Reincarnation roughs it, because it’s not safe to lounge at home without saying oh, wait it’s been done ..
I refuse if I don’t want to ...

Charitable informatics is garbled when this derivative (Esau).

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 bullet points, none of wood. So there’s nothing to resent.

How does it resume?

Mind and body worship is vicarious before conforming to system leaks.
I’m too ugly to be molested. It’s true.

I kissed a cat. Once.

Once out of what? out of dying belief
I wrote on otherness when down (“I’ve stopped looking”) otherness came.

A sober-garish run on sentence
Lay before my head cold rumbling..

My body in the language of dunes and trash
— soba colors with melons and blues.

I’m sorry for shoddy reasoning and growth. Sorry as pieces

Of aqua and orange foam and glass.

Even more I like meeting mates’ life-changing kisses —
Kisses like odes on progress.
Hoarse for weeks.

In memoriam to Identity (for all occasions) —
Falsettos remain outside the motherhead of polarity’s failure &
parenthetical judgment. To everyone else,

Television ceases to exist. It’s two decades into the past. There’s a quiet patch that grew into a void with stark choices, starker interiors. Central at present is coming up with occasions for verse published in engineering journals like old Izvestia.

All verse might have been productive dialogue far from the meeting that’s more than a coup. Engineering, for a good people.

The cosmos is unwilling to go far, this way or that, you said, an incriminating flight in time where a metal gate is moved by nonstop heat.
Let me grab my pen and clamber over here to the iconic ... you’re right.. this isn’t the mammoth for me. Before it closes down we’ll try far right logomania and improve our math skills for our partners’ sexual satisfaction.... a pivot from joking about a metal gate to attention-grabbing hysteria!

My position is to add design to physical combat.

I’m spry in my motives while the open field fills with sumo shapes fighting the relative fight to operate on one another.

The quartet’s on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part scribble / part disassociation
as a voiceover to operate microspores humanely,
stacking ideas like alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.

Chinese poem: Chill is tossed thru the window, surf rotates
about-face like a mercurial tidal pool
filling sand and dusk with water wheels nearly at rest
as lurches of nibbling torque days into weeks..

Go knit, Donald.

Here’s how I hitchhike. I come across an organizing principle and pull the trigger, replacing
subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: structure, acquisition, use, new media —
no eros in ideas.

One who hitches has no right to speak other than as excellently as the ‘other’ who’s driving. Self-conflict and compromise keep coming up
as rich bases for ironic pleasure and symphonic failure. If that’s allowed.

Primitive patterns and blue throats, crowbars taped to a tree, in the distance, Eroica...

We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown,
The great We of fish, that’s what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.

“Stages of violence yearn for a whereabouts.
Conditions look dispersed — beeping you (did I?),
not out of calculation; it began how far and vast

signals liberate you to oppose other facts,” you wrote.
Or plans change.

We’re entirely for artifice, stock in trade. When J Schuyler remembers J Brainard and F O’Hara, what’s biographically accurate beyond artifice is the entirety of their kinship, the tubby, transfixing emotional sustenance that comes with love and ebullience among friends. T Towle dreaming of O’Hara seems credible as both artifice and tenable proposition on similar if more ‘platonic’ grounds. L Warsh has long been licensed, so to speak, to feel and dream the turning shadows of poets as lovers present but out of practice. R Creeley evoked J Wieners alive and, to more tragic effect, vice versa. Friendship and love are components of the vetting process the onlooker or reader-writer follows to decide for herself whether a writer, beyond artifice, walks among the ardent ghosts of Wieners or young O’Hara.

It was great being with you.

Or was it just me?

Sweetest of the geeks take their lessons to heart and join a special breed apart. Hoody, fucked-up demeanor and default dalliance with convention will get us to our destinations faster and more pumped. Something about / the “human couplet” / keeps me over and under. It’s a military formula, zennish almost, common enough striving to write as well as to rock.

Rush to earnest sentiment and keep me there, do me up.
Only four exceptions: I wasn’t speaking to you.
I was speaking to strong, sustained interests of Oil Inc.
Oh, and incidentally, I can’t keep working with you
Looking over my shoulder. Don’t be afraid,
I just kick back and relax, the year will be half over.

Summer .. ‘if I could be a shred.’ I should add I don’t know anything about microspores, also
Heavy pollen, nothing! I should add I’m writing on borrowed-spores.
I haven’t done tranquility either! — not even a truce..

Making up a to do list! blinded by periodic breakthroughs,
A pragmatics circumvents the will —
The focus is on nothing we won’t do..

Caspar continued,

I’d rather not trouble you with my impressions of resource hoarding, so dependent on flow of daytime into dark. Shades at midnight can ‘almost’ whisper faintly but I botch capturing even a fraction of their message. My willingness to keep watch through the night keeps up only to find you granting me permission to maintain my distance. I’ll let you go then. I knew you would understand.

I’m just saying theocracy’s imputers are blokes of ice with no sympathy for phantoms or emanations or specters brought up in ‘new’ language. And to clear things up, there’s a scent of acacia and your frangipani but our smart landlords, the ones in black culottes, could care less.

Oh, here’s their release from last night. Don’t sign it.
I speak with self-knowledge, your holiness, sign and beware.

I’m talking to you in American.
Not going to lie, I watched us concoct a new economics affecting a radius of birthday cake, like that Depuis chip, destabilizing everyone’s temperament.

Looking into the camera makes this a document.
Which U are U?

The survey said I made it 2 the 2nd challenge,
a winning session in crude instrumentation.

Looters, rhombus-gatherers doing well, respectively; great work, cuts straight through the tea act restructure icing more cake to abandon.

The chip becomes a popular racetrack, in effect. Feels like about time, epic sums, new slender totems, new business in a rotating ruse whose subtexts you know.

New walkway and instrumentation..

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

You can light a fire, real or not, and combatants (joined complexities) suck up to the surface for a face off.
She looked right at me.
Ask me something about something forced.

