angles each winter, no lie.
One improbable is the climate’s finite performance before it veers away.
Switching phones, I look up to the crazy dental intern waiting to take me out.
Kites: pinky juicy crisp
Space parlance —

The language predates motto handicraft and canned vibration
Slithery, waxed down toward our bumbled abstentions.

Life is better, a few times
Looking broke with pencil marks across gessoed

Pearls — trance police, a hex video
On top various under-invented heights.
What’s semiology? unless we’re in life to gnarl sparkle to figure it out? laboring for invention?
No futures present new phenomena — what older worlds once could say —
I have a tiny soft view of holding to their path, a core harmony of former days, purring yet put aside. (One chord after another.)


Politics is the gene expression omnibus.   
Each of us is one viral video from partisan fame.    
Vanity is promotion. In vain.  
Amen to white boats opposing innocence.
There’s a benign debate — where brightness bore in, grateful prenuptials stampede out, 

Drawing bonds along dark zones of propaganda.  
And owing to your interest... this won’t constitute a holy day, merely an apostolic sacrament.  
Or only one of many noted by a crowd of flutists aft. 
My terms are to settle down through the evening as our proud examples 
Gain longterm advantage spreading the launch.

Our ceremony for being creaturely unmarried and staying that way.
No futures present new phenomena —
I have a tiny soft view of holding to their path, a core harmony purring yet put aside.
3-D models are mindless taking chances, everyone we can engage in transparent secrecy, charged by mental concision.

Rationed compliments ensue and float
several kinds of math.
The math is fascinating, I think, to squelch tautologies of wealth and actionable conditions for surplus misuse as power we might have had. Had the self taken itself un-nostalgically?

— an idea to perform w/ just one note in the future perfect.. where disrespect feels like eavesdropping.
Sonnet 65:
Mortality’s boundless, impulsive rage.. it could be a physics meditation held outdoors battering for days since the end of summer. Battering night flowers to action, to evolve stronger, steelier pretexts, many out of hand.. petals and stems swaying over an impregnable swift foot.
In time we stumble upon a miracle sonnet holding out responses for fearful continuity — as it were — trademark of both natural and technical production, mortal yet like summer honey in its shining value, a variable of beauty’s strong hand either way.
Erasing the new narrative,
Baseline coherence had been a standard, believably denying

Abstraction through sleights of cohesion. Then that,

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

In our epoch of fakery..
That’s what I would be attempting — if I were to talk to you
Even for a second so that sleep goes away

To keep from you forever
Nothing, not a thing.
A foolish few of us keep fighting for independence. But bosses are out there. Sure savages, quick with their own designs. Yet I keep running from the bosses above — psycho-analogs, nonverbal monitors of sensory and motor operations standing up to view the repaired wall unit, hearing you read fibrous new copy, pacing in warrior suspense, smelling something burning, watering potted moss, falling asleep. When you listen closely the analogs are meddling, nudging nearer to a verbal core, editing prose, keeping everything tidy; above that, less of a presence, there’s one or more crisis managers descended from a family of ethicists, whom Freudians describe as facets of the superego mostly whizzing by shaking a ‘finger’ up in the brain and mumbling something half-received, half-worked-out for the moment — be tiny, be warned — there are tribal icons above superego facets, and their points of view are even more fleeting, harder to perceive as they’re fossils — given up to us like paste gems and gluey blobs, deliberately dulled into falsehood with real results! 

I wear them indoors.
“I’ve got to get back to the city.” Why bother, Buddha imitator? Reeves is guileless, a pious, ethereal hulk in a collapsing bug life. He sneaked his junk across the border just to release his frustration, verbally sneering at no place to go in a natural voice.


Very good, Jack. We were going over some numbers, audience shares, I mean maxims, and...
I would like to voice concern about poetry / critique spiraling out of control...

Look, I’m filling out forms by the nightstand.
The point is I’m not writing anything “garbage-y.”


Don’t be silly, Jack. You are daytime poetry.
That’s cruel, Rabbi, very cruel.
Media is clogged with a reductive, neo-fascist message... 
Trump just has to look presidential for a few minutes to emerge [..presidential]. 
Fascism stays underground for as long as it takes. Now here it is — it’s about to play nice. 

Nice or mean fascist views won’t disappear. Unamerican discourse has entered our lives. It’s commonplace in our high schools. 

The time seems backward. There is the example from frog species. Frogs lost teeth in the lower jaw at least 200 million years ago, but whoooa.. lower teeth reappeared in a marsupial tree frog species about 20 million years ago. 
— Sept., 2016
A new problem set: 
Work through naïve discourse —  
Keep methods observable as mayhem —  
Call this ‘transactional’ waking action  
Unlocking — on sight of you — my feeling from the start, the only unmoving part.
134: Dirge: Knocked up by sure bets and unusable vote counts = usurer intrigue, equipage of the self-illumined or half-taught —

An inured slice of childhood domains — all to attain another, future time.
Back in time. 
So now and then I may have liked primary grades more. Later, romantic couplets —

Lost in bromance, wearing nothing but motives for aching to keep doing what we feared, overlooking our lives in love? So he’s yours? 

