The government could be in trouble.
I hate to be asked the price. A fortune.
I’m boiling sad, practiced together.
— wish it was just the radio all right..
I hear more solid drama down the road,
a binary fission when you’re expecting
rudeness, so we’re attentive bound for well armed
crazy-not-good disturbance ...

Factual. A study. Broken words, misunderstood.

Before cymbals came up and the 1st song reached out, and well before verse is parsed, there were snores from ancestors and their coughs and grunts crowding in together in caves. Back then the body taught itself speech with shrieks and groans for pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition.

Teamwork. Our people are what make us great.

I’m out on a date with Mittens. I too grow architecture thru assembly.

The taking of whatever works to exchange groans that feed me.

Song: This isn’t a black or white issue.
Someday I will have a pomegranate thermostat.
It won’t be torture unless it causes organ failure.
I still think in poem titles.

Song II: Truncation was in question, both winner and victims in crossfire. Anything you answer will stomach fair use doctrine — what youth plays, but the next resurgence is an elaborate gerrymander where ambiguity vanishes for a seeming long time.

History is old as mutt.

As the past tense broke, mutts of infancy regenerated, feeling there’re ticket holders rising to the occasion with pretty good probabilities, because they won at the beginning.

Saving a life you can break the law to shoulder perfection.
Therein the last bad deed eases on down the dress code w/ a cheap bow tie that pays for itself. Context becomes the e.r. Something is definitely going on.

Like a race of giants, welcome to we’re not so much friends.

Not now. We are made up of chips of one another in other names.
The brightness shunted into red day until emotional exchange began, crested, and vanished like emissions administering the right thing to do, close to you.

Capacious, breathtaking anxiety, yup, refusal to arbitrate glamour, too close but... I’m done.

The happiness of one bright red chair with a table in one corner washes up on islands that serve as your hideouts. You’ll need a new camping saw and hood scoop. We’ll invade your space and just leave.

It’s never hue I can look forward to, yet you’ve got just what I need...

I’m crossing over to your shade — no name, no feel..

...a question of blood flow. There are no songs, no stages.

I’m thinking of a movie, “Youth.” Utter, pretentious torture...

Alternatively, do you know how many rabbits Revlon tapped?
Their animal bi-products are painting the town, preemptively.
Innocence concerns such ethics. It’s awful, many shades off; we react but move on.

Our adoration is new literature — the design space’s tada! directly oblique — pointedly

moving up to speed, united with everything forever no-count!

A shade adequate for a 2nd look through banners around the readymade wrapped in a glow,

crosshatched love taps counter-stretched — stretched on balance

running everywhere off the —                                         the first the —

explaining an authentic vantage within sight

and miniature schemes, color fields, whorls, colors of dusk and wrestlers who portray border patrol...

Not sure of hollow bluntness. How is it elevated?
With a doctorate it saved civilization.
Good start.

Grr, what’s the extent of driving off
in getaway hybrids?

It could be that lunatic yarn to move around
modulating what the self comprises, an apotheosis
according to replicas. While ..

I’m neutral re: driving recklessly, sequences w/out words —
both types of daring and protection w/ outreach.

And there were digital fees while traveling for more pleasures, wooden enclosures — teach,
play hard, focus on the computers, keep at it —

They say med school is mostly laid out.
That means you partake in indecision (ever cool).

The new moon begins shining with its belle-lettriste metamorphosis over the street, damning loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer every opportunity..

I’ll let you out. In.

Vote often.

Sex has nothing to do with sex.
It’s a joy problem, love let go on a technicality,
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch

Per bantam partisans in calculated terror
Toweling off ready for the next bracket.
Boxing’s hospitable. We’re not that stupid.

If your crime is big, it pays — proud

— puzzling results from a soup of cable offerings.

Crit lit suggests a dark totality or entirety that makes this up
while a quarter of creation eludes direct detection until spring.
Another quarter, brick and mortar in the cloud.

So we don’t follow Jesus or Yaweh, except chronologically; /
the topic thread is I’m a friend of theirs, barely.

Jesus, what’s behind him and crime pull enough strings in the American narrative.
You can look it up. /

To you: My wish, you succumb to mezzo logic.

Your other car is a broom.
That’s top of mind. Morning has two or more parts. Pieces whose lengths alternate between eight lanes, like here
among and between, snaking around online, ‘our entire cultural orientation
is on its heels.’

Morning darkness can be brokered like any morbid trend you can see thru :

An alto saxophone, no berry ice cream and you may figure prominently.

To cheat the fates “should be” marries your projectile. Welcome back.

The Conservatory’s always nothing much minus common sense, coming out to play, sampling
the masked hostility and indecisiveness of national honor


and backing it up with inexact and multiple scents of feeling, sounds
from what we were doing before [give me one second..] took hold,
instantly recognized as identity.

Identity and hardened m.o.’s from silences, retakes,
and feral scents of feeling cornered in a feral feeling feral piano lesson.

(I forgot to send this.)

Take an interest in opulence & stratagems bequeathing our
ing great! Those brands are awesome announcing oops, they’re
digging in bins.

I watched your dreams.
Had a bite. Your ghostly smart-and-dumb modulated, went calling
my egalitarian bluff. It stipulated

I should take myself down, stay away,
leave the top buttons unsnapped, settle in to fail?

