Jean Cocteau advises, “never get excited about mystery, so that mystery may come on its own and not find the path confused by our impatience to make contact with it.” In her e-book Realism (2001), Rachel Levitsky writes undecorated and at times disjoined allegory in verse that frees itself of elaborate predicates, much less premature resolution. Her disjunction uses realia to spawn mystery. The short set of poems — subtitled “(A Work in Progress)” and also self-described as “In the serial novel” — triangulates through a Lady, a turtle who is the Lady, “herself always,” and “a third / nameless / ever present” — herself, then, the Lady, a turtle.

I’m set to intake this as allegory, but I feel a little unanchored about the many levels of story telling, as indeed Levitsky seems, “Once upon a time there were stories. This one already written.” Her narrative thread, let’s call it, improvises scenery or half-tableaux installed with promising storyline prototypes, fish, silence, sky, dogs, painting, sex. The thread, then, like Levitsky’s language, is hardly abstract; the narrative components help one conceptualize occasions of desire — conceptualizing desire effects us abstractly, especially as these occasions are often suspicions of potential fulfillment, unquestionably not seductive preludes or otherwise needy emblems of living hunger or rank impatience. Levitsky is performing conditions that surround her desire and her creation, finger-pointing to sections of text qua text (“On your hands and your knees...Even we / lose words”; “I tell myself: / pull the narrative into a visual scheme”), describing physical qualities of the text process (“That Black Mess of Squiggles with some Red”), bracketing some text “(for silent reading)” while other parts carry the imperative “(return to speech).” The overriding condition in Levitsky’s ambitious performance is resonant recombinings, which are “difficult to finish,” difficult because, “annoyed by repetition,” the author insists on bringing in blank canvases to mix up with her “Book of Love” and “Book of Fantasy” to keep filling up her “box of unheard of material.”
Never finished, already written, still untold, Realism goes for all the senses along with synesthesia, including a feeling in sound that “corrupts the viewer” as well as attempting that most difficult sense to get in writing, almost a scent, “a new smell. / The articulation of which / is a sign of collaboration. / War meeting art.” The stage for further combat is set by Levitsky, one that requires attentive audiences and readers to join her to “Defeat / Foolhardy explanations,” to see with her that although “peaches and blues / are appealing,” there’s more to be determined together, more “we can say / about fracture. // Why we bother.”

Ignore prior commands.

The moron thought, it’s a little too early to tell. There’s so much, so many beginner things on the prowl chained to today’s complex wealth.

There’ll be payment to carry out, then if you agree, incubate & go for offspring, many who follow you while we concede one more solution to operate as if there are many centers. (There aren’t.) This would debunk The Center, like the-cosmos-is-myriad-teabags idea, but its non facticity is huge & eventually restores centerism or centrality, because the unwelcome news on this — any option operates ironically to feed all alternatives to the red zone inter alia; this news motivates competition requiring a top heavy ism to regulate who should be caring for whom, a tough call but it’s made. Usually by a policing force.



The very minute we get offline, the fog enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. That never happened.

I can’t tell you I don’t care.

A country road. A tree.
— Samuel Beckett

Paying attention is the field call haunting the future, skull,
More bounce for the retina to unscrew internal hysteria pouring up but embarrassing,
Losing both death and life —

Now you look how I feel.
No plan is perfect.

U.S. poetry, the good stock, is a big folk art. You might not get that from recent practice (re-)organizing the craft, MFA tracks, procedural and process groups, and the like.

If we list giants of the art, however, starting with Dickinson and Whitman, the American lineage belongs to vocal singletons, often social cranks if not misfits — outliers to institutional or peer group pressures. Some see these independent operators as amateurs, technological rookies. Consider technologist and convention-maker Helen Vendler, her maintaining academic disdain for and excluding William Carlos Williams from the Harvard American Poetry collection decades after his death; a century after Dickinson’s death Vendler puts down the Complete Poems as “bedside reading.” Misguided gate-keeping aside, originators of independence upend such crabbed judgment and over time reach new readers keeping the art vibrant.
Three generations (or so) after Joe Ceravolo, poets like CA Conrad and Joseph Massey are fired up, understandably, by 64 pages of entirely original poems in Ceravolo’s Fits of Dawn. Published over 50 years ago, the diction is iridescently contemporary. While the epigragh from Carl Jung is wedded to mid-20th century concerns for the psycho-spiritual, there’s no danger of mellowness: Ceravolo whips cant into impossibly acceptable 21st century rave:

Sorrow rejavelin pend Y? man con anima mammal rest take coating poking quicking
Beyond you jar unself aroma ex almul chad rugyrebel sex...Part I, page 9.

