In Slavic tongues, a truly socialist government is not that hot.
Wearing nothing but pilates for motives, eager too,

Mixing shy and rabbity, squeaking like biblical
French — it’s just plain meaner. And we negotiate euros (cash) for rapprochement.

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

Not out of calculation) — I now know this will be ok
For big amounts ashore are fudged —
To one side — tempting by re-mechanized stone, untested, untried
nothing better within its reach. It = your grasp, a central aggregate.

Quick, migraine control,
the patter of little consonants
like the chemistry of a sensitive night —
in it but not of it,
landing unilaterally
as a fleet of empty airplanes
hands thrills over to dog owners,
staff in hand, pharaoh.
Call our reps for further contact.

Nothing new. A feeling continues you could write until you drop ...
a feeling from here buried below the animation.

The half familiar I’d like to pull off,
replacing that half with glass and
silence, an ensemble for stripping down to not talking.

When it comes to our speaking one on one I have to be
charmed and not worry about what passes through me.
Me, of course, is an expansive subset of charm, a trinket I believe.

One of these days..
I don’t think so ..

Onset waves beat their descriptions prompting fish next to want alums.
Out of breath, nearly within sight, in humble slacks, huffing at the mouth,

Sister Fish wishes a poem had nobody cared. A collapsible bottle of one

With no message, just a name.

Sorry for such shoddy expanse. Regrettable pieces
 of blue and orange foam and Plexiglas 
got glued together.. ugh, it registers.. Model boxwood
 hastily assembled last 
night, fallen into roots turning in its rhapsodic bed. Sorry hours
 earlier I ordered radical simplifications 
to all legs of the centepede at e-z headquarters. Pitiful my most important 
role now is never undoing things. Sorry there wasn’t a switch to make a more polished 
address to our global array of sexes.

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

A severe tone? Start writing. 

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

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

Run for your lives, no remorse. 

Ignore prior love commands.

Sitting alone would debunk The Center, like the-cosmos-is-many-teabags idea, but elf-irony eventually restores centerism or centrality, because the unwelcome news on this — ‘all’ hell broke loose. Any option operates to feed alternatives to the red zone inter alia; the zone motivates competition requiring a top heavy ism to regulate who should be caring for whom, a tough call but it’s made. Usually by a policing force.

This proverbially is from decades ere 3-D printing:
“To let yourself whisper through fracas takes a kind of aplomb, an achievement needing practice, a cookout with overview. Among classes of poets: waifs & strays & some lucky ones orphaned to an alien ethnicity, completely busted, out of place, in the wrong skin. (Welcome, rookies!)

At teaching intersections they come together for untangling snarls in their alien presence. If they nearly die for the gravy, they’ll show us their wounds, love notes imitating fury.”

Speaker one. Two. Here I am on autobio. I work for myself.

My employer is a centipede.
I aspire to such simple random thought
I’d like to postulate I’m an
evergreen seed
-ling aboard a slow poke riding to work — worker and work all aboard molecules snared
in a semantic thicket —

I have a steady girl now. I have rage covered. I have it

everywhere. Coordinates everywhere.. everywhere..
faceted spin as well as mediating random elements, mostly
fuzzy snapshots but also font variations.

Good-bye everything.

Venus was alluding not to the Warhol of Village Wedding, nor the Breugel of Bouvard y Peruchet nor the Caravaggio of Dictionary of Received Ideas, but to the whole of Flaubert with these distinctive features: (a) an orientation — introducing De Palma’s every motive to film repetition; (b) a rising action — a co-quest; (c) a climax — a serious complication but never with a resonance (or movement); (d) a big fall — the quest is martyred to some lewd object or, worse, an idea (e) a never-ending Venus De Brian.

Can I call you privately into the moment —
Hadn’t surfeit and raised eyebrows happened months ago?


An incandescent unsettling,
Just look;

We have no rich uncles,
No pills or angst, no
Great surprises — Much of what counts

Is reckless footage
That seizes our space —
The beak of the finch

And then the whole finch hop
Where it plants itself.. no
Public sentience in nature.. some disgust (in particles) —

Doyle in a green dress leaned
In a hetero-inclusive manner
Against a far wall,
Perhaps not far enough, as
She was distracted —
Her distraction bringing pressure
To my 4 fingers, right hand
Fidgeting with her necklace
Which at that moment I coveted more than — sing it,babe
.. are you trying to interfere ..
& she was staring in the mirror — looking
Not at me but past me, into a space
— a slot of a zone
That might be filled by someone nice,
A successful televangelist no doubt
Yet to arrive there, on an invisible journey...
(journey, my roughshod term for predation & warfare
Which could lead directly to calmer views in the mirror..)
This was years ago, according to Doyle.

& seeing you now in a green dress stare past me —
An instrument of obscurantism, shifting
Into a place I could only imagine
Grabbing a microphone as you fled, alluvial
— each second there’s a pang
Bursting eardrums.. the yakking
As if you & I were stepping out
— eternal blasts of facsimiles in song
From a mirror where spotify still
Rocks into an arid white room; breathless & eager
We show up for another whisky
Only to discover this late
Hey, we can do this!

You and I better hold our desire and send this to higher ups.
O rockets to further airborne research.
From you and to you.

You as the river and its canopy are illuminated
..bailiff. O bailiff, seize that aura...

Welcoming in its effervescence
Resolved of our lies,
Unseen by each.

