Davey Jones, R.I.P.

Larry Kearney rhymes all with skull, internally. P Inman’s

Echelon hairnet shifts mighty putty, thumb-nailed into

An agreement to let us in, beset by red-tide warnings

Hot, dizzy, it all comes down on earth, thirsting for blood

Incapacitating split beach personalities

Calibrated most by the ruckus-like paeans to sew

Azaleas to male-pattern seduction technology / outreach

Where all the jazz wears off. (They’re both good.)

Squeals and sequels. We came with what we saw, and we sank together like paste rubies and artificial pearls — deliberately mismatched. Highways empty. Logic hardly in motion. Scenery written for the biggest down to the smallest, abstracted birches as a trick of flight, a specialty. And there’s a ring around the tips ignited by deep compatibility.

When we rehearsed it made no difference what we believe. The soul is a hypothesis to mottle or engage the hierarchal breath, but this is not what sort of emerged where we were thrown off by the scent.

None of this mattered at the time. It was his hair. And vibrating skins, battery powered.

Lithe sea air migrated a few more feet as a reminder, a gift. It’s OK and fresh when it comes to some pebbles of light, the open future idling to cut up the outside, drive it back to a crawl and meaning that travels.

Every year I pull out a valentine. This could be the flash.

Yet eclecticism is too aloof, too torpid an entity to fill the distance between rarity and parental control.

Avant forces surround us like those evidence-based rivalries draining the chill from the banquet.

An individual is simply outwitted by hegemonic tidal waves that value performance before competence.

Like you, I am spoken (rather than speak) in a large-scale dialectic between the collective and their parodic chat.

Not sure where I ‘stand’ vis a vis avantism, cultural hegemony, the eclectic, and the like. Having at such big, elusive ideas comes over as a self-as-whipping-post tactic that invites ridicule and instant downgrade as a serious analyst. So that’s cool. Especially if you see yourself as some Figure of Marat — you who do it and are done in by it. On my scale of the espirit to avantism, craft subordinates the topical regard for political categories or any other geo-social units of analysis. Not that that kind of units or categories cannot be applied to avant production, but the application is often prosaic and tertiary. And, again, without reference to specific production or even to argumentative or theoretical points, avant political discussions can feel like imitative prequels, dramaturgical sketches toward better thinking, sooner or later or, often, richer ideas retrieved from earlier positions (dramas) that flow forward to and from today in February.

Comfort is business in Motel Six. I find much that is interesting about unzipping wet opium, in a series of slippery disputes with ill-defined noise.

Handwriting my text, the first point is to describe laughing it off, replacing today / tomorrow with glass and silence, a kind of stripping down to the ashen stem cell of relatively unspeaking.

Altho intuition and initiative are abstracts, I connect on a deeper level with charity, a nonprofit.

Cool favors percolate but I’ll also swerve in on you. You are not so remote so I rate you very favorably 10, no, really; off the scale, 10 or more.

Mixed up like utter gloss, our release from goals is a miracle, duly noted. Dully put. To stay awesome, pointless attitudes are buried below the gestalt-like air we dissipate.

Body-snatching in other words, the second point is we have to join something, our lives are directionless.

We talk about what they say in the commercials.

And [...there is no outside [...] only what’s already here [what I breathe] inside, which is perpetually immature, disgusting, repulsive...] [and]

I see the wind smudging the porch.

Allow me, will you? Allow me my battlefront with you to show an accidental tactic or two that don’t matter, made iconic as we circumvent exchange elements, retaking spatial morality for irreversible transport, arms folded, chewing gum, flying thru a full equinox, giving chance agency position for change.

How about cheesy time lapses? That’s another point I'm totally cool with.

And I like the color green very much. Especially its movement within trapezoids and photons...

bX-pumzzs ... incantations for seething in keen fidelity, a gazing furl trying to sparkle together, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.

Cutting off funding for Planned Parenthood breast cancer screening, the Susan G. Komen Foundation reverses the presumption of innocence. One congressman has initiated an investigation of Planned Parenthood, and that triggers a new grants-making policy by Komen to deny Planned Parenthood financial support because it is now under scrutiny. The new policy is a pretext, one Komen board member claims, to allow it to drop Planned Parenthood.

Up to now, women’s cancer screening has been free of police-state ideology. One influential voice, in this case the voice of one congressman-attack-dog on the hunt, justifies an apolitical nonprofit to switch sides, finding Planned Parenthood guilty until proven otherwise. Fair-minded advocates for breast cancer screening should rebuke Komen’s decision and the politics it belies.

The trees are full of policemen — Filip Marinovich

Surely I have ideals and uncoded momentum, boa intact.

Rain twisting, “tensile lines.” So I wave back, s’up? We’re at the prelims of collapse, I suppose.

But am on the outs with grief and the innards of English. I’m breathing without commodity or form, structurally overboard; I i.d. with your facts; you’re in my fellow league, my bravado, and I can’t go on without a pizza dough-boy amble, a fountain of us-ness — a movie (duh) from the ground up ramped by a theory of growth in heliportation.

The stars’ Aida is accreting.

Mike Kelley, R.I.P.

Don Cornelius, R.I.P.