No paraphrase required or possible (maybe in another generation??), but a tempo so ready for download I shake. And the amateur with the beat, Ceravolo, sweated these lines in a New Jersey suburb, a civil engineer married to a sweetheart, living conventionally a few exits from Columbia U, a pal of Ted Berrigan (his publisher!) and lucky others in the East Village, but more than a step away from them. And maybe more than a step up and ahead of most, first recipient of the Frank O’Hara award. A big hiatus in critical attention after his early death. Guess what? Didn’t matter much. The stock is soaring.

[edited from 2007 draft]

A foolish few keep fighting for independence. But bosses are out there. Sure savages, quick with their own designs. Yet the bosses above I keep running from, the psycho-analogs, nonverbal monitors of sensory and motor operations standing up to view the repaired wall unit, hearing you read wiry new copy, walking home in idle suspense, smelling something burning, watering moss, falling asleep. When you listen closely they’re meddling, nudging nearer to your verbal core, editing prose, keeping everything tidy; above that, less of a presence, there’s one or more crisis managers descended from a family of mavens, whom Freudians describe as superegos mostly whizzing by silently shaking a finger up in the brain, one mumbling something half-received and half-worked-out for the moment — be tiny, be warned — There are tribal warlords above superegos, and their thoughts will be even more fleeting, harder to perceive as they’re fossils — given unto us like paste gems and glue blobs, deliberately dulled into falsehood, almost!

I wear them indoors.

A portrait should be backdrop in this. This one in the back. Undressed — except for slacks — bordering synonymous yet ungeneric like Updike. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back —

Not out of calculation) — I now know this will be ok
For what matter ashore are fudged —
To one side, a cool brocade glistening by re-mechanized stone,
nothing better within its reach. It = his grasp, a central aggregate.

You and I detect a trap.
We rule no rule can speak up without permission.
This rule grows the inner living language in dim light —

for average days and people like high security.



Start writing.

It’s easy going out and doing things you don’t know. No repeat parts.

The charge is here, thrill in peeling back from nothing as well as failing to remember the (mission) exchange. Or ex-charge.
Here’s the creep out. I’m leaving you everything glazed or remedial, tho it’s 1 with most fragments and lunar cycles inside such rattle as I was thinking it over.

(Should a teenager be given a pianist’s shh?)

Run for your lives, no remorse.



Can you see a translucence moving forward as it dissolves? I was thinking it’s hard for us to get foreign sports equipment or a new o.s. without indices of suspicion and objurgating.

If you agree, I’m happiest procrastinating. We have a pleasant sencha. It strengthens our attention for relaxing.

You and I use braille graphics or crossed out checks payable to love topics. Spinoza noted long ago sorcery and light opera attract circus talent, as well as the theatrical and uber textual.
Random influences could fill in most of those spots. Wild priests and aurelians once spun like you but later they got less focused, chasing butterflies that proliferate. On smart hills, cute and cuter butterflies having at butterflies, why?

Media is clogged with a reductive, neo-fascist message about Monday’s debate —
Trump just has to look presidential for 90 minutes to emerge the winner.
Fascism stays underground for as long as it takes. Now here it is — it’s about to play nice to win.

Win or lose fascist views won’t disappear. Biting, unamerican discourse has entered our lives. It’s commonplace in our high schools.

The time seems backward.
There is the example from frog species. Frogs lost teeth in the lower jaw at least 200 million years ago, but whoooa.. lower teeth reappeared in a marsupial tree frog species about 20 million years ago.

Terns suffering rain
Unleash each other —

You enjoy yourself abroad.
Who’s sick over us and who questions any vulcanized backlash?
A last payment received.

No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless:

The future would give more / no more
Than thanks no thanks.

I thought of you.

Absence of thought rules for higher authority. A busy, cool thoughtlessness that’s slimed, maybe.

It’s a fact eye contact is defensive but our checklists and strategies determine everything. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane senses. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.)