Conversely, ghosts hate us. It’s not true
I’m not great at due diligence; it’s entirely for deception they spy
— gosh the tribe extends much thanks in cozy motels — am, hey
we have it on the double to browse, be kind, cartoon hungry as you —

Danny Elfman — not playing for success overnight
holding back, far away as if there’s a cine-force of flight from DNA..

to outtake paradox as ample. Seems class struggle came back to tall
voices thrown by Mel Blanc, always pulling a prank that’s real,
Danny chuckled and Mel shrieked progress.. progress, no tribute sustained.. or what it seems.

Falsehood is an actuarial stat, one anto
-nyms assimilate. I haven’t said anything

since.

A ballerina crosses Walnut St. Can you believe her silhouette pressed against anyone who doesn’t dance. Visceral surprise! A purged rhetorician acquires correspondence, verbal equivalence to her process repertoire.

There’s a guru I listen to.

“Let’s get back to bohemia, yes? and don’t call that rustic mytho hole in the Newtons suitably deshabille for my bohemians in fury chopping the air.”

Guru, you’re so unnecessary!

“Plus, you forgot the eco slant. Habermas. Benjamin. Sam. Yosemite.”

I’ll dispense with details about me, this is what I heard.

Have no idea where or why this voice is reassuring:
“And I prefer Hermes parfums through which narcissus, paling,
pass, my boheme, duck and mind your step
then a crossroads and the come-about.
Nothing unjustified won’t happen.”

Big tent (consciousness) is a cook off. Today concentricities and touchstones are recipes for the motivators.
(They navigate within a self-contained, almost ostentatious pensiveness.)

Today there’s a glow in the argumentation, like just before an avalanche.

Should we go? On my scale of espirit to avantism, cooking craft subordinates motives for perfect categories or any geo-social unit of analysis. Again, without reference to production or theoretical checkpoints, avant discussions feel like imitative prequels, dramaturgical sketches toward grabbing food, drinking late at night. Sooner or often higher standards (touchstones) are retrieved from earlier positions (concentric dramas) that flow forward to and from today. Next time.

*
Especially if snows see themselves as shades of Marat — snow that does it and is done in by it.

Snow is a collective that takes singular form.
Replacement snow falls on snow. It’s craftmatic.

The pace is noncommittal; a global officialdom germinates apart.
I feel sick having frequent amens.
I do my best and worst in the future and still get snowed on
when I start to step away from them.

Someone makes the case for / against boredom in composition, that is, in the poem-making venture. Boredom? Blame it on relatives, the empire-prone who ride escalators up and down the Radisson nearest you.

Down here a comb is passed to a baldie
To the sounds of fountains and friends.
Sociologists are stepping up and nodding off
Under the influence of futon cramps and cars
Full of pouti debs and the elephant men,
Dostoevsky wrote.

I once had such brilliant optimism. Promise of a good life. Poetry came along. I meant — why not, let’s go try it. Then the coordinator wrote something down. After that I snapped.

So far: There is still no nastier event in poetry since top dawg Arthur Rimbaud snitched on Paul Verlaine & switched off poetry to run guns. (What about that prick? Rimbaud, I mean. Can you rap about Bourdieu & Weil’s take on renunciation of the Dionysian crafts, poetry & lovemaking, as a coherent strategy in Rimbaud’s case? the system upended — production so restricted it pro forma led to leaving the craft, leaving oneself out by reference to internalized, thus revised, social norms of cultural legitimacy & self-perfection.)

After Rimbaud, Pound was nuts. When it comes to the poetry, some think thank goodness. There’s no defense, today, for calling Bollingen panel’s perceptions “objective,” and it seems reasonable to imagine a few, such as Eliot, were willing to overlook a man so “situated,” that is, Pound’s anti-Semitism as well as his insanity, on the “legitimate” bases of shared esthetics, the shared part left, even now, unspecified because it’s easier left out.

I’m no part of it, and your aunt, according to your latest poetics (an intellectual ruins).

Aw, come on, try an exercise in subject-mood agreement.

Then Jessop went blabbing to his dark lady, oh, I’ll steal what thou bequest because we can substitute here and there. We’ll call it modern English.

And being frank I can’t add much. The ache of summer is palpable, and night is falling as snorts of derision dampen my naïve representation of democracy.

The Women’s March last week goes down as one of the largest political demonstrations by the unknown. It was a groundswell of anonymity, parallel to poetry as a practice. Okay, this is my parallel reasoning, beginning with C. A. Conrad in interview (Exchange Values, 2006) who observes there are no famous poets because of ballooning numbers of poets overall. And this is as far as Laura Moriarty in A Tonalist (2006) agrees with Kevin Killian’s notion of bards at work in “a common project,” which is also depicted, a little more colorfully, as a “fragmented ferment,” stunning enough a parallel to the ballooning numbers of poets idea, I think, to compel discovery of other qualities to describe this nameless groundswell further. (Why is the ferment in fragments? Because so innumerable are the writers who have signed on, we tell them apart only when we study one at time, finding qualities to think over.) New political leaders and organizers will emerge from resistance, and we look forward to getting to know them. Similar optimism applies to the ‘common project,’ getting to know what’s practiced now.

I’m not making a point, just seeing it. Wasn’t the last renaissance prompted by gangs of anonyms?

My life is my poetry which is like a biopic on writing poetry about my life.

Pop quizzes. What is curious style? What is shambling? How are they calculated? One more:


Can stories of redemption ever be nonreductive? (Example, can any emotional shift be worthy of your love?)



