The sea bream lifts, lukewarm and soft. The Colorado canyons splash.

Splash.

Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.

Where have you been for three decades?

The fop is a French invention but an essentialist's incarnation. It's now English of course. Le Smoking for driving and dressing on the left.

Highway safety — wow, everything has that just created smell. The Buddha Machine is on low, marking discourse. It's looping Tramp Lapping My Skull. Pointless stupid madness. The double v above his eyes means very-very dunkel. (I'm not.)

So this lack of media polish is transparent like twins missing their luggage. I should be mortified and impressed. (These strategies actually work, apparently.) For my driving, I've hired designers.

Reading Anne B's Odali$que this morning, I'm stumped by an old question: Is the search for X1 X2?

(X = content. Content, the primary noun reference for something contained, that is, not so much the verb or adjective. But the adjective and verb together raise even older questions.)

for Ed Norton: The redhead is a redneck in the Berkshires = an unaligned crank in his whittle world even the whistling stops. Ashy style, a whittle weird. Sorry we don't need anyone at the moment. Still, there's a big reach, hyperkinetic within, the fire gospel and mystical motifs = a holding paddock for the down and hungry. (I'm in the horn section, a whittle peasant.) Tabs are seasonal and the vests are talking. Spinless, the question of trees and absolutes (flakes) watch and settle during the simian takeover. They're in on the take.

Oil mistakes.

There are different flavors, pots, sets, syrup-simple to complex, some devolving impediments of brawly randomness, others, chaos, initiations in self-similarities as well as... can't make it out, call them alloys of function routing. I've highlighted one in a box. A rolling bit of Apollonian familiarity, a Mainline ranch dressing refabricked in aromas of polycarbonate. Like a surfboard. There's this rule-of-thumb assortment with natural stenches, along with hidden dimensions in smells exploding on the roof while levitating the landscape, ultra altered.

Different drafts and stinks. I'll let you out.

Can't help it; concur with Rodney K, Eileen M, Alex B, and just about everybody else that B Brown's Brooklyn Lunch Poems and essay In Focii are inseparable from the cosmology of the big, talented humanist himself. We are in an undisclosed place, that is, in awe.

My boy is a very fine house. The spire was a secret inside. The child grew. You are now leaving a faraway land. The ballgame of slow, hissy heights is immediate and beyond your big D.O.A. umbrella. Tall men in raining birdscapes. Nothing's wrong with phobia-free mania v. boredom... two verses, a hook, and a bridge... see what you've done? Quality time can be targeted on a wet afternoon like a fondly disciplined python. And we'll keep insisting on feelings not facts. We enforce a certain look in this house. Marginal partnership, aigu, that's not two years ago, dusted up.

Getting ahead of the message. Food, gas, lodging.

Smarts don't matter. I'm laying myself off. Not that I'm smart. I'm more interested now in squealing puppets and dolls. I hate them. They're awful, I said. (You're right.) I hate their eggs. The dad puppets look at me and shrug.

Spinal wigless, they're the ones spotted with investments.

My cohort flock to benefits. It's in the evolution of avarice, loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer every opportunity. Looseness keeps young bodies moving forward. And that goes for the sun shining with its belle-lettriste metamorphosis in the street, damning grownups.

First-person motion through the leaves missing you overnight, breathing, all smiles, in aqua. Dentist removes gum. Comparison is anticlimactic. Sexual dynamism is a quarterback problem — staying blithe in the win column, an aluminum, tenebrae-filled drape in potatoland dirt colors and echoes of prosthetic fantasy, perhaps, yet eco-conscious and looking cool responding to the frantic call. We grabbed this, while there's a ladder we wouldn't rule out. Let us beguine by the window, a lamp over my shoulder to herald the swindle in wind farming. The incision continues in this vein. Time passes — street gangs, movies, lies — freedom is illusory at midpoint. It's personal. The city seraphs tell me. It's almost impossible to write enflamed birdsong and comb back your hair at the same time. Pearl puddles. Conniving backwashes have run of the view.

I feel like an editor / coach in the new bloodbath of city planning and unemployment redistribution. It's an avocation. I'm a free agnostic about most everything important, postcritical, or shaded and flat in terms of emotion and architecture. The term "free" creates clutter underlying the unfinished bike path that never ends. Giving something away like ambience, beautifully made, you'll be taken up on your offer, no sniveling over the petty fuel price. Having sex with a leader in nonprofits, will you take me as I am? I'll stay on my side, pictorially (stone and dented wood). I have a mask of unmatched value that mocks death holed up in rant.

Permission to speak freely, señor? That means you, pal. Maybe I'm foreshortened, shapeless taking up prerequisites of munificence in governance, not crying to lessen the gravity, still I'm listening and I hear a noise. It could be me reduced in size talking to you. I'd like to restore us intact. But how can we save your citizenry who more and more are losing their health care? No, wait, here comes a big glob of bubble gum crashing down. Chilling of course because it's forced. I've lost my way.

