Tomorrow can mete out facts to impel comfortable indeterminacy —
as if we could rush ourselves thru devotion to our next decimal of the property.

When it comes to half-dog leitmotifs
things pick up during voter fraud registration.

I own two-way ideas, to scale.
It kept adding up. I had no modesty issues, none detected, fewer and fewer policy goals.

Soon we relaxed our balance to parry something (or perhaps two things) that once seemed clear enough, but not now, here we are...

like two radical vapors, untitled moods.
Your statement is enclosed.
I’ve highlighted failures in a box to select whom you’re with, reaching through the outside, athletic, sandy from Apollonian aromas of polycarbonate, a statement like tall, gripping in a raining birdscape.


Our treasure is sunk. Formerly breathtaking, we were amazed, once, at all the money. We thought it ours, Oyster Harbor, Eelfleet, Burningseed McMansions shuttered, careers punctured, a sullen style still deferred!

I’ll speak for many. We lost sight of bowls of irony and riches and a lighter time, reduced to our surface (essence), the chilled gimmick of our inner teen vegetarian vampirism. Well, half-vegetarian — we drink only discounted blood of nonhumans for the moment, ha ha, since we’ve gone through some bucks, and since the lovers among us hanker to appear manly and acceptable to a widening, treasured demographic, prurient moms and their frenzied daughters and sons. For all of them, we won’t make it harsh, except when holding them out of reach from other vampires.
The ‘universal’ that is so obvious in Joan Miró
is less so

here — I’m just making up excuses.

For the city & surrounding areas I take roads by a shore in bad translation
blues, stock blacks pitched toward numbers-to-be, no part
to fix, no concupiscence & no comeuppance.

Provisos & driving pull me into conceptual realism, along with brighter composing subjectivities.

Kittens 1st

— you translators are a close second.

The end divvies up the ethnic accordion out of the rain from haze, round wedges shooting blanks!
A brick housewarming
and your point?

You appear ordinary. This is about barricades, something else.

Horizons w/ no rooms.

I don’t like the idea of holding you but I touched it and it shook my being.

Hidden risks shift weight (your merge accounts request).
The herd rushing to our rescue (there’s a deadline), a tumble of inventions then an ambush ...

A kimono has been entered, explaining the senses without thinking

(An official soundtrack includes J-walkers and bystanders, walking renditions of zealous counterculture.)

... you can’t do this job alone.
Targeting methods
To appear transparent
After a button is pushed
— I’ve heard that scream.


I won $8100!

Today’s real estate curator has a raspy, I’m-married voice, a little loud in a tanktop calling for contingent inscriptions — it’s very cryptogrammic to mis-arrange arcades countervailing seepage along tidal flats.

Marriage is looking good, a mistake but “not a lasting one.”
My job is moving the marsh until it gets exaggerated.
How does it resume?

Who owns my house under socialism?
Propose a synonym or work on it.
Filming you again and just your voice, the glass house (socialism!) perforated by meta-action heating with data.
Doggie, I choose someone who reminds me of you — we’ll proliferate if
we try — if you take up any passage we weigh —
(you get no credit for this)
it’s taken this long to read the gospel of wealth.

Our options are bubble-footed in dark briefs!

preferring lunacy in kissing, diffusion at any cost making a mess / by chapter and verse.

I know this sounds lame — you and I annulled our thingness with a few hand-waves and felt pretty rapt, the way we inspire open, emotional austerity, rubbing eye cream in, admiring buzzwords but no ideas.

No fins of infinity. Nope.

Rubbing it in, pigeons pattern heaven where detachment is trimmed.
You and I have no major issues!
Most rainbows taste of sitcom blown up for Broadway.
They never make it, go back where they come from,
corroded with physical self-disgust, chained to their desks.


Hope to rope. Avoidance with a message sounds handsome, calm, also nervous. In the same robot call he reverses perogatives, that is, the voice does. I’ll table the difference.
The difference is a mixed result but with swift powers that have never been better aligned —

together across the call center that serves as my hideout, learning the ropes, scraps and parts of rope.
I am a smoker

And I blow black smoke in your eyes

“Tear up this paper,”
Everything is trauma (“I exist”).

Adorno says plain speech is a fair shake at fame.

When you put your money down
We can start over in the middle but it’s just the beginning.
Fame’s either one long number or buckets of sequence.

Due to erotics
all frontiers have been neutered in place.
Cynics are the dry numb linguists hauled
onto the arc of cleverness. Bad cynics.