Steaming write-up, To a spiritual father in the future,

If you’d gone ahead, it may have laid a basis for discussing rifts or even riffs becoming more difficult.

Nolo contendere, Bat Masterson & Hamlet,
Gothic non being, lonely contexts & Goethe’s juvenilia.
No good instincts, no ephemerality, no hidden rounds
or flexible spite.

I’m not sure it’s inclusive or scrambled enough if we differentiate among them,
& besides, why be preoccupied with peculiarities?

Nobody has to talk to me about me. I see what no means.

Poll these opinions. No contest.

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 their own use. No half-soothing word
On top various uninvented heights,
No heights outward
Of looking into what we broke —

The soul is a hypothesis, a sweet flying
fish out of water surfing over interstates
to destroy itself.

We begged it to go faster and keep at it,
stick with a sublime subject or object, rally
for more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can wake it up perhaps you should.

A man in drag wearing a gown I tie.
Your cool red bones,

A cold star, partly the wind,
Your superb gall
And me, I’m feelings which move in time
While this lowest button erases..

There they go
When you say

Well stay well
Where they rang.

I am of two minds husbanded into a common marriage.

. . . doing the math, picking up lives within data, picking here and there doing functions similarly —
Similar to grand theft thru sight, theft thru hearing and composing from that, the vigil and force

applying a youthful frame

to your pieces, since it does not come in by itself, regardless of age — more
pursuant river banks covered by usual, urgent

metaphors and substitutes of the time — and more salient,
you’re taking dictation, put into thinking after the math.

I hate being made fun of.
In the interim I’ve written jokes,
All natural as clouds part — over 1000 —
The aerodrome softly moans .. it could be roars of laughter in introspection

slotted for long silent scream divisions
— raising our heads front and center.
And owing to your interest... this won’t constitute a date.

How can I neck you into warming
up tomtom heartbeats, migrating
to youthful boundaries by hand
to hand in a laughing matter?

Trick question.
That’s how comedy for squares works. If it’s a question today,
Tomorrow, what’s the transition?

Reciprocating.

There’s little metaphor in poetry just as there’s less estate jewelry now. It’s access prose,
no freesia, every detail historically correct — a familiar model
for salad. When does it get tossed?

Language misprison = a high level position that’s been vacated, exposing hills
of robust salad greens, wholesome gains thanks to crews from IT.
Tonal jumps signify charity in a literary
float off.. .

modulating the ego, raising stakes
according to odds makers for daring.

Don’t smolder, show us
your simple skill.

This is god’s country.
I don’t know why it’s not winning.

Anima to Anima, you couldn’t be ruder.

I’m not afraid of showing the much simpler, formless inexact I wave and dissipate into highly animate raw munition. My hands are supposed to cohere in what I cull from hearsay. Raising one exudes only passion, which if you allow I agree with, with intertwined wilderness raising two, but a misdeal.

IF I have no idea to hold you,
THEN how does an idea
An

-ticpate stipulating processes for missing practice? the feel of practice?
Let’s start w/ an idea
Of making out
Under a big tree in heaven where detachment is trimmed back —




Just because I still feel nothing doesn’t mean
I can’t or won’t come up w/ representational songs of cognition, w/ jaded lyrics..
Literally externalize my comfort. Externalize discomfort, too.

..

We’d lose the dude and preachy man. Grown sounds yeh.

Hate loss by design. Classification = evolutionary collisions =
One’s work multiplied by adapted preferences, opposite Proustian project boards.

The balance recharged.

We’re moving backward. We’ve been sensing this for cars are boxy or more rounded then pointed again. As participants in consumer culture, we can grab any phone if offered, but what is this cheesy line of Republicans — the misery of recidivism with un-earnest twists, economic, stylistic, preternaturally unegalitarian, disaffects our days.

One’s partner
is a doomed villain — twenty times one’s own weight.
On a second take people are defined for their video sense
by god, by sex appeal. Thank god that intimidates.

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

Dawn. I thought I wouldn’t get back to sleep.

I was going to call it “Draped Profile.”
Held from both sides.
Distinguished in feel. “Pronounce it.”
That’s good.
Now draw the strings. Ok
— what do you know!

It goes off the air base,
Hard to shovel, soft to fall
White, blue, pale
— lavish as doves

Which are no more
Swept with visual certainty
No matter how we change in love.

It sucks less.
(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.)

We were used by demolition pros,
sliced, etc. Oh
You were fantastic,
an arms race in refuge.

This is the bridge.
Have you been?

Tasted great.
And after

Lilacs with mesh
without a searchlight to blemish
the vapor

Polarized as boats
keel and cover rubber planks
across their reflection.

For a recap, I color within lines. Drink? I take my latte to bed
And set it on the stand, tagged and released.
You wailed it, Yosemite. Morose I am.. and optimistic.

Generation service portion. p 00, bad line breaks, no indents; p 00 bad spacing for stanzas. When a poem goes to 2nd page, the 1st line begins at the point where text begins after the title — that is, 2nd page text is formatted as tho there were an invisible title above it..

Mountains stew out back under the sun in blistering speed.
Front and back: Ants climb blades of grass, over and over, seemingly without purpose.
Hollywood has always been a wide-open town that devours its athletes.

Keep to an order to begin —
Is it the broad-armed approach you took

Erasing most of marketing, any

Specificity that seemed normal?

That 

wok breakfast, man, a chef

Standing off across

Your altering my whole food outlook!
Compression is particulate and coarse-grained. But —
It remains
Both our voices have to grow

Until I know you from a prior life or loss.

Loss of pain penetrating like moral gelatin
That pressures, punctures social tyranny

Whole.

Astronomers from a famous university have nothing to give back. The known entity we reference as perpetual as well as space is erratically arced with self-erased trapezoids and dull oblongs scratched over with olfactory précis: Cosmos unexplained, fingers crossed.
Given our double indemnity, our unfulfilled categories sit atop broken mosaic atmospheres, molecules pounding from overtime. Fast above the lush, appointed blur. Keeping my hands warm.

