On the first anniversary of their taking charge, do Emanuel and Obama maintain persuasion, logical reasoning, and measured, cool demeanor prevail over those who resist them? If so, they are by now both certifiably bonkers. The name of the domain is politics. That calls for skills in theater, sleight of hand, good posture, Simon-says-simple, conditioned rhetoric. If what’s behind these skills is progressive policy, along with personable qualities and strategic intellectual constructs, there is potential for leadership. So far, with regard to Obama & Co., the jurist in me is still out. 



Back to Pynchon.

— Jan. 2010

The genre is, I like gay art. I know nothing about it.

Voices, say, personalities, like voices, are lent us. It’s directional, a voice in the workplace
(seaside, e.g.). Along the marsh coast distant particles of sun reverse presumptions of innocent human form, up to the bridge and lattice.

All around the sounds you hear you’ll find warmth. Live, charged, brilliant to the shore eye.

An obsession invades a host work and the life, like the family and fellow nationals you had.
Four husbands.

Not bad. Ok. Bye.

It was great being with you.

Or was it just me?

Bursting out of your head while you hike thru grasses: All this acreage owned by prosaic dabblers, a-theoretical factual folk. Broken, misunderstood.

It’s different evening on and a child on fire hits back.

Teamwork. Again, our people are what make us great.

And if that’s everything for now, we’ll switch to metonymy. Fresh air
still excessive, a geyser in a box-set of boxes in bigger sets you don't see?
Very classy but nothing so great and natural as fetal non-sleep breathing in your womb!
like a prelude / a vowel habitat exploding with party frogs!

Dawn went.

Not to arouse your undue repentance, your wellbeing was my concern. I won’t forget.

And that does it for this hour. Exclamations postponed further, advancing no counternarrative to mower mechanisms with flames that surround trampling, pressing others into feeling nervous in observed time, expanding behind the capitol. Many observers.

Sun shines larger. We rely,
really like your ideas. / O
great.

It’s such nice work, any idea
with its schema proliferating
a question of .. you can say

I’m still not finished, you pay.
We call soliloquy anti-theoretical
since there’s no one else speaking.
The idea she’s extended is not audible —

it’s just a backstory away
long trusted there inside two rooms —

semantics + looser distinction
over words bringing up the actual goods ..

[

To commune sounds handsome, calm, bent. In the same call you reverse prerogatives, that is, your voice does. (I’ll table the difference.)

“vacant.. trespass”

— Your message is mixed but never better aligned. We’re together across how’s it going today — this is our hideout, learning the ropes, perusing scraps and hopes of coping.

The unoccupied mind long overdue. The you

I reference is in primary season. With your suitcase.

I’m back in the aftershock reading and lifting heavy plates, reflective or reflecting? you in the foreground w/out belt.

]

‘Feelings are empty’ .. still / they’re
rude − here is where the motif helps.

I told the boss you said he should go to hell
(after all), protecting the shareholders from hock.

What’s a game emotion like? the hang off it.
The contours. Nothing month. T’on. The combin’ ’n

Not a one in the cards can bend. Phrase whole simply. Save early as



Emotionally poets always knew. ‘Emotional’
conceals larger, shattered statements, ‘knowing
they have not made a point’ —

Should I continue to enjoy happiness at dinner
having intercourse by

Missing motifs? Enjoy living to be admired?
How people talk?

Someone’s missing. Cabs are scarce at this hour I guess. No?

I’m in no hurry.

There are three pleasure substitutes. Here’s one, an itch to have at your consciousness. The tide stands in rain.

A frayed weather pattern is second and last, the context’s normative, blushing with its lil song of guts and neurons —

After Side A deflections accrue. There’s the animal that needs you.

I’m expecting something.

I’m Aldo.

No, you are.

We’re a special team .. filling in voices to more rain in a stainless silence we back out of.

What about cleverness and famine?

Standing, rain assume delay to a degree. Now the sun is shining, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of our meaning it but not having it.

