1/17/17


A mind occupied, just so.
Am I in an experimental state of forgery? No, I live in a red state. Prithee, how do I maintain balance sheets & my resolute informality?

It’s another day of no hope. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different, jokes turn into sleep. & dreams forgive paranoia’s belated redemption, trapping me inside ambitions to put out the house fire by myself (in my head).

I talk in a low register. My grin sports a few layers of sleep relief, aching in baby, calmly accruing intimacy to belie despair over entropy. A quiet start, zero gravity.

So there’s no dead end!
A Bernini head transplant brings on the knowledge effect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower.

1/16/17

Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam.
At this moment in outdoor photography we’re staying alert, our paired centrism induces little offense, we look and feel great and hotter opportunities are nil. I’m noticing a whisper; the weather connects time with my ideas — my time with ideas, rather. For proof, take a long walk, you’ll spot people that scrape by, not fulfilling norms set by stop action.

They’re washing up.
By caution as usual one could mean caution to the core.
Hence the political surface is blood sport and games, what trainers call discourse and action. Caution is exercised to preserve the constructs protecting access to the core. The equation reduces to politicians = mascots.


As a big spender you don’t have to be interesting.
That doesn’t sound right.
Always repeat what appeals to you.

Acquire many dialects of feeling beautiful, more profitable than deep discounts.
And you need to review hedonism before it’s retouched.
This is a new policy to block deletions that could be missing.
Time, the weather can be avoided or otherwise subsumed into a few lines,
And so fewer syllables than forks in our paths to count now.

1/15/17


— the center of tangled ventriloquism composing..
If I had more foreground I’d do
better to find and weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken more notes I’d have
my bearings on “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings

we had composing
what I can’t pinpoint or supplicate.

So I’m returned to the foreground of what is more
and more like great footage with a shore

in bad translation ecrus, stock blacks, pitched provisos
and scripts-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none
The will to quiet is the flip side of getting a ch-
amber piece to burble, crying doubly inaudible
for more power, when
how you meditate spins up to the extra surface, no
message. So there’s nothing left as surplus.
My effort could be no effort. (Louise Brooks)

We sometimes spot a need for fresh lexicon in the mind-body problem, words to determine their own behavior, primality and cuboidal glints of jazz headed this way.
I flubbed a sacrifice to cover my ass, appearing tough.

Birds cover their nests, beavers their dams.
People fear us as well because we have a glorious set.
We’re in scandalous terrain sleeping on a couch; eating donuts could send us home.. (I’ll be moving out soon) ..

1/14/17

An emanation is a specter brought up a peg. Just to clear things up.
Reporters agitated, reproached, disappeared.

Property? Who owns self-portraiture under monetized formalism? Owners do, owners of procedures, including a ruling class and photorealists... tho binary opposites, both figure their lives together, no vision or dash, no longer having to know.

They’re realists singing to life,
knowing more than research is treacherous considering those at the top are hardly sitting languidly on the other side of the room without permission.
How nothing else is so intimate in procedural areas?
Painting oneself and me again is nothing. Painting double quotes.
There are a hundred butterflies in the afternoon beauty of Tuesday, Friday your time, earthling lord. What’s wrong watching one or two spin like happy mediums, letting ’em go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?

My language is not feeling any moral acquisition, dropping sanctions, drinking hot coffee from a can, trying to stick to our roots’ metallic gleam, seething too, proportionate to the reception center open space. The smoke gets shiny and I feel mortified. Period.

The whole firebox is glow. The yellow wallpaper over there is engaging.

The collapse of saying it better is over.
Summer is over.
I manufacture flyweights, drinking up her story, history, empathy,
bounce. A company like ours chips away, inside the parturifacient facility.

I challenge myself almost every week. It’s what stunt men do for life;

two more loiter with intent in the doorway. Both smile, neither laugh.
Her comes my best friend with — her should be here, his successor’s shoulders..
The service manager said these are extraordinary times. Exciting now. Where are we un, um.. if that’s everything, we’ll switch to administrative cadence. Our slogan is, heavier production charges the new world until only a beat prevails. The right hand shadows what generations of fear rarely mine in naked hypotheticals; the heroic code on the other hand never misses.

Minutes after the extra work is filed, dozens are called to line up for a free run of the orchard, company-owned. “This is a very nice benefit,” a leisure pursuit like playing shipwrecked, held for ransom. Those were the funniest jokes, the most extraordinary too. I don’t remember laughing so much. Ever. And I can’t recall being as excited as I am now.

...can’t stop it...through language [how about] [...] cheesy time lapses in which [traveling backward] speech and narrative continuity become incrementally

transformed into the next thing —

1/13/17

Ours was a taxonomic relationship.
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax.
Oh domestic servant, poet, heck, oh chanteuse
I’m your doorsill to walk on and lick in anguish..