Sermon on a Twinkie:

O tranquility, your presence
symbolizes conquest that feels great.

Presence in its wake gathered late,
“knocking down” stultifying dead flame.

Victims cohere intermittently
as victims
Of deceptive simplicity
within love’s presence as well as pride, deceit.

more bad orphans!

Paradoxical tissue is still not perfect, living unlocked, but scrunched for breakfast,
it dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for consensus over these flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions!
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole sector before repro-ed onward

offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.

A poem fires up photoshop.

A poem is a picture — I read madras glow
Coats — albino kittens hitting crescendos annoying cringing robots.
Drown me out, speed bags. Drown and kiss the cleft, sanguinary as dissolvents —
Making lock up toxic.

What a night! No problem
I slurp eating what’s reflected in your mind.    

Milk white saucers containing light — ergo
The dreamboat approach never grows stale.
You just don’t patent it.

Far out encore: One presumes elements are strung together out of desperation and a deeply ingrained will to dominate the unknown, much as technology funds science.

The technology of capital. How did Auden begin? Green song of ourselves...

From Iraq, Africa, Brazil to Hiroshima, Syria, graphic measures of tragi-comedic obliteration.

All this time Buddha and Buddhists are different things.

Knower and the known in physics, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

They’ll have us over when life and death crack the heads of any -tion...

I think I was in the movie. In Q5 I challenge myself all day.
R6, we DOLLY from a pliable shapeless mass containing lurid subject matter. It’s a blame-the-victim-y idea pushed into a visual build to make it current. “My regrets.” Switching phones..

...and into the S7 in one STEADICAM SHOT. We look up to crazy erections waiting to take us somewhere.

Something as broad as symphonic latitude will be hand lettered; this is guaranteed
as local time is disguised among novelists and botanists as living structures in the ‘inner’ harbor to cut glare from
coastal space.

Space (within) doesn’t know we’re looking...

She’s slowed us down a ‘rose’ to furnace the pace

for full positions in another trace or matter.

I chose my ode and it’s a strange wacky ditty to summer, just getting to you. As marriages go it was not all bad. I owe my bros (not you) an apology. It was just an exchange. Excuse me.

Summer!

I’ll assume you suspected I know you know. It’s in the literature.
I feel bad about blight on leaves,
I hear their effort but there is no god.

Hell is too big to fail.

Hi cute girl in black hat that works here.

Videos melding media. / These early ones are w/out turning
words.
Un-wending, emmmmm. ..

What blows you more away than a curl of grass to assess the new spring?
returning then to a friendly caveat for the melder,

Pal,
Your ‘work-arounds’ dumbfound sarcasm w/ common sense and vernacular variables.
That’s everything, a verb, noun phrase, enclosed ..
The prose poem has changed due to English.

To recover what takes over mid-grin:
“You saved my life. I’ll spare yours, for
Now.” (He’s trained in her language.)
“Are you sure you’re a supreme being?”
You and I detect a trap.

Lulu’s shooting a catastrophe getaway
Capturing sea externals, filming in ways
She’s creator, director, an eco-critic and it’s hard to manage
Her staying alive placating death spirals to disengage —
“Don’t shoot much more, that’s the plan!” Lulu’d
Feel mortified, overexposed “we’d feign ignorance,” aiming for
Satorial parody, other moments to hang back from rampage.

A new problem set:
Work through naïve discourse —

Keep methods observable as everyday mayhem —
Call this ‘transactional’ taking action
Unlocking — on sight — your pervasive hesitation.

Make it personal then dorky. Work on your arms.

Time for a rabbit out of this or that —
                                        *
                                  Urban attitudes from
                                                                                           La-Z-Boy.
*
A life is charged by voodoo graphics.

Once you sleep, you take up the ‘thereabouts’ pattern: still, it’s not overrated, I whisper to you, falling for reincarnation roughing it ..oh, wait, déja vu..

Whew! chewing to 1 side, noted by 3rd parties, dentists

Hanging out in unusual white corridors

Suggesting you’re still trembling, owing to


The chew off, just a short chopper ride

From the bank and trade. All vegan, the chew..

This is tomorrow before the cart.
The vapor’s portrait all for it, both arms..
You’re welcome, Mr Speaker.
You and I constitute the unmarried Non-Group playing along, a wild shot
in a ritual to outlast how nice that would be.

Caught in the act... there is the shameful rhyming of Sue with the next end word, Reno, ripped from the lucky pick songbook as is most every line here and beyond; well then,

PS, there’s a masterfully silly next stanza .. spins the entire ‘enlightening’ arc on its heels, forcing speculation — you’re not only cooling off but looking into and out of the eerie, pathetic cartesian axis of ..

Stanza: A suck-up acts obsequiously toward a bootlicker, flatterer yes-man, flunky, lackey, spaniel stooge. Cold blooded around the longest day of the year, rhyming with you.

Christ, I hope you succumb to mezzo logic

even if your other car is a broom.

Morning has two or more other parts. Pieces whose lengths alternate among eight lanes here,
snaking around ‘our entire cultural orientation on its heels.’

Faith in darkness brokered like any morbid trend you see thru :

An alto sax and you may figure prominently.

To cheat the fates “women and men returning the favor” marry your projectile. Welcome back.

First block, Comm Ave & if you go, dress down — anything aggressive looks terrible.
Capacious anxiety, yup, again —
Hold to your decoder status
When done run off with your belongings —

Back to the South Shore.
The journey along the expressway feels made up so we can live by ourselves without being alone.

To teach a lesson sinking into inaudibility
“a poem with fewer pictures looks better.”
You may have expected more

yet every phrase from the past is touched by your future.

Ridiculed by sycophants & inferiors, RM Rilke talked to whom?
I rank his output very high.
Off the scale, 9 plus or more to exaggerate
(if I could, hmm).

