Friday, November 21, 2014

...cross-pollination of English and psychology is providing a revitalizing lift. I’ll assume you suspect I know you know I know. It’s in the literature. Empiricists map it. I’m in sympathy and while I try a couple of poses from the repertoire of the defrocked — ah ha there are great, pure benefits sponsored by broad-shouldered believers grasping for governance! Wouldn’t you know they’re in an infinite series within the history of gossip. (Or from another angle they are the series, dead and history.) (You know.)

It’s been a while since they’ve grabbed a bite. I suspect their budgets have been cut because I cannot be concerned. But nothing is forgotten, since distraction matters for the next table/angle. You who.

English 1st. All our mistakes stand at attention because they were selected but warded off, fervid show-offs.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

The Lord wait lists the system.

Can’t be sure there’s larger yield.

Gauguin went to Tahiti.

Notebook open, wallet shut.

Occam never multiplied.

Irony-sincerity voted

Thomas Eliot, a flashy

Society writer, a modernist.

Oh, fine, thanks.

And yourself? Today

That chintz is lost

And chintzy terrible’s in play.

Something accrues.

A lot misunderstand to dote on.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

I’m flipping out, whoa. A white screen shot. Completely lite jazz, then lower right, your lips moving up, down, talking design.

Remember about now we want clarity on motives, soft flickers spidered into leg & arm pins. Get to the resolute joy nodes, a punching bag of tricks, compressed. Check the seams

glowing with shimmering. Lodging a spigot startles the system.

Let’s dance.

I’ll take the sherry Pepsi, & sardines, thanks.

I’m sorry this happened. I was pumping gas

& going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension
of disbelief, a scene like martial arts, sparkling pen-

umbrae, a pro ring barnstorming on top

dicing / re-arranging pushed to extremes,

undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.

Monday, November 17, 2014

Coast to coast software permeates yachting.
Wherever she roams..

Damn, can’t complain, when your children left
we had chipmunk..

A crane & white as air a crossbill
tasted nah. We kept contact for the timing..

induced hunger paid. We’re naked now to
quicken the flip side of getting our ch-

amber music to pleasure others, to stroke ch-
ins for surplus power, when. When yes.

But ur plots don’t belong here. Before facebook, years ago
Philostratus regenerated transmigration for poems,

A Pythagorean retro feel there is a beginning, there is
an end, don’t fix it.

Thursday, November 13, 2014

I forget Bat Masterton and Hamlet in a nutshell

I forget Souhait is powered by coke

I forget umbrage derives from a grumpy guy’s distortion,

Fond pleas fractured time and morbidity,

Gothic non being, first loneliness and Goethe’s juvenilia

I forget man killers residing in jail

I forget Malthus festivals in the woods

I forget command centers for negotiation,

Structures lined with mosaics

And tunes by Corelli as well as my life on a cattle ranch

I forget we both were wearing black polos

I forget functioning ghost towns caked in tire tracks,

Havana interiors and Tonka trucks.

I forget you picked up the check.


I forget MoMA in the original

I forget shifts have genealogy

I forget different periods of shifts

I forget changing contexts for straw men.

I forget good instincts

I forget large amounts like lengths and desperation

I forget being pregnant

I forget circling the rink.

I forget an empirical relationship

I forget the transitive force of “mottled taxonomy”

I forget this is so you I forget the gastropod nation

I forget complaints and sworn declarations

I forget the Kennedys I forget the Dead Kennedys, video pastiche

I forget ephemerality I forget narrative.


I forget farewells

I forget any handle made your rounds wholly hidden

I forget triumphs that cradle the face sorrow brings to the sack

I forget flexible spite

I forget how your toeprints are all over this

I forget your own fantasma gadgetry

I forget my thigh, the one you lift
I forget being in the wrong place

I forget misapplied figures, images, parables
I forget the medium requested looting prestige

I forget my leftist French brain I forget being nervous!
I forget the medium is across earning a word.
I forget I’m technically yours and again I stay fallible

I forget this is so you.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Food tastes better, I notice flowers. What’s
wrong with me? May I introduce me? Who
you reading these days? Whom I love, food,
haven’t had any for a while. Crunchy leaves
underfoot & wearing your panties, walking
the park I have to apologize to everyone, do
-ing this. Don’t be fooled thinking Psyche
has to be heavy. It’s something we eat. If a
day comes, this should be read aloud to our
girls Harold, Joe, Jr., & Frances Blue Moon,
drink to me Bill Bouguereau. You seem nice.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014


Monday, November 10, 2014

John, it’s up to hope’s pond structure to model passivity discharged by shore conditions. Everyone knows that. Protecting dignity threatens it. A man’s voice is handsome, calm, but also scrappy.

Scraps and parts of nesting authority. And what I learned from you is to hope is to re-reference flow made out of many godless m.p.h. gusts — this is my body — a priori nil in inner life razing names of the verb.

Friday, November 07, 2014

I polished the text and handed it in.

It’s my last fill of politics.

We used photographs for subject matter; here’s a garland fungus, students in foreground (by an arch to
the abandoned parks).

Further downtown, after a button is pushed, a model young theorist says hello, how are you, and reverses course.
She heads upstairs to an installation in mounting solitude

Mahlerless, and somewhere else, I find a thinly veiled version of me. The jam on our toast is persimmons even
as our bodies beep.

A kimono has been entered, explaining sex without perfecting tongue in cheek.

A fragrance was found shaking our hands, wiping our brows.

To keep up we don’t find a compromise. Vote often.

Wednesday, November 05, 2014

The sun is gray. Divided, confused, I
signed up for a summer of love. The pills are

sweet, their force takes me out of bounds,

interludes on the double.

I’m Matthew McConaughey, not perfect. It’s an every

day regimen with that living unlocked smell.

I set the controls; the active ingredients are

soon not now, don’t. First thing prithee

Noonish. I have a profane vocabulary,

a little nervous forced into the secondary

but I’m ecstatic I’m 29. I’ve been blocking

myself but now it’s over. I’m directional.

My head weighs 10 pounds.

Hold my earrings.