When camp breaks we call it fl-x-x-f auto-tunes.

First nowhere, and no one is the woman behind me, slumming. Intervention is the better word search. Gang murders are cut in half. I'm not going out in that. I'm saving my homophobia for someone really hot.

She's discounted, for historical justice.

My supply chain is fatalism. An allergy can shape and twist my desire. The taking of whatever works to exchange the hand that feeds me.

Nearly sunset in coconut milk. The skinny eventude brings on fluttering waves of populist rage and dishonest folk. Goo-doggies. Outside dogs are taught to stay, screech, and force it down. Chips smaller for the memory. All in favor hold together under pressure. (Unreliable clique.) Immigrants, bohemians, blacks, gays, subjectivity in a life entrenched w/ decoration, feet first. I'm asleep now. It feels great here. I'm a grad student, on the map.

Space begins almost anywhere, no organizing principle at all. (How to write a publishable anything.) God blesses us, saying "Be fruitful and multiply." We're slotted into type as believers and speakers of Dari or Pashto, one end of the zoological drama in an up-state of perfect moms and sunburned bikers. (Equipped with dark places travel vests.) Everyone here is ready to mess up. Naked and unashamed. The look reminds where fault belongs. (I'm developing a cataract.)

Time and space feel like an institution where parents do realistic work. A heteroglossia in which one mom in three can't swim. She holds the bird a mutant to her lips. Two out of three are feints. Serenely trillions, the patients die.

In Urdu you learn to think for yourself when you're young, and if you're willful, if it's in your nature to want people behaving the way you think, right off you'll teach yourself nuanced thought processes, how you can think for others, for instance, your siblings, your parents (ghost punks), friends and enemies, especially enemies, and strangers, too, why not? Why not think for a pride of people and what's beneath them or above? Frosting on the beater. You start along these lines dreaming in bed then. A complex by prosaic arrangement.

You dream while awake and think it through. The audience follows you. You think about someone else dreaming, you walk in, so to speak. Hey hey my my. You look around and then you start moving. You're there and not there, of course, but you think to bring in a harmless grass snake (this's an experiment first thought by the Prophet Muhammad's uncle) and let the snake move over the exposed back of that first someone you're thinking about. You'll have that person decide how she'll handle the snake (propulsive or haunting). And if you wish, you'll let the snake make his moves, too, in English subtitles. You can exit at any point or you can add features to the dream, this dream in a language the other person, the "someone," is understanding. If you're willful you'll stay in control and have the person and all the "features" you bring in behave the way you want. Recycles sunshine.

Hanging on contains the universe. Whilst easily crossed, do you think? Nearby, make'em laugh, imagine the hurt.

I use photographs or double-crossed text for subject matter. Astronauts aren't perverse, it's the dress code. Not that long ago sorcery and spiritual drama attracted talent. Spinning ponies could fill in here. We once spun like them but later they were less friendly, proliferating, chasing butterflies. I will leave the ponies at home more. Small hills on poppers. A new beginning, the veteran scientologist is transparent, emerging like Sleeping Albert. I knew butterflies had butterflies, why?

We live in a cage, Bennyroyce and I. They made a nimble healthy movie about us. It's about inflating while you inhale. Just a few things I tend to dislike. Neuroenhancers. I'll admit I was curious. A guy interested in robots, the narrator, urinates on flowers, grabbing my shoulder. Rusts himself in it. About how often have you asked, Who is climbing this steaming, herded frontier, Mahlerless? What's curved with glaze? Ow, that total prick. La damnation de Faust. I polished the text and handed it in. I can't figure out our farewell let's go get a drink. From the seafloor you want this. Or gesundheit that. (They take care of anyone ok'd if it don't fit.) Vote often. A mutated protein will get restored. A bug is magnified, ironically revived! To keep up we can't find a compromise.

This is how it is. In the Truro of feelings fishermen think like salmon. The aluminum skiff's named Vessel Virgin. All experience is correct. Hidden money downgraded to icy mindset. A single male is required to post. Some ambiguity you may enjoy. Looks ugly, square, gets job done. Good eyes, quick, every inch and flounce dumb, making out in withdrawal. Rhino décor. The only thing more fleeting is fresh chucker. Sobered up, got back to weed whacking. Nothing's happened and it's hours later. The year-old quayside, mostly mixed, cool diodes in crimson, a soft spot for success. Shunt that wings. Then one day the emotional exchange began, crested, and vanished like emissions administering smack. In hard times it's the right thing to do, close to the beach.