Text disorder can acknowledge and arbitrate some of our convictions.
The crisis is now. Form is not an object but activity, an explosion,
channeling a non-hegemonic pulsing — and due to substitution
Gustave Flaubert haunts this.
My iPhone camera knows where I am.
It would be a challenge to simplify winning a car or suffering injury
starving how?

The future would give more. No more
than thanks.
I thought of you.
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.
The minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never happened.

1/12/17

The place was beautifully democratized, I mean dumb.


We’re not so interested in having eyes while mannequins don’t. But this morning I woke from a flash of such nil practicality I blushed, distressed talking to what had to have been just vapor in a sports-transition store.

The place was beautifully democratized, I mean dumb (again and again) :

As Petunia crumbles I deliver a left knee to his face.
You were my boss... up to your becoming a naked person, the force
through the green fuse to drive flowers.
Some people say I am a poet.
Bands break up.

I lost the point of that vast line.
Let’s define line breaks under road pine
along the greens, backing off hunting rules.
No confessions, please. Trying to please pays better
(I was never in 2 places enough to ask permission)

so that school of poetry got back to you. Got that myself : payback’s unnice
...coming clean is a neat precipice in myth that won’t stand for practice —
not while the restive recover from plumb numbness —
we see beneath their flighty dignity...
blistered motion common as flicker tails (the angles) in light made identically hot and cold,

made of the same emotional thinness driving home. That’s the super-definition :

I keep saying moral arguments are gnarly
and gnarlier. Especially on the hunt.

I’m bad at knowing when justice along
with passion is vital, not recreational.

1/11/17


I’m passive but I don’t believe in spooks. Here’s the outline.
A few strings were pulled to get me in this new factual place I would never have chosen.
I lower your singing voice. Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?

I repeat, coming up next from a great fake news publisher, e-songbooks advance going under rewrite as you read them, flipping genres as they plug into you, changing your mind often.

Then.
Going on and off half-tuned as an irresolution.
A starry equity or neurons? Words are worlds

that heat up while young at the edge yet a lost cause.
Vicarious is not strong enough.
And titles cost. Avalanche, the virus.

Cherries Hamlet.



I’ve crossed a few lines.

Relax and beware. Certain branches of law aim straight at us. Fuzz, the pronoun, embodies overwrought subject matter while an emanation turns into a specter, brought up a peg to clear things with the bosses.

And I’m awake again, once with a face of a poet lost in dream. Or a formal outline.

Or lines.


I live next to a place with water views. I’m a failure sometimes.
But ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home, high tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for anyone’s look-see, another beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!

1/10/17

I agree with you when you live long enough.

Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of the knowledge industry that considers prototype approximations in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard. At first.

Moving forward we have all of an hour now to believe in sweetness made into infamous exposure (in costume).
Lights up
— we take ourselves inside the libretto where we reserve dissonance toward volumes of bark animating the boxwood of three-dimensional glissando.
If you got close enough to Talking Chimp’s cage, she’d throw dirt, food — anything her baby paws could find — while her companion, Tarzana [Ekornes], made loud glottal sounds that resemble what some call a ‘raspberry.’

Talking Chimp did all her own stunts.

She was the featured beast in the movie Barfly.

Upon her release she left the industry and went to Oxford.

Talking Chimp had been with a lot of gentle creatures wearing jeans and racing through the woods, building paranoia.
What if we stow the talking chimp for five seconds.

“Let’s not do this, let’s not make hurting each other impossible to resist,” the real talking chimp enjoined, unable to stop herself.

Unexpectedly, she took me home to meet her family.
Really, we get down to heaven
In a bucket? We can see pulleys,

A smoking outline subduing us
Into our blond manes that distract scoutmasters.

Everyone has to wipe off while, boo,
You’re impersonating some folk guitarist I outgrew,

So now you want to spend it all while you can,
tiptoeing off to eke out a living from Eden
In a snow-globe, thankful for one small chest-hair.
And there I’ll leave it top of the scout manual

In the sink: You look fabulous, encaustic. Those who’ve been around
draw closer, under scrutiny from your voice-over!

But that happens when en suite we begin again
Like twins in a trance once, just this once.
You’re a world-famous trance inducer. That’s it.

I like it.
Clymnestra’s seen things in Europe. European things. Sophisticated things. Things of the world. And things beyond. Beyond beyond.

Thing is, tho, I got this idea for a Henry IV one-pager. Understand, I need time to develop it.



Come into my poem, and we’ll make the time. We’ll get a plagiarist from a little ivy, spin your look doggy hip, inject you with queer theory, you’ll be composing down on your knees, fizzy.

It’s all happening in Henry’s head?

So we need just one poet! You, you racist ... Am I crazy?

No. That actually clears up a lot of free verse for me.
Modernism, a despoiled inheritance for poetry, beguiled, diverted, unlike architecture’s connections to the past. Apparently tomorrow is more appealing even if we know where architecture takes us. Poetry?

