I’m back with my typos, a hiatus to find my mind breathing, so much so this looks stupid. Start over. Whom will you discover?
On the third post you really had us and were all over us. You didn't have to what the hell? We told you we agreed a little but not a lot. I forget now what you sound like. I’m choked up by the plot running out, suspended. It’s unlikely there’s more about the future and of course less. And some things you need to repeat.
That was at the start. I know that.
Taking chances put us in this lissome interpretive state (birth). Function varies widely. Lilac is a favorite zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.
If that’s everything for now, we’ll switch to metonymy. Slangy hypotheticals never miss. Or is it a geyser in a box? Gimme a tummy poke, infant Satan asleep inside the womb! It’s like a prelude / nano habitat exploding with party frogs! There’s an aspect of covered wagons and vultures dropping eyeballs in fake vomit. It’s no to rational sisterhood. No to our house on a cliff behind the house. It appears we’re operating in sludge bubbles where a tribal language — just so you know, I love what you’ve done with the place, the crumbling infrastructure, squishy puppies and pit ponies boosting those who surround my home — over here — the canonical devotion to be obtained in They has been called something, something pastoral. Let’s start with that idea and see if it pertains. Here.
Read this. I did. Resolved, the body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons. My mind messed up. Sun pours down, unobstructed in the region. “Prepare your red matter.”
I’m leaving disjunction behind. To work with you (our plan) is one way to avoid subjectivity
as a nominal fallacy.
To be anyone who will die isn’t perverse, it’s the inside dress code.
Ah, holism doesn’t come naturally, Nickolas Christakis. Yet the parts know how to grow,
A Cretaceous bunny stuffed in an envelope is ludicrous. It’s untidy and young. I basically
authorize it. While your back-and-forth is rubbed into my hair / no-hair in all these dubious
directions you’re going in until you do onslaughts in self presence
that’s the game self, yourself, perhaps, to squelch a tautology of actions
that seem certain when hidden by how far you are beaten into their projections.
We are of navy birth, feeling not so bad about the brief gleam that seethed with rank
fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl sparkle to figure our life together
our history, ok sunsets standing in the waves like Jennifer Moxley’s “arc of grace, a mystical exit
from the trap / of birth chance and bloodlines, call it talent / or perhaps obedience: mostly
we are poor.”
The place was beautifully democratized. The beginning seemed and was (again again) :
To qualify what happens & delay what this is take interpenetration among important guys running this.
I’m reading Jean Cocteau again and watching Butterfield 8.
Richard Howard translates Cocteau, Unknown and betrayed, that is a poet's fate, the and italicized. To continue, There's another slant to male deadpan, social conditioning in lexical pragmatics. The schema echoed by take-downs, inflammable straw men (physique / text), and clustered pellets (biodata), whose immolation compels male gut pleasure. The instant take-down / &-out. You can’t have deadpan without it.
Granted, on a more personal note, I can maintain a liberal apolitical pronoun to cry my way into teaching Jean to hate what I hate.
You too. Sorry, I have no other associations I can share. I was running through work everywhere. Don’t know why we are in this automatic summation of now or a minute from now after the transaction but before it turns up on your phone. Last thing, I thought our agreement was ‘fuzzy,’ a few elements incised to form solid bands connected to what I could see up to the valley.
There’s a method to share. Society likes building coherence. When we make out I see cubism & new media touched all over or felt athletically.
It’s overrated, I whisper to you, myself, falling for the steam ’n stream ingredients.
Here’s one’s take on the ’N-Sync reunion. It’s
an illusive healing (a method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow)
& aspected by hedges, almost.
To go on we shoot back & shift subjects
in compliance with bets we place... whereby
bluegrass conflicts vis à vis breakfast & rubbery clouds, the proverbial irony.
One’s position is reincarnation roughs it, because it’s safe to lounge at home without saying oh,
wait we did this already.
Home is a test pattern where the class marshal escapes, holding out protractedly for that nest
egg, so dropping the opposite side.
You may have noticed I’m on the side of the construction of meaning, & one very long eyebrow (as wingspan), felt & continuous with last summer that had no purpose, just sheer falsetto.
The wind from the south is rambunctious.
What south represents may be playing tricks on us. You wake up & up next, you’re vapid.
You want in? Try some eye accessing cues, carve out what rafter was seen strapped at the top. A noun for emphasis
could be imagined.
There’s a method to share.
Let’s go through the stream. Gavel to gavel what we say converts to light rain, weather
personalities & stunt making. Hours & ours.
For serious instrumental music
“I promise we won’t bean you with a bag of nickels.” Cheater,
there’s a figment in our remains, the quartet’s on a mission; higher
up, the splat’s part doodle / association we can void
as a hoist to operate prayer in all directions. Smile. Shall we?
No further down, the tones operating with phenomenological genomes,
lattices, an industrial park at the corner sheeted in quick-fire
milled cement, plywood & dust.
Private-public ideas, still hidden, gone native, & of fine voice.
“A voice & nothing more.”
There is a lil automated palletizer of bread
with industrial KUKA robots in a bakery
in Germany where groove is still a verb.
The odd relay repeated.
I did my research. We don’t do pinpricks, I’m told.
I’m not adding bespoke grammar to discontinuous anguish.
That would be another season’s U Da Pothole
puck-aged shadows, not today.
Lastly, I’m worshiping
a Shrek glass while the full loom of grasses
blows town including the swerve parts since this
is like the rest that could potentially be used
again until such a time when it gets replaced.
That I think of you.
Anyway, I retract my falsehoods. & for the same sutra
I condemn & mourn meritocracy. For / & all men
are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geo-metry
to inspect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland
It’s nice finally to put a face to the humiliating nickname.
So, leave the top 2 buttons undone. Fate
shouldn’t adapt what’s spindly or bang
it home. There’s nothing else except that
distasteful impression of Mel Gibson
in red shoes. (Footwear is a hot mess for
men.) A sick mind resists emotion solving
puzzles. Are you going to put that there?
It dawns on me I am covered in bacon
reform. Instincts are mostly buried under
cement, sunk talking to each other, eh?
They were hard to get out of the wrinkled
valise (I removed the tongue). Lilia’s Pond
plays daylight for boucle, searing, puffy,
relaxed, with that living unlocked smell.
He’s going to remember this. There were deleted utterances in the surface structure. [As a commander she can steal from herself to make something up and call it his...] September hence is being looked into. It just feels wound up terribly to outpace an apparatus [not properly issued for commentary].
You’re not alone. The whole month is chewed over, sculpted penmanship.
And here’s an apple
for the teacher. (He caught your addiction.) It’s a straightforward proposal:
Concerning the Novel, Including My Own
Some thoughts on the novel, a form of writing that somehow perplexes me. I have written (what I call) novels but haven’t really thought of the effort as nove...
"Games of Life" (on the art of Morton Bartlett and the LACMA show "Playthings: The Uncanny Art of Morton Bartlett") by Douglas Messerli
games of life
Morton Bartlett *Playthings: The Uncanny Art of Morton Bartlett, *Los
Angeles County Museum of Art / I saw this show on October 22, 2014...