Do you like spiral staircases?
There is nothing like listening or being listened
to to find your voice, propose your semantics, style.
Places to go; people to be.


Equity or neurons? These molecules center sobriety on the ground and keep looking up again.

That “looks pretty close” — my eyes closed.

Themes are talk, the walk, affluent persons in the environment trudging.

And with that, I could use your language without a lexicon!
Sobriety will be corrected.
Struggling between comparative and (purely) descriptive vulnerability to vie for solitude, taking your hand to suspend my paradigm...

I killed for you.
Why’d you bother (all is not lost! — the expression on his face —or two)?
Capsule of self corporation:

The finalists quit joking. General practitioners stepped up but work got converted to specialties with less and less honor system. That’s when mathematicians got unmoored.

Algorithms are vicarious. We thought no way could there be ultimatums to rephrase, immoral aspirations, nothing but work slathered with work.
Experience is impulsive concealment, according to physics from the outside evolving pretexts with no possibility in the future of the past...

experience that’s unpredictable for a pay grade gaining access to weather bombs in a manifold vacuum.

Would taking on something and winning without wanting to substantiate or junk it?

This is a formlet of propositions —
standing in waves smelling of pleasure
a dream of immense peering through
as if I were an action that couldn’t write

yet whose estheticism enlarges.

Diagnosis is a mystery.


A shopper’s world sticks to formula with dogs and consequences mirroring exponentially our wildest ambitions to blur what’s real and yield authority. And to think a way out I guess our ability to influence conversation is remarkable. And some get by admirably in their own terms, throwing stones like money.

You ask, Who are the movers of this steaming, herded frontier?

You start along these lines, checking out the wandering complex with more lines you never leave.
Several woofs from now, a mythic kisser

Awakes in concrete, and decently you pull away, feeling 

Look, a flying cow! A case of Fido’s voice

Over matte finish.

As you advance through security

The maples glitter; what’s the problem?

Do I have that name right?

Sorry, wrong bark.
A door opens; pweetty violets appear

Not quite as it turns out — not for long.

Following them in each stage they bend, swagger & call

In options sustaining the enpurpled force —

Unbelievable, a wobbly stem. Kiss...
I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles, asides, subjective misnomers. Eating and breathing them too.

A unisex fragrance is on view. Sorry, not tonight.

Ghosts roam with panicked ants. You can put them on. It’s like a dance to respect what we were doing — we were working on it.

There’s body hustle, along with rips in the cargo of space/time where drivers burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth from blades, accompanied by addiction to risk.

Come here often?
A tree falls whether there’s a human in the woods, but the sound of the fall will be disputed when there is no human or human instrument listening or reading the text of the tree’s descent ad infinitum.. 

(I thought of putting aside that a poem is a sonic record of felling trees.)


Rakish note without the right adjective, the exact second I insert the first-person, a falling branch spikes itself five feet deep into our marriage — never seen as coherent and never will be, you design-influenced freak. My love.

The arbitrated décor of our short text can therein be looked after over its time. My

ungalvinized love.
As soon as Dodd Frank is executed, the political-dating scene starts pitching, throws you into the pool owned by the banks. I think we’ll see fireworks blazing, parallel to fiduciary ethics’s total obliteration, fully exposed to daylight. We’re lost, for a second, “in the slumbering gaze” equipped with unsound investments yielding bad advice.

I feel obligated to bequeath my place at the rear of the line to defeated generations swimming backwards, expecting a shield.

President Judge and Jury.

During the break it’s preimpreachment. The no-brain plan has removed a portion.
The lower court somehow slips in; the jurors are asleep. I voted for change.
Injecting their blood is just crazy but I won’t go off schedule. 

Back to the bench.
The vouchsafed stands in shadows on the gravel path
back at work — dusk
urges him to go out more, rehearse
too much and get wasted.
What has he beside a sack of parrots?
He’s snooty and sells commodities like concepts?

He was saying that skull sculpture pile is rot
since it supposes its completion as marsh

-puissance coming back as a meadow variety
of nibbling torque. No way, this just in:

I’m on his regimen.
Smoking hot.
S Jobs’ last will, ‘For this one let’s be fair, our partnership was an accident enjoining technology onto platters of the daisy chain’s stony shape.’

You’re really that tall?


American weather is under stress
nowhere like boiled-down jazz that’s formally difficult.

Climate is America’s gothic partner along with outer space. Look what they gab about. White on the map over el Norte.. ashes of snow, augmented by radiation.