The bio-pic, bound to classical sentiment, is a poetic occasion, light of strokes, when one’s ‘voice’ joins with others’ to deepen the ultimately anonymous expressions of desire.

True & half-true or doomed to falsehood for perpetuity, a wedding to outdo all others.

Affluent boys, effeminate — it’s a sane part of rage — guys get to a point where they think they’re not deep enough: “I only want to lie flat on my back and read a book.” (I can’t grapple with what else I’m thinking..) That’s where I step in. I get dudes to want to read and write.

I was so grounded before I went on. It’s intoxicating  

a) the show was canceled   

and b) c) d) going down with i / it.

Couple of younger guys with portfolios of collaged material, mostly text. That’s the destination.
Getting there you wait in long lines for a trolley. Japanese hardly speaking. I turned to my companion and asked if he was interested in how poetry’s put together.

Dumbly you blink
The pine glitters in wind what’s your problem?
What’s going on? Hose you off
Yeah; well, that holds us —
And the cones flutter turning total crackpots —

I answered your question, it’s a rough start, a tuba look like the times.

Still reading?

Put your back into it.
An ego for two.

Father writes, “Linked phrases run through the a’s, b’s, c’s and so on, but a-phrases, again, often point to the composition (the kind I am).

B-wise, my creativity
is not wasted in remorse.
What I owe: I know
almost and almost lost,
unfinished, in everything. For the c’s
I moved along a scratchy plain
of dandelions, peony, clover:
checked for snags of fern, fir,
and the only woman nodded: Oh yes
It’s only your newness:

and I see the formalism
as I fill in the questionnaire
for you.”

I’ll say it again I can’t think of a more putrid round of faked-poshed out poetry than this: “we’ve tumbled into an elite world, full of country homes and ‘men downstairs who think / that gin’s a breakfast drink.’”

Ok I’m pitching a multi-episode appearance on Rum, Sodomy & the Lash.

The dead — what they did is
reprehensible, tho they added class...

Don’t throw the right brain out with the
a) baby
b) broth
c) plywood boards

Which is the most eccentric image of a poet?
a) She begins to pick up several vials of fluids
b) She feels a passing chill reading his work
c) He relaxes in the arms of admirals from the fleet

If I keep the Beast Inside alive, there’ll be no reason to
a) flash some I.D.
b) hate art
c) test well

Death by
a) mixed nuts
b) occasional manifesto
c) serial paeans

On Saline. I’m comforted, confirmed I’d say in the prognostics for artifice, Kim Lyons’s plain as Jane reference in “Soap” to The Crystal Book is bogus. The encyclopedic catalog at my local library (Hollis, Harvard) hasn’t got it. But the prognosis looks promising once I enter the title digitally — I find a number of mis-adventures as alternatives, including (1) Crystal, David, The Stories of English; (3) Consort of Musicke, the world of English ayres and madrigals [sound recording]; (5) Wonder, Stevie, Talking Book [sound recording]; and (8) Shakespeare, William, A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. To prove each option is somehow germane to Saline would require stretches of space in a longer review — (1) story of English, “shadows of Greek postures”; (3) English ayre, “the gradual of / Eleanor of Brittany, 14th century”; Stevie Wonder, “People are realized only partially” — but if I stick with (8), I find the continuous present right here in the short poem “Soap,” the sort of predictive, time-travel-y coincidental mischief I prize: “I was looking for you / or more correctly, your words... // pulled from the stacks: ‘a new poem’ by Wm. Shakespeare / huh?” I’m enveloped now by a poem that anticipates my biblio-search! (Huh, indeed.) Granted, Lyons cuts through the travel mystery, admits her crystal book doesn’t exist, yet “absence of it yields / to…arrival.” We’re instructed that arriving is a way of ‘contending,’ “looking around... / I imagine the words / are looking for me also.” Lyons practices a Platonic epistemology via 21st-century metaphysics in which one’s arrival at words is hard-wired self-inquiry “inherently without prestige,” enamored of the magic “round room” in dailiness, like reading a book backwards, routine conceit that “disperses...a grid of light” where there is “presence between / nothings.” Tangled, convoluted, “I hate this Sunday consciousness,” Lyons offers “a violet empyrean’s contraption of radiant circles” made round and plausible within the “background in the colorlessness” and seeming limitless as “the universe cavorts thus.”

— 2005

Your Cheshire-cat presidency, the one you assumed just now — you know it’s not interesting: it fails visually in an instructive way. Grinning when you walk into a room of operatives you render them adversaries; your paranoia intimates emotional fullness (I want to say collegial goodwill) not within your reach. It imitates humor. But it’s dark, only because it cordons off a psychic terrain of rapacious, parochial guilt. The party boy graduates to party hack, and your fetes evanesce into a seminar on trivial comparisons, fact-reformations. If you have to run again, if they let you, we’ll need whackier party material.

*
 Crocheted titanium with a clown’s face.

Let’s get back to our roots, mutual surveillance.

__There’s good in everyone but you’ve got to see it__________

22% disagree; 74% don’t see it.