1/9/17

We repeat there are rules to doing morning:
Sleep in without a stratagem,
Coax the hues backward.

How can anybody care?
Fill in cross-narrative between First and Last sentences.
Choose a and/or b, any order, actually.


a)
First: An ant climbs blades of grass, over and over, seemingly without purpose.
Last: Hollywood has always been a wide-open town swallowed by its own gruel.

b)

First: Mammoth bunnies are lurking in athletes’ villages.

Last: You can never expect it to happen and when it does, it’s fantastic.
Playing with tonalities, how funny you are..
There are chords he kept inside.
Between description, silence, a periphery.

There’s no description I can give,

No way to rhyme hiding on the loose.

Chords have their way in the air wondering how high an apartment we can get.
Pound. Confused or colorful, often gaudy, a mazed creature, vagabond within a Dutchman bordello (condottiere et al), involving deliberately ambiguous strains of professorial fat (think of Cathay, of suspicere, of foreseeing lavish things detoxified), motley in a sort of mayor to his inlet, his weeded self, a speck of a noun beaten against cymbals, a puzzler over paronomasia offered by fools (anti-popes, the holy) who wore the aged degringolade and had moved tyros down to the head of modernity —

The head the forefront, wooden in tone, because lowest hawkshaws were, EP determined, victims to the mystery dead hand, horrific for Baldur of the Valkyrie — uncertain, occulted and shiny, EP is borrowed now, tracing him down to throw him into erumpent, projecting our misprision as latticed breakthroughs into the medium surface he roamed, discolored chooser specialist in reframing earth for a mendacious tomorrow, a tomorrow indefinitely remote, not new, rantipole, superfine.

Had Pound retroactively polluted intake of the high modernist feeding that aesthetic portends? Poetry released of all responsibilities, regrouped, rooted in political indifference, self-abnegation, self-defense. Poetry no longer invoked to try history.


I know where I’m going on my own.
Memory as commentary jazzes a decimal of the nerd’s auto-voice, chassis-style.


That’s before we reverse course taking the shortcut to Stony Overlook
reaching the age of reason.

Here’s what I admit: within a decade the liver, most all
physical parts meet the brain halfway,

slanting the blurred promise we had we didn’t know —
every moment in the aftermath now of a pre-hiatus, dying down.
Hideous poems. Ratty chain coffee; hideous poems. Bloated officials; hideous poems. Sixty-year-old folkies; hideous poems. Retread malware; hideous poems. Pedigreed art; hideous poems. Untaxed elites; hideous poems. Safe sex; hideous poems. Relaxed midcentury decor; hideous poems. Red-lined school districts; hideous poems. Open-necked business attire; hideous poems. Democracy in dance; hideous poems. Satire of the informed; hideous poems. Entertainment business models; hideous poems. Losing the Muslim street; hideous poems.

1/8/17

The back room may have been obvious bravado.

Separated from a source of poetry that’s sad. The source is not sad. One separated from the source is.

Or it is obvious. Like muscle.
Sadness is not itself; it is not sad. It’s a feeling one calls sadness or the blues. Patience, shyness, meaning, frame and ligaments hold feeling, no source. And feeling is not sad. One decides, by oneself, on sadness.

The magnificent evening is given to nothing thought; famous initials are becalmed in steam of the source. Or partially the source, tomorrow those initials are spattered and dropped from the blues. Like writing home about the hunting and swap in the thinking part.

We bought and gave up parts.
Pyrography is how fashion seminarians cohere
“knocking down” stultifying dead flame.
Open the mic. Didn’t I Tell You?
Squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one wrong hue
Of a deceptive simplicity
in love as well as pride, duplicity.

A boyfriend has no social meaning to
come on in English. He became

beholden within a panorama
and sweeping mountainous apex, below

Where ranges of behavior are larger
than any lap pool of disbelief.

Thing is, he keeps faith
better than others, believing neither.
One assumption is the future will be an extension of now. A disclaimer in Chinese contains characTErs that cannot Be displayed. It says a lot there wasn't any.


I’m substituting the future with decision analytics like flip-flops. Cord organization that yanks cognitive loads into natural history. Sometimes I’m called the father of products from signifying (‘practices’) or the cheap rotgut itself..
Whining motions, husband, are you going to do a J-turn there? because if you are It’s a switch I didn’t intend, helping others, waving My kerchief, keeping an honorable distance, keeping the cat.
Contemporary-argyle = needs-edit. Your face, the points I touch, it’s all good (talking casual
Takes directions) a kind of gonging for spice squads in the blahs of scenery.


Without speech sex is peroration.
That’s a normal reduction or formula for my song,
A few words on process.
I love fish.

Ed is a bit of a dichotomy wrapped in newspaper.
Done well, he was dressed in black. Before he got caught it was legal, he wrote, continuing to fish.