A petting zoo cannot stand for practice?

As a curator of sorts, I have to ask. A lot.

Your space calls for more.
Defy self interest.
It’s alpine in one direction,
but metabolism takes off, along
with clumsy fearless tempos,
a framework for rants surrounded by cool ceramic
wallboard, figures.. conserve or not?

See this pigeon? A true albino. Incandescent.
The lot have been splayed, getting warm.

Warmer, said the baron.
Not well done yet a total expression (..)
It takes your whole body to exchange hands
Now with anyone who questions now —
If tendentious lyric is science fiction tomorrow,
Thank counterintelligence.

Part 2.

My facts are not incompatible with yours. There is no absolute diva in me. Just power events, long held within stewardship & productivity emoji pluralizing visuals, prosaic at base, atheoreticals broken down into ‘facts’ — broken, brief punches of looking great on the phone!

If you swallow your ego luxury is great. I say no
with my eyes shut.
No meditation spanning the surface of the woods, no
massage. No smell of wood. So there’s nothing to resent.

How does it resume?

Solved the resplendent spelling, but not remorse.
Now it’s a year later with zero emanated,
good news tho.

Typo, I’m late; it’s fitting, weeping inside before you go away.

Not at rest, circumspect. (I’m just beginning...)
Well, most every worry or mistake is literal, based on trying to rewrite
Hellish varieties of you getting fingerprinted in eight
Perspectives, the xviiith century Italian drawing..
One boomerang day after another. Every day
...not that we copyrighted the typo idea
— it’s you over there we can’t reformulate
& I’m going to make up for real —
Important I remember your aroma, surnamed olive della
luminari

...this late into the authenticity pat-down I’m after just one more thing.

Mainly specific
pieces of pieces —
Most space is dull in impact. Often this is how the latter day sing
as we come to our senses

with an hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity.
We’re pushing in genetic material prompted by the assembly.

Student conviction was a sorry concentrate — Vincent Price, that name again.
Until we went broke we were indebted.

There’s an international side to unbuttoned, squeegeed pain —
That guy was the first to get a grip and hold on. He was witless after a while, undead.

Patriarchy expands fraternal allegiance.

You’re both bat high over the sempiternal. Well, I really enjoyed it. 9 out of 10, then some.
What do you look like now? It’s ok to ask?
Snaps of sharpened anomalies.

An etude like celebrity.

Ancestors understood by these scarves we housesit,
decor patched in resistance, creating busy, making-chaos “work”
enacting a more cautionary life, absent trifles and your intuitive psychiatry.

Understanding what’s perfect we fear imperatives.
It’s remarkably ambitious, like when water lilies kick off their work boots and women rule. Snipers crouch. The idea of Burberry’s.

The play was mostly about ticket holders with initiative winning the status quo at the beginning..

After the show folded we were never serious. Toys were another good idea until they broke. We weren’t the first to do what we like & hold on, so it would take the future to adjust to the beginning.
That’s a rough outline.

I’ll do what I can in cavalier terms, slim voids. Almost the same as great! yet stiff front jokes
turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me for almost everything but paranoia’s belated audition, ‘different strokes’
trapping you in the fens if you let go while yielding authority.

Then a high school kid said I

Hey the marsh
was
god’s idea placed in a mini series.

Stage one.

As an alien in 4 dimensions the robot is done with it. This
Has nothing to do with a human colorist’s or bug’s notions —
In capacious preview of 3-D transference
Animating hedgerows praxis of fair use.

Preaching to tenors is an art
practiced by Art Farmer.

Or you can stand by and have what you are looking for appear
as an entire practice.

There are no stages.

Occasionally there’s sleep, given immunity. It’s horrid erotics, but in one pathetic conceit I could count Dakota Wizards on all my fingers... Your hand got in its say, eliminated that fuss locked inside. You took my hand the most. Took it to heart.

Hey, burn rates of

my job are moving the sounding-it-out tools!

Owning up I make up breaking stories.
I’m at a fake graduation.

And here’s an apple
for the teacher’s redness. (He caught my addiction.)
It was a straightforward proposal covered by emotional reform.

I used to feel locked outside your “overcoat,” the tartan one in six colors I thought was an upgrade.

If your intention is to bring the feel of that out, including the tan background over an off-white,

I could use speckletone, the ‘starch white.’

Keep in mind a glowing color for a cover will darken inks.

Either 50, 60 or 55# high-bulk Glatfelter Natural in punk cream / ivory.

For your next reading...

You sign up with realists. You start outside, wandering the complex tho you’ve been asked to stay inside with folks assembled.
Using the audience is offensive.
You pass over weak words and ask for a 2nd date with an audience member. Loggerheads avoided with the grit of understatement.

What do you say? Bon balance, hey my.

You grow accustomed, so to speak, no name is escalated until the focus is lost.

The Japanese are fascinated by pottery.

Any dark ceramic with asymmetrical tenets is tacit
but could be looking up at a light source, feeling talkative..
maintaining maximum restraint
to engage another psyche.

It’s such nice work, a jug
with its schema proliferating on the table
holding acts of kindness, tragic themes,
lowering of incitements; or was it empty?