Pure gentrification directed to cheap, unearned consensus —

Yes or no to tokens, symbols and their prototypes. Yes or no signs. Yes or no to feuds, grim ball-bearings. Forget but never forget protestant vulnerability. And yes or no rodent names, tufted scopes. No yet also yes to poems living a life as a masterpiece, addressing a doormat standing an inch off the casing, a fourth-up past the itch out of everywhere but nowhere, nothing or all. Yes or no tempo of glyphic turmoil grounded into dotage and torpid incision in not one vowel or all of them — yes or no prophase for pensive description. No to yes there’s insatiable shine.

Your slightly shabby rooms are offhand / elegant.
There’s leftover acacia, soft frangipani, but not yours.

You are a scentless triumph.
You love skiing but you also tour for chess.

You come as you are.
I have 2 of your socks.
You are prepared, in control as your influence multiplies.
You’re a particularly effective imposter.

We’ve got to get you better clothes.

Everyone needs a secret life.
I got the idea from going to church.
Am not believing this.

Charlene: “Pecuchet’s checking out women again. He had to have. For, against, he hasn’t a clue.”

Bouvard: “Not one word not purloined. Yay. For example.”

Bouvard points to Charlene, walking his way.

Pecuchet, to the audience: “Are we hardwired for savage in-fighting? I am. I was born with a wormhole deep inside, sported for courage. Holding a voodoo rattle, I call it my Britanicus.

Bouvard: “Global jingoism should be taken seriously.”

Charlene: “It’s such a racket a pang lets the whole spectrum of gloom enter and exit without interruption.”

Pecuchet: “Death by oeuvre.”
Bouvard: “They say even death is in peril.”

Poetry comp reels with appropriation, re-assembly — one reason for this is a communal rule to break the mold, to work ironically within a near tradition of surprise as aching necessity.

First, last century French surrealists and then a range of poets after WWII demonstrate how fascinating it is to substitute or to ‘paste in,’ the unexpected phrase in order to compress and even undermine narration and trigger displaced, unsettling emotion or unwarranted ideas.
Methods for substitution include straightforward word shifts within text that is otherwise not disruptive — intra-textual cuts and pastes, say — as well as extra-textual processing of found passages, more often now digitized copy and hybrid processing from search algorithms, remixed with other types of writing, found or authored.

To employ terms like ‘authored’ or ‘intra-textual’ is to risk not paying enough attention to the bigger point that cut-and-paste pastiche has evolved into a vernacular strategy for disruption, including atomizing form from its management.
Poetics of the last decade or so continues to foul up methods and standards. A direction that looks facile and promising is genre-swapping, appropriating and incorporating whole chunks of alternative discourse within verse (rescanning other people’s suffering, one readymade example).

Surprised, we stood and talked for while until, with Giuliani-ish aplomb, you lifted the tarp and showed it to me.

On Padgett’s Joe: I like chronology (or what I thought chronology) gives room two-thirds through to un-labored meditations on facials, on Joe’s reaching the age of 51, on his doubts at age 37 about being “the person I always thought I was.” I say un-labored but that is the soothing affect of Padgett’s not-simply-plain style. I like the large off-moments Padgett allows, spaces in which he has nothing in particular to give up about Joe’s whereabouts, much less what Joe was doing or thinking. Also, there’s Padgett’s ability to ‘not go there’ (Joe’s sex life, for example, his giving up oil painting) with no recollection on our part we’re missing anything. Then, here are Joe’s last words spoken by his brother, “It might have been: ‘I’m so lost,’ but I’m not sure,” which I’m imagining as, “I’m so lost, but I’m not sure.”

Book proposal:
You make a disgusting mess of transformation
and transubstantiation too.

Benji, you’re strange again. We’ve decided to beat it out of you.
Say something. We’ve lost your spirit and pulse.

Can’t slow it down.

It’s hopeless, my life like my sweating over you, nondestructive, unextreme. I crack up when someone mentions reincarnation, but next time you’ll pick a family from a line of tenured scientists in the non-snickering future. We on the left are depressed because ours is a classless de-corporated shtetl — time will tell, no need for socialists. Tho, maybe there’s no option?

You’d still love political poetry, but with reservations because of the dirt, the skid marks and resonance of decay, “refined by distance.” I’m sure you could tell.

Is it one’s attitude or the restaurant?

I write for a nation.
I roll now when to hold you as a democrat
looking forward for a moment.

I once composed a scat for your vote. When new millionaires arrived we rocked,
turning the environment into identity and rumors. O cherished nation,
what’s the worst that can happen? One’s partner —
moi = mwah is a doomed villain — twenty times one’s own weight.
On a second take kinfolk are defined for their video senses
by god, by sex. Thank god that intimidates.

Not scat, I learned squat, handily
Apollonian on a fad diet...I get the feeling
god has gone one’s way.

The workout once was of a soul...

These are my last thoughts before we get married, locked in a horrible grown-up abstraction, a brutally under-decorated three-bedroom townhouse anywhere, sequestered with Katie and Micah, Paranormal Activity’s faunlike targets. Micah has turned himself into a meta-player within our play, a film documentarian, poking an oversized camera in Katie’s haunted direction whenever he can get away with it and even when he can’t. 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). Through old technology, time-lapsed shoots, Demon effects succulent wickedness, making Katie’s queen bed a hell lair and, through Katie, switching Micah’s camera and Micah off. A fourth character, a middle-aged ghost buster with no “expertise” in demons, does a walk-on for comic extension, an ectype of old guys and their clueless remains. The film persuades us there is no outside, only what’s happening inside, perpetually immature, disgusting, and repulsive.