Violence resolutions have been approved, schematicized for good and
remuted as gossip to evade a “mating strategy” to partner our
heirs’ viewing planks. O Headwaiters..

Our thoughts raise poobahs of meandering dissolution,
leaving a lavish record of the male hush-from-hand-to-fingers-to-mouth.
I enjoyed it when my innocence sawed into us,
even though sheeted in asterisks.

Later we got dressed for golf, and congregated in our faces with peers.

We met in a torn design aka unstable. Pointilized face lifts, for instance.
Micro repairmen drones no one talks to about anyone.

But tell me how the chief executive is special?
All words are of the dharma —
For ages we can typecast the rip a deformed hemisphere
over — a seething blueprint in theorem.

Here we have — the uncomfortable feel
                                        of the talking head’s manner of speech, little hands,
grist for a toy presidency and its symbolic defensive narcissism.
Groomed for the fall, it’s nothing’s personal.

“The French know it’s summer. The rues de lille unravel
— a puppy will be stepping down as a reviewer

to disengage proceeds turning out emotional ties to products.
The goal is to pillory profitable abstractions ... ”

Henry is a crazy bastard. James hangs tough and writes,
“To donor offspring ownership is sweet.
The goal of hindsight though is to identify
every living triple threat

transcending how much sexual naiveté
was never far beneath the surface.

Freudian documentaries are actually
our proudest commercials to date.”

I could laugh

Promoted to intimacy
is tormenting therefore and remotely sinking in,
parallel to kissing your mouth (...trying it).
The rest is see-through like the coast
where I show you

an authentic lot with a kite
near a decal of shade trees.

Heaven is in our hearts with an egg drop of credos and documents, from which large scale dull instruments get tossed.

We drink to your mistakes.

Victory revamps emotional sourcing —
the anabolic edge is at distant
abstractions that the tide
makes explicit as exurban rims

and the pliant brush of milky acreage,

while waterfalls possess a brilliance

defending prior conditions in / out

awaiting a new collapse.

Before they arrived, there’s flamenco.

Water worship exquisitely handcrafted
meditative retributions..
The hollow inside was mixed up, the early polling said —

overlapping symbols’re way out in the ocean.

Your ocean. Your flamenco in transition.

Our faith and consequences.

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 innocence or payment due.

As luck has it, sections of Alien Tatters (2000), a pre-nine-eleven work, are prescient or more recognizably urgent afterward: Then the top comes off of terror. You age. All the same pictures in everyone’s possible. They stir up the common in search, not to find but to wait. Images are waiting. Sentences are narrowing. Clark Coolidge tapers and tightens sentences to embrace “self-hung trouble” — “I know it looks like I’m not sure of anything,” not sure of monkeyman and his music / poetry that “kept turning me, the one with the three reasons sealed in a pod.” As luck has three reasons or meanings, when Coolidge observes, “..don’t want to see Abe lit...” does Coolidge include one possible meaning spurning the modernist Japanese novel? it would seem so, “House is brain, remember.” How do you like your dimensions? “What are your answers, pendulums?” Paragraphs of sentences. Sentences of captions to the late skyward paintings of Phillip Guston’s: [...]I’ve doffed my alarming with plugs and caps, And this’ll water your eyes. I don’t see saucers, I see servants. Or By that time the tower was broadcasting nothing but shrapnel. How could you bow down? But how does meat dream? Notice how they tend to keep the cows toward the center? [...] Five expansive pieces, the longest, the title poem in 50 parts, and a brief afterword in which Coolidge owns up to a “fascination” with UFOs. “ ..I was calling out to them [...] You guys listening?”

A violet mist. This is prison.

(You have the evidence.)

Losers = worshippers of their detractors.

Don’t take it.
That was one way of not answering the phone, gone.. poof.. ..
A command lost.
I’m bipolar from the past. You know. What?

Just like putting the call off ..
We can make a poet go mute.
If she doesn’t speak, we don’t have to pay attention.

Poems you hardly read.
That’s how unclear the past becomes.

Sunken gardens redone, a fountain each

corner, bone colors for outdoor fun. Rationed

compliments appear w/ secret ballots

that float into mathematics of situation



(offspring), foam under rush-formatted steam

disappearing like factions of perplexity,

contextual effects (procedures) — more

fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella —


Have you a free will? Travel well. There

is product on the loose while the cubicle’s

in your head. (When U can’t sleep U can’t

dream.) Side effects could occur.



I see U on television.

I see your name written on a wall.

Escutcheon.
The radioactive waste plant shuts down as spring passes.
The inquiry passes.
The transfer points are extremely popular
won back from the hard-cast win-win prototypes
that come to soldiers’ minds
as well as ours, pending at ease.

There’s the royal we (a pain) in game theory to pla
Y. This may be an insight
Bringing us closer to following your advice.
Now you’re giving me the finger. Technically, we’re not there yet.

Prayer today behooves you, it often says. Prayer for those who talk shite no longer pray. I hope you are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one.
That’s an outline.

Frame:
Socialist by nature,
Not sure discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income
Consultancy, honing the reader into two dimensions on the surface, cashing in.

Looking around emptiness, embrace it for goodness sakes

Yet reading the usual way subverts those expectations.
We’re dealing particles of thought paying homage
To paying homage, running across a subject,
Finding how axioms move discourse far from oversight.