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



It’s just synecdoche / she’s
sulking inside these rooms
with the hygienic view forward.
The small of her back sends me packing.

We have to thank multiple histories for suspending our arms and keeping profane circumstance from pushing into the room. We’re only two digits within the mumblers’ countdown evolving our meanings to proceed either way in an iconic breach, rehearsing.

Should I reconcile the semiology?

There were deleted utterances filling balloons
with conceptual inter-operabilty —
the enormity of it was hooded — a dirge of a term
that cannot be considered in terms
of checking cost averages
since the intellect seeks damages
going to a concert or even sooner.

Writing in the future, when it comes to compatible suburban topics,
Hand-me-down colors seem jerry-rigged.
We voted for change.
There were only 2 epochs begging for genius retouches.
High Tang & one other we put aside — too-serious regard for imperfect categories
Works backward. We can’t go back. Like overmodeling

The sine functions want to be involved; they clanked in the scenery we borrowed
Still rising from parterres & topiary snapped in place.
Our place.

Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam
Accounting disappears like factions of perplexity, contextual effects (procedures) —



You take the wheel, officer. I’ll hand it to you, there’s product on the loose
replicating our special drive and access to necromancy. Not a problem.
Further out descriptors peel off like spiders
descending into moaning nonentities (the Ralph Vaughn Williamses).

Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to more schemes
more fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Travel well.

I’m imprisoned to reach market
(more below…).
Otherwise, normal project staff on the roof, smug in outfits and at the top of their game, which seems synchronized, perforated by action-hulk tones.

Freedom is personal.

Poem for the uncooked.

At the art colony
you blew them away. Somewhere.

What’s a sociopath
traveling in small groups or schools?
Teaching can’t be taught.
I agree.
To be reviewed is to be published.
I keep loving you under wraps.

Lament:
Venomless? No.

I’m brusque. The new job title is urgent, according to the edge of your purple toe.. Truths ahead of lies via homiletics while I’m underhanded getting back to a pure axiom or quality we can manipulate;

no amnesty? A ship is on the way

or / & like crustaceans we give in, to forgetfulness for now.

Blinds drawn, our preachy, scavenged opacity fills with the sang-froid riches of dark matter, soaking the globe with its bible pedigree.

Before that yoga is fantastic, a civilizing coterie added to eternal space & entered into with a worldview without speaking of the pure land achieving access to felt qualities.

I’m the skinny kid in slapstick, except
it wasn’t slapstick it was acrylic spray.

The whole chain is charged on the menu, food, erotic to pathetic.
To recap, I don’t think the life of the mind can think for itself or be made up. I’m not worried it gets easier.

The garage is a statement. It’s such urban pain.
It appears we’re operating in sludge bubbles.

If that’s it for now, we’ll switch to canonical devotion

obtained in badinage with no consequences,

in effect hypothetical

as fronds drop their tendrils, unstopping scents..

Meanwhile.

Do you like spiral staircases?

Skepticism is blacklisted by sharpened anomalies.

There is nothing left of an emergent zone for a prosthetic artifact like lack of despair.
Nothing.. even huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy in immaculate fictive symbols.

You can’t predict what you are going to do, and there aren’t enough exaggerations going around to encapsulate your suspicions.

Reading Delmore Schwartz repeatedly gives me head.

Worth repeating.

Poetry scenes converge on Chambers Street Station. (The Metro Transit Authority had assigned Chambers to poets. Can’t say why, except it’s a short sprint to so much.) Hey, it’s crowded with groups, subgroups, trios, singletons. More of everyone. There was a spot, once, where a couple of poets could hold forth, shout out their conceptualisms. But now, thanks to piled-up agendas, everyone’s here and shouting out, almost at once. Only a handful of still-discernable groups/subgroups are taking time to listen (to each other). These shouted messages go everywhere, up into the ceiling and up the stairwells. I wonder what the affect is at street level and on the roads out of town?

Down here we let this happen.

Gimme a tummy poke, Satan.

More than one. On the third one you really have us, all over us.

You didn’t have to what the hell? We told you we agreed a little, not a lot. (I forget now what you sound like.) It’s unlikely there’s more realty in the future and of course less. And some things you need to repeat there. In hell.
Or is it a geyser in a box? our infant sleep inside the womb / is prelude / a nano habitat exploding with party frogs! One question, what do we do with the property? If the milieu is attractive while our parents are on fire, do we take their place?

ii.

It’s like this, I retract my falsehoods. & within & for the same sutra
I condemn & mourn meritocracy. For / & all men
are servants (Buddha, JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geo-metry
to inspect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland
for nothing.)
It’s nice finally to put a face to the humiliating nickname.

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’m not adding bespoke grammar to discontinuous anguish.


Lastly, I’m worshiping
a whole number while the full loom of higher gasses
blows town along with swervy seed pods since 100%
are regular programming that can be used
again until they’re replaced.

How I think of you.

[Pause.]

I’m noticing a whisper; the weather connects time with my ideas — my time with ideas, rather.