The 10 impulses exist.
Stevens would think they cut off stubs growing in the landscape. By design we open our front door and see what politics didn’t do. The shortest path ignited by havoc, honest and exhausted people. From it’s-not-the-same-now to the science of celebration — their betrayal is addictive.

That insight gives one the strength to make oneself at home, stay there, ameliorating; one no longer feels naked, no gaps or overlaps in one’s silence; all one commands is weeping, glowing back and forth mistily across an immense daze, half of it waxing with the plump tesselation adorned along mortal circumstance.

You and I wonder about
staying chaste .. it’s on the house.
Feels great out ahead until there’s a threshold.

In those same terms there’s
a reliance on your pleasure as well as plans.

Optimizing the center
takes more than a single system.



That’s when I propose incentives, not a completely agnostic discipline
about attitudes behind morals, to begin;

you don’t have to do more yoga than

we know – o
take less than nothing that might exist if you wish.

0) nothing horrible, just horrible

both perceptions of opposites leveraged simultaneously

2) meaning not one and more original than none
3) causing internal illogic along w/
4) the adage first thought or never think never losing its death and life ...

We’re enormously self-disciplined torpedoing expenses when it’s cutthroat & officially sanctioned.

Getting a pulse, fixed pupils, dilated. Don’t try this without the others ...

They want to be involved clanked in, again (went back & forth for a time, out of pocket.. ) ..

The sine functions still rising from parterres & topiary snapping in place.

Our place.

Flack? You gave me flack the moment we cried; before taken whole —
Before moving on
It’s typical, offhand.. rather:

My point if
— I’m probably not taking this all
For the kettle of urgency that is.

Let’s file it down.
I’m sipping Tropicana on your behalf.
Taken to your path. Walking in sheer
All the time, staggering!



Entertainment, a petting zoo up for grabs now, where they conserve a streamline
For pleasure off wooden enclosures, a caricature of playing hard,
Recruitment and prayer in the eco-imagined before-the-point.

There was a boom in robots once.
It all came about back in 1st or 2nd grade.
And if you invest now, daylight garners thee
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 peace
next to some sleeping people staring through the ice

Is this bluff for real? one asked with good reason
before the ice scissored out the grade.

We can’t always gather this way but we do.

New wilderness tracing a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed, cuddling escalations in body movement, ledgers of age. The brilliant live on in one mis-phrase, a word, and they always have, fudging abasement in a clean confinement serving a purpose within supernumerary states of being (confined).

This is not a test. I’m rather excited. We’ll leave it at that.
The place was beautifully democratized.

Justice, liberty, rule of law...

Also, it’s easy for you, suddenly, to have less to eat to soften my last interruption using little consonants in your throat.. you’re holding firm. How many blue songs of parallel scenery can sidewinders take?

Big-eyed instincts?
                    hard
to get out of the valise. We pirated the code.

I can’t say we pushed it out willingly (nurture, nature, frantic relaxation).

The fit is good.

I noticed you work away from me to make your poise smoke
w/ the problem being.

Your search had no results. Call.

Socialist progressive 100%: Power evokes nighttime and both hands taped.

Innocence or too much tolerance is guilt w/in the group. Yah, blandness is a problem.

(A structualist’s dreams optimize.)

Orpheus to have at.

Tofu marmalade, Oppen, George, fried cricket. Progress party-wide.

There was something else when the gong struck. A lightning rod emits ballets of dust (doing a crawl) .. a hint there’s a commotion in back of everything the matter.

It’s a hint only when we go hands free mumbling over a larger issue. “Think about it. Space. Time. Slash. Pauses.

Some of those candidates were hot.”

To figure prominently among the Fates, others — someone like you you loved earlier marries your projectile.

Welcome back.
We’re watching you hit a guardrail, lose it, and fall apart.
Your car is a broom.

Amount enclosed: Not dying is not not wanting to die, a unique semantic potential assigned an inventory. (Dying is not wanting to die and then waiting not to die: Between waiting, not wanting, desires crowd out a covert, unplayed suite shaped through a decade long derangement,

misread revisions bourne in
countering selfmastery, fighting it even in unspiteful moments

— was it scentless discomfort?)