Cute and cuter. Where does all this come from? I became an escort despite losing an arm. According to our files, it's telepathic, fathers to sons, trees to rapping patrol cars, or we never get a chance, or I could say it this way. Sit and roll over. Children with partialities end up winking at the flies in King Kong. They swarm indefinitely, having graduated sex for us. Uplift and destruction. (This was supposed to be a surprise.) I had taken prescriptions, splashing her face with water when you protest. That's when they appear, young men with secret ingredients and no children at all.

Braille Martian sex. Do it.

Zero hesitation. Best pan of a review this week. Can't praise it enough.

Um! Custom!

Appellate Thursday. Addicts are permitted to use. Some journeys cannot be put in birds. My shoe travelled way underneath. There are no more birds. Fairchild hoodlums, formless pastries, obsolete. That actress studied a chance to make amends. The militia at this hour, your mammoth kit, everyone at work. One step away a governing history. Milk is anything but sixties. Trust them to love you. Local honeys and lions eating grass. What are whales? All warm, driftless Serena.

A title for July 14, below, might be The Canadian Watteau.

Masa sits on a rock. The sky is falling and I'm on the move. It's not falling in point of fact. I'm flowing like a dancer and stripper in a downward spiral. Gravationally, Picasso's greatest came early, Cezanne's late. I've found someone else, a thinly veiled version of me. The flow is hard to describe. Persimmons even now. The mounting look, what you did. There are broken download, odd quirks and turns, block party, informatics about crash, thorny semen — a man, a higher up, goes blind. Perfect fall. My baby traps me.

Frenemies on my left, bromantics to the right (and vice-versa), it's timely losing track of one's good assets, one's cognitive handbag, one's climactic identity, one's roadside loved one. And now, thanks to world health officials, bed bugs are back. It's hard to maintain dissidence under these conditions.

To clarify, crossing swords, laughing out loud at the Whitney are fairly easy. It's the bespoke inattention that smarts. Inattention to posturing belies underdevelopment, like coming too fast holding on to the avant-garde dead. I'm a failure sometimes, and it's never been tasty. It disgusts me how effortless it is to giggle and go nasty when one is thru.

Dead sex. Bad things.

My entire practice is one obsessive habit. (I know I don't know what I don't know I know.)

I'll give you directions. Could be fun. (I know she needs me, but I know I need her even more.) I'm leaving disjunction behind. (We may write between cracks of sidewalks, 'cause different people will understand the same thing in a different way, Public Enemy's John Ashbery and alternative modes (upending normative modes).) I've got some sentences to show yah on my sleeve. (Ready? Some are going to question the timing of this.)

I watched my stock options go to a reverse split. (And let me just say that this rapprochement has been in the works for a while.) I just sat there I started slinging shit the minute I saw her I could read her like a book. I had her, yah know I am sorry to say, I had her on the tip of my finger. (Was that sensuous? Mmmm.) Really. I just, yah know, I really. I was twirling her on the end. (I've never believed that I nor anyone else needs a title to do this.) I knew how to play her. Completely. Completely, yah know? (And finally I pulled out the most important mapping system in my life, modernists, and their masterpieces, where the count was unanimous. And the "hell yeah" sealed it —) Disjunction is dead and so is sincerity. Back tingles. Anything goes, as long as it's not on paper. (Life is too short to compromise time and resources and though it may be tempting and more comfortable to just kind of keep your head down and plod along and appease those who are demanding, hey, just sit down and shut up.)

Chills emerge. Oh, we are sailing, yes, give Jesus pants. I got some glue and a sharp web scissors. (And I've given my reasons now, very candidly, truthfully. And my last days won't be for another few weeks so the hoo-hoo arising will be very smooth.) Poetry sets priorities right. Like a Ken Doll in the wind. Posthuman redigitalizing of the future via puns and archived recipes. Pulling muscles with Michelle. (Let me go back quickly to a comfortable analogy for me — sports, basketball. And I use it because yah're naïve if yah don't see the dots appearing blue picking away right now.)

Finally she's giving me head citations. (And I know when it's time to pass the ball for victory.) Blood rushes out of penis. (I think, though, much of it for the kids had to do with recently seeing their baby brother mocked and ridiculed.) Licks wet. Whistle this time. (Let us begin with the punctuations that are not.) Hey doe! Betsit. (In fact, we look forward to swearing in head wedged against wall up there at the conclusion of our picnic.) Crudely, shrewdly. (All I can ask is that yah trust me with this and know that it is no more disjunction as usual.) The Java applet invokes duration and presence. Riched lightly. Arching four and blade middle and not touching ground. Still harrow. (And then I thought, that's what wrong.)