Has gender identity hit a pothole? narrator asks. Am I in some experimental state of forgery? And how do I maintain the balance sheets and my resolute informality?

Life is short and drives you all over.

Making out, I can drop the questions and shoot for addiction to craning my mien, through which everything is scattered by vintage strobes and liquid jolts emitted by a graffiti masterpiece pulling into Jimenez Station. It's filled with the Filthies and Mr. Abundants wearing income neckties. (Behind the art there's an interaction lab.)

Who is this? Nobody's first choice.

The joke this week was why did guru's cochair say clock the ice during our conversation? She was referring to a few rings won in turf wars, "Will my fortune survive?" I yawned back, on the internet, mind you, as if meta-trigonometry is forever. Security is really tight with the meta-relatives. You sick mother! Sure, I'll take the consultant into my confidence.

I smell a rat. I'm a backstage avatar with an oversized Afro. Your name came up on my snaggletooth. Death haunts not increasing value nor the dimples around the feet. Capacious, breathtaking anxiety, yes, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... I'm done. In a footloose world I've waded out above my welcome, which was special. That kind of language teaches you not to bark just the way skilled manual labor makes you (one) feel like a man. Or a woman.

The body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons. You chat up every you (one) in the room. I'm an outpatient. The next stage of trolling pillagers is fickle. Love and money go down together.

Don't hold it in. Talk to your doctor.

Say something cartoonish. I'm trying whirling strokes in roughly forty minute stints. To learn something about what you mean is to let high jinks belie despair over entropy, a quiet start, zero gravity. But you don't get to keep larvae. They're apart. Their cloying song goes out and you feel a necessity to ache in baby blue blather, calmly, accruing intimacy. Hey I'm really sorry.

Never stop exploring. Turn here.

You can always tell when they're finished. There are snakes as well as larvae swimming in pools. What do we now? We have functional emotions and this much-traveled vocabulary of affects. There's a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I just missed the last place you look.

Stay with me.

Sun pours down, unobstructed in this abandoned region. Samples had been flown in and many of us at lunch wanted softer eyes. We'd been warned to stay inside. No need to look at me when I talk, my guitar hero. There were black widow spiders, and incendiary balloons scribbled notes above the large scale nuclear reactor. I feasted on free donuts and coffee, left my dismantling section at the home office seaside, stomp'd, and put my feet up at his place, a little down, effortless, helpless. Every clanking radiator is programming this sentence. Bard of Vesuvius, I made a killing that reads lips without leaving overdrive. Magic attains a chirrup of light freshened with anchor. Why ball now? Leave it to Chagall, stoicism there, loathing here or love may be blind. Oh my god he's got... god blesses him. I just felt a shipwreck with sea monsters back at work. No sorry hold on it's just the worms we uproot. Hanging out is the art of compromise. Slurs little. To save a life you can break the law if you're poor or if you're balled up smart to shoulder perfection. I'll alter my trumpet tones, cock an eye. (Conjoined the two words are underemployed.) All business class and legs to break, pay me now and pay me later. Like a race of giants, welcome to we're not friends.

Dear Anthologist,

It could be worse. My notes say every man's prosody enacts theories of sawdust, eases on down the dress code like a second-hand bow tie that pays for itself. Context becomes a woman's e.r. Something is definitely going on.

Words hurt. It's certain these do. And yet identifying which poems and whose, that's the Hendrick ter Brugghen dilemma, as with all flowing sperm and loneliness we contend in a post-minimalist liberal arts detention center. The dissonance and sports metaphors seem gullible, and a lack of nonsense resists interpretation. Hoarding Skeeter. Ists' opium. My Kindle blows up just trying to make sense (but I grow my colon back!) in context. (I've been wrong about half-dog leitmotifs before.) I'm just curious having compulsively misplaced life's grotesqueries, I'm drowned out by party axons that sound too streetwise for second-rate saws and gossamer voices, these, those. I fear them like tyrants. Prepare the red matter. (There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.) Auden was noised, the requisite critical faculty is parody. You know, your choice of poems sucks, the way celebrating the twentieth anniversary of botox sucks. Collaborating without you like a kotzwinkle alloy, they have to have everything your way.

Yrs,

Lefties are feeling cornered (not to say conned) by Obama. He's a milquetoast. The economy and healthcare, don't-ask-don't-tell. The government looks terrible because it's doing many things halfway. Interior is presently enforcing anti-immigrant policies put in place by Bush 2. Guantanamo detainees are shifted from one prison to another. Obama plans to keep us charmed at towhhalls, baby step by baby step, but it's hard to stomach longterm, while his enemies' operatives ridicule him and his spokespeople with anger mongering. In a democracy you need to persuade and exercise power of governance. We haven't come that far that a majority just 'gets it' about the left's brains and style superiority. No matter who's in charge, government is a problem. Try renewing your driver's license at your local rmv (serving a neighborhood with an average median income), and you'll get it. People who drive are sweating their existence and don't have time for charm. They need directions to get them through the process. Now serving nothing at Window 11.