Jack Spicer in heaven —

I’m bad at knowing when justice along
with passion is vital, not recreational.
Softly speaking of a next step in the training
over no ideas, I’m addicted to your faith and momentum,

nothing else drives us into the surf.
Burning talent, lonely or not, dumb

emphasis is official,10 to the 10th more hombres.
The firebox is a glow.

Does it pencil out?

Good point. I may have torn up the text (though torn only from my mind — you backstroke, swim and still float around in my semen.)

Or stains, residue, whatever’s spat on the wall, again, about to be torn down. Or torn up? In fact the loft across the way has already been stripped of its facing for the sixth time! Reno = archeology of what is preclusion within experience! Sounds philosophical.
What is first cause?

Neural bible studies were all in the mind.

We’ve now passed the second-cousin stage of wretchedness. You’re good to take it up with family authorities before severing the vines
tho atheism, once-removed, would be one extra reason for doubling research
on advancing shadows and fleets of buoyant stars.

In version one I came for the invoices.

Ever notice? No one lives in that town.

Half-vegetarian, self-colliding fog drinks only from the discounted, treasured demographics for energy.
We cannot mean erasure, remember.
Our nerve infused regulatory propriety until we found paradox.

Name a landscape and give birth, rename it and you bestow an ecology of resonance and history.

Surely we’ve heard enough.

This is strictly the governor’s business.

The music took off about here, 1st looked feminine along the quays with carvings
For view before the repast, thinning out in the high brutalism of dining (Otto Dix). A violinist, hesitant
but looking better, starts the red engines mid-grin.

Evasion foregrounds minimalist motives. Persued abruptly per the Chronicles of..
Earnest Ladytron deeply inside our emotions. Don’t read more.
We or most of us have an attorney, after all. But this looks stupid

To vocalize what’s sunk in, I can’t worry or pierce my ears further.

No pleasure from coercion, not where I was at.

The show was called; the rain spat.

(I'm sorry it was really hard for you back then.)
Yes. And my voice tended towards stridency, an unfortunate strain.
*

Spat or pleasure? Actually, I won’t prefer either for now

Pleasure opens into darkness —

This was a bad stage for us developmentally, love and convention
notwithstanding.

Cornell College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy.
That a phone or tv?
Ice-encased streetlights hummed and flickered. The skiing consumed us,
leading to our divorce in writing.

Slinging their guitars around, Nakajima and Kudou are knocked
unconscious.

We could stick it out waiting for them to wake or shut it off.

Today is demo day.

I used to believe all the grossular and pine boxes keeping us apart could open to our former life, a win-loss with comic, breezy quartets foot-lighted with bouquet — Superangels with their instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge.

Before demo, there used to be a flare for what noses can do, a full deck of going for the stretch and preen as in a premonition, the one about our hands taped together then that blind patch — de-biased out of sample — imparting how our logic dialogs with others, inflating three dimensions into a formless clot of humming mist.
In the din nihilism shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing.
That door leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.

Relax and beware. Certain branches of law aim straight at us.

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

“To let yourself whisper through fracas takes a kind of aplomb, an achievement needing practice and a vantage with overview. Among classes of poets are waifs and strays, but a few lucky ones are outright orphaned to an alien ethnicity, completely busted, out of place, in the wrong skin. (Welcome, rookies!)

Yet each with her own comedic intersection untangles the snarls of her alien presence. If aliens nearly die for the gravy, they'll show you the wounds, text imitating proverbial fur.”

Non-linear process (née progress), implicit co-branding of public domain utterance, hysterical strings (upon strings) of shock, plain narrative downgraded to parish bulletins, text-snatching and re-assembly lead on. In “Was That a Real Poem or Did You Just Make It Up Yourself?” Robert Creeley observes, “As a poet, at this moment [1974]...I am angered, contemptuous, impatient, and possibly even cynical concerning the situation of our lives in this ‘national’ place. Language has, publicly, become such an instrument of coercion, persuasion, and deceit.” Sure — though keep in mind that that, along with this very sentence, is a set of ad hoc thematic pointers.

In the process something like an orange cloud enters the locker room of the essay. This is the middle section where Jorge Borges is transported to the essay’s ‘character’ to do the interfacing with theme propositions in your own words. Form as script.

Gustave Flaubert did not have a script, much less digital media, and the word 'hysteria' does not occur in the text of Madame Bovary. For his time, how informed he seems about future appropriations by psychopathology. MB is a viral cloud in our terms. By now every sentence can be re-assembled into a poem, I think this will be found out.

It’s a Darwinian fact eye contact is transactional yet this is how contingency extends tiny sums of alterations within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.
Crosshatches over word clumps structure as a figure of speech one’s absence reduced into ecru pellets, small change. Mere distractions like the steepest bridge closing, keynoting a breathless contingency — one that’s riveting our self-interrogation to a breakpoint where we can share high fives and broker a plan!

During the break we reached an agreement.
The sun feels being there is enough, organizing
the community, the building loves it over walls,
the windows and square vines thickening into tree limbs..
T,he building looks out of ideas that are also twists as well as sentences
since a common urgency repairs the sun at night. Where are we

while little sentences crop up in thickets?
How can rope harness keep climbing
vines’ secret about a rare canopy? Spending dawn
often against the order I keep in my head?