Duino. No lacunae needed, Rilke’s asyntacity sets an extreme standard atop
chaffron & crinet, maximally tall, looking down over his sprawling,
immersive, dark & smoky project-for-good, 10 or higher.

— Empress Eugenie

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

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

Not being Alexander 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.

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 digital copy and hybrid processing from search algorithms, remixed with other types of found or authored material.

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 wrenching formal droplets from their generic 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 plain speech (scanning other people’s suffering, one readymade example).

Surprised, we stood and talked for a while until, with Cosby-ish aplomb, his stand-in lifted the tarp and showed it to us.

It’s spooky rhyme but it wasn’t my first



choice; the machine flunked me —
My thought calculates sitting there. It restores my faith in the bonus shod of prowess, smoking in slacks (touching my two knees behind your back), undressing. Exercises for throat become a habit they can’t keep up but the revenge police are still baffled, turning bright green.

Squandering the opportunity —
I didn’t have to what the hell?
Living requires
alternative means for the puzzled trot,
the smell of being in a raw shoot from every progressive angle.

I'm winding into a reliance on hardworking pleasures, broccoli, incense
and venue rumbles, open plans, open lots,
and this most generalized, I guess,
burning, turning up.

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

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 in each glance — a name burned..
to a crisp. Smile. Shall we?

Rough framework: A giddy notation to a story.

Visuals like abstract blurs formally at odds,
Split seconds in a bigger act with no data.
A bog of cloudburst capsizes, disabused of clouds, 
blending in, no longer exterior to land 
untrusted and tenured, a heavy rain 
snapping into randomness.

Role switch. I’m editing you a poem.

I’m not unversed in universal postcard theory. I hear it’s packed with shrill ideology, multivalent intelligence, ultra-experimental conversation. But postcards, man, they feel good as marginal surprises.

I’m writing where the living talk to the dead, like the hushed in mysticism boasting of their willingness to find compromise.

Rumor confirmed. Not a dress. Dresses.

Now she’s spilling bourbon over my a-line, all thumbs to keep our game up & running. Likewise I’ll write about it. As poet-jewel-thief wearing a-lines, you might think it profitable for me to string her sentences together — paste rubies & artificial pearls deliberately mismatched, like John Waters’ suburbs, adroitly passé. Each sentence shines in gloom as ends won’t match up with beginnings, not quite, each sparkle dulled into an afterthought containing falsehoods but cinched by faintly plausible style — sparkle doubled down, my other dresses hanging above bowls of Chesapeake crabs & fish hooks, accidents-in-the-making!

Looking into the camera, I go clubbing, shopping & I like standing outside various consulates.

I’ll let you know how that fares.

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

Pull over, this is serious.
Quiet desperation, the flip side of formalism ...

I don’t know that much about you, but you remind me of someone
who can recall profound formality taking shape not that 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 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.)

Yes or no in 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. No yet also yes to poems scoping life as a masterpiece, addressing a doormat standing an inch off the casing, fourth-up past the itch out of everywhere but nothing or every itch up your sleeve. Yes or no tempo of glyphic turmoil grounded into dotage and torpid incision in not one vowel or all 80 of them — 800, yes or no prophase for pensive description. No to yes there’s insatiable shine.

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

A flaw 2 syntactical secessionists —

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

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

On a second take kinfolk are defined for their good sense
by god, by sex. Thank god that intimidates.

Never scat, I learned squat, handily
Apollonian on a fad diet...I get the feeling
one’s god has gone one’s way.

Cause of death
a) mixed nuts
b) occasional manifesto
c) serial paeans

Last or llth hour w you:

If you
weigh nothing
and get no credit, no
spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in
yah there’s a substitution agreement containing you
and me in force, pulled on from inside.

— If dear, and oh yah asleep / awake again, more than once w/ a face of a poet. Or a filled out line. Or lines. Smiling lessons.

Unapplied sketch.

Home base, hierarchal Finland: say it’s working through the population.
We’re the entire crew. The socialist’s way.
Two smoky dogs tracking our boots in drizzle, shining from sight, playing by stacks of storm windows in restless composure translators can’t reach.

To aggregate is to achieve. Afterward a file will result.
I am sick of academics or money majors telling poets
There’s deficiency of thought, of ideas.
All the same, this is the 2nd point.
The 1st is like the oboe in I. Got. You. “Tear up this paper,”
Adorno says. Plain speech is a fair shake at fame.

When you put your money down
We can start from the beginning.
The rules commit us to collaborating, which turns to collective anger
Over language. But you’ve always been mad about something else.

In this bronze age of cliché


Men and women are spangled genetic machines. 


I know that. 



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

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

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

Went wild one lane over, so I was arrested.

Mellow landscape:

On earth bodies of work change motives for raisinets 



to stay fresh, even when a tectonic plate jumps up like under
Slaver mandolins (in spades).
I can see it happening, a con on the brain
where data get processed in fewer and fewer dots, data

clinging to like objects, bourbon and mints.

And down in fog shoes... here’s where I lost them. (Ever 



-yone does.) Not just me. Clouded yellows ennoble the sky taking over



a closed gas station hungry for more events.

Just saying
Spontaneity backs up position vectors.

Woe is paralytic.

Can we construct the weather to circle bright light credited to seven chimeras in a purified labyrinth?
Yes, I think we can. Those seven now under the weather quiver to sleep, resembling one another trembling.

Pine assembled.

Iron Man’s story is demagnetized, clad in desolate sarcasms. The problem with armed robots turns into a familiar intra-corporate hissy fit of wits, in which the good and the bad have half a point, each. The U.S. military is unprepared, on hold until lawyers and the free press show up. The government is reforming itself in Arizona, maybe. Not messing with Gwyneth Paltrow, Robert Downey’s action requires we slurp it up and merge with his pure, open, and larger character outside merely bringing animation-to-life: his art and his body, his figure and his celebrity, our viewing and his performance. Then he twists the head off Jeff Bridges, g’bye. Downey is leaving us holding the check, a synthetic notary of chintz and winsomeness stomping and cavorting giantlike across our timidity. Moral? Even his neck muscles have learned to shrug, a great veteran begins to combust.