 Our mise en scène then is barely fit for longterm observation, deliriously unpleasing, Beckettian. Unlike Beckett, Paranormal Activity advances not through language but through hilarious and (obligatory) cheesy time lapses through which plain speech and narrative continuity become heavy burdens. Forty minutes into it, we want Katie and Micah to stop everything. Twenty minutes later we want them to explode, free of the metaphysics and misery waged inside a film that’s stuck inside us, as it were. Happily, after one more midnight, two weeks or so into the narrative, with only a little time-lapsed hoot in the shadows to prepare us, Katie does a full-body thrust into Micah’s camera, hurling Micah’s cadaver pointblank at us, doing the trick and the favor we had been waiting for. Psychic healing. Catharsis. Unpolished youth crossed over into the next thing.

Innocence is guilt. 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 unequal in love float ashore.) The second crook as president dark brute-accented imparting how his logic dialogs with others, inflating three dimensions into a formless clot of mist. I hope you’re happy.

To make clear..
We’re #1. I’m a fan of any estimate that flows back to the recent past.. Like no premium withholding options..

One alternative over time is to thank you guys who sent in money. Another is to bawl about immanence and qualia while standing within process reception.



Nothing’s changed in the last few years, ‘As the world starts spinning, John Wieners writes Boston into his bohemia (Nerves); during his mid-career Horatian stage Kenneth Koch romanizes his playbook in the New York School (“Fate,” “The Problem of Anxiety”).

So the waif, the poet-estimator stakes a vantage but never forgets it slips away. No what if. No if, what, nothing.
Taking chances put us in this lissome interpretive state (birth), after all. Function varies widely.

Holy moly, produce and a way to pay for it!
there’s strength in staring at a bug zapper, attracted
to light, staying competitive.

There’s something I haven’t told you, Durante degli Alighieri.

We’re passionate about the sounds right in front of us.


We’re in scandalous terrain sleeping on a couch; eating donuts could send us home.. (I’ll be moving out soon) .. referried to signature seacoasts.

My chosen hairbrush, abandoned. I’m forgetting about it.

Shoulder to shoulder, our emotions subside into idiot access and the dawn blindness

In the black trees.

(The lord’s will tilting my ribs reflected aphids
gathering on a wall, also unanswerably,
in the hand. Whose hand? Those were
my sentiments. The last ones.
I’m pretty sure.
If I weren’t sure I’d take it back.)

There is slender lovemaking on square obstacles.
To stop tremors, rouged slippers are warmed like leftovers, something a dog in one room repairs with, to a separate commissary down in the sub-chambers, aimlessly onerous. What will they spell for lunch today?

Living to 100 is complicated. You forget to clash.
...can’t stop it...through language [how about] [...] cheesy time lapses in which [traveling backward] speech and narrative continuity become incrementally

transformed into the next thing —

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

I’m still here, the body’s purring never put aside. (One dissipated the other.)

Considering the birdlike monoplane, I’m having problems visualizing critique.

I’ll try critique with an off-on switch. This is how disorder (hyperbaton) becomes allegory, similar to when traffic freezes. A drawbridge opens up (to let a gunboat pass under), vehicles above turn off = no process reception, reducing counter critique to hysteria. When the bridge suspension comes down, vehicles are more than ‘on,’ firing up partisan contempt for any delays to the status quo, a basis for processing more counters.

The monoplane is one glide above the new normal.

Nothing frilly or glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield.

It’s impolitic to separate the performance from stage direction; both are
deadpan. Have you thought of writing?

To continue, asymmetry solves the perfection problem early on, not remorse. To think I got to witness young Myrtel Hammer
& family out of the box on parole, draped over a bowl of smashed lures & hooks.
Myrtel, you & yours were boring. Is anyone related? We see too-serious regard for perfect categories evolves at the outset competing with yourself... Oneself

— had that been allowed at age six, always a caution... for one of you.

Read the inspection label.

Sir Fric and Frac. Remember?

Fric just called, said “We were swimming naked, a word I often use to characterize my government and binding. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed you by the throat, moved in. I felt something strange but familiar.
To bring this up this late in the afternoon is totemic.”
I fell silent and wrote it all down.

Cut to a blue blood ruffian.

This looks essay. I thought of you, Berryman.
You had a revised voice for most moods; I’m holding to that, rescuing no one.

Cut every day I’m behind, way behind, less affected by less meaning, un-giddy, cut like you.
You’re raising a hand — too late — we like to comport with women you thought
Too lazy for poetry.
You wear counterfeits and feel fake. That’s haute where you are, I bet.

Terre 2017.

*

To be objective and lack will

is ambition..

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.

Buddha tells me you’re a baby
And I have to destroy my world to get back to yours.

First create massive gaps then put up a bridge to connect employees to each other,
when they move across they can chant — chant openly in a pillar of Nicocrettes.
Shouts of disbelief strung together should be fluid..
Same when it comes to airline safety, there is no plan.

Our guardians are tired of interruptions and self-reflective outreach,
hence the corporation is lonely* as an inter-discipline* that threatens.

* feeling lonely in an inter-discipline = simultaneity in science fiction, a tenet of Hindu verse.

In this revolution I move my mouth; I’m the skinny kid in slapstick, except
it wasn’t slapstick it was acrylic spray.

I worship autocracy of attitude on occasion.

Yes, we consider more relax words
in the influx of not speaking to you for months, nemini facit injuriam —
That’s about it for autocracy. I grew up in my backyard.
Feeling locked outside I thought was apotheosis (resisting it).