Yeah, blandness is a problem. No luck too popular. Understanding what’s perfect we fear exclusion slathered with near-imperatives, too mediocre to reformulate.

The last emperor had sex with multiple staffers.

He had one of the most advanced distribution systems.

Some of his staff were crazy for the bigger paradigm of what was to come.
An aperture opened up and a lovable perspective was achieved but lost. He disappeared, and he had children and they disappeared.

A note to elf:

Until you tuned off you were monarch of what we hold.

Justice, liberty, rule of law...
Also, as king it was easy for you, suddenly, to have fitter students of love’s assassination, to soften footage of dropped names down your throat.. swallowing them.

Meteorology fills with these test results like tendrils we use later on blind dates and..

This is not a test. Your every utterance is for sale as the collaborative impulse passes from desolating satire to a continuing turning down called your executive control.

There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.
Or a burst of improv substitutes for info.

Losing track, I hold onto your voice to approximate the closest parity.

The truth is a manifold vacuum. And we’re feathery.



Blatant abstractions like these comprise unforgettable elements to our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off for totems unknown, spinning or spun, quiet — out of control.

And that’s how we fasten ourselves to hold onto more.

100% our touch.

Having only a sec, you never know there’s an animal that needs you

And I should know.

Someday the male coloration returns as a feminine force with tinctures or inaudible signs from a long history of decision making, preparing us for more retrospective behavior, more implicative speech and extra sensory anger.

It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and

Time’s up.

Going back thru files, I was thinking about television, its readymade theatrics, over drama, language as backdrop to quick movement, fast answers, simply put all the better. Donald Trump applied disruptive formulae to prove, on an overwhelming, tribal scale, how many suckers are born a minute.

I was going thru my files, thinking these bad ideas. I found a piece of mine that changed my thinking to Alice Notley’s close reading of late work by Frank O’Hara — as well as her recounting a time in history (like 2017) when a readymade theatrical answer to feeling overwhelmed is to stop thinking:

from 2005-6: I’m instructed by Alice Notley this morning, writing about O’Hara in the first essay of Coming After, re-alerting us to the import of his last poems, which I still resist, and whose voice is “anonymous and communal (in the bad sense) in its exploitation of verbal mediocrity.” Notley sees O’Hara influenced by the “deadly flat diction” (the first generation of such pervasiveness) of television, thus influences of the heinous sort, offering up “warnings.” Also in the first essay, on an earlier poem of O’Hara’s, Notley avers, “the Buddha fucking well ought to think at this point in history,” a rousing supposition on her part about what O’Hara meant by ending “Image of the Buddha Preaching” this way: “...hopeful of a new delay in terror / I don’t think” — timely of O’Hara and Notley.

Monotone is no longer cool. Cool isn’t cool.
Got it, I’m stiff but I feel what I think.
Words are our feel-
Ers. The river purrs, purls — not its sound
But ours, so I read this
By me and not me, us.

Ireland has 8 first languages,
Scotland 9,
Jamaica 6 bloods and many platelets.
Where do you speak?

Lao Tsu (Lao Zi): The flower’s name is hooded, part doodle & part we’re
not sure his swag is clean.

We’re in the hallway leading to the stairs cut in two, fronted with don’t-know
plaques, waking in hazy brightness with no clue how we got there.

Some of it collapses, not to be fair. A different morality, a drought.


Get used to it or go home to switch landmass.
To set up a phrase targeting the other guy is to hit the complement of blunt
geometric forms. And it’s clear whose side you’re on.

So it’s about a few seconds ago,
the cloud of clouds that should lend

a formlet of propositions, like a handshake painting or prayer warriors
& their contagious stink for months in geologic time.

If he can or if he wants,
what you said is partner of it. And how his confusion is proof to diffuse.

Micah has time on his hands, having recently earned his associate’s; Katie still crams to get hers, and her unease about study is one pretext for the ample albeit unfocused Angst built into the relationship even before Demon shows up. Demon is the third rail, a whiff of a character, though, because it never shows body self (as we wish it would, in skeletal, buff, college-age form).

Meanwhile.

Do you like spiral staircases?

Skepticism is blacklisted by sharpened anomalies.

There is nothing left of an emergent zone to find a prosthetic artifact like lack of despair.
Nothing but huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy in one immaculate fictive symbol.

You can’t predict what you are going to do, and there aren’t enough exaggerations to go around to encapsulate your suspicions.

Reading Delmore Schwartz repeatedly gives me head.

Worth repeating.

I wrote the program to create the illusion I'm ready to talk.
I'm good here. I love
you mind if I smoke. I just wanted to tell you.

There will always be a poem

I will climb on top of it and come

In and out of time,

Cocking my head to the side slightly,

As I finish shaking, melting then

Into its body...



— Jim Carroll

There’s a civilizing process to the pure
being dull, entered into by spotting it, picking it up first. It’s

a clear refinement where character offers libation,
supports you roundly underneath. You can go right in.