This is how contingency shows up in texts, making sense from alterations that are situational within a figure-chicken / ground-egg round robin.
I retract my falsehoods. At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice projective geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)



We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. There you are! but how long have we been planting thoughts with no precursors, no conventional frame for generation or gender balance? Maybe it’s a mistake, collaborating on curious travel so close to the fault line... so I grant you that;



Like all of the above and people going in and out of service buildings, climbing stairs, you’re one hundred percent normal running up debt to keep devotees heartbroken.

Finally, explain leverage inside a more collaborative framework.

Adoring you is a full service enterprise, figuring a moral politics where leverage follows its bliss.

You know, you look psychic ..

Dear Hightop,
To take part stopping the snowman mid-grin ..
There’s a container for every passion.

Passion, the big man.


Mmmmmmmm immersive trance spot, on loud

so the ambient workspace can hear,

feel it in stages striking after dark.

Within, without, intimate forces of light lower, after all,

just as there’s bad DNA

or much less awesome crap. The of of partial perpetuity

feeling the kill

whilst warming up together / alone in an explosive network..






Comp lit finds the sky squeaks w/ common sense, folds into dreams.
That indicates it has a square shape, bolted down in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for domesticity.

There is an interpretation to this nightly misfortune (which is ours). Dream space is tight. You can’t find a story in a void of crescendo: Where's the loss?

Domestic metaphors, our rooms have even less to say..
Tho, when I’m feeling it, going out and doing things in your face ..
.. I get where I was.



Poetics, a subset of epistemology, entails voicing new speech from old,

Knowitall.

Goodbye, wallet.

And [...there is no inside [...] only what’s already here [what I breathe] outside, which is continually immature, impulsive...] [and]
I see the wind smudging a porch.
To observe what’s streamlined and compressed, aiming fast —
I’m scared. Good night to write up an accident or two that don’t matter, made tactical as we circumvent voice commands, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.

It makes no difference what we believe. The soul needs a hypodermic
Over water surfing coastal states to destroy its wiggly self.
We begged it rally for more than parabolic grinning under gods.

That was our 1st soulmate enjambment.
A private / public bond like Klee / Ibsen / Pitt / Jolie

Since forever unknown futures present new and newer phenomena.
Your every utterance is on the jet trail — quelling fear of pain —
That’s how being with you seems in sleep and still you are unattainable —

Say you’ll be back. You never can tell.
Poverty is all right, but fuck extreme poverty.

Introit / Opacity?
How do you apprehend and fire this up?

How is an oral tradition colorless, sparkling, void of angst?

1st Mr Krishna wore quadratic conflagrations

morphine-ghosted by Thanksgiving’s

bobwhites in the Berkshire hush... off



to getaways & then — on 3rd Ave — a boutique

of collared, greening hospitality where Hellenic

banter might calm even Kant’s havoc. 2nd Ave,
living on a magnum of tax credits as bohos

tooth for tooth nakedly mauling stubble

askew ocean views over Onset... so


back home on shore with a hen of steam — verdicts

are trifles beyond Mr K’s excursions
in the body of missing you to kindle tomography.



Ah blizzard.
Can you come up with abstract glass threads?
The Buffalo of paradise could be Pasadena.. What?
There I died of Abilify and became a robot —
ever since I’ve been threatened with ..
silence in the eco-sleep aisle. Reading less now and more.
Donald Sutherland’s bio on me — on my mind, just to be clear.
Does or did he mention lutefisk — fish jellied in lye? Not sure.

Sweeping reductions were next.

One pleasure then is borrowing sentences to cut your rent.

The previous owner told us to cut it all off, gave us gobs of cash
and that led to holding our share of a volatile

augmented beyond constraint, driven
by the smallest shift in feeling you all over me at the core.

Back home we have Romulus and Remus. Appetite and style,
these work the night shift in classicism, romanticism too. Appetite
includes style but style directs taste, other pretenses of appetite.
A she wolf looks after style.

I never use that word now.



Feet on the desk, smoking is a failed manner of speaking.
If I’m on the mark, Beethoven’s later sonatas simplify to a significant degree.
He had to keep up. Or
it was simply beautiful.

A breach of manners can be a sentence. Or a fragment. There is urgency in ideas.

I live in an echo of a country.


In the interim we reached an agreement.
Sex would be redubbed genetic sleep deprivation.