Three seasons are morally exigent, shivering in a synthetic silk festooned service center (formerly a weigh station for the clouds), not coming back any time. There’s new weather either side of their sit-around for diarists and meteorologists who just want to talk.
Function drives us as we must.

In youth you can feel unreal as a freshly poured sidewalk.
In late youth every metaphor is for sale. I’m intensely delighted in my thirties and forties, illicitly relaxed after, everything exposed like a vexed ribbon along for the ride.
Like bookmarks I’ve been put on a 20-year watch list. At that point the Mountie’s sled took off, powered by propaganda and formalism. I forgot yesterday’s child. Self-indulgent and stupid or freaky consequences often go together. Then joined complexities sucked up to the surface for a face off once I was fresh, chased through air ducts.

Bookmarks are not supported.
The superego is a hill job.

Gardenias, gigantism, Lotto. Tokyo air is doing better. We were dangerous, once. Your voice is transparent, too late to make it sparse. Even your restraint is wishy-washy, a lake in air staying alert, too qualified and thrifty to feel anything.
Mayday! We’re recalibrating the interface between reeking havoc / making real money.

There is no wrong answer.
It’s here. The helium released, the admonitory tableau sponged in saliva — ecosystems thrown in reverse with hotshots to bang triangles, hybrid collisions playing junk ballads within a migratory pattern. The justified, 24/7 joker is emotionally unwound, one point...

brain-body fiber pierced, two... sherbet dolloped. I’ll be right down.


Parts 2 and 3.

The tallest paintings test humor of the height of pretense.
Painting ideas, gloomy jigsaws, severed-head, sticky placards, emaciated images of junk and emptiness.

Painting you again. Painting double quotes.
When Pete Rose walked home we were relieved. Afterwards we arrived at the links, got off the bus, then Pete and I got up, did the usual routine: bathroom, brush teeth, dressed and then slowly, very deliberately chewed off each other’s clothes. There were eight balls of steam, suspended in bacteria from our four hands that were Idylls-of-the-Queen and clean. I was standing vertical. I was amazed that my insides didn’t fall through the cargo-lock, out-knowing the air vortex, the balls, the game, and probably the season were lost.
Floating this fun stuff, waving inaudible signs of history, Rhett says bafflement is tentative, one mountain clinic after another. Though a mistake following bliss, all of the above sleep with a relationship. Rough seas and heck, Stella, you've been in this game long enough, you know how superstitious decision makers get.
(My mood is in erasure.)

Embarrassment can be of interest; not vice-versa. Wearing weejuns comes to mind. Filing oddly abstract word strings in my back pouch book. G’day. Sobering pinch between courses. Between jewelry making and language learning — failed at both so turned to tinwork, keeping the breakers honest by the faltering dunes, bogs and cliff houses of cards. The surf came up and made everything a bodily mess, mechanics, clashing scales, noted improvement over quasi-enormous chagrin.


I owe you an apology. After I screwed you and let you go I rose to the top. I am so ashamed.
I chose my ode and it’s a strange wacky ode to summer, just getting to you. As marriages go it went ok, not all bad. I owe our bros (not you) an apology. It was just an exchange. Excuse me.

You are an argosy of what evolutionary good was before Whole Foods floated
how work happens to people going in and out of buildings at large — you and I —
we are one hundred percent normal running up debt keeping ourselves housebroken.

But I hardly know you. And will never know you. I’ll give you a call.


Landscape is always on message. But too much too long.. Travel the wash of the wave.

I’ll assume you suspected I know you know. It’s in colonial literature.
I feel bad about blight knocking off trade, cotton leaves,
their look, everything.

I hear their effort but there is no god.

Hell is too big to fail.
Our obligation is to wholesale potential anytime.

Thieves on the outs devoted to our next palooka.
We went over the fourth accord, for instance, but stopped somewhere to upend each other.
We got used to the beat.
You mentioned Zerbina. Here’s what she revealed, Arranged marriage? Kitsch. What’s lost? Driving over taking stock of action-like figures.

What’s our nearly human business? Ones I liked, the ones upfront, told me to get going, be impeccable, and that led to finding more

— all the toddlers are volatility models from TV again and again, vocalism in a sense.’ But you moved on I see it now. Guess

I think I understood what she was saying. She was talking apples and oranges big time.
‘It began with a set of Japanese principles — waiting in line.. What is point?
See you around.
Because I’m a party animal I can do it all day.
Rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl
A sparkle to figure life altogether, no vision
Or dash — no longer having to know