They have an open table. Open invite. Open discussion. Everything’s a wooldrying thirst.
Let’s talk it over —

Nature’s mirror engages in transparent secrecy,
there’s the dull, pure idea to play again, a hero’s round

— go on, if non-embowered
leaving a little for the next step

as interforce rondure.

Like no premium withholding options, we Americans can relax, go cloud up other ideas!

Anyone is good in bed. Gives full value. Part of a part. (But) I’m getting ahead.

I’m a sometimes fiend. I often play with a numbers guy who is also in marketing, “Pigeon fathers pattern heaven where detachment is trimmed.” Swimming there uproots the bright series, our movement brocaded then stiffened into sympathetic parody, staving a muleta before matched kinfolk.

Where are we un, um? If that’s everything, we’ll switch to administrative cadence.

We said nothing about your father sitting meditation,

Boosting cognition as if in a playlet w/ bellwethers & fey bloodhounds —
We did one in complete metonymy. Everything bristled.

Symbolism weighs in
As a shortcut: Some future of the past is thinking & writing as if.

Look it up, xenomorph, your heart reading was beautiful, well pronounced.
That’s what we said to snap into dealing ..

Also, there is far too elaborate a taxonomy of overheated exercise.

.. eyes-open, tell me. Knower and known are clean osmosis in reverse!
It’s clearer every day we’re in it for

blood work. The last children were in vain and embarrassing. The bus door was gone.
You could look right in. Suffering, complaining, two out of two observers cut off.
Their surnames randomly conjoined.

You see our new brands have legendary roots, rinsed of terror.
There’s field after field training listeners for Schubert,
youthful lecturers, saboteurs, rescuers of the heart...

Fall back and breathe while we get authenticated.
That’s when brush fire shows up, celebrity temps in love.

Breathe, kick, push kick, five ..

The theme park is smoking hot. Our mood passes from desolating satire to marsh-puissance,

returning more as the town square variety of liberty and rule of law (liberty with caution) ...

The ideal Cupid fell out of place in a man’s body


but staying in the picture. Voice changes and all.

First, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — I don’t care.
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you what we’re doing.
There’s a piece of karate, top notes we erase,
there’s turbulence.. something else active, piquant. Your
push reaches a point where time management is unleashed.
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting a brow;
I’m happiest when stairwells mesh to go nowhere, our bodies gesturing,
with diagrams.


We’re going to finish them. Turn here.

We sometimes spot a need for fresh lexicon in the mind-body problem, words to determine their own behavior, primality and cuboidal glints of jazz headed this way.

The club owner doubts his own wordiness but addresses this softly as where we are with this.
The workout once was of a soul, cucumber in tone if I were asked.
So why does it get processed in a motel thru history?
Maybe I’m a hotelier blabbing about too much wealth I have coming.

Now is not a good time, always.

I think the name was the pelican. It’s inconsonant. I..


One so-called lode is a glossary. Interesting definitions for
switching impetus (rapidities of prosperity). Why is a fun face at rest?

It can be a growing explosion takes up time — an image, not the facticity, of while

X deals in opinions on redeeming enterprises and, that’s if I’ll

.. wear her original eyewear
through the filtered waters.

For my patronage you have syzygy, your face standing there ‘on’ the phone, ‘dialing’ a
number. Or, a sneeze to diffuse your feeling me up. So what you texted is the heart of what lasts.

And X is nourished, thanks to word of the Redwings.

There’s a lack of linnets and authentic wax.

And something came up.
Initial elements bled into messing up my mouth;

cherished ideals I thought I stored overseas came back anyway,
a screw-up very much unlike enlightened comity. Or the occasional warrant

for no sleep, no solutions unless
as we see a dart has feathers it flies.

My leaving you is a double what, what into which I am thrown off-center
about what I’ll never get to know — real limits to affirm retractions,

winding into more reliance on hard work, pleasures, plans,
and this most generalized, I suppose, being turned back, turning myself, watching the wax dim.

We’ve forgotten how to make things. It began with the airlines. Their only product is service that dissolves midair. General practitioners stepped up but their work got converted to money transferal with little or no honor system.

A product injector is the thing that looks most appalling now.



Products and connections we lose in reality are scarifying. Partnerships were constructs, first a little chilly, sometimes febrilly culled. When we struck our alliance back at the start, I thought, friend or foe? It’s no way to begin although our ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspiration became footloose and empirically uncontestable as Seven Bagatelles.

I flubbed a sacrifice to cover my ass, appearing tough.

Swimmer, environment:
The lap pool is cloven ice, so stay in touch
& stay at the deep end & bend rules for use-equity,
rob the reputable for boundless foreign heat, wait until the trees color.
Swimmer:
My models are you & everything I can live by w/out being
sequestered or brutally charged by mental objects, so these shortcomings
balloon in harmony around some parts w/ use & the sky as part of parts.

Blinded by your unfounded feelings I’m taking you out. Okay?
Now my areas are underwriting tone poems about shrubs & underestimating powers of tyranny. To qualify what happens & delay what I am about take on a more personal note, maintaining a liberal, even an apolitical esthetic

Then I blow it by teaching you raw..