Enough sarcasm... let’s try different things, benching the mnemonics.

Time runs out, taxonomies
still unexplained as weather permits. Black
ops at certain altitudes, the hot facts; I’ve
or we feared anti-humanists w/ covert specialties
at the tip — just the tip;

I also squandered ellipses that add up
and forgot I just stood there with nothing to give
back.

A mind occupied, just so.
Am I in an experimental state of forgery? No, I live in a red state. Prithee, how do I maintain balance sheets & my resolute informality?

It’s another day of no hope. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different, jokes turn into sleep. & dreams forgive paranoia’s belated redemption, trapping me inside ambitions to put out the house fire by myself (in my head).

I talk in a low register. My grin sports a few layers of sleep relief, aching in baby, calmly accruing intimacy to belie despair over entropy. A quiet start, zero gravity.

So there’s no dead end!

A Bernini head transplant brings on the knowledge effect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower.

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

At this moment in outdoor photography we’re staying alert, our paired centrism induces little offense, we look and feel great and hotter opportunities are nil. I’m noticing a whisper; the weather connects time with my ideas — my time with ideas, rather. For proof, take a long walk, you’ll spot people that scrape by, not fulfilling norms set by stop action.

They’re washing up.

By caution as usual one could mean caution to the core.
Hence the political surface is blood sport and games, what trainers call discourse and action. Caution is exercised to preserve the constructs protecting access to the core. The equation reduces to politicians = mascots.

As a big spender you don’t have to be interesting.
That doesn’t sound right.
Always repeat what appeals to you.

Acquire many dialects of feeling beautiful, more profitable than deep discounts.
And you need to review hedonism before it’s retouched.
This is a new policy to block deletions that could be missing.

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.

— the center of tangled ventriloquism composing..

If I had more foreground I’d do
better to find and weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken more notes I’d have
my bearings on “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings

we had composing
what I can’t pinpoint or supplicate.

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

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

The will to quiet is the flip side of getting a ch-
amber piece to burble, crying doubly inaudible
for more power, when
how you meditate spins up to the extra surface, no
message. So there’s nothing left as surplus.

My effort could be no effort. (Louise Brooks)

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

Birds cover their nests, beavers their dams.
People fear us as well because we have a glorious set.

We’re in scandalous terrain sleeping on a couch; eating donuts could send us home.. (I’ll be moving out soon) ..

An emanation is a specter brought up a peg. Just to clear things up.

Reporters agitated, reproached, disappeared.

Property? Who owns self-portraiture under monetized formalism? Owners do, owners of procedures, including a ruling class and photorealists... tho binary opposites, both figure their lives together, no vision or dash, no longer having to know.

They’re realists singing to life,
knowing more than research is treacherous considering those at the top are hardly sitting languidly on the other side of the room without permission.
How nothing else is so intimate in procedural areas?
Painting oneself and me again is nothing. Painting double quotes.

There are a hundred butterflies in the afternoon beauty of Tuesday, Friday your time, earthling lord. What’s wrong watching one or two spin like happy mediums, letting ’em go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?

My language is not feeling any moral acquisition, dropping sanctions, drinking hot coffee from a can, trying to stick to our roots’ metallic gleam, seething too, proportionate to the reception center open space. The smoke gets shiny and I feel mortified. Period.

The whole firebox is glow. The yellow wallpaper over there is engaging.

The collapse of saying it better is over.
Summer is over.

I manufacture flyweights, drinking up her story, history, empathy,
bounce. A company like ours chips away, inside the parturifacient facility.

I challenge myself almost every week. It’s what stunt men do for life;

two more loiter with intent in the doorway. Both smile, neither laugh.
Her comes my best friend with — her should be here, his successor’s shoulders..

The service manager said these are extraordinary times. Exciting now. Where are we un, um.. if that’s everything, we’ll switch to administrative cadence. Our slogan is, heavier production charges the new world until only a beat prevails. The right hand shadows what generations of fear rarely mine in naked hypotheticals; the heroic code on the other hand never misses.

Minutes after the extra work is filed, dozens are called to line up for a free run of the orchard, company-owned. “This is a very nice benefit,” a leisure pursuit like playing shipwrecked, held for ransom. Those were the funniest jokes, the most extraordinary too. I don’t remember laughing so much. Ever. And I can’t recall being as excited as I am now.

...can’t stop it...through language [how about] [...] cheesy time lapses in which [traveling backward] speech and narrative continuity become incrementally

transformed into the next thing —

Ours was a taxonomic relationship.
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax.

Oh domestic servant, poet, heck, oh chanteuse
I’m your doorsill to walk on and lick in anguish..

Text disorder can acknowledge and arbitrate some of our convictions.
The crisis is now. Form is not an object but activity, an explosion,
channeling a non-hegemonic pulsing — and due to substitution
Gustave Flaubert haunts this.

My iPhone camera knows where I am.

It would be a challenge to simplify winning a car or suffering injury
starving how?

The future would give more. No more
than thanks.
I thought of you.

I don’t know that much about you, but you remind me of someone
who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far away or far off, quelling fear.
Half a day goes by and still you resurface.


You are unattainable.
You are hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.

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.

The place was beautifully democratized, I mean dumb.