Breeding:
Almost everybody is resolved, the environment is loaded w/ 3
seasons at a painting crossroads —
Filming = [is] composing.
Calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with top notes we won’t erase, some jittery appliance in the occipital brushfire, active against the ‘human grain’ under our governing bodies.

Are you healthy enough for perfection in a gridded environment?
A stencil of our dialog frames many others while class struggle gets more and more slippery.
Or peach-dreamy, subverting history, waxing satirical, as the poster said, ‘democracy’ encircled.

Those pressed under a strong gesture triumph.

You want to get real
to include the cosmos.

But there is a hairnet over the situation.

Inner retreat.

Protecting your dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that.


I bet I have no major issues.. We could buy one now snap! or try living on Hollywood scraps and rope, buy them, piling them up in the garage, wrapping them with tarnished piano wire, shoddy mineral samples — stacked together like beach chairs — stacked like old Jane Mansfield. If she sat there
Jane’d let the sunset pitch its foam. Both purchases are burning up.

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

I was pumping gas
& going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension
of disbelief

sparkling pen


-umbrae, barnstorming on top
dicing / re-arranging pushed to extremes,

undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.

Fading ailment.. had a ring.
Ten or so
gulls’ kick it off, running
over trout.

Tearing in mean
swimmer’s blue,
in a numerary remainder,
inseparable in another, a magenta
more down surf, startling
‘partisan’ swaps
That swell
out of matter.

Should we have
a message?

We’re talking to what must
be figurative breakpoints listed under fate and fate’s consignments. Example.

Just kidding. Since the launch of split level housing
empty messages remember nothing of detached
sensory esotericists.

Vault-loads of cash tho grant fame and no literal disapproval.
Granted, we have
a message strategy.

A politic paranoia recommended for laying back, cool and stable in an
emotional tri-level.

Jumping ahead. A decade from now no one’s famous.
Nothing moves the needle.

Midmorning dining, rambling
like deer in bed, shiny
children faultless in smoke, we know how —

No jitters, the heart rapped
into flames from passive groans
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches ..
opera .. and shush.

1st question, true or false. Is it the gaze or maleness — which is a big stretch of his gaze..

Check list.
Check the bill. Check it out. Don’t expect much.
Chew a bund loaf, make out with bullish dolls.
Map out how to rough house.

I usually snooze after a bonfire of love, & like flames sparks glow, not one note of cynicism vis à vis whom I adopt.

It’s better after I begin to wake I’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun is great. I merge at the top, asleep..
Moreover, I landed. A roundhouse in the sun.. the left knee was just there then took a variant position in summary terms of a sequence of scratches —

an honest hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity until it goes away, released at last into newly impartial states, witless after a while, undead.

No variation.
No truth, research suggests shorthand abstractions,
elements around indirect objects,
more indirect than research shows.

Minor formalism holds the moment
spinning or spun, upset, out of control yet
surrounding aggression with keeping in touch.

100% our touch.

Leftie Dirge, by Mr Potato Head:

A day spent fixating on filth,
ads before news of comfortable, determinant
males gaining business insight by the numbers.
Shouting ‘lock her up’ from the market floor
the day after Hillary was defeated.
Her loss,
their freakout in wide release.
Robbing people of their health
care due to sly ethics if any, a bitter
incitement to find those that cheated.

His language hits a conference-going register, theological as Lyotard would have it. The argument is plainly empirical. A concept moves, “not ‘innovative’ ... but something unheard of”

— Tony Brinkley

You want to get real
to include the cosmos.

But there is a hairnet over the situation.

Inner retreat.

If only we could gloss
Behind the State Capitol


illuminating and still slurping

undertow from the beats.

A great goon won and kind of dumped on me and my country. (It’s a remnant from philosophy show-and-tell, a truly exaggerated enterprise.)

I never dump back. I hope his coming losses help him become a better entrepreneur and public intellectual. Or I wish him savvier gurus.

Planet Earth is an oligarch’s hell — ringed with grassy estates where that guy can tiptoe or fall further to avoid our laughter. Conflicted and conservatively dressed, we also choose to move comfortably, absorbed in desire to sleep with any clown in a storm, anybody great.
But a lot of these crises pass. Today and in a future of interdependence I write him out of our poem.

I added frontal motion to the story about those looks that intimidate, m’lord.
Visual surprise comes with an infrequent snow flake or ember
floating down to our nose level. That’s cool — creamed just for sleeping with you, blackmailed..

wandering into the new wrong theater guild

chopped into little squares of hypnotic drumming

and massive parallel vistas projecting smiles and learning

showing up invisible. Totally insane. Libido.

Yoga is as popular as what it is everywhere, definitely in bed. It’s nearly in your mind such devastating existentialism served in fancy pants.

*
Advice to a would-be gymnast: just be simultaneous.

We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.

Brass tacks, no essays.
The odd delay repeated.
Evasion foregrounds style, motives — the harsh gets exaggerated.
It’s been a driftwood century, valuing hoax.

Buddying you up has improvisatory depth added to despairing perceptions.
You’ll retain little that’s disbelieved.
Teaching this has just started..

Vicarious is not strong enough. I repeat, optimism goes under rewrite as you profess it, flips genres, changes minds while in sleep.

Cool.

I believe you’re a flaneur. Sign within (above x).