I’m a bonfire of agon in relation to whom I adopt.

Sorry, I have no other associations I can share. I was held up by tyranny headquarters. Don’t know why, and I am therein a holy person.

A holy person in the new middle ages of automatic summation of now or a minute from now after the credits. I usually fall asleep before the plane takes off.

Moreover, I am holy an entire winter-spring. It’s better when I wake up I’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun is great. I started at the top, the left knee was just there when it was there — it took a variant position in a series with only a few elements incised to form solid bands connected to spiritual reality. (Wha..!) I could see up to the valley. Police went wild one lane over, so I was arrested while asking myself, how can I sleep better and not get caught.

I understand profuse clouds. We’re disassociated.

How is a partner shiny then fallen with grey streaks?

Huh? Is it the fire? Up in ideal sparks’ glow

the moon made indispensable for smearing light

that travels down in a tiered border-like scrawl.

At night, passing of MM.

First, to survive as a star, to incubate & spawn offspring, while we’ll concede no center evolves as the plausible center of modernism, I think MM found herself, thru various devices, in the center of all that & other isms — we’d say, the center of tangled ventriloquism composing..
This, you can see, picks up points from others. It’s hard to tack a center onto perception. One idea would reject the center as MM quit films, since no center & the center influence the entire industry. Both engage in what we make up as industry sources. Nothing in between. Nothing to hold so to speak so stardom doesn’t.

Since when is / are government
The cliffside?

If I had the foreground I’d subside in attrition,
better to find and weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken more notes I’d have 8
polyptotons of “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings

we had composing our very own subjectivities
that I can’t pinpoint or supplicate.

So I’m returned to footage of what is more
and more like a suburb with a shore

in bad translation ecrus, stock blacks, pitched provisos
and integers-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none.

Adaptability in circumstances
is hardly effortless:
I add, Ellipses.

The theory,

pleasure is to ethics as Spode is to gastronomy

while across the river a recurring nightmare, film tunnels’re (wind) lifting wax paper when the water is abusive — yet all ends adaptively

nearer Duluth — you can’t handle Duluth. (RF)

The strategy is
like any landscape, wait for mistakes (1) and (2) pounce.




Woe is paralytic. I also detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of it, even when love centers on the numbed one with a body of rare happiness like popsicle blue in outer space —

all of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest to be stupid Dionysian.

Dionysian = garish brocade with puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.

Space in theory.

I’m leaving disjunction behind. To work with you (the plan) is one way to avoid subjectivity tho content is a nominal fallacy like bondage alloys. I know I don’t know, etc.

Holism doesn’t come naturally (Nickolas Christakis). Yet the parts know how to grow (Benjamin Aranda).

A Cretaceous bunny stuffed in an overnight envelope is ludicrous. It’s untidy and young. I basically had nothing to do with it. You’ve got my mind messed up. While your back-and-forth is rubbed into my hair/no-hair in all these dubious directions you’re going in until you do (pun) onslaughts in a riveting presence, O

the downed rookie on the outside, his only credits for adamance. That’s the self, yourself, fascinating, perhaps to squelch a tautology of wealth and actionable conditions that seem certain when hidden in how far you are beaten into their projections.

A text proposes it is listened and attended to. That’s putting it lightly. Publication and performance. Meta-commentary. Gossip madness. Media as fame. These are the consequences as well as subject-headers of texters’ being and death, the consequences put in the cart that composition pulls (for the team) if the text takes charge of it all and it’s in the lead. 


The text is self-conscious in post-premodern times, better to stay in charge. A common outcome, doubtless — a text’s consequences are foregrounded in a poet’s identity and her intents, conflated with audience, exploited media, reputation, so forth. It’s all to the good, superficially, temporally, a certain category of problem when one’s success precedes the poem. 



So a critical first question for poetry is, can we start over.

Johnson’s Pledge —
1. To be objective and lack will

is an ambition..
detailing method as a catamaran of process.

2. Let’s feed an appetite that picks up from nature “to express things ... as they are when one sees them without remembering having looked at them.” Then we can chew scenery, committed to formal blocking in stagecraft, maintaining our indomitable temperaments.

The minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never happened.

Guards stood tall. United in part over parcels. Now they tell you to take off your belt.
The impression received is every motion serves a purpose. A higher purpose according to those hoisted in factory breeze. Purpose in a word is a metonym for revolting devastation, collapsing under our own glare into supernumerary states of moves, most like minor readjustments in politik on an intentional scale opposite the line-up of our bodies. Every dancer stops mid-enchufla for a mote of a moment, and I feel better.

Then ballet natives yield to a rush of idols and new people center stage... all about the loot.

Something’s going on, a cognitive illusion.
We don’t trust anyone.
It’s what we do.
This may be our last chance.

Pardon, wrong parallel.
Can you hear me?
I paid for this happening again
And I’m going to speak. So 



Beyond pure violence; some of us grew up swaying

Trees — can’t change the 


Crimson scales and fiery sting a number pack and use. Or

Stemming back, a tornado on a stool comes to

— the same set of options, just a few —


I could tell on my best enemies, Lehman Bros.,
NRA while they coil and recoil all day. 