We’re not so interested in having eyes while mannequins don’t. But this morning I woke from a flash of such nil practicality I blushed, distressed talking to what had to have been just vapor in a sports-transition store.

The place was beautifully democratized, I mean dumb (again and again) :

As Petunia crumbles I deliver a left knee to his face.

You were my boss... up to your becoming a naked person, the force
through the green fuse to drive flowers.
Some people say I am a poet.

Bands break up.

I lost the point of that vast line.
Let’s define line breaks under road pine
along the greens, backing off hunting rules.
No confessions, please. Trying to please pays better
(I was never in 2 places enough to ask permission)

so that school of poetry got back to you. Got that myself : payback’s unnice
...coming clean is a neat precipice in myth that won’t stand for practice —
not while the restive recover from plumb numbness —
we see beneath their flighty dignity...
blistered motion common as flicker tails (the angles) in light made identically hot and cold,

made of the same emotional thinness driving home. That’s the super-definition :

I keep saying moral arguments are gnarly
and gnarlier. Especially on the hunt.

I’m bad at knowing when justice along
with passion is vital, not recreational.

I’m passive but I don’t believe in spooks. Here’s the outline.
A few strings were pulled to get me in this new factual place I would never have chosen.

I lower your singing voice. Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?

I repeat, coming up next from a great fake news publisher, e-songbooks advance going under rewrite as you read them, flipping genres as they plug into you, changing your mind often.

Then.
Going on and off half-tuned as an irresolution.

A starry equity or neurons? Words are worlds

that heat up while young at the edge yet a lost cause.
Vicarious is not strong enough.
And titles cost. Avalanche, the virus.

Cherries Hamlet.




I’ve crossed a few lines.

Relax and beware. Certain branches of law aim straight at us. Fuzz, the pronoun, embodies overwrought subject matter while an emanation turns into a specter, brought up a peg to clear things with the bosses.

And I’m awake again, once with a face of a poet lost in dream. Or a formal outline.

Or lines.

I live next to a place with water views. I’m a failure sometimes.
But ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home, high tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for anyone’s look-see, another beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!

I agree with you when you live long enough.

Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of the knowledge industry that considers prototype approximations in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard. At first.

Moving forward we have all of an hour now to believe in sweetness made into infamous exposure (in costume).
Lights up
— we take ourselves inside the libretto where we reserve dissonance toward volumes of bark animating the boxwood of three-dimensional glissando.

If you got close enough to Talking Chimp’s cage, she’d throw dirt, food — anything her baby paws could find — while her companion, Tarzana [Ekornes], made loud glottal sounds that resemble what some call a ‘raspberry.’

Talking Chimp did all her own stunts.

She was the featured beast in the movie Barfly.

Upon her release she left the industry and went to Oxford.

Talking Chimp had been with a lot of gentle creatures wearing jeans and racing through the woods, building paranoia.
What if we stow the talking chimp for five seconds.

“Let’s not do this, let’s not make hurting each other impossible to resist,” the real talking chimp enjoined, unable to stop herself.

Unexpectedly, she took me home to meet her family.

Really, we get down to heaven
In a bucket? We can see pulleys,

A smoking outline subduing us
Into our blond manes that distract scoutmasters.

Everyone has to wipe off while, boo,
You’re impersonating some folk guitarist I outgrew,

So now you want to spend it all while you can,
tiptoeing off to eke out a living from Eden
In a snow-globe, thankful for one small chest-hair.
And there I’ll leave it top of the scout manual

In the sink: You look fabulous, encaustic. Those who’ve been around
draw closer, under scrutiny from your voice-over!

But that happens when en suite we begin again
Like twins in a trance once, just this once.

You’re a world-famous trance inducer. That’s it.

I like it.
Clymnestra’s seen things in Europe. European things. Sophisticated things. Things of the world. And things beyond. Beyond beyond.

Thing is, tho, I got this idea for a Henry IV one-pager. Understand, I need time to develop it.



Come into my poem, and we’ll make the time. We’ll get a plagiarist from a little ivy, spin your look doggy hip, inject you with queer theory, you’ll be composing down on your knees, fizzy.

It’s all happening in Henry’s head?

So we need just one poet! You, you racist ... Am I crazy?

No. That actually clears up a lot of free verse for me.

Modernism, a despoiled inheritance for poetry, beguiled, diverted, unlike architecture’s connections to the past. Apparently tomorrow is more appealing even if we know where architecture takes us. Poetry?

We repeat there are rules to doing morning:
Sleep in without a stratagem,
Coax the hues backward.

How can anybody care?

Fill in cross-narrative between First and Last sentences.
Choose a and/or b, any order, actually.

a)
First: An ant climbs blades of grass, over and over, seemingly without purpose.
Last: Hollywood has always been a wide-open town swallowed by its own gruel.

b)

First: Mammoth bunnies are lurking in athletes’ villages.

Last: You can never expect it to happen and when it does, it’s fantastic.

Playing with tonalities, how funny you are..
There are chords he kept inside.
Between description, silence, a periphery.

There’s no description I can give,

No way to rhyme hiding on the loose.

Chords have their way in the air wondering how high an apartment we can get.

