Learning, teaching he’s drunk on bounce. It’s amusing.

Really I’m a fan of modernism estimating how much flow back in time from prior polemic might kill.
(I mean people. You find their estate particulars covered up more often living with spoils like English drapery, which, while you’re watching, completes these sorts of passive sentiments. Drapery over stays.)

What’s next? I am a crescent metal, easy to paw, feed and embrace after the climate changes.

A blue feeling about beginning to feel me in your heart is breaking over the now lazy and soon dead. I’m still not awake, a bad idea. An idea with particularity, again. A feeling for come what may before it arises already stuffed with controversy that lasts while we’re together teaching, waiting in space that is our best way out.

What do we shop at times? I deal in opinions on redeeming encores or unguided enterprises. We’re not so interested in dreams. But this morning I woke from a flash of such gruesome practicality I became distressed talking to lingerie and mere vapor in a sports-transition store. There was no deeper pretext or tortured prelude. I walked into this pleasant, really dark place decimated in distorted light. Dim lights. But I was in there casually shopping with others. It was a showroom like the first Under Armors where mannequins, staff, and customers matched up in comfortable, form-fitting shirts and sweats and some in jackets pulled an inch or two back, almost off their collarbone, not to flex but to suggest upper body development. There are steadfast outlines but nothing shows. We have eyes and the mannequins won’t move. That kind of carefully lunatic geopolitical emoji stow and store. That’s what I was thinking as I picked out five pairs of socks. A pointillist grey pair, two in enlarged, graduated chocolate pixels, and a couple of pairs in ink, one with a hint of an inkier poetic plaid-esque under. Everything was going to blend well with natural stuff. (Making new money hard to follow. The total came to under $300.) The wind always kicks back allowing us to translate sleep into discrete transparent overlays of desire, textured fantasy, aimless expectation. Shopping.

19: Innocence evokes night devouring daytime, burning like a lion’s hummingbird — plucking keen teeth from a tiger’s jaw, if you allow. Taping together both hands. And grease-pencil trompe l’oeil anywhere. Please.
Innocence is guilt in a heinous group. All on earth devouring their own brood, against beauty’s pattern but much success.

Young, untainted and long lived, you’ve gone wrong. I forbid but I hope you’re happy.

Matins: I can be her face standing there ‘on’ the phone, ‘dialing’ a number.
A growing explosion takes up time — like cheating in cards —
the accident, not the facticity, of while
switching impetus (rapidities of prosperity).

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

put on her original eyewear.

16: It’s hard to do a mock-up & care. One idea, give yourself away.

You have nothing better to do than pump out to my grasp and rhyme.

No skill in-between. Men’s eyes have nothing like you to hold so to speak,
Girls, gardens, “outward fair,” no less!
No less and now you’re standing above us, but I can’t make you live ..

I can’t tell you I don’t care.

True, false, is it a gaze or maleness?
Yes. It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and
Time’s up.

The heart is sore as
Whitman precedes Aimé Césaire. Salut.

Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam (a love poem)
— Accounting disappears like functions of context (difficult relationship procedures) —
Love not being is taught
But fought for in reverse. Freezing the difference.

Physicalism (neural meditation) — here we wade slowly adapting to amoral schemes
More fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Travel well.

There’s no one way to degrade-ultimately-destroy capital.
Try feeling polyphonic with an uncapped fortune, reflecting what you did when your adolescent backbone iced up, raising all boats, all social levels.

Our greatest fear is going deeper—

That would kill our real parents.

They’re dead already.

Hence the family corporation is casually hidden

and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.
Solitude, confidences, you’ll earn times in the day,
the plays and jungle, many in a series —

133: My strategy is sweet sleep until we wake.
Who is calling?
Your friend is coming. Must I abandon myself? then my next self? both appear wounded players, both slaves, both to slavery?

Who can say? Twice, thrice double crossed and, again, — whoever, it’s not enough to torture me alone —
Engrossed, I can hear my friend’s heart groan in jail tormenting me — pent up cruelty that’s iterative, baroque:

As if out of time Couperin sprawled with the naked around Antoinette.