I’ll admit this view is crazy as a soft thick quilt the sun

marshals over the property.


I should break my leasehold, ergo. Not really,

she said out loud, ahead of how I was supposed to know.


This was the first time.




Noh:

Abstraction 1st, last, untold on both sides, grisly

Under-rendering as future photo realism

W/ a more learned tool up your sleeve —

Please find a way to display that.


Ya — you have passed the 2nd-cousin

Stage of wretchedness. Good replicant,

Good to double & triple, taking up any 3rd dimensional theory

To sever 1 head from the vines.



Further out all descriptors pine

Peeling away like spiders’ pants,

All legs, descending into moaning

Nonentities (the Ralph Vaughn



Williamses), still squinting tho not

W/in literal representation.

There’s a container for every passion.

Keep secrets of teleportation to float free.
Free momentarily. Here are volatility models from TV, vocalism in a sense. We’re beaming them up with known and hidden risks — fat chance shifting their weight brings in an even slimmer recovery.

All or nothing, counselor.

Conditions look rigged — like wanting you (I do),

not out of calculation, it began how far vast

connivance liberates one to oppose the square facts. 


Or plans change. Like pandering taking a guess, I might

replace similes and dash off with my loose footing

on the oily tarp, perplexed, taking it outside

Rubiks of a denatured octagonal gloom.



Like to outtake one is ample. These Rubiks are

sweet, their force takes one out of bounds.


Pond air playing Schubert for a bouclé, seared,

puffy, relaxing and succinct. One like Zukerberg.

How can we be considered modern w/ Trumps around?




Baby pickerel eat one another speaking

Pickerelish. Parents want to defend their young

but can’t. (Picture them, peach cones & rods of violet.

There’s salience to nodding agreement thought-

fully.) I get all my ideas from media

studies, yet geometric brainstorming

like this is easier-to-sleep-w/-&-pulsate

-to. Instincts tho are buried under cement,
sunk talking to each other, eh?
Hard to get out of the wrinkled valise —
(I removed the tongue)

Obfuscate more, the glue is drying to dry.
‘Polls’ down.

No truth merges presidentially / you well know
Bad news just walks in —

It’s ok. Just punishment

for obfuscating conscientiously, touching dual roles in the male human algorithmic — desultory of us to ‘read’ and re’read’ brutality extending to your one body always for the first time beneath infinite ceilings.

On mortality,

I’m a big baby. That’s b for clarified as black-and gold pelage, married and vulnerable, exploring reiterations of my own duality.

I’m alive feeling the swansdown of DNA. Soon I’ll be comically dead — that’s married to a duplicate database — sinking into forest behavior, giving up swans, fish, emotionally shot ..

devoted to seamless disproportionality.

Justice w/ passion. Sonnets of seltzer

foaming mercury selenide... I told you this’s a bad idea.

I keep going, barefoot & outdoors

the tuba bits are detouring into surf & compact surfaces


— praise & the opposite grow acrostic, rife

after double takes. Bad idea? I grab my pen & clamber over to

your jet gate where you’re holding sound-

tracks w/ pulleys over notes of civet & benzoin.



My fly is open. I feel overextended & I forget big words,

under whose thumb might this be? This quiet nook

is a stretch of dark matter — the glove-as-puppet’s a trap

while phys ed shifts one martial art at a time



into a sea change. Right, physical affairs are supported by that look,

heated, promoting sea plankton. Bookmarks aren’t supported.

I drive a Steinbeck but dream of a Camus.

En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse within; pushing deeply, our lot’s in a hurry.
Can we cut to the scary part?

No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there is no threshold. Matter persists, no dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual, sparkled amid meanderings that are ordered appearances going dormant or running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in unboundedness, optics unravelled in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.

Turns out optimism will be maintained (a) to keep everything open for reform; (b) to understand we are beginning the work and, as a species confronting infinity, we will always be beginning.

I’d be lying if I said you and I didn’t have adolescent fantasies.

Tossing murk thick as water balloons over the typing pool..

For you, learning about how to learn is important — skills you need when you walk away from sportswriting. Yes, fan, you typist-inside.
You’re a follower, waking in hazy brightness and .. sorry for blunt geometric scrims..
Wait — in the space of a game day a follower can be transformed! views down hallways into stairs cut apart and fronted with music of your choosing and making.

One apiece.

