My blood is your poems, how they make love. That’s why
I’m close to invisible as a companion, not of this sexual province.

One by one. Everyone else smiling. A sober intro...

We’re having a fit with anxiety. Everyone a worker-sleeper.
Then I remember there’s exigency in our good fortune.

Not like feeling mortal, all to the good...

Well, a few drinks later the silver range blows up! We’re

engaged about engaging — part of the work week!
I-Ching for idiots or dummies (like me):
Go on.


The gestalt is to look urbanely offhand and sound normal, asymmetrically curt.

In the change-up scene everything is repurposed into conceptual deflation.
Psychotropic bios now are commonly diagnosed as parallel discourse stratagems.

One concentrates on the next available thing
Until one goes broke; summarily I am screwed.
I then center on perception (whether beauty or wit), sustaining losses out of irony.
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 nostalgically?

— an idea to play w/ just one note in the future perfect.. where disrespect feels like eavesdropping.
64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced
done in by time, grief and American English.
I hope you can let this go..

Time will come to take our love away leaving me breathing without form; structurally I’m sustained by so lofty a hypothetical force —
I can’t go on without an interchange — an episode in your telegenics.
When we walk together, it makes no language difference what we believe, what the soul is.

I’m just commenting having you, I fear losing you.
The soul’s inscription reads you’re my business.
the thought is out there
I did not finish the sentence.
This is my first try in three dimensions.
There were more debris balls thrown so we ordered an atemporal zone of grace
— w/ the emancipatory norm of curiosity —
Set it to limitless, w/ its winners & losers, a humanist quiz.
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.
Thanks for the memories.

You ruined everything.


It was great being with you.
Or was it just me?
There was a boom in robots once.
It all came about back in 1st or 2nd grade.
And if you invest now, daylight garners one
several that breathe, toting examples of published cook
-ing ontologies, whatever they got alleged. Memory has it we
don’t have the brains to enumerate an open enough peace
next to sleeping people staring through the ice.

Is this bluff for real? one asked with good reason
before the ice scissored out the upper grades.
98: Smothered abstractions. Absent from you. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different jokes turn over in sleep in the spring, dreams drawn from you, dreams that forgive not for holding the moment but for paranoia’s trapping you too. Summer’s story, flowers’ smell, lilies, roses are but sweet. The spirit of youth losing control. If we let it go we yield all authority.
Close to my sources I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Resentment buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous,
beat through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right, clinging
without a theory of purpose or the gift of agency to promote his case, as masking vanity becomes a sidekick’s challenge.
Baby Watteau —

The empty sale window is closing and I’m on the move (or we are). Early or late, the sky’s not falling as point of fact. Watteau flows like a dancer / stripper in a spiral. Another point in fact, harder to verify. More blessed, Baby’s greatest came early, someone like Cézanne was late. These data still matter, in a manner — I’ve found someone else, deeper in, a thinly veiled version of Cézanne.

The flow is hard to describe — a man, a higher up, going blind. Perfecting for a fall. My baby traps me.
I’m a little I guess confused

I thought you might understand I mean

I'm surprised, do you know

what I'm saying? I guess so

not exactly.


Concision in detailing method is a catamaran in process.

This is how morning began.

Getting there we wait in long lines for a Trane. The Japanese are hardly speaking. I turned to a companion and asked if he was interested in how poetry’s put together.
He thought about pure things are style surrounded by syntax. All at once.
It has to be done but it’s one-sided.
It seemed artificially important
The screech was spherical.
A seagull.
No one’s there.

I missed it.
42: What do you need now and for what?
You may ask if I loved you.
Will it matter, that bravo question?
Do you test, tease, defame to get the best?
I ducked his punch, closed the distance.
My loss is my love’s gain for my sake.
I told him, no don’t, I want to bolt.
Loving offense I excuse you both.
Trump investments.