It’s hard to do a mock-up & care.
That means you, banshee. Maybe I am foreshortened taking up prerequisites in criminal governance;

I won’t cry to lessen the g-force of my depravity, but I hear squeaks. It could be me reduced in size talking to you for crissakes.

I should but I won’t.

I can’t tell you I don’t care.

Tump staffer: Following orders
I show up to work drunk
yet I assert my 5th Amendment
privilege. My Rolaids keep it together.

A counterminimalist design ethos eggs on Steps: A Notebook by Tom Beckett. It’s one in a set of Tiny Books from Meritage Press. Publisher Eileen Tabios accompanies her poet as graphic alter ego, supplies drawings and handwrites his text, a duet then stepping onto their small stage in shared regalia to participate in what I might describe (unsneeringly) as an intense art dealership. The poems come inside a little page-turner, tiny even in chap terms — a 1.5-inch square thumbnail sketchbook with a cover jacket fabric in a colorful folk pattern. The poems come forward, sideways, and upside down in one or two words per line, mostly three lines or fewer to the page. They address ambiguities of their being composed, seeming parenthetical, always germane, as one page smack in the middle inveighs: “In / the moment / (be right there).” The poems comprise of suave quotations, sketches, and thoughts on writing, verse making, for instance, is like composing a music made of temporary flaws (“smudged work of Arias”) or like writing with chalk, “Looking / at blackboards / how many Ways?” Skepticism — “Advancement / is a kind / of ____.” If poetry is prayer, to paraphrase, prayer is programming in thought that’s overexposed and torn. To get beyond the conundrum of prayer, programming, etc., the art dealers work on each other and together. Beckett’s Eileen accommodates the torn thought idea on a ripped page and settles prayer down with a vapor of slants, blank lines, and empty boxes that enforce a silence. Tabios’s Tom returns, though, with a new quiet streak, “A / poetry of questions / (one answer).” To clarify, he qualifies, “When / I was / a young man.” Next page, “When / I was / a little girl.”

My style is no variation, a luxurious quest.
If you’re stagnant, you’re undead, pure metaphysical pre-evil.
I put a recalled toy in my mouth, more profitable than narcotics.

Sir Fric and Frac. Remember them?

Fric just called, said “We were swimming naked, a word I often use to characterize my falsehoods. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed another human. 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.

Agenda: The love-it-’til it-bellows medium I assemble thru is about momentary ooomphs we’d overlook otherwise. No proof required, especially. A range of conversation impressed into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences.

Flamey asides.

A kitchen to heat pizza.
Wake up and work.

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.

I’ll write travel reviews, pour over them.
The wind picks up my solemnity —
I’ll look out from my attic bedroom,
Watch others work, sounds they make,
Steeples, chimneys, masts over the gloom
The town burns to keep awake.

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

core harmonic structure: call back when you want

— The world becoming flat and falling across



The telling (of)



(Instances of)



Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic



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



Rain ceilings (of)



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


It is (falling) across


Morton Feldman.

There is no circling the rink.
No complaints or sworn declarations,
Nothing frilly and glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;
We’ve lost your name card and your name.

We have to know about the nose and its utility in poetry. One question, Among human organs, does the nose intuit — knnow — more lyric than the eye, know more than the throat, or even our ears? The nose makes English mid-alphabet consonants pronounceable — M and/or N. And if the nose makes mine pronounceable, it’s hummable, too, and that could just be the sloping tip — for the nose — in regard to its lyric purpose. Hard to hum what our heart or soul may be ‘saying’ — we can’t tell without sizing up other body functions, intuiting humming from the nose.

Roadkill would be the most empirical debacle turning abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into epic death by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
was a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over a heartthrob, a Lebowski.

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

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

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

The inscrutable commercial vector coursing through — there’s nothing like it, business that’s more a film in wide release, a nocturnal thin man, uninhibited as in somehow succeeding daily. Timeless like leg warmers in both Antwerp and New York, which back then was more like Antwerp now. Men unwound to be children, their affection not unexpected, hungover, yapping at the top of a lintel’s worth of plankton. I’m coming back to New York. In the early 80s.

“I’ve got to get back to the city.” Why bother, Buddha imitator? Reeves is guileless, a pious, ethereal hulk in a collapsing bug life. He sneaked his junk across the border just to release his frustration, verbally sneering at no place to go in a natural voice.

Bullied into autocracy.
Hell is too big to fail.

Fire the lilies in the field.

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

A sparrow close-range, a dedicated follower, packing a double large elegy of values, love trouble, last blinded by the sea tonight, this evening of the seals. Two old seals suddenly lifted in a renown wave, the same in each. Humming back, large as the beach staring away in too much light. When it goes there are too many ways around it sung. The wave lips onto The Neck floor. Like light, it goes for gladness reasons. Often no one you know, seals go mourning their orchard rounds.

If animals could talk they’d say, we pick our clothing by the rules. We can’t get you out of our thoughts? Handle it? Come closer, you’re scary.

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

Freed from servitude wow, congrats... animals no more!

Exactly. But the hand-on-thigh thing... You know, to the outside eye, to the person... who doesn’t know what a forgiving, wonderful person you can be... this could look like you’re — per the Veda — confused. How do your readers feel about you living in this cesspool?

A twice quarterly tremolo fills the ground trailing off in sparrows, off to war everywhere but not here, a cogent ho, an earlier freer hum in a wash of other sounds and schematic petals and stems, where the mammoth goes after he drops a thread.

Ever since I was bullied as a kid.