I’ll sue you for disrespect, covetous of my comfort, my couplet. I lived for your peach flash thru witless dialectic. (See above.)

I drank your Labrador tea. And for further research I took up free, motorized speech. (Note above.)

Similar theories, large discontinuities. Dirge:
I don’t worry or pierce my ears further.
What is known is types of metonymy. 
Outside branches of instrumental research,   
poetry, a subset of epistemology, entails voicing new speech from old — 

Even blindfolded, we see paradox smirching curvatures in space, observed in continuous motion: Air puffs dart away, streamlined and compressed, aiming fast — but never landing — 
I’m scared. Good night to catch up on a poem or two that don’t matter, unfinished odes to Zeno as we circumvent Euclidian voice commands, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, only having to know.
We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. Miss you. Miss you.. There you are! What’s the matter?

To explain leverage inside a more collaborative framework..  there is the physical sound of a frame along with a framework. What’s matter..

we’re adoring you reflecting our status wanting a moral politics where leverage follows its bliss

(returning to duty)..
Shopping sprees are migratory patterns. 

They get disrupted but like age and defeat don’t let up.


Early nesting process stuff. Ketchupy
The coast is never clear, fat boy...   
A whole new side to nuts & lightening bolts, narrow & hollow in the center,  
along with holding on 100% — inflatable as you lay back in a blank whisper,  
clearly in the nick of it, spoiling for everyone.
70: I don’t blame you.
Alone in your ‘kingdom’ flying backwards. You’re facing the street, passing it... A science fiction flushed hollow, cankers and buds looking prime outdoors and you’re still passing, unstained by the ambush adhering neatly to nothing, just passing, yet with suspects’ approval ornamenting impurities of state. Heaven’s sweetest.

Who are they who envy? slandering, even wooed — and such charged discourse! Don’t hold it in. Talk to their doctors.
Bad news, I was 
struck by the French property owner. You know,  
plagiarism done in loose quotes.  
It’s cold indirection (sangfroid),  
but my metabolism really took off, along  
with emotions from a huge songbook  
I’m freezing,  
‘quote’ watching text spin like sentience  
refined by distance; since  
it’s none of the above ‘end quote.’ This could be for you now.

It’s all set here. The economy is fixed to move. 
I’m a meta physicist to an inner antecendant for whom marooning was neither scarce nor chic. Tempus fugit despite taking an interest in properties & stratagems bequeathing us  

sherbet, oomphy comforts & massive inflows of feel- 

ing great! These brands are shocking taken to far corners every day, above  

a once bowling facility, now airbandb-ing. Tried to.  
Thousands tumble.
Mere research reports what’s on your mind. 
Why not reflect it in text?  
You’re showing one lie can never be replaced by another  
It contains.


146: I’m talking to you in rebel American. 
The poor soul has gone missing. No more dying then? Won’t lie, I watched us dream outward, destabilizing temperament like itty worms eating up soul after soil. No lie. Body loss. Looters and dross-gatherers — great work for them, their sin cuts straight through an ‘apparatus restructure’ creating more chopping patterns to follow your and yours’ loss. Poor souls. Then. 
Death chips pile up to background soundtracks muting the key terms: Entire sectors inside you and me feel it’s about time to feed on death, to leave the body, to be alone. We have so short a lease, ex-inheritors of gloss, slender gloss, the body’s end. Death once dead. Then?   
Is this decision theory now? Don’t know. Fed within, without I’m rich no more. Hard to lie. 
High cognition animating your new bankcard 
Observing very little ethical cohesion. For oomph  
The gloves come off ..   
Modifiers in chips note each commitment of yours on a riddle gauge, new units mutate oozing w/ data until you stop.  

Finish a stretch and the state gets confused.   
Citing a theory of state w/ universal grammar,  
Your card de-activated.
Often my partner exists in a fortress, deliberately passive-aggressive like any fool.
I’m kidding. Even alone.  

In our farewell, as I see it, our descendants build a museum to spy  
us & others. They look great — stomping out corners. That’s their 

moonlight, indispensable today for smearing glows  

down walls that follow a trajectory
aimed at each atom of both of us in maroon cords.
Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises.
Never enough zest or sprouts. Propose a dozen synonyms.


In my illusion
of minimalism
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down
and got lost and scattered trying not to be distracted.
13: Father, son, you’re looking up big-eyed instincts? Instincts:
to get out of the valise, dear. My love. We pirated the code.

I can say we pushed our feelings out willingly (thru nurture, nature, frantic relaxation in stormy gusts).
The fit is that good to hold.
Yet I notice you work away from me to keep your poise, make it smoke
against the end that’s coming. Prepared after yourself

against my love, your semblances had no results. Click, or better, call.
O Jesus 
A severe honey glow   
crowning his shoulders — groomed   
disgust in his walk, his mystic theater   
perhaps addressing us, the radiant   
pull at his mom’s sleeve.   
Perpetuity emptied of the given moment.
Criticism “must take a wider horizon of use.” But my notes are lost, colonized with off-rhymes; my lexicon of rhetorical “skirts” wrapped around a few “legs.” 
Between a minimum and maximum, 
Buddha retires in expired turmoil. His daybed is in the new office alcove with murals of doves dropping out. His critique has no name; it’s all about listening.
So I put my name in. Just one. Am I fit for the scenario? The next one. Are you and I? I ran out of balls rating you. Instead of my goals, I found so much of what you say unique, but our data are adulterated. Both sexes. Barns and shrubs. You’re driving me nuts. 