Absence of thought rules for higher authority. Top markets fill to their edges with intricate crosshatches over pastel word clumps, busy yet redacted, hacked into coherent thought. The soft vellum pellets change our impression a bit. A busy, contingent thoughtlessness that’s slimed, generally.
Summer’s welcome. The emptiness that was

one fine day...

                  A mercury-brimmed scree

insubstantial in unexpectedness

to dawn, ‘disappeared’
into the leg o’mutton of oblivion :
You behind the scene evaporating..

— we owe you nothing
                  falling out w/ your daylight and sexual theater on the same sheer precipice..
every day becoming ordinary knowledge

of parallel ebullience
                  waiting to come round up ideas sprouting from half-sleep,
holding up w/in geometry to grant the horizon the whole body.
Light with a spooky edge
To sound like your own critic.


Everywhere there’s fog off a force field you tend to dislike, nowhere better!

No ripped off melancholy, no lecture / rap / blues, no shelter against the curious. I’m lying.
Part of what I do here. Throw up my hands!
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.
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.
Rare thanks for the view.
Snapping to / not snapping.

Anyway, hipster memory
is a contradiction in terms.
A shortcut to an off prediction.
Unilaterally a hipster

throws out softballs,

variously literal — the power

system (it’s decentralized)
mounting a bait

and switch to chalk up

the utility of hip lingerie per se,

discreet shipping, and in
this case it won’t be serene.

Anyway, go to long love making memorizing

parallel futures on a projective plane.
Why move into the crash test?
It’s up to future officials to unpack Zen’s base ironies. Where are they, let’s see... I’m not picking up any .. acoustics. Where I am, they don’t hook up to
get supplies flowing out since they
make love too much — so and because every irony wants to stay on a comfort-slope, to live well too, staying relaxed can lull you into a slippery tranquility.

That’s Zen-not-Zen up to now.
Define a language with no kids.


* Before I turn into another parabola of you, yours, I should take myself out and stay out, crabbed, hesitant to set off emotion that might fail. There’re signs you just want to cry — and it’s not a bad smell, just sad or wifty in dimness when I wake up. It all goes well. You and I take off, tho. One by one. Reasons are weather related, paleness this morning and a similar wash of fog coming back, lilac-dark air and offshore atmospheres yesterday, the day before. Winds shifted and I barely pertain, and why should I? It would be contradictory and limitlessly impolite to insist we’ve won in a runoff of longing and gratitude. That you and I are taking time to sift through (even the slightest) parts here would be a datum of coincident poses. I cherish your transitioning to mine, bringing it up to me every day yet I can’t presume what we can’t express, foundering and tongue-tied, handing our fortune over to the 1st letters of the alphabet. You want back in — me too. Keep in touch.
Production through retrieval and communal ethos are distinctive features of the medieval era. It’s not unironic in the least digital data assembly enables our return to those kinds of production and ethos. Work produced now is parallel along almost incalculable dimensions. And if most of that work is still authored, we can posit the mushrooming of art production (including poetry) over a relative short time will totalize individual product into a kind of arguably 2nd-tier relevance (with a few nonconceptual exceptions, of course).
14: In my judgment
what I know is in your eyes. True for now.
Good luck can never bite. Except not at night. Newer urgencies
where prognosticators get rained on, pointing to each other
so exposed they feign constant ignorance. True for a night.

And yet bad luck when a lightning rod derives its light / very lightly
a chemical wind thrives for a second and returns to stars —
doomed as cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.
If you know rhetoric
it changes your feelings;
it changes others’ behavior,
especially in poetry.

Our poetry changes
our writing now,
the one you’re reading at another
time coming up now.
Benji, stop that. Strange dog. We’ve decided to beat it out of you.
Say something. We’re losing your spirit and pulse.
BF Skinner watches a boy develop — to spy on sleep when you can’t dream..
When you ripen, parking spaces have a word with you. Children are the future —
keep them distracted.
if you lock your rooms you can’t get anywhere. Ask Caligari. Bright blues on white, a looming sluice through the discomfort zone. Here we go, head din, bones saturated watching out for huge snowy droves of behavior.