You want an open divorce.

I am thrown into an absolute — take a wild guess. Moolah, piles of it stuffed in holes carved out of planet Earth, stacking up with such speed it reflects us as we advance toward convenience stops and arbitrary stretches we don’t care about.
Honest accounting disappears like functions of context (jury deliberation) —
as though all is well with our stats, as though we never knew the cosmos on a first-person basis, never forgot the name of the enslaved for vampiring the engines.

Meaning I am ready.

Obfuscate more, the glued predicates are drying.
‘Polls’ down.
No truth merges presidentially / you well know
Bad news just talks its way in —

As if ..It’s ok. Just punishment

Confounding unconscientiously, touching dual roles in the human algorithmic — desultory of us to ‘read’ and re‘read’ brutality extending to our one political body always for the first and next time ..

Step Five (ok, I hardly get to do this one): I start nodding off admiring invisible gamma material at some teeny level of stochastic existence. I can imagine a spontaneous disintegration of same until I find myself in a place like here, only a ‘half-life’ where speech is still material.

Lynne drops the phone. She looks at the limo waiting to take her on and beyond. By now thinking for Lynne is challenging but I have practiced warrior politics a bit. That's a fact, just as outlaws and heroes are arbitrarily broken up by the parking arcade and doorways where a government like ours gets established.

Longhand example:

Anguish over a panel about reasoning and not writing anything down, angst in its emptied refraction dancing on a taillight for syntactical beings (in a sentence) on a muddy sidewalk.
So that’s one.

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

I live in an echo of a country.


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

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

marshals over the property.


I should break my leasehold, ergo. Not really, she said out

loud, ahead of how I was supposed to know.


This was the first time.

You know, you look psychic ..

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

Passion, the big man.


Mmmmmmmm immersive trance spot, on loud

so the ambient workspace can hear,

feel it in stages striking after dark.

With or without, intimate forces of light lower, after all,

just as there’s bad DNA

or much less awesome crap. The of of partial perpetuity

feeling the kill

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

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

We were dangerous, once. The voice is transparent, too middle aged to make it sparse. Even restraint is wishy-washy. A lake in your basement doubling, you’re too aquarist and prodigal to feel anything. It’s a place angelfish enjoy their revisionist’s view, unobstructed, puckered in ab exercise.

Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises.
Never enough zest or sprouts. Propose the synonym.

We came from coming back
running on a cult classic with breathy folk components,
listening and showing we both are here, one part

synergetic Weltliteratur giving less weight to fantasy —

another I guess is where we part ways.

*

You then I change very slowly with a shower curtain,

on televised football. Management didn’t yell

raising your pulse rate. Or is it just to remind you?

The mailbox happens. A man’s voice, game, calm, also nervous. Protecting a sleep-laden vessel of dreams threatens it. Everyone knows that as we have never been better aligned at night.
Scraps and parts of rope out of here.

Nesting austerity is neatly poetic, consuming dignity.

I bet in the future we have no mail from the here
and now. We’ll be on site.

Tattoos first, second, his hair.

The plot leaves the door to irresolution ajar —

Guess what, the grabber is un-bolted down in segments like a rattle
spinning to take effect. It adds an all night ring to our narrative, id est,
the needle breathing hard, leaving the hole
open to irresolution,
to set up availabilities for picking up the dissolved thread.

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

I wear them indoors.

Coat of arms:
There’s something to mining homilies and off-color
copy, imitating / replicating Dionysius for the evening drive.

We’ve now passed the second-cousin stage of wretchedness. You’re good
to take it up with the authorities before severing the vines.

A politician, claimant of the photogenic vitamin to stop the bleeding,
is not much of a sentence, lacking meaning, more useful settling in mere syntax
as warm-to-medium as a visual partnership queued up for a motorcade.

Here’s one’s take on getting back together. It’s one part
to tensive healing (a method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow)

& aspected by hedges, almost. To go on shifting subjects
— I whisper to you, falling myself for reincarnation —
panicked a zillion light seconds too soon — too late thinking literally
in compliance w/ odds off bets already placed... wherein
chants, conflicts w/ breakfast & rubbery clouds, a proverbial laugh:

Nobody totally killed it. The bonuses were un-destroyed. It’s

little irony the estate repaired to is only offered in the ‘thereabouts’ pattern...

I got a grip on the heebee-jeebees.
Times are an outrage. Good times, lean, treason’s treason.

We’re tracking theme thru anxiety —
for prejudice damn well plays a formalist bias, looks like
a tradition of selfishness I’m loosely not interested in.

Tax breaks for the wealthiest keep it humming.

To look is also

(we note now at the end to physics-oblivion)
to be seen.

What happened there?
Narrow rails, sheer curtain..

Step out of the church.

Never confess.

Straighten your teeth, vampire.

I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Resentment buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous,
beats through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right, clinging to my male sexuality

without a theory of purpose or the gift of agency to promote my case, as masking vanity becomes a fund raiser’s challenge.

Fizzy yet salient points soak into the beach hanging out for the escape clause (always the last place you look!)

Have a Bud.
I treat our sect thermos as a norm for trade
finding order in play divisions and muscle octads
glinting with swapping.

Light exchanged positions. A party to you.
It felt good how it broke down the room.
We say party is one axis of favoring and feeling more
but less than seppuku —

(Party is just one axis.)

A script doctor from Flintstones drew the curtains to reveal Mad
Ave where people pass by, walk-on roles in our dead end window.

Cheerleaders knock themselves out, tied together in women’s swimwear.
Odd, one has not learnt it’s scripted.



The street, a cul de sac, casts shadows
over ATM maps bringing more into the live swelter.

Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads.
The contours.

1 enclosure without a pulpit, no dogma...
outdoor passages to enter then exit self sponsorship
spreading out in willful overloads of language design —

Skilled decor, de-simplified, or notional contracts
between science and who knew?
ironic technologies without precedent —
a corporate hold across manners and adaptations, restrained praxis
and hermetic syntax, all noun phrases.