True to Form A.

I was nursed from the beginning. “I need me.” It’s a lovely tirade. (Jack Spicer)

And that’s good, because I sneaked rather than snuck across the gimme-erotic catalysts.

I’d subsist in our attrition finding and weeding out pleasure. I know I would and if I added notes to video I’d capture the “you” and “me” of this and any unclenched feelings I have composing footage I can’t pinpoint,

a shore in blues and stock blacks pitched way up with infectious provisos, integers-to-be, no part to fix.

Except we have to guide this young woman back to reality, a good handler with a visual cortex attending what’s neat in the future, and she finds us attractive! I don’t know when or how long we slept —

Show me a locket grant once.

Once & be done. A few more should

Do the climate fast with an aftermath of shining..

A whole new side to nuts & tightening bolts, narrow & hollow in the center, along with holding on 100%
— inflatable as you lay back in a blank whisper, quiet in the nick of it.

Haiku: There’s inter-force rondure (Eric Dolphy e.g.)
v tacticians putting themselves into canons amid conflated reminiscences —

A critical first for haiku is, let’s start over.

Sonnet: We’re not all to blame for America’s angelogy misdirection

modulating the self to comprise an apotheosis
according to archetypes of daring.

Passover
varieties and perspective have changed —

A radiant hierarchy took off about here
since management didn’t say anything
about lighthouses and provided signals
..unending brightness and bite
w/ raindrops across from all that
— one could kill to be of their perfect pitch, ready to go
(
so twist ties
just got better) —

          And any night they enter, they have been with us..
it’s amazing how “they simply pass”

coming from another space, radicalized before they got there, here
proceeding under a bust of John Wieners..

(We note now at the end to physics-oblivion)

A heedless figure hammering out Bo Diddley —
Sap is flowing top speed. The command option centered.

Panning back to lend bulk,
tampering w/ thought experiments..

Hey, it’s regulatory = changing the subject cares less, professing a concept
by looking for the un-enclosed in nominal trivia to ground paradox —

You’ve enslaved poetry so you can be taught
(Where all of us are going.)
O ouch. I’m not sorry.

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.

Ambience is a novel with your logo.


Amusing to read from sobering, antic design. Likewise to write it, at least for you and your author. As a poet who rolls with deadpan offshoots of good taste and reason, you might string sentences together like paste rubies and artificial pearls deliberately mismatched. Sentences would shine in meh as the wily ends of ideas fail to match up with new beginnings. Beginnings are lit up jewels of propositions before each gets dulled into falsehood yet contextualized by the faintly plausible, as if draped over a bowl of fish hooks — jewels, hooks — an incident in the making. You and surely your author might throw a personal datum in, offer the bowl an opinion (not yours for real, clearly) a bonne idée around sex as a gross linear process or, similarly, around the death of family, so personal mentions achieve the same (but no higher) level of emotional force as boilerplate for standard FAQs or photos. This produces scrubbed sober reportage typical of social democratic atmospherics. The arbitrated décor of your short text can then be looked after in “poet-novelist” ways (as this is a mock-up toward an after hours bildungsroman you are attempting). Your author’s ways include weighting the bottom of many pages with partially extraneous footnotes — beginning with number 31 (footnotes 1-30 are fully extraneous) — as well as mediating random elements, mostly unfocused snapshots but also font variations, lists, and a couple of equations. Humor is allowed. Humor justifies the enterprise but it is only one facet of shifts in planar and tonal assessment. Process description, your American ethnicity, John Cage, touring Germany, attending Carleton, “a face derived by software,” all these are data sets fit to be twisted, falsified or erased, as your author fictionalizes with what you see as temporary accesses to abstruse info, including fuzzy photos in a book.

Gas, food, lodging. You’re on your own.
A soulful lab mix, appliance and beast.
It’s nice to win over 90,000 grammars, all those associative halos.
Your novel is a conference. Believe nothing I say.

The back office is an eyesore, assembly required. It
makes itself think...lets itself think...

(It’s a coin flip.)

I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.

Thanks for the memories.