I feel absurd in doctor’s hold still shining through milk-white conditioning. The dirty side of dressing left; way left, skin head.

I don’t deserve friends like you.
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.


Sitting down delivers good news, stateliness already had its faint say. Now we can text and steer over time and zeta functions falling in hedgerows like a new highway divider along an infinite axis.
How to hitchhike. I come across an organizing principle and pulling the trigger, replacing subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: there are structure, acquisition, use, media — no eros in no ideas.

Self-conflict and compromise keep popping up as rich bases for ironic pleasure and symphonic failure.

If that’s allowed. Failure, pleasure, pop up, to that effect.

Primitive patterns and blue throats, crowbars taped to a tree, in the distance, Eroica...

We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown,
The great We of fish, that's what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.
144: You and I model language as living matter, two loves we have re-involving impulsive energy that courses through particles of appropriated intellect, especially given appearances and given language itself. Still. Never in doubt, you and I may yet not directly tell this synthetic transmutation of fiendish intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t folk history of subjugate pride and procedure.
2. Bad news, I was
struck by the French property owner. You know,
plagiarism done in loose quotes.
It’s cold indirection,
but my metabolism really took off, along
with emotions from a huge manuscript
I’m freezing,

‘quote’ Watching text spin like sentience
refined by distance; since
it’s none of the above, this could be for you now.
1. I use bigger words than you,
The spring flowers, the moon in autumn —
Classification by evolutionary collisions.
I think I prefer staying all-purpose, best calm, never resolved.
Freakonomics in a Trump-era world, driving toward departure from what is present in the original meaning to experience.


Shoo-ut, I’ve been put on a 20-year watch list. Again.
Good I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of misnomers. Eating and breathing them too.

Ghosts roam with the panicked. (All of them.) It’s like a last dance to respect what you guys were doing — you were working on it.

There’s hustle to market, along with rips in the cargo of space/time whose vessels burgeon on ennobling, blobby warmth, piped in like Berlioz, accompanied by addictions to risk. Come here often?
A poem fires up photoshop.

It’s often said a poem is a picture — I read madras pea
Coats — albino kittens hitting crescendos annoying cringing robots.
Drown me out, speed bags.
Drown and kiss the cleft, sanguinary as dissolvents —
Love makes lock up toxic.

Photoshop that.
No problem.
No appointments today. Triumph** is creepy*.

*Creepy widely construed as inaudible tendencies toward plundering contexts to alter the body’s asymmetrical neuropsychology. 

**Triumph, group or personal, can be unscrewed during Q & A’s. How does triumph threaten a referent? when going straight to the point? Was ist das?

I’m asking out loud for one reason only, so the receiver will sound an alarm (an annunciator light).

Merely of course sounded.
59: Sonnets are ok, nothing new here — going backwards —

Let’s labor through
this ostentatious luncheon in old world pensiveness,
self-admiring praise.
I might see more, fool my brain mended by your image yet your fly is open.
Stay in character.

O sure you’re freaked by what antique words
dig up and how re-inventions are composed, but we have to keep our wits — and under whose

thumb? And am I yours? At first revolutionary, we’re going backwards —
Our politics are criminal.
That way it is (the way it is).
I’m going to try and get around this.

I’m going to take my inside voice
...over here I have news to
twist in cold but leafy acreage.
‘Come here, get out of here..
I’m out of here..’ other poll data
. . Out out of
mind I guess —

That’s how we want it.
Absolute vice concerns phrasal pyrotechnics, no news content.
Honesty — we used to say — is the sanest practice for thumb control and body fitness.

I have nine lines for you:
Let’s go thru it again, generations of worship set in. They come back. Soon you relax your balance, honestly, equipoise for a good writer is common enough, even now.

We went over appearances, for instance. Funny and finally, nine lines are one-sided in three dimensions.
Key is you volunteer in a regimen for hours at a time and it wears off — here’s what’s known: secretions from glands hang out in our brains, slanting the blurred promise you have, had or you don’t know in the aftermath of the hiatus, revving up.
Modulating the self comprises an apotheosis
according to types of daring.