Nice beachfront but there are fewer nouns
and fewer bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little) —
it seems immaterial — immaterial, 1 of those 2-headed enigmas :

nothing much and — hey! — another noun phrase.
An eerie self-eating metamorphosis.

Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.

There’s a scent of acacia and soft frangipani, but that’s not your story.

You are a triumph.

You love waterskiing but you also play chess.

You come as you are prepared, in control as your influence multiplies.

You’re a particularly effective imposter.

Like nowhere else in one place,
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a stream of gasses embossing / conjoining an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brays.
All our neighbors are mirror bees. Music up. Am I not one?

A kimono has been entered, explaining sex without thinking, and with. It explains our slender objectives wearing each other’s fragrance, weakening the night body.

Anyone can wish for ‘portal trans specificity,’
Me? I talk in a lowered register to get totally inside my face. Your face.
Your brow sports a few layers of sleep
relief, aching in baby, cutely accruing intimacy.

Meanwhile a new team is working on strategy, yielding larger holds on cultural cynicism..

Very good, Jack. We were going over some numbers, audience shares, I mean maxims, and...
I would like to voice concern about poetry and critique spiraling out
of control...

Look, I’m filling out forms by the nightstand.
The point is I’m not writing anything “garbage-y.”

Don’t be silly, Jack. You are daytime poetry.
That’s cruel, Rabbi, very cruel.

RNA itemizes facts.
Do you like spiral dares?
Or to be bubble-footed in dark briefs!
None of the above!

Fat, never satisfied,
we come from creatures far back, slowly calmed
by fear we were of a kind they were to others, lacking
redoubled patrimony and finding-it-out tools.

Distribution adjustment has those to spare..
tasked down from behaviorist beliefs.

Bragging rights for garden displays,
packing up your ambiguous belongings,

you know what you’re saying when we point
to family planning toothpaste invested

in one cause — you almost stood against the wall
bending over at different angles, you say.

Flashbacks pertain.
Large reflecting pools in the future, it’s just a thought.
If I introduce vagueness as a more devout
machine therapist, we can escape

thought-train derailment, bringing on experiments in graphemic parole,
rescue room from disillusionment.

Smothered abstractions. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me almost holding the moment but for paranoia’s belated audition trapping you if we let go while yielding authority.

I do what I can. It wears on me.

G forces gathering momentum in shade —
Midnight dining, rambling
later like deer in bed, shiny
in smoke.

Seagulls catch sparks and birches tear
thru passive groans uttered to affirm fajita
in snatches, opera and shush...

Received pronunciation foregrounds style but
Why can a vampire selfie be less sadistic than ad copy from Dyson?

We’re both bat shit over historical fantasy. Well, I enjoyed it.
Bowie’s on Netflix. What does he look like? It’s ok to impart?

I admire his pronounced snaps of skepticism, obsequious, sharpened anomalies.

An etude like celebrity.

Time runs out.

Your poetry has a political bent.
I stay in position, authentic / inauthentic;

I model your bifurcated attitude
yet 
everything I do is sin. One after another piles up if
or when —

This is when —

The nuclear self, writing you, lingers for a moment or more... Huh? Now you know I did it.

I wish I hadn’t / I wish I didn’t.
Fund-raise off that.

Boo hoo.
My friend ran away with his silent partner
who stole my identity. I'm trying
to look at it from my point of view.
The current balance resumes its teachings. Can-
dles out, pie for the asking, grace
to be white boats opposing payment due.

Trading down, can you place our names? You miss the point.
I have a decorative indeterminacy wearing a terminal degree, while I got to anticipating how ambivalent I am about Bedlam.

Unlike the head in a head, third-rate supreme courts are traded from the top; time to find fortune underground, in roundish coiffures north of town. As noted last century, there’s the rustic perp for a painter style and muddled cool.

“Could you be a little more specific, doctor?”

Destroy and smooth nothing.
Imitate killing seeing
the system.

Mind control is a full canoe of alter-egos, disingenuous.

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.

The soul is a belief system
done in by grief and American English.
I hope you can let this go..

I’m breathing without a commodity or form; structurally I’m sustained by hypothetical force —
I can’t go on without an amble — an episode in telegenics.
When we walk together, it makes no language difference what we believe, what the soul is.

I’m just commenting.
The soul’s inscription read you’re my business.

Sobriety, not mine, 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 scrubbed sounds we hear in the mountains and fading friendships.
Sociologists are stepping up and nodding off
Under the influence of futon cramps and similar cars
Transporting pouti debs and elephant men,
Dostoevsky wrote.

Calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with top notes we won’t ignore, some jittery appliance in occipital brushfire, active against the ‘human grain’ under our governing bodies.

Considering the birdlike monoplane gliding away like ten fingers, I’m off-on visualizing critique
as poetics done by hand. A thought cartoon I initiate:. The off-on hand switch serves as a drawbridge to ontology. When the bridge is open, Waiter,

there’s a figment in my soup. The quartet’s on a mission; higher up, wait staff’s part poodles /

part associations we can void

as we have a hoist to operate disentanglements by hand.

All this time Buddha and Buddhists are different things.
Knower and the known in physics, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

They’ll have us over when life and death crack some heads of automation...

Thru drizzle stepping over water, balloons floating
In a once swimming pool.. spurts of views down
Hallways of stairs set apart and fronted
With music waking in dimming brightness
Without memory of how you got there, you.

I got a grip on heebee-jeebees.
Times are an outrage. Good times, lean, treason’s treason.

We’re tracking themes thru anxiety —
for prejudice damn well plays a formalist bias,
a tradition of selfishness I’m loosely uninterested in.

Tax breaks for the wealthiest keep it humming.

To look away is also —

we note now at the end to physics-oblivion
— to be seen.

Morning prayer.