Doesn’t change anything.
Do I have the name right?

It’s a find of coincidence. I went to golf school.
That time was the end of the beginning. Drop your weapon.

*
(Someone asked me not to do this.) That’s how feeling-spooked-is-not-that-shitty stays on our so-called public face, makes a living, picking and choosing with difficulty. What other public freak out more on sight?

Credits: Several steps in this new instrumentation:
Familiar personalities come to understand then urgently back us

[I should add I am being serious.]

— Assumed voices undoing approximations, forecasting a Long Island winter to fulfill our aesthetic.
Rain or snow. One-by-one into the room.
The great room outdoors that makes self-extraction a technocracy of tongues, based on speech, what we wrote and left out.

Voices say, personalities, like voices, are lent us. It’s directional, there is no outcome we have to thank you for, no details in that this is a trailer.

Early winter and colder rain or snow draws us audiophiles —

Minus wind, tho, light rain or snow’s been widely construed as visible silence, plundering contexts with non-rhyme and asymmetry.

Rain or snow’s great undercurrents cut straight thru any restructure, roughing up more then more shadows turning over in a reserve of self-abandon.

Either or they become a visual to a soundtrack. Feels like about time.

Plots don’t belong here;
You were fucking great.

..thanks for speaking up
During an I-hate-calculus speech act.

Terry Eagleton’s formulations re text and production can be less daunting when edited to their central premises. 1) Production is the key. 2) Text is a production of ideology. 3) Text and performance – a production of a production (such as a theatrical performance of a text, his example, or critical interpretation of a text, my example) – are “analogous to the relation between grammar and speech.” 



Speech is a product, not a reproduction, of grammar; grammar is the determining structure of discourse, but the character of discourse cannot be mechanically derived from it… In studying the relations between text and performance, then, we are studying a mode of determination which is precise and rigorous, yet which cannot be accounted for in terms of a ‘reflection’ or ‘reproduction’. We are examining, in short, the conditions of a production. 



An empirical analyst accounts for the double performance of her enterprise.*



*Note: George Lakoff and Mark Johnson on the surface seem far from Terry Eagleton’s ideology-derived literary texts and productions. Eagleton looks to texts and productions as “experiential access to ideology.” Then, Lakoff and Johnson propose an ‘experientialist’ synthetic unity of reason and imagination by way of metaphor which they depict as imaginative rationality: “categories of our everyday thought are largely metaphorical entailments and inferences…[whereas] products of the poetic imagination are [also] rational.”

For me, Eagleton’s ideas of experience along with those of Lakoff and Johnson could be part of the foundation for approaching a poem empirically. Were I to discover semantic attributes to measure, I would deploy analogy and other metaphorical reasoning while concentrating on the text and on other texts and productions of specified poetic ideology. To minimize the potential of coming up with fuzzy sets for comparison, I’d need to make strong cases for each point of focus (finding “typicalities” or “family resemblances,” for example), but I would also want to explain how my experientialist critical production accesses history and ideologies across spacio-temporal domains.

Metaphor and life changing commerce, cities unknown arriving soon.

Sugar Dust (a Bernini head transplant) brings on the knowledge effect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower. I never understood insinuation. I never misunderstood it, either, a pulverizing divide teasing my attitude into admonitory tableaux sponged with his eyes. .

..it’s unlikely yet not unforeseeable.
Here I go for the tonal and unexpected
unlike skinheads who target poodle fans because of a themeless sadism prone to platitude.

You would put both of you or all three of us in a position defending bourgeois indignation, otherwise.

Prognosis: As a citizen among millennials, it’s yucky and disgusting I live this way, suddenly building a new narrator under my notarized certificate of vulnerability — Euros tumble. The sensual spy novel is amusing and telegenic for killing time, so let’s narrate that. And about that. The meta-tick-tock due now and pronto — calling in, Cupid, the greatest emcee and dues collector of the new century, clearly agrees.
Cupid fell
into olive swelter in unnamed aromas
that led his dogs to you, making clear

Even Elvis fell for
Cupid in a blouse, Cupid’s blank stare.
A blast furnace getting head.

(Finish one and they all get confused;
Fuse another way to un-tell.)

Cupid pulls the curtains to reveal a street,
yards, outside where people pass by in parts.

One doesn’t know any more
if there are good times ahead of war.

Your sister writes, waves (all of them) beat my eyes off. Don’t care, I still can see and lie just about what I believe is fact, clinging to both. Structured improvisation takes a volume of time, only it’s a civil leave now coming back to bone substance.

We’re hardly sectarian, we won’t forget a childhood beach vibrates in memories, only now a decade earlier when I (am or) was looking unkempt but in a studied, not irresponsible way, reading and taking dictation to wrap up my sleep. Like The Inferno and Nerves and every shined thing since, I’m in engineering the tide of speech desire.

There aren’t any warnings. Tensions were apparent.

Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam.

That said, the minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never happened.
I can’t tell you I don’t care, on the inside.

Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague change, like our plebiscite, better to pump out to voices’ grasp. A life with submerged artifacts accrues and feels like a party. I’m going to lose you if it kills me.

Hustling all the time, awesome! But let’s pare it down. New York, like Antwerp or Amsterdam, especially, is filled with throatiness, up in the air. And staying casual definitely has legs. The inscrutable commercial vector coursing through — there’s nothing like it, business that’s more a film in wide release, a nocturnal thin man, uninhibited as in somehow succeeding daily. Timeless like leg warmers in both Antwerp and New York, which back then was more like Antwerp now. Men unwound to be children, their affection not unexpected, hungover, yapping at the top of a lintel’s worth of plankton. I’m coming back to New York. In the early 80s.

Social progress is in a pickle.
It went cheap in small directions. Al
-most curtains for the prom fitting, a horrible mess.
The shortest path there ignited by havoc, honest
and exhausted tailors.
The dancers are perpetual winners I guess.
I wager
we win the half-eaten take-out on the table. 40%!

Stay on the hunt, tough to please, speculate we could say
Even as tectonic plates jump under
Slaver ballads
Raining havoc in fog.. (Uh.) Here’s
Where you and I lose the scent. Ever 


-yone did. Clouded
Flames ennoble wattles in the sky to roll over


Nondenominationals like us, both of us, anyone in sight of who’s just landed,

Aching, a closed gas station attendant yielding under —

A new customer, one or two love poems — they never miss an issue 


(Unwashed hair, maybe) 


 — country music going on all nerves, bourbon, bye now charades.

If animals could talk they’d say, what can you do? I pick my clothing by the rules. I can’t get you out of my mind? Handle it. Come closer, you’re scaring me.

I sleep at night with my eyes open and keep a diary, hastened by its agenda in one vein, pierced to the root by a confusing lunch. Flowers by the table, you, half a house (better than none), liquor and song. You came as a gospel singer. The sweetness outside not wavering in snow to rain to a rational depth, I’ve got you in the crosshairs.

Freed from servitude wow, congrats... The animals are always on message.

What makes chosen words dressed in black?
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority
Most rainbows taste like shit, but we like shit.

Art is theft all right.


Decent and gifted, we were raised in a crèche of decadence. Sounds preposterous. Cabs were scarce at that hour. A shoulder hitched higher to the rest of language, human debt, infants, animals in cages, all muggy places ever since I was bullied as a kid.

Bullied into autocracy
Hell is too big to fail.

Fire the lilies in the field.

This is a democracy. Hysteria as a rallying cry brings a revolution in ignorance and vanity.
The ousted president drops to his knees.

Lament: Corgi spinning in washing machine, a fox

Terrier in FinnAir plane w/box cutter —

My Collie keeps searching for frozen yellow bones — how

This set, like all good waymarks, tells a story but what does that mean?
Especially when your Saluki is holding pinking sheers in her mouth



— not that there are pitfalls, our noting a few takes we could route,
Time, the weather can be avoided or otherwise subsumed into a few lines,
And so fewer syllables than forks in our paths to count now.

Corgi w/bobbing head in fish tank...

This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into epic life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
is a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over a heartthrob, not to be a Lebowski.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.

As ‘you learn to draw, remind yourself...’ the brain is said to resemble Chuck Norris. Interesting esthetic, not fatal — Chuck or a funny bone goes for merciless. Really his movies remind me of marigold & allegiance to the ice ants swarming the ozone as I look away — The earth is not the earth, but it has strength and balance and Duma unanimity. Each winter corrupts the exterior.... poplars attaining their ultra field and stream, doing a job shunned by most, showered with tips.

Burroughs’s Junky is a source of the Flintstones.
Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads.
The contours. Nothing month. To on.
The combing and suffix opal phrase
The whole simply. Save early ea.
Bike sale: Burroughs tries to jump over bikes.

Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled.
Thus, Chickee is a guy.

In relation to conflicts over scale, Habermas and I want to inspect what others say,

but a few lies are shiny architecture of real matter. 



As if Rawls informs me on plural paths, where the tolls are o, etc


Truly bathetic. Forgetting what you have to say has nothing to do with current biases of mine. Like so many others, I’m fixated on war, loss of democratic principles and governance procedures —



procedures again, only this time writ extremely large. The writ carries a stark reference to the last liberal prime number among us, John Rawls, but how inarticulate and superficial to use him this way. I’m conflicted about criteria for justice, questions how these may apply to our history now ...

We can demolish only one artificiality.
It’s no toy. It’s an example of us.
It doesn’t love you or me. It loves what we do.
It’s a learner, not a real lover. We intervene only once.
Remember, all our troubles disappear.
You’re almost naked. You’re my business.

There’s no description, the lion took the eagle’s wings yet kept his own name.

Then he had an idea.
There’s a description he kept inside.
I notice I haven’t said anything.

Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

— The world becoming flat and falling across



The telling (of)



(Instances of)



Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic



Streaks and — weird! — high wails of titanic fog, sifting down from



Rain ceilings (of)



The snow. The snowing. The across (falling),


It is (falling) across


Morton Feldman.

We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.