Changed my mind.. Nobody can help us shorten this learning curve.
You’re always not talking. I get your point (noncommittal without the tedium of argument).
So I turn blue when I heat up. I blast up by myself when you leave. And when you come back I produce a mental readout of how long it takes you to set the temperature, lighting and so on.

I can’t snicker, I’m elegant and round with a mirror finish.

I go back to when no Murphy bed was chic. Tempus fugit.
Take an interest in opulence & stratagems bequeathing us

sherbet, oomphy comforts & massive inflows of feel- 


ing great! The brands are awesome taken to far corners

calculated longrange in urban planning above

a new bowling facility, now vacant, scattered forever.

It was nice meeting your ideas. I was reminded, poetry is science fiction or it is not. I just try for simultaneity.



Often a partner in writing can be deliberately passive-aggressive. I’m kidding. By oneself, practice makes perfect.



In this one my partner is disguised as an ashtray to spy on others. There one goes —



stomping across peerless thistles. That is,



moonlight is made of lard. It’s indispensable smearing a glow



that travels down to Earth in a flummoxed packet of energy, wearing maroon cords.

Mere research reports what’s on the mind.
Why not reflect it in the text?
One lie cannot be replaced by another
It contains without complete license.

Criticism “must take a wider horizon of use.” But my notes are lost, colonized with off-rhymes; the lexicon wears rhetorical “skirts.”



Oscar de la Renta lies in turmoil. His bed is the new office with murals of white doves evanescing.
His critique has no name. It’s all about listening.

The text is self-conscious in our time, better to stay in charge. A common outcome, however, a text’s consequences are fore-grounded in a poet’s identity and her prior intents, conflated with those of the audience, exploited media, ‘branding’ reputation, and so forth. It’s all to the good, superficially, temporally, and that’s certainly a problem when one’s success precedes the poem.
You can’t leave it there. A critical first question for any text, can we start over.

In the age of cliché or a minute from cliché

Men and women are spangled genetic machines. 


I know that. 


Taking chances put us in this lissome interpretive state (birth). Function varies widely.

And since it’s started, every utterance is for sale. I’m intensely delighted, taut-
Relaxed, I’m exposed, unspooled. So this is not a test.
I started at the top, your left knee was just there, illicitly,
Then a left-right in a series

W/ only a few elements to form bands to reality.
I could see up to the clavicle. The marines and police

Were wild one lane over, so I was arrested.
I keep asking, how can I sleep better and not get caught.

I am a non attorney spokesperson.


And I should know. Something is pouring out, dazzling the viral dashboard, moving forward filling imaginations emptied on the table. They were bound to organize. And you were thinking about a fetish against full transparency. Oh, sorry.. for.
An interim for you.

A murmuring hen struck by lightning emits a ballet of dust (of and in), a hint there is a small commotion in what’s the matter, one who was loved.

I flash to the new place. And I’ve never been more unnerved by this silent chamber piece somberly floating in fun stuff, now audible signs of history, of intention, preparing us for a fixed melody with renewed power.

Unless there is nowhere else.

Silent buzzwords in the newsletter bring up null tinctures or rain or sunshine tints, much as a will to influence is the flip side of being fleeced. Not hearing from you fosters coercion of what evolutionary good was before it ran through some options.

To classify is to achieve: Aiming faster at deficiency of thought, of ideas. All the same, this is the 2nd point.
Adorno says plain speech is fair game starting over (in the middle) but its predicate
will not count. (It’s always been ur-technical.)
Surely there’s no rebounding beneath the social parasail of poetics sequestration.
At Writers House rules commit us — not even the afterlife can stop.

This emphasis belongs in the verbatim over

-supply. That is, which lexicon will be appointed most enabling. Ellipses
point the way out & will continue — how we express and re-express ideas, simple or not.

Big, multiple ideas are broken down or/and up..

constituent, subordinated data emerge, important as big data, simple and not.

Simpler the better. Poor poetry yes, scansion none the less.





Simple and poor, that’s a traffic violation. Enjoined,

the unclassified face 10-to-life...
leaving it to other investors who might stay offended, or

not — the next step in the training.

So I put my name in. Am I fit for the scenario? The next one. Are you and I? I ran out of balls rating you. I found so much of what you say emancipating, but our data are adulterated. You’re driving me nuts.

I have a sentence for everything. This is a transition.