Psalm: make me sorry with the music. 
Nothing is unimportant. Neither the bray of birds nor their sweet after play. Send for Fr Pierre.  
He lives in harm’s way. Sit on his face. “A pure transit of showdowns.”
Channel my absence from you. 
While my paranoia reminds me of you 
when I am feeling discordant, scared of death 
from which we come back as braggarts getting it all wrong.  
Or mostly. We both goofed but it’s negative minutia,  
only a fleeting year — extemporaneous, rectified,  
less or more spasmodically through time restored removed.
Anchored in the bay I need to remind myself 
Larry Kearney rhymed all with skull, internally. P Inman’s  
Echelon hairnet shifted putty, thumb-nailed into  
An agreement to let us in. Skull with putty.  
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down to earth.  
The more you put your fingers in it, on it, on earth, you know retouches, colorations return as audible signs of evidence-based rivalries to make fitter (more adhesive) decisions for correct behavior.
117: What’s virtue? J’accuse thus: We have to repay all bonds for punishment on platform hoists.
I recommend frequent time with ex-writers, video vignette makers, tinkerers and others unknown, indistinguishable from applied scientists.

For now, after work we non-haters should accumulate human illuminated octane and wear Ray Bans and short sleeves.

Whereto (given time) ‘should’ = ‘want to’ — our gusto waking proof, scant without you, dragged, transported in ropes far from your august level.

All bonds tie me day by day to your dearest love:

Solitude, confidences accumulate as we’ll give in to willfulness then errors, the dry plays and the desert constants farthest from your sight.
We need a clearer message. There is nothing swift
in discretion. Neap tides in grasses previously made us sick.

Their flowers’ name is hooded.

I’m sorry about blunt, contradictory line breaks —
more confusion for ad finitum, signing in ...

but we trust you with these melodious issues.
Yes. It’s speaking animals that need you, remember, and

Timespace, s’up?
’Recursive perception‘ — 
For your birthday (bleak as mine, too, fixing drinks) I came straight from the agency, this text’s agility welded to the dirty platform on which I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception and Inaction,” which seemed all I wanted to think of, nonambiguously. 

It was everything. All pre-happened and post-decided.
Early nesting process stuff. Ketchupy
The coast is never clear, fat boy...   
A whole new side to nuts & lightening bolts, narrow & hollow in the center,  
along with holding on 100% — inflatable as you lay back in a blank whisper,  
clearly in the nick of it, spoiling for everyone.


Flynne drops his device. He looks into the Escalade that will take him beyond and on. By now keeping close to Flynne is challenging but I have practiced warrior politics a bit. That’s a fact, just as crews of outlaws and as we hoped heroes are arbitrarily broken up by the parking arcade and doorways where a floating government like ours gets re-formed.
The gist in a slurry, plump, downy evanescing took the elevator. Up buzzers rise above affixes and urgent notation. Helium released — pushed in reverse come fall — trees light up then darken amid writhing worms. Better to heal resentment buried in colossal Orpheus, the un-spontaneous summer physique. With his gift of sullen madness signing everything in burlap, compounded and oncoming in percussive isolation. The upshot. 
Creature masks are prerequisites, in reprieve at the School of Nobody ; 
Teaching can’t be taught. You live within infeasible practice  
To engage another’s psyche  
Sonnet 40:

When you read this, my injury appears prior to who prompts it.
Not you.

We were informed of your deceit in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with new features and a few we move in any direction.
Not you.

Take all my loves, love. You steal from me and vice versa since all of us is in use.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom
interest me only so far. More curious is why we approach English language poetry primarily in terms of understanding it.

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.
Not you.
Without counsel, full consent is a slog mating a slow burn. 
You trust yourself by age 600, satisfied  
Euclidean space holds the blueprints to make your home slog efficient.   
That was before you were reborn or uninvented.  
Recursions set in. You had no modesty issues.  
You have none now, none detected  
and fewer and fewer policy goals (unlike chemistry in its infancy).   
You changed your shirt, put your weight over and into a sketch (a study)  of one on one in galvanized torture that escalates, utter   
formalities documented in our eyes, so fine counter-stretched, kept on balance / in suspense —

The ‘universal’ that’s so uncontained and biomorphic and obvious in Joan Miró is less so

here — here in 21st century America. (I’m just making excuses.)

Our emblem today is design resolution to be decorative

— unless you already live there, take shore roads in bad translation
blues, stock blacks pitched toward numbers-to-be, numbers found in a conceptual style atlas, contradicting formal transport to an ageless place we had in mind.
Cliché inflects necklines. But I like your flask.