Don’t smolder, show us.


Bandits 1st.
You translators are a close 2nd.
That leaves ‘just the 2 of us.’ We appear ordinary.
This is about something else.

Then I repeated if I were you I’m all I should have —
Dawn went. You were next. Nothing else. Eminent domain:
Not to arouse the unknown or undue, your well being was my concern. I won’t forget.
And that does it for this hour. Circumstances have postponed further equity w/out a wife, w/out you = one counter-narrator chuckling in introspection as an open reading picks at our rhapsody rights, erasing them (or trying) in observed time, laughing behind the capitol. Many observers.
Just because I feel nothing, Pessoa,

You’re leaking results before ‘thinking it over’;
IF I have no idea that holds you,
THEN how does an idea
Of idea an
-ticpate stipulating processes for missing the feel of practice?
Let’s start then w/ an idea
Of making out
Up a big tree in Zion where detachment is trimmed back —
Just because I feel nothing doesn’t mean
I can’t or won’t come up w/ representational songs of cognition, w/ jaded lyrics.. Literally externalize my comfort. Externalize discomfort, too.

You’d lose a lot of the dude and preachy man. Sounds yeh.
Show me a locket grant once.
Once & be done. A few more should
Do the climate fast with aughts shining

A whole new side to nuts & tightening bolts, narrow & hollow at center, along with holding on 100%

— inflatable as you lay back in a blank whisper, fragile, dark in the nick of it.
Angst, a buffered work force roughens up indulgence.
You got married without thinking about known side effects,
without — wait, I forgot why I called.
We’re halfway there. That’s when the aliens evanesce.
The loneliness and excruciating pain
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing
basin, weeping .. Trumpets! You try piling on debt, ok?
Highly readable to a point.
These data waving in rocks of sunlight, gaunt & obese
Blowing cold.


Here’s my favorite. Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises. (The audience is artisans rising, impetuous, some from costive stock, unflappably happy, even brusque.) Somewhere I float in. I’m late for the prom fitting, weeping inside. Funny place for a dance, Mr Baker.
The it happens. A man’s voice, handsome, calm, also nervous ab structure.
Protecting dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that.
Bathing —
‘worth the trouble’ — called out in a tremblor voice to a dictator eating a banana casing the terrain. From the next room.
A white room with a sense of space and ruthless closure.
50: A hip cast of super angels strumming harps, an encore of Zeus Arrhenothelus

Bringing up larger journeys for the stretch and preen in vigilance onward —
So far the miles for me are measured from my friends left behind.
I fall back tired, breathe while new cast members get authenticated —
They are casually let go as they groan for us.

Our joy restored at a slight remove from sharp pain and darkness in grief, putting this in mind
Since we answer to manifold waves that weigh in:

Unprovoked, a heavy vacuum still.. you are away while I am on the way at travel’s end.
I had this idea. No ethnicity.
Not like gogo boots or a crucifix or ...
longer eyelashes to bring your pupils out.

We have a cigarette for the beach.
What do you think of smoking?

No, I don’t think I’ve seen anything like this before.
That’s why I slept so poorly last night.

For if I tell you, you’ll say
I’m making a big deal out of nothing.

You know I’m two-faced. What? Nothing. All right...

We can make the poem mute. If it doesn’t
speak, we don’t have to pay it as much.

A wordless deaf-mute. What could
be more what you are?
Producer to producer, a private-public distinction
no longer limits enormous outcomes.

Besides giving birth
I write on my agenda.

I manufacture algorithmic flyweights.
For lunch I drink up history, empathy, bounce.
My protectors are brokered by a security alliance like yours.
“Let’s trash love stinks.”
Rakish note, my mixed medium ..

The exact second you insert the first-person, a moral freedom can and will drill five feet down under the ground, a strafed, natural spectacle falling into coherence, something you never saw and you never will, you existentialist freak-Jack.