You ruined everything.

What’s semiology? unless we’re in life to gnarl sparkle to figure it out?

No futures present new phenomena —

I have a tiny soft view of holding to their path, a core harmony purring yet put aside. (One dissipates the other.)

3-D models are mindless taking chances, everyone we can engage in transparent secrecy, charged by mental concision.

Rationed compliments ensue and float a kind of math.

T he self, yourself, is fascinating, I think, to squelch tautologies of wealth and actionable conditions for surplus misuse as power we might have had had. So self takes itself nostalgically

— an idea to play w/ just one note in the pluperfect.. where disrespect feels like eavesdropping.

There’s a high tradition that’s like trail mix, rhetorically honey-sealed
— so narratively palatable we with a few years of English have in.

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

Scribes are first to note who shall hanker after whom.

— labels won’t work outdoors among Diamondbacks. If you don’t believe me ask them.

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 (for one), sustaining losses out of irony.

Inundated with liberty, I talk thus in a lowered register.
My face — like the next — sports layers of sleep relief, realizing exponentially our wildest ambitions.

This sports bar is for translators.



Ask, we can step out, blur the ground and yield authority to an ideal form that’s who’s next to me — we’ll stand and watch dogs turn smoky brown tracking vans, almost in drizzle tarnished from sight, playing against an old stack of storm windows, within a composure for light a translator can’t reach.

East of Eden: Ideas of smarter definition.
We needed smarter drywall too, to excite
ferns and moss growing, other side, every-
thing about the yield blowing in its whereabouts
news of perpetual unitary joy...

I liked getting you to this point by discovery.

Too many ideas inside — I’d,

You know — can’t.. when I think

Who’s thinking, maybe after I’m

Just Pessoa locked in place

Where things think on their own



You know — more than 1 I,

Things, myself, lots to hide
Yes or no, and I’m me too

So I should give you shit

Because when I speak you’re

Stirring up other ideas

What I feel
 I
Think I feel, oh, Man!

Ma’am! You’re telling me
Nothing new here —



A stupid thing, knowing this.

Re-examining all my meanness,

Italicizing my failures. I’m ham-

Fisted attempting satire.

Snooty, freaky I gay love it.


plodding from the Portuguese

I-Ching for idiot dummies (like me):
Go on.

Core descriptions updated, untitled.

Later you and I went to the movies.
I was wearing the shorter
spring outfit again. I got it down in

the bus terminal,
a little installation

by itself.

Search terms for Partitas. 12 backs into a slurry, plump, downy evanescing into fluff. The slurry rises above affixes and dead gardenias. It’s in her notation. Helium released — thrown in reverse in spring — trees light up. Better to heal resentments buried in a colossal physique, Orpheus, the spontaneous. With his gift of agency everything’s a take-from in percussive isolation. Again everything from desolating satire to marsh puissance.

*

11: What beats through the dinosaur theme park?

Don’t care, one only lies about what’s right, so masking one’s vanity becomes the challenge clinging to both.

10: Same with her mocking Plato — he thought a musician would deeply apprehend radiant, interactive forms (and opposites, among variants), soberly, liberally studying them in breadth (one did breathe), alert to surface details, part of the work week.

It’s all hideously exciting if you’re fair and lovable.

Justice for all is only made to look calculated, she said. Liberty with caution, minuscule, exciting.. again.

*

Seven: It was a sober intro ..
A branch could be incomplete generally. There’s urgency in ideas etc.

I live in a debt growing compound and now



A level over! I’m

petrified by merger talkathons —



I put my pants on and left: Not really, she said out

ahead of how I was supposed to know.

I’m addicted to ideas.


This was the first time.


I chose ode and it’s an ode to summer, just getting to you.. As marriages go it’s not all bad. I owe my bros an apology. (Not you.) My better half too. It’s just an exchange. Excuse moi.

Summer!

Let’s bring it. I agree even if
Conditions look gray — wanting you (I say I do),
Not out of calculation & how far & vast connivance

Takes it. I’m holding out
Your landscape with the fired bullet in it, effluvia.
Now it’s daybreak —

— everybody under lunar waxing
credited to whipsaw. A foot of sleet
from the window, eyebrow roughened.