Prognosis: As a citizen among millennials, it’s yucky, gross I live blow off my masterpiece, suddenly building a new narrator under my notarized certificate of vulnerability — Euros tumble. The sensual spy novel is amusing and telegenic for killing time, so let’s narrate that. And about that. The meta-tick-tock due now and pronto — calling in Cupid — the greatest emcee and dues collector of any new century, sullen, endearing..

I’m late for a gown fitting, weeping inside. Outside, I’m a prick,

I’m impetuous, from costive stock, unflappably happy, curt.


I somehow floated here; my toys are asleep. I voted for change.

Injecting their blood was just crazy but I won’t go off schedule.

Very late it began to rain.

Your foreign friend flicked on the lamp
to countermine zooms.
Her neck and collarbone are burning
to show their softness. Her hair seems partible
emitting an innocence that blasts.
This is a loose translation, drawing on pitch-black rumors about your life. You planted them yourself.

How was it to go on and record the full soundtrack, none of the script? Was it like writing from a retrieval search with lots of different data trees leading to ersatz acculturation?

Bad behavior, showing anger, more easily understood as work-
Permitted off time, sometimes a less polite form of the hole-

in-the-universe w/ a large beaker installed, promising variations.

Gardens sell, according to Le Bourgeois gentilhomme.
I also give a lily for what’s unavailable, a cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments,
Or I cry the boink out of whinnying for pleasure.

Variation : prototypes, scars, male processional battle
gear & skye terriers, new media & sexual
exercise under conditions surrounding our desire
to adapt compliments for insurgents to bind heartache.


That’s how you hang staring in the mirror —
these items don’t balance
until you think a way to scan, listening until you
nail the best into stressed & refined inelegance.
All informal — creepy — let us through.

Tough being away but you’re crafty and atheist long enough, you know how we leverage
missing you at a time when it’s least expensive for cosmos
and tomato plants at markets.

So a redraft: There’s transactional friendship, and it’s a job (like sloganeering)
and, more elevated, craft (making a sign for consciousness to observe). You see,
my job is to craft as sport is to haphazardly kicking down signs (ref. above).

A burst of daft tone substitutes for info of a lifetime.
Wait. There’s nothing.
No tone, no daftness.

I lower your voice to closest approximate parity
and we have the yard puffing with sounds..
to sketch sweet totems that “look pretty close”
with our eyes closed.

Field painting: I’m a neo-accepter of things, making and living in particles of objective misnomers, eating and breathing them, too, as the ideology-clean rhetoric of double quotes in acrylic burgeons on vibrating blobs and officially sanctioned conjecture. Indexing suspicion and objurgating.. the evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family fortune of junk, affixes and addictions to risk.

Modesty is unimpressive in itself.
There’s an either / or for attrition of affects, concision or eyesore.
And there’s a struggle to housesit too much information.

If this were untitled,
This is what then? The surface is bloody,
colossal — fun games, what they call trick arts.

It occurs to you or me

a trick has already been devised wholly
before it’s hastened onward

— it’s not utterly offhand.. rather:

it’s called a change of heart.

Began how far ahead
we liberate ourselves to oppose either

or.

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

The inscription read you’re my business. This means the writing is clean, architecturally intact, mirrored in meantimes.

But calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with top notes we won’t erase, some jittery appliance in the occipital lobe, active against the ‘human grain’ when touch management is unleashed.

I’m just commenting.

The inscription read you’re my business.

The cremation service starts, it often says, prayer behooves those who talk but no longer pray. I hope you are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one. 
That’s an outline. 

We did one thing in common. Everyone bristled.

One thing. One time. Other times in tatters oneself are gimme-erotic, circumspect. (I’m just beginning to explore them.) Their symbolism weighs in as a shortcut, “I need me.” It’s a lovely tirade. (Jack Spicer)
Times (x) I’m pretending to be at your asinine behest, pet swapped, intimidating as a perfect stranger.

As a consequence doors open. & I’m auto-electrocuted.

Socialist by nature, cashing in analytics, we’re
Not sure discourse product pertains. Sacred axioms certify wealth and income
Consultancy, honing descendants into two dimensions on the surface.

Circumvented dance:

Gestalt-like comfort in disruption is one point of a number in our seminar on Six. Together, we define affability arcs of ironic self-ridicule in a series of no-fault disputes, Six-w-x.

Any abstract attitudes fsll below our strip down to stem cells — relatively unspeaking as tho we are all done with Six.
Body-snatching, the second point is you & I must rejoin the Six.

There aren’t any warnings. Tensions were apparent.

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

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

Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague change, like our plebiscite, better to pump out to voices’ grasp. A normal life with submerged artifacts accrues Pascal highlights.

I watched U & me dreaming in economics
affecting a radius of 2, 3 coasts. 4

what happened out there?
I started Latin 2 years late 2 be a classicist 2.

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

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

Metaphor and life changing commerce, cities unknown but arriving soon.

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

Down interiors. And nice platonics. The he /
she and schema proliferating a fable
between acts of spinning themes, code hier-
archies, text over image, or is it just empty?

We like newness in a way when both leave things as they were. Like

how I graduated from this shame of ours, this pride

in the battle between the sexes? Thereto the rich won.

Can you place our names? I have a full canoe of alter-egos, asides and decorative indeterminacy. Without hat, I got to anticipating mind control as disingenuous.