Pound. Confused or colorful, often gaudy, a mazed creature, vagabond within a Dutchman bordello (condottiere et al), involving deliberately ambiguous strains of professorial fat (think of Cathay, of suspicere, of foreseeing lavish things detoxified), motley in a sort of mayor to his inlet, his weeded self, a speck of a noun beaten against cymbals, a puzzler over paronomasia offered by fools (anti-popes, the holy) who wore the aged degringolade and had moved tyros down to the head of modernity —

The head the forefront, wooden in tone, because lowest hawkshaws were, EP determined, victims to the mystery dead hand, horrific for Baldur of the Valkyrie — uncertain, occulted and shiny, EP is borrowed now, tracing him down to throw him into erumpent, projecting our misprision as latticed breakthroughs into the medium surface he roamed, discolored chooser specialist in reframing earth for a mendacious tomorrow, a tomorrow indefinitely remote, not new, rantipole, superfine.

Had Pound retroactively polluted intake of the high modernist feeding that aesthetic portends? Poetry released of all responsibilities, regrouped, rooted in political indifference, self-abnegation, self-defense. Poetry no longer invoked to try history.

I know where I’m going on my own.
Memory as commentary jazzes a decimal of the nerd’s auto-voice, chassis-style.


That’s before we reverse course taking the shortcut to Stony Overlook
reaching the age of reason.

Here’s what I admit: within a decade the liver, most all
physical parts meet the brain halfway,

slanting the blurred promise we had we didn’t know —
every moment in the aftermath now of a pre-hiatus, dying down.

Hideous poems. Ratty chain coffee; hideous poems. Bloated officials; hideous poems. Sixty-year-old folkies; hideous poems. Retread malware; hideous poems. Pedigreed art; hideous poems. Untaxed elites; hideous poems. Safe sex; hideous poems. Relaxed midcentury decor; hideous poems. Red-lined school districts; hideous poems. Open-necked business attire; hideous poems. Democracy in dance; hideous poems. Satire of the informed; hideous poems. Entertainment business models; hideous poems. Losing the Muslim street; hideous poems.

The back room may have been obvious bravado.

Separated from a source of poetry that’s sad. The source is not sad. One separated from the source is.

Or it is obvious. Like muscle.
Sadness is not itself; it is not sad. It’s a feeling one calls sadness or the blues. Patience, shyness, meaning, frame and ligaments hold feeling, no source. And feeling is not sad. One decides, by oneself, on sadness.

The magnificent evening is given to nothing thought; famous initials are becalmed in steam of the source. Or partially the source, tomorrow those initials are spattered and dropped from the blues. Like writing home about the hunting and swap in the thinking part.

We bought and gave up parts.

Pyrography is how fashion seminarians cohere
“knocking down” stultifying dead flame.
Open the mic. Didn’t I Tell You?
Squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one wrong hue
Of a deceptive simplicity
in love as well as pride, duplicity.

A boyfriend has no social meaning to
come on in English. He became

beholden within a panorama
and sweeping mountainous apex, below

Where ranges of behavior are larger
than any lap pool of disbelief.

Thing is, he keeps faith
better than others, believing neither.

One assumption is the future will be an extension of now. A disclaimer in Chinese contains characTErs that cannot Be displayed. It says a lot there wasn't any.


I’m substituting the future with decision analytics like flip-flops. Cord organization that yanks cognitive loads into natural history. Sometimes I’m called the father of products from signifying (‘practices’) or the cheap rotgut itself..
Whining motions, husband, are you going to do a J-turn there? because if you are It’s a switch I didn’t intend, helping others, waving My kerchief, keeping an honorable distance, keeping the cat.

Contemporary-argyle = needs-edit. Your face, the points I touch, it’s all good (talking casual
Takes directions) a kind of gonging for spice squads in the blahs of scenery.


Without speech sex is peroration.
That’s a normal reduction or formula for my song,
A few words on process.

I love fish.

Ed is a bit of a dichotomy wrapped in newspaper.
Done well, he was dressed in black. Before he got caught it was legal, he wrote, continuing to fish.

Cloverfield

Trash. Art-school trash — fake trash, overstimulated, fed too much fake unexpectedness via hand-held cam artistry. Splicy paeans to every Dracula and to dozens of our worst sci fi horrors, countless Godzillas, Mothra, Night of the Living Dead (original and the remakes), Arachnaphobia, The Crazies, Shawn of the Dead, Aliens II, War of the Worlds (original and the remake) Them! etc. Richy Rich protagonists with brainless sex lives you’ll never care about. Dumb computer graphics. The skull of the Statue of Liberty, shrunken to the size of two SUVs, hurled west-northwest, lands on Spring Street blocking heroic passage. Oh, the apocalypse ignites downtown, so this is foremost a cheap 9/11 remake. Combustion and dust fill the canyons between skyscrapers. The players take shelter in a convenience store, then race down to the subway, running with the rats. Asinine language (you can’t call it dialog). Ugly apartments. Life-draining clothes. Absolute rubbish.

Highly recommended.

Broken, giddy up, dead.
Today I face thunder — how to pay homage...
Bouncy. Bouncy.
My instinct when asked is to inch back
To the moody raw nation where these talks and e-mails
Jettison use of any half-soothing word
On top various uninvented heights,
The same heights outward
Of looking into what we broke.

One models language as living matter re-involved with impulsive energy coursing around particles of appropriated ideas, especially appearances and language itself. I might call this artful-artificial transmutation of intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t a history of folk enslaved to procedure.

A chilly melody seeps up thru windows also surf rotates,
reverses like a mercurial tidal pool
filling sand and earth with water wheels at rest
as lurches of nibbling torque adjust morning into weeks..