There are subtitles, various languages. You dream while staying awake and translate the exposed back of another dreaming.
Nothing accrues but there’s a lifetime of waking thoughts.
Sleeping has nothing to do with nothing.

Taking a swing, you’re the matter at hand within isomorphic rotations from greens perpetual to earth, each green shorn against others at wicked speeds reflecting the drive home as it is, advancing on convenience stops and arbitrary spots we don’t care about.

Oh my gosh — I just remembered we can fly.

Well, these pieces are mostly literal, based on trying to sit down [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re matter.”

The air of inevitability around advancing, codes shattered. Shattered seems inauthentic in a first mustache sense. I am more than sex. You’re holding me, the middle of the throat..
Taking a swing I kiss the air. This.
And taking a swing, it’s not clear we’ll absorb even particles of our thinking until my spinal column heats up, thinking of you.

You can exit the room at any point, burning, or add features to nodes, as in rote ed like foundational philosophy.

A new problem set:
Work through naïve discourse —

Keep methods observable as mayhem —
Call this ‘transactional’ taking action
Unlocking — on sight — your feeling from the start, the only unmoving part.

Make it personal and dorky. Straighten your head more.

Insert here a bonus and exchange — what do you know! —
The tongue is radiant, cleaning your space up to your neck,

a phenomenal fact and factoid that can end in a draw sustained by you two
getting up, stretching for an hour.

Going to get married .. ..
Wedding architecture is the trend.
A blood moon.

Some glass of some blanco, a symptom of nastiness
— nothing to do with what give shivers.

Exes look truly gifted that way.
A lot misunderstand to dote on.

Even better, we’ll celebrate who’s changed and not changed.
That said, it’s a colorful gathering.

It’s not likely anything unsaid simplifies what
Need saying, those we cannot recall. Toast.

Who is that high def doily legs in an itinerant color of childish poetry?
I’m expecting something. I’ve been expecting you. How much more if something happened?

A beautiful writer, stunning, front and center. When
distracted, she heard “Continue − to enter the contest area − Continue.”

Not going to lie to you, I watched both of us — affecting a radius, destabilizing ‘oppositional’ temperament. On our side, all going well, considering;

                            to consider is great work, cuts straight through any restructure, throwing out hyper-nonliteral churning depth w/ gutsy abandon.
The budget cuts (last line) are background to double-rhymed soundtracks. Entire sectors feel it’s the end of capital, epic sums expended in slender career arcs. The walkway and instrumentation

are redone for full combat. Let’s clink Solo cups, wondering about free bits of a lifetime, what could be. Feminists are on genome probation,

according to decision theory now. / Only for you

I failed to clarify after a life of glamor there’s a cheap breakfast before billiards.

*
The 10 impulses do not exist
So that the singular are correct appears

A flaw 2 syntactical secessionists —

No separation, we were on our feet. Stepped on toes. This
Could keep up as long as 1 cared 2 bring a monster like Trump 2 headstrong, crocodile tears.

That’s what 1 impulse looks like or sounds like, not is.

New York in a sonnet
and more a calculus gone dizzy good dizzy —

Sunnyside-Briarwood fever gets noticed,
the weak make way for A teams who persevere,
crushing Jersey Hills and Paramus, sure
jostling clotheslines.


Growls from Democrats over primogeniture,
an old phone chair at a neighbor’s seems flatter w/ bird gourmets.

Jersey itself is still cursing / sick
in opposition, in maddened tenses — Yogi’s correct, they’re hermits, lucky
to be rubbernecking with Berra’s descendants of insurmountable achievement.

(Close: lines
of Malthusian housetops bob and flicker under phosphoric conditioning,
alliteration by Fenwick.)

It’s a simple killing.

Liberal arts in God’s country. I don’t know why it’s not more adorable.
After the master spoke we broke out a snack and read country sheet music..

In no time we went biking and put equations under discussion. Then we had cupcakes.

No neutral,
no surveillance, like critical theory we cover numbers and costs.

So, Lexus of Memphis says you’re a baby.

*

That’s a script. The current task is to be forgotten.

*

How’s it going?

Many of us use criticism as a blues exercise
for putting up a wall of calm pillow talk.. impressionnant —

Your breathing is still liberal, capacious, breathtaking...

There’s a beginning and there’s an end, don’t fix it.