Misdoers — let’s say with a kill-agenda — are tickled into corruption.
Here is the place you and I may detect the language driver, untidy and young, loath
despite the foundational rule of no rule

And speaking up without permission.

You get somewhere then stop.

In the mentalist version we grow inner living language over — to pillory hindsight.

‘Electing’ a demagogue feels like brain cancer.

Galvanized pastels.
Spinoza acts against his own young interests.
Adoration has a poetic scent.

Reputations precede character, an act of apprehension remains
deferentially. Who will advocate toward peace, the tranquil
to empower The School of Nobody?

Since when is / are government
The cliffside?

[The first Keesha, a 13-yr-old, accidentally applied an enema containing lye. But she also had Donald Trump’s bio on her. Does or did he mention lutefisk — fish jellied in lye? Not sure.]

Our position is to find breathing room, enough so we can start over.
Whom will we discover?

I’m in no hurry. A life is charged.
Ten hut. What service were you in?
Bankruptcy. (Have to go.) My head is cleared.

Show me a locket grant once.
Once & be done. A few more should
Do the climate fast with no shining thunder strum, night before last —

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

Divided & confused, data signed
up. Data’s acoustics are ornamenting impurities of state.
There’s a container for every dataset turned on loud
so the ambient workspace hears it,
feels it in stages growing taller, striking 12 overnight.

Data feel like a great building boom.
Data can’t live without taking charge a few hours from now soon.

Taking flak, but unwilling to signal afar, this gong or that, neither hindsight advantage nor a flying object in time. A rubberneck develops his own humanism. I’ll grab my cover and scramble over here to math skills, since my brain runs on a new comedy network promoting my partner’s satisfaction as we pivot from jokers to a ringing mountain of attention-grabbing hysteria.
Our sketch begins.

Act gathered.
There’s personal glamor that can only end in a draw sustained by two
getting up, stretching for an hour.

After glamor there’s power. The virus is already inside us.

What does there’s still a move to go do?
It’s just a feeling, the only unmoving part.

Question.
We strew photographs along a shuttered residence, having
an interest in opulence & stratagems bequeathing our
ing great! Those brands are awesome announcing oops, they’re
digging in bins?

I remember when common peril for any politician was taking a supersonic flight carrying a single Russian. Wisdom lay in de Staël turmoil, a title from the ‘political’ surface as if exclusionary discourse / action is exercised to preserve future salient differences that belong to the core.

The again so-called establishment are working on blowing up salience, a peril upgrade. For anything less cautionary or wishfully uncool we’ll have to shop out of the left wing. Each of us now rendered a non-donor monad and pre-mogul again — our search, yours and mine, worked up into retrievable data of auteur dealerships; we’ll get back to you —

On the closing date, only a scent. No contrivance or Schubertian opposition feels like glistening bouclé heating under pressure. Not if it has a chance; our roles are to fill this in, lengthening Schubert’s insipid menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus attrition.

The wetlands work it through. Words we had and didn’t have consequences. Learned good is bad is good. It appears unseen and as unspeakable as libido constituting a knowledge module, aimlessly blowing in news of constant unitary joy...

Elder solarization = zealotry = teen manners.
Down, one-eyed birds. I may have to leave you guys.
Thin in Henleys you and I got dragged to the ceremony, moist, asleep.
My own appearance leaves me acknowledging you,
forbears, quickening what we expect from meaning, also thanking
fallen heroes on the diagram.. cheers for inviting us, as well as differential probability.
Very differential... very well improvs solve for paradox
— a more refined backdrop in so circular an ambiguity of scale.

Teen to older person:
cornered (not to say conned).

Hold to your decoder status that’s forever sparkled quo vadis,
meandering within ordered appearances unraveling optics —

Either way is a fractional
infinite in the context / e.r.

OK I mean
I’m done.

Sundial-changing sex contests a thousand bees stinging our feet
— after we polished the text and handed it in.

The theory,

pleasure is to ethics as Spode is to gastronomy

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

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

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

Classics are for romantics like the Raveonettes.
I digress: y+z (1-x) is a blind patch of petit point. Kissing is sick. It’s bad for you but wasn’t as destructive as the filching of imitation.
Anyway, kissing where you are is so blatantly filled with what it spreads everywhere completely negating its purpose.

So why does it get processed in your eyes through history?
Maybe I’m a critic who’s decided to blab about all the wealth we have coming.

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

Then ballet natives yield to a rush of idols and new people center stage... my right, your left.

Max Planck fellows run off with radical research incentives for a frontier in unboundedness.
Organization in a small package, tethered particle immolation. The dignity of boson disappearances.

With little or no motive, the sky foregrounds all their styles, taking them all in.

Dispatched for
chaos

yet
subjects of desire in another sense, an echo
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible
July light
Minimalist
and suddenly just theory

awing in a wolf’s regime,

There’s brush
fire toward mosquitos — shot
through the throat, asking too much

Hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to behold
but with the same vulgar, adolescent cri de coeur.

(Good night, wallet.)

The onlooker period for totalizing modern poetry doubts solid softness but addresses a specific color deficit in a literary dialect.
Like you, I grew up in a Maserati.
Then to learn a lot from a painting...
Students, open your books

— interest charges a wilderness created deep inside the seminar, which is an organized fraud, so you yourselves will have your own backs — you’ll pay, they (your backs) look deep and shallow, pleasant. I lost/found myself.
Swimmer’s blue.