Spectacle, desire, the physical. 3 things one ought not to be without. When I find them in others, I know I’m getting close to unending originality.
All for one is dated. I won’t practice knowing what it means to maximize experience over accomplishment.

Just piano and voice.

I won’t do more, not even for track officials powered with centrifugal force from a hot past.

I should add my visual gamut speeds up, surrounded by haves and have-nots of guitar spinning in freezing wind.

Infrastructure has been backbenched.

Father’s Day for the dead? hold on
I’ll put you
on greenish “pallor enhancer.”

Granddads breathing around us, sweating under a river of supportive skin
that flows on,
wakes up for compliments ...
What’s your problem?

I’m too ugly it’s true..

No counterarguments.

(When I can’t

sleep I can’t

dream.)

The coding is simple, your Fearsome.
Your voice is full of loot, “walking Genet
on a diamond leash.”

I’ll try self erasure or received piety, different things to flesh out, text.

What is first cause?
Your very breath, very now too close to you, on you
finding my direction as I thought of you —
so it never happened.

Allowing no pleasure from coercion, crossing heights

The show was called; I’m sorry the rain spat.

(I’m sorry it was really hard for you back then.)
Yes. And your voice tends toward stridency.

Good point, syntactically empty. I’m sorry throughout your text.

I prefer a clean hotel.
Calling time-out a makeshift break-
point, outside boundaries of slackening contact.
We need smarter drywall, too, to excite ferns and moss growing
contours beeping

Up, shiny, imperfect, not held in place —
Your nose looks finished beneath the stopper.

Breakfast at Starbucks and we’re wandering off
headed for the B terminal,
a legacy installation in profane solitude.

No punishment without a reward, reverend.
Only your own revels meet you halfway, morning blurring promises in
An aftermath of the hiatus, letting your adages cool.

Is this a document or did I make it up?
Frozen water on Mars is the smoking gun.

Another question. Smelling coffee gasses a decimal
Of where should I hurt?
Once and be done.

Straighten your teeth, vampire.

Take a wild guess —

It’s a classic knife-in-the-back suicide..
for a good time undressing gets to be a habit but police are still baffled.
There’s efficacy speaking clearly, gesturing, knitting a brow,
just commenting for now.

Everything belongs... related thru stress.

Cloistered, possessive habits flatten into praxis
— tho it’s instinctive to watch who’s singing
I get no points jumping in or off.


It’s just synecdoche leaving not sharing to chance.

Autobio: Peace, justice, ecology, all upilifting.
That’s not to say there’ll be no food.


But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently
— 4 plastic badges for now and pa-


Per sacks. Imitation spinner features,
striving for positive letterform

abstractions, speed processed
but that alone is wearying.

You cannot do this job alone — an intuition.
Nor perspicacity.

Non-linear process (formerly progress, one kind), implicit co-branding of public domain utterance, hysterical strings (upon strings) of surprise, skilled 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 sentiment, 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, 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 in connection with emerging appropriations by psychopathology. It’s an early manifest of a viral cloud in our terms. By now every sentence in MB can be re-assembled into a poem, waiting to be found out.

Stan is the man, a legend;
it’s “OK” Stan explains,
we’re all Buddha’s fault.
He isn’t kidding.

More than a god or a three-in-one, a god’s pup
fills in quantum entities on a not-
fully-occupied terrain, terrain, I repeat, “on
pause.” This is space and time —
Whew — you think of puppy paws
as your head fills up with the stickiest
most adorable pup jpegs filled out
in dissonance for street lights hum

and flicker


and ……


and


emotions
Stan aims to lay claim to and
protect for his own.

Suburban Liquor Store Male Protocol:
✔ Eyes down.
✔ I don’t know you.
✔ Never will.
✔ I’m not gay, are you?
✔ Go Sox.

Living in an urban sandwich,
tomorrow or the day after takes out what’s here,
it’s in the doing log, down toward the end. Even if you see
spoilage as natural you might sense a hidden hand (vengeance).
Those who argue grow untimely.

2 out of 2 observers were cut off. Innocent men on a wet
Highway, casually substituted.
During the break we reached an agreement.

Onto what?

We’re a special team. We’re circumspect.
Our sharing mechanism (pretext) gives no voice
to repeated wandering motifs over a long silence
we back off from. Nightly


we face 10-to-life thickets of cloud & southerly winds
taking it to other investors who might stay offended,


the next step in the training.

New pressures during a break from bodyguards.
I enjoyed it when the vertex saw us off.
Later we got dressed
for golf and congregated in the face with peers.

Starting at the bottom, the face is inside a very powerful camouflage (instructing us to use it).

The sun, authentic each day, is too direct, preferring disorder
beside a confection of labs, East Cambridge..

Obliqueness shows up around access to felt

authority. It’s fair if you can’t say why.
The new job title appears un-urgent & you’re evenhanded getting back here.

This is an essay forgetting that mess nevertheless. I’m searching
new categories to enter in with you uninvolved.

Ongoing:
The sparrow’s wardrobe is beaten but breathing. He’s on our land...
One way to degrade-ultimately-destroy the dynamism of capital.
Otherwise, there’s only perpetration and fortune to hide.
After homesickness, there’s new inebriation
running a tab, also a little
suffering a little moving in with my
parents (the boiler room) because they like me...
I just don’t worry: It’s the best 3 dimensions
money can buy breaking into immense mist clots .. hard
to reformulate .. (It’s up in the air. The property goes on while.)

Bed in U.S. landscape:

Artificial snow more than rewards spikes downward, hooping, de-branded in their best cursive; one to one identical, available now, as an all-skee riot.

“A solid base” cited in the last run of snapping into a shitmobile as TV descends from snow foaming an imagination. I do not have license to bring in blood.

It’ll be there where I leave it —
under a trope for snowed over bonhomie —

Clarity collapses in shrewd climax, torquing with disaster tv on, volume up, backpacking beautiful goods.

“Indebted” you may think sounds offensive and depraved — down where
“forgive me” and “accept me” weave around power lines, owing.

Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” the human says. He was staring at my clogs, wondering how they’re embossed.

When struck a lightning rod emits dust, after that a solution, a chemical substance that squiggles down to my feet. That’s how.

Focused. Demented.
No shortcuts. Nope.
It’s regrettable, they say —
Twin Peaks doesn’t add up
under binge watch...

Not entirely, but it seems unforced holding to an ideally liberal weirdness.
David L through Kyle M is an observer with an uncapped fortune,
reflecting what adolescents do when their backbones ice up,
raising all boats, all social levels.

Caliginous faces, doubts, pleasant things.
No tedious script but liberation in horror!
We heard from the ‘producer’ under his own rubric
that I guess is also an icon for his intentions.

And yet stuck at this end I’d settle for a shorter story
like a preface to a cookbook. Staying within lines.

We’re feeling besieged, a little called out
in the meaning of no revolution now.

It’s a state of mind according to Hoyle.

Global warming jazzes a decimal of our pablum.

Where should I hurt?

Once and be done. A few more.
There’s no torture unless it causes organ failure.


Baby steps fix the climate really fast

for we feel tall

and inflatable as we cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

There are statements of facts
And those of law. Their truth
Levels go down or soar — depends on
Outer linear order.

The young gain on the old, those that would,

Externalizing an antiquity beyond their years. (That’s the renaissance.)

Reciting new slang exponents,
We live and die in non sequiturs. Dive and fly.

Speaking of the cultural moment,
There’s no contract for a hermit! And you forget peace of mind.

This is a loose translation, drawing on elements of your life. You planted yourself here.
How was it to record the soundtrack for an unscripted movie? Was it like writing from a retrieval search with lots of different data trees leading to nebulous, chaotic deculturalization?

I can’t circle my attraction to Japanese manners. Not yet.
A Japanese color, though, is how a light olive shifts to vetiver or chartreuse, fading hunter into aroma basilicum, dark lawn as ice minted circles yellow sage for citrus spritzes and multiples of khaki to translucent sprigs of tea in Kyushu spring.

Can I state my own fact as fact?
We’re nimbus-wet. The dark edges must be why
Two very different outcomes equally square
What we hear.

Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane senses. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in geometry practice.
It’s a well-funded fact eye-contact is defensive but our strategies shoot for contents. Self defense has grown old — that’s the dilemma. Look away, we seem to be intimating..

This is how we appear in college texts, models of therapy that’s para-situational. We can’t go on but it’s our job. Inconceivable it seemed that way.

Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt 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.

When you read this, it appears prior to who prompts it.

Not you.

We got wind of your discretion in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with a couple of new features and a few we move in any direction.

Not you.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom bank with us!
But this interests me only so far. More curious — why we approach poetry trying to understand it.

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.

Not you.

The disease gathered in the kitchen at the office.
Democracy is a charity case. I have checklists from television.
It’s beginning to come undone, a lesson-fraught age.

Identity point: A social democratic government is not that hot.
But we have no regrets the I-origin is streamlined within earshot.
It’s already installed.

Off to the side, keeping their posture, libertarian gymnasts escape!
A redo with ‘we weren’t afraid to come to grips.’

We can’t compress enough or too much. We were one people at one time.
We also = I. This is how a toy psyche writes more conscientiously touching
on a couple of endearing dual roles in an algorithmic yet also-conscious translation;
desultory of us to read and reread brutality extending to our 1 body under infinite
ceilings, howling for the first time —

I’m no judge of character. I just treat myself.
Having a Bud on a cul de sac with a dead end
feeling my rage boroughwide..

Holy moly, June produce and a way to pay for it!
there’s strength in staring at a bug zapper, attracted
to light while staying competitive.
Bud? Our sect thermos is a norm to trade on
finding order amid play divisions and more play octads dealing /
glinting with hamminess.

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


but staying in the picture. Voice changes and all.

When blood types were fresh no one was blamed. Now I am and I would like to see or set up the 1st position, be shown the dissolved needle and my as it were haystack with no frontiers, knocking the moment down with glances, nods, inspiring small talk.. yet keep it under wraps.

How now, the anapest.

To a liberal democrat,

You need to work on you own party and platform. It’s calmative blending in with nonpoets off and on, video vignette artists, others indistinguishable from scientists.
After work you’re human illuminated octane, in radiant shirt, no sleeves and sweat pants. Or maybe not. Your heart is non-music-industry.
Solitude, confidences, learn times in the day, the plays and valentine paradigms.

Space between each face adds up as you say waiting, keeping eyes glued to the platform.

I’ll say it again, there’s a method to share but it’s overrated.
I’m high-fived as I whisper to myself, falling for the tautology.

Diva writes,
My leaving office is double edged as I am prone to off-center my impenitence about ‘the what’ we don’t get, the known limits to affirm any retraction, winding into a reliance on hard work, pleasures, plans, and this most generalized, I guess, one shoulder hitched higher, to name names but allegorizing ‘the what’ — it happens.

It’s nothing personal.

I go for the moody and unexpected.
The color of the spine goes ultimate, high and below, unlikely yet

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

Hands up.

On the corner of statue and the outer cape, there’s
a beyond just passed an easy show of han ds
beyond orgasm overdue an hour ago (one mild altercation took it
into a shade of de-constraining tease).

A heyday of hands.

This copy has been duplicated.
The rest is history, throwing leaflets.

Nobody trusts perception, eh?

Tho moral bases are gnarly, like a helicopter in spin, any panorama
you enjoy leads to ‘representative fantasy’ or a real fake apposite the perceived, blocking open
view, requiring accommodation to time squeezes that appear on purpose, tho cyclical,
‘unlovable’ (according to Wilhelm and Baynes). But conflict is not merely evil if it
lends focus to self regard and moving on, moving collegially. This is the potential
utility of bachelorhood.

... the rookie is burning on the outside, his only credits were adamance /
to squelch any dramaturgy from theology, wealth and actionable conditions, missing
how far you are beaten into their projections.