My views are compatible with yours, that’s the idea, only
I’m leaving you
Outdoors for your extrication from delirium.

Tho you’re still at the front door, vulnerable in all good faith,
& all the bobwhites in Appalachia hush...

The forsythia is trying to warm up.

North American theism is a quad divided
we never come across et tu a parabola intersects,
a pedigree. Gestures are precise. Bright eyes.

Sparkling motifs climb the outside
— there’s a new quad-underground
— we — some of us — avoid it. It’s hardly objective,

but a big badge realignment is authentic now,
hyper-rufflers juxtaposed by the advanced milieu.
So let’s start with comfortable rectangular shapes,

understand pleasures eyes, neck and chest have.
There. You may have noticed I write in your face,
fuzzy & discontinuous surf in reverse

then forward as backdrop for a new old friend’s face
I’m prone to review, scrunching it up for breakfast. That’s you.

I’m for a more open openness with plenty of recreation. Poppy seeds navigate within a self-contained yet ostentatious pensiveness.

You and I love them and by gum there’s a mantra logjam of two minds grounded into a common goal.

As one you reman the outside but you and I get more, discovering ignored wisdom on humanist terms.

(Humanist discourse is indirect.)

I’m also out on the deep end in my leftwing head where consensus flies around, an influenza. (Harder to stay immune now.) There’s a glow in my argumentation like an avalanche that fucks the machine age.


for Owen Wilson

Semantics in space.

The Stanford-Benet mentions a handbook (or its conception) for encapsulating syntax to denote space-time, uniting archetypes found in even more complex disproportions that achieve higher cognitive value than meaning itself.

What have they done?

Or ... simply put, to understand how and where figures of speech are produced, which sort of figures, etc .... S-B portrays one’s understanding of simple metaphor as a class of restraint (or constraint) on time and place boundaries, mimesis within nature, uppermost.

How is metaphor possible, otherwise?

Larry Kearney rhymed all with skull, internally. P Inman’s
Echelon hairnet shifted putty, thumb-nailed into

An agreement to let us in. Skull with putty.
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down on earth.

The more you put your finger in it, on it, on earth, you know retouches, colorations return as audible signs of evidence-based rivalries to make fitter (more adhesive) decisions for correct behavior.

Yes. This is a speaking animal, you remember — and
Time’s up.

It was nice once to have known you.

A word travels, calibrated by the ruckus-like paean spoken (rather than speaking) in a large-scale dialectic —

license before comeuppance, soul dad —

make that a southpaw outreach where all the jazz wears off.

We’ll sink together deliberately mismatched, yet ignited around the tips by deep compatibility.

The sea and air cutting up the outside, driving it back to a crawl, to a spot to talk.

This reminds me, Eros is immediate, overwhelming, terse & of a Castilian order. A hundred décors in one & one Dame Hess at the piano. The endive bloats.

Bellwethers, fey bloodhounds are sub-jazz. If suicide in the instant barter were handing off potential thru another, then this is how far reptiles fit lips usually wet. Infectious ellipses

becoming day after night. No thanks or so we did one thing in common. Then every bristle.

My area is interpretive search.



It’s been a while, Sophocles wrote.

Yet nothing is forgotten, since exploring prediction matters for the next table / angle. You—who —

Entry is easy : A bright skepticism shows up as undead identity.

...cross-pollinate linguistics w/ psychology, a vital lift

— remember how we expect clarity on motives. Get to the resolute joy, punching bags, tricks, compress. Check the seams

Glowing with judo, shimmering — lodging complaints to startle the system.

Let’s dance.

I’ll assume you suspect I know you know. It’s in the literature. Empiricists map it, we know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n randomness. Pure benefits are sure not to accrue, never grasp for governance of the governed! Wouldn’t you know they’re in an infinite series w/in millennia of gossip. (Or from another angle they are the series, livin’ history.) [As you were.]

(Sophocles wrote.)