So far I can see your light
tendencies shifting free of fever, ague,

Intemperance, the flu.
Coming clean is part
Entering & staying w/ a value

That comes into you, fantastic to watch!
Won’t lie, I sleep in it.

You don’t even have to be interesting.
That doesn’t sound right.
Always repeat what appeals to you.

I’m captioning this Token Austerity, sleep-laden.

Copy-fitting is more profitable than deep discounts.
We need to see everything before it’s retouched out.

This is a new policy to block deletions that go missing.

Every time I see you in your mascara I become more illumined by the fear you strike. I see the brilliant live again, sure enough, in vetted dormitories, always have, fudging abasement with food and drugs. Sorry concentrates. 

The transportation of souls takes place before now. 
Nothing for me, revalidating my whorl of cement paintings..

It would be a challenge [a koan under
shpeless circumstances] to simplify winning a car or suffering injury
starving how?

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

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

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

The will to quiet is the flip side of getting ch-
amber pieces to burble, to cry inaudible
tears for renewed power, whence
(following power) the score winds up if you must know,
tranquil beneath the surface, no surplus
message. So there’s nothing to represent.

DNA follows commands. It’s a collective.

I know this thru 3rd parties.

Sunrise. U mostly remember the oblong homonyms,

Playing back ahhh scales to pop singers —

Strains of forgetting

What they’re rocking on on..

Let’s dance.
I’ll take the sherry Pepsi & sardines, thanks.

I’m sorry this happened. I was pumping gas
& going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension of disbelief, a scene in martial arts, sparkling pen


-umbrae, barnstorming on top
dicing / re-arranging pushed to extremes,

undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.

Meanwhile.
Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of the knowledge industry that can consider anonymous approximations in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard.

Moving forward I have all of an hour to believe in sweetness made for infamous exposure (in costume).

After lovemaking, performance: the words and rhyming systems for married or unmarried.
Once you think about it, think it over in any narrative, to execute thought is itself recursive — beside the thought.

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

There will always be a poem

I will climb on top of it and come

In and out of time,

Cocking my head to the side slightly,

As I finish shaking, melting then

Into its body...



— Jim Carroll

Interruption: We left our module to look over curricula.

Lighting a match, dropping it into conversation..

Filming, taping = reporting: imparting numeric dicta slathered across middle ground,
‘local slippery conditions’ (where we can sleep it off).
Keep it together. Own your swarm and their jackets.
Up in blanched smoke, flames, sparks...

A red bonfire indispensable for smearing a highway color

Made more relaxing,

More opportunities for fraud.

Dangling my shit,
Gambling with your money, brooding of course, waking up,
Highball glasses tinkle and clink in the spirit of a pawn on top of a rock.

The last emperor had sex with multiple staffers.

He had one of the most advanced distribution systems.

His agents were crazy for the bigger paradigm of aftermath.
An aperture opened up and a lovable perspective was achieved but lost. He disappeared, and he had children and they disappeared.

Skepticism was blacklisted by sharpened anomalies.
E.g. there’s nothing left of an emergent zone to secure a prosthetic like lack of despair.

A great goon won and kind of dumped on me and my country. (It’s a remnant from philosophy show-and-tell, a truly exaggerated enterprise.)

I never dump back. I hope his coming losses help him become a better entrepreneur and public intellectual. Or I wish him savvier gurus.

Planet Earth is Maoist hell — ringed with grassy estates where that guy or better you and I can tiptoe or fall further to get beyond our laughter. Gracious and conservatively dressed, we also choose to move comfortably, absorbed in desire to sleep with any clown in a storm, anybody great.
But a lot of these crises pass. Today and in a future of interdependence I write him out of our poem.

— 11/09/16

When we single ourselves out, we get closer to feeling guilty reformulating concepts of exclusion. Immense hardline purging tho brings on jouissance, scrubbing any direct polarity.
Ya, you are important to me. You have a free hand, still there are holes in our discourse.
Our language hits inference-blasting registers, theological as Lyotard would have it, but our argument is plainly empirical. A concept moves, “not ‘innovative’... but something unheard of”

— Tony Brinkley

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

How I think of you.

[Pause.]

I’m not that oblique, I make inconspicuous any part or parcel underway. Sing it’s transparent; sing again.. begun desire.. Song, postage due yet already in appeals to be sung. Washing to be wrung.

During the break we reached an agreement.
The sun feels being here is enough, organizing
the community, buildings love it over walls,
windows and square vines thickening into tree limbs..
Little sentences with twists look out for new ideas as well slier sentences
since a common urgency repairs how we think where are we

while little sentences crop up?
How can harness rope go on climbing
vines’ drear canopy? A climb at dawn
against any order you keep in your head?

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

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

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

Neural bible studies are off base.

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

Tape my hands together. And grease-pencil trompe l’oeil into my forehead. 
Then again — I’m hooked on figurative exposition. Maybe I’m inspired by your stockpile of vowel-movers, striking — paramount for this, the rockiest of calculations, parody of parody — to show off in front self-effacing, tall, slim complexities and transgressive contradictions of metabolic ambition.  
This tune dialogs with others.

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

Just saying, it’s still ultra blurry and anamorphic.
You got a point.
A poetry of slogans earns ownership awards..
Folk-maverick with a dark scrum. Adolescent in a heavenly sense.. You keep telling lies to ideal hosts in abstraction.