If every word spoken daily were somehow to materialize as a snowflake, each day there would be a blizzard. (My choice is to take a stand and effect change and not just hit our head against the wall and watch valuable time go down the drain in this new disjunctive environment.) Xaler swaJ .wollawS .pil fo cra gniwollof tfel ot htuom fo edis thgir morf gnivom pil reppu ssorca snur eugnoT. (I promised efficiencies and effectiveness. That's not how I'm wired. It's not meant to be read linearly — none of my work is. I'm not wired to operate under the same old poetics as usual.) The Bride Stripped Bare, the buck stops here, The Carpenters, the coast is clear, The Cockateer. (Though I think of the saying on my parents' refrigerator, a little magnet that says, "Don't explain: your friends don't need it and your enemies won't believe yah anyway.") Yet they did, and the history they made is worth at least one sunny summer day 137 years later. For three dinners with prime rib, loin of lamb, or filet mignon and one selection of vegetable, I'll take yah to LaGuardia. (I thought about, well, how much fun some constellations have as number systems.)

I could no longer find a way back to seeing speech as transparent. (Now, despite this, I sure don't want anyone dissuaded from entering poetics.) Hold me closer, Tony Danza. Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear. (She drives through, protecting the ball, keeping her head up because she needs to keep her eye on the basket.) It's her, Marjorie Perloff and, uh, I'm meeting her actually at the MOMA Members Dining Room for lunch today. To work with a plan that is preset is one way of avoiding subjectivity. (Really, we've just got to put first things first.) In poetry it is a little different but more so and later I'll go into that.

Yah want to cause some trouble? I quit. Eyelids close. (She's not working out.) Yah got the hang of it. (But don't do it from a desk.)

Last night I crossed the line. (I am a deformed flamer but language itself is deformed and it's subversive so I want to go home now and read Kahil Gibran and try to get it right.) I did some bad things and I definitely crossed the line. (I forgot my tuned art of exile in the new poignant and painful wave last night and that was both eerie and real like a flashlight and recklessly middlebrow I guess.) Not the sex line. (Ok, we had a little mundane, surreal sex but it wasn't that great from across the room so does that count?) But I crossed the line in any case. (Like I said I had sex and decided to interweave other voices and limit my vocabulary, severely so, come to think of it.) I know I knew that I knew I was swept up. (I'm stalling here. I'm concatenating pithy phrases throbbing in my brain, taking a hike on the dark edge far away from familiar belief in shaken contextuality and diorama. Joshua, Merle, Ayukawa.. Rage on, beachy boys.) I'm planning to remain in office tho because King Solomon has to build after the fall. (And O Volvo! was that babe ever quotidian a fall into the deepest apeshit played to the limits of silence. I'm imagining a total eclipse. Oh, yeah, I adore a babe.) It's straightforward learning, even if it's on a curve of some sort. (The only thing that's curvy now is the place between my ass and my rectum exploding at that dangerous intersection of domesticity and science fiction. I see the fishermen. I see their daughters. What a water plane spray into the Oresteia, the lush junkyard of ecstacy!) I've been thrown a few curves of late and, I'm not crossing any more sex lines. (Not until I get my head dismembered and break into discomfited lyricism, plumbing the light in the terror of my long-predicted and now brazenly apocalyptic breakdown.) This was more .. a whole lot more than a simple affair. (Kevin and Brandon patrol this territory. They are beautiful poems. Reading them I want to bomb and then rape the living earth. Losing my soul is a revelation. I'm mad at heart. It was fun, actually.) It's a love story over time. (I love to have fun. I love to celebrate poetic living. I live to celebrate fun. I reside in California! Somehow I feel better now.) Forbidden for sure tragic but at the end of the day I promise to repay every cent I stole from every teacher, curator, art critic, and the public. (I have a carbon black Amex because that's the kind of brushed covering I am. Want to see it?) My travel costs are my business even tho I let my guard down. (Yeah, what do we care? All we want is an elegantly accessible chronicle of interdisciplinary montage. What is identity?) I had to let off steam. (I'm unafraid of the harrowing human experience, always beginning, coming like a corollary thick as molasses. Yeah, yeah..)