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

Bail is personal.

Just lie.
Fast. Done.

I’ll copy Creeley singing to Wieners or it could be vice versa,
Both old masters
Who never spoke for love,
Not equipped 

to weep 

—
Who is? 

— on a brassiere stool overlooking time is money plaza,
Neither could express feelings about delimiting time. A truism is tart.

That everything once alive is precious like time is precious.
That “Having no time to spend” comes off as counterfact in a pas
De deux coming apart
— slipping on pieces of tracing paper after the ballet
That makes a racket
Even as we withdraw from coffers of the wicked deep.

The work-together-bellows form I assemble in touches on momentary ooomphs we’d overlook otherwise. No proof required, especially. A range of conversation impressed into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences.

Flamey asides.

A kitchen to heat pizza.
Wake up and work.

The Japanese are fascinated by pottery.

Any dark ceramic with asymmetrical tenets is tacit
but could be looking up at a source of light, feeling talkative..

maintaining maximum restraint
to engage another’s psyche.

The normal exec in a hefty corporation by a highway will grow up, in a flash forward, and work for Strategy Partners Foundation, a company that parses guilty pleasures around the world. She or he doesn’t dream ooops.
Not any more. One’s become an energy therapist and keeps rabbits. You see virologists learn how to say what no one wants to hear. “You sure of that? You sure those were your rabbits?”

Sunshine starts to feel like a slap in the face.
Milling around is jammed.
Pie charts and July market data are no guarantee of future thrum and rumble, hey and whoa — how awful, how much are we exercising to circumvent compulsory arm flapping?

You seem spacey in snow

When you make angels.

Hiding out for two hours snowing


You are really spacey against the snow.

I’ve moved off the mainland.
No unknown futures present newer phenomena.
We have no perverse incentive to take more chances as we talk thru replacement woods.
CLEARS THROAT. LAUGHTER. Postdisruptive.

A journal travels, calibrated by a ruckus-like paean spoken (rather than speaking) in a large-scale dialectic — As it were.

(They’re both good.)

It’s shameful though to work for the state or its allies. How did Paulo Freire for one stand, pause and keep going and give up little or no compromise?

Monkeys are ironic. They can’t help it.
1/2 the crumpet
charges the total. No I’m kidding.

The install you’re acquiring fakes you out of the big game —
large stairwells mesh yet go nowhere —
for comedians

There’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, knitting your brow now
— one enzyme waking up isolated, it seems
slinky. I watched it and it spayed me.

One style is no style, a luxurious quest.
If you’re stagnant, you’re dead, purely metaphysical evil.
I put a recalled toy in my mouth, more profitable than narcotics.
Doggie style. God is mirrored information.

When it comes to compatible suburban topics,
Hand-me-down colors seem jerry-rigged.
I voted for a state of grace.
There were only 2 epochs begging for genius retouches.
High Tang & one other we put aside — too-serious regard for perfect categories is disappointing.
We can’t go back. Like overmodeling

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

Then a high school kid said I

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

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

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

Preaching to tenors is an art
practiced by Art Farmer.

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

There are no stages.

For your next reading...

You sign up with realists. You start unrefuted outside, wandering the complex. You’ve been asked to stay inside with folks assembled. Nadia et alia.
Being used as part of the audience seems offensive.
You pass over that and ask for a 2nd date with a true audience member. Soon after loggerheads are avoided with grit, understatement.

What do you say? Bonne balance, hey my.

You grow accustomed, so to speak, no name gets escalated until the focus is lost.
De rien and thank goodness.

Leaving the June-July beach
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs as the wagon sways
with fellowship. Love in the future, a handshake spreads the rain,
flowers, rain, flowers. (That's it! The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we can walk on with. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our widows. This is spring history.)

“Devils were seductive, motivating me to seek their darkness,
Pick up the guitar & write more songs,”
Talking Chimp squealed like a talking dog.

Lean, fluid, sleek, balanced, clipped close,
His inner daredevil is fallen into a state of confusion & loneliness
— just to feel a cloud pattern about being no one.

*
In my illusion
of minimalism
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down
& got lost and scattered trying to remember.

You have kind eyeholes.

Some had swing,
You saw that? Haphazardly

the scandal passed, hardly worth the coverage,
otherwise excellent.
Newly a couple, we got back into the van.
May we trespass? It seems relevant
if filed under filming a break-in about a file,

say “Ambient text file”;
her jaw trembled.

Blurb:

You bet monkish materiality does not exist. No dissonance,
no disruption! There are
appearances, such as a vantage baseline and shopping boundaries.

The book covers a lot.
An interesting interview on soundless phonemes done in depth,
‘staff may be prosecuted,’ toughing this one out.

Still, there’s no lack of linnets and authentic wax.

One assumption is tomorrow’s classless flight will be an extension of how it’s going now.
A disclaimer in Chinese contains characters that aren’t pronounced
Or displayed. It says you have an upgrade but there aren’t any.
This introduces the cult of the squish factor. (My
Luggage did this to me.)

Poison, anecdotes are a way of life. He had meant antidotes, composer in this case, not the narrator. One withdrew. They just seem wound up terribly in the same horology. One in the study, the other in the art.

He has to deposit deleted utterances in surface structure to get back to poison.

Then we can drive much faster.

You seem spacey in snow

When you make angels.

Hiding out for two hours snowing


You are really spacey against the snow.