But let’s be rigorous now and agree in prison I am in you. I am yours by force.

And I keep you in my heart on guard of you and all that is in me.

The Inuit are fascinated by pottery.

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

In this moon diagram a fragrance was my last fill of politic hope. Oh you know, unhappy

We supplemented photographs for subject matter, I recall,
a garland fungus, students in foreground (by an arch to the abandoned parks).

It’s up to pond structure to model our passivity learning the moon’s mother tongue, new vowels
discharged by shore conditions, birds in flight. Protecting the hang of dignity threatens it. Everyone
knows that. Everyone alive. A little sick, even unwell, a man’s voice is handsome, calm, but also scrappy.

Further down the pillar, a kimono has been entered, explaining prehension without perfecting
tongue in cheek.

Gastronomy is to breaking the ice as ‘fucking / sponginess’ is to bacchanals.

Angels, let’s run some #’s.
To pass over when we wake is ample. Waking’s crap;

scrunching up everything for breakfast —



a perfect station then sings Baudelaire for a big kettle of urgency,
searing, puffy, relaxed, and succinct. Like fury.

Despairing of dead ended self regard, “the self-valuable word” embedded in instrumental discourse, Bob Perlman maps, among other things, Quintilian’s rhetoric, noting key components, meaning, clarity and tasteful adornment or decoration (“Words Detached from the Old Song and Dance”).

Meaning and clarity are fair game for Rob Fitterman: “weeds we may not always / have emptied this meaning for / a top-growth peel-back of another.”


When it comes to weeding and adornment in poetry, which involve making sense of / sense in any alteration of literal expression (via figures, other prosodic devices), Fitterman is an advanced horticulturalist. With 1-800-Flowers, Fitterman smartly “updates” sources for Louis Zukofsky’s last completed poem, 80 Flowers, a construct that “takes to new extremes of density Zukofsky’s methods of composition by quotation, transliteration, and compression” (Mark Scroggins, Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge).

Fitterman replenishes the grounds with inventory of similarly conflated devices, writing in two sections “About” and “Through” Zukofsky’s work. Fitterman frames Zukofsky’s as “constrictive verse” that indeed gets “driven” by inventory, while Fitterman’s own lyric comprises mixed inventories within a discourse hybrid, an essay in verse, substantiation of his exemplary reading, that is, his generatively engaging Zukofsky (refer: ronsillman.blogspot.com [7/11/05]). More splendid, Fitterman fulfills the half audible invitation within Zukofsky’s poetry and poetics, joining Zukofsky & Son Inc whose décor ethos is “precise information... thinking with the things as they exist” inside a recontextualized (if not continuous) present in which Fitterman fixes “new meanings of word against word” (Prepositions).

[…]

—2014

85: Remember about now we compile on motives, in effect, softer flickers, rather than comments — good hind thoughts spidered into leg & arm pins, something more. Get to resolute joy nodes, a punching bag of well refined tricks, compressed — holding you in my thoughts.
Check the seams glowing with our golden character. In other manners hold your breath.
(Though hearing a tongue tied Amen respects the system.) In polished form:

Let’s dance.

Of course the Lord wait lists the system.

Can’t be sure there’s larger yield.
Literary digests = death of a nation.

Notebook open, the un-recaptionable



Never multiplied. Voices, no fire. Irony-sincerity voted in
Thomas Eliot, a flashy

Society writer, a modernist.



I say Oh, fine, thanks.

And yourself? Today


That chintz is lost

And chintzy terrible’s in play.



Post neurotic coherence
Some institute of emptiness accrues.

A lot misunderstood to dote on.

The jungle is quiet... too quiet. (Theseus)

To float in Buddhist undercurrents from work by a mature avantist is not much of a surprise. We know Leslie Scalapino and others as bona fide avantists, demeanors of a calming, enlightened refusal has likely rubbed off during their intake of an illusory simultaneity in the social imagination. Or don’t know. (Also refusal.)

It once read architecturally, you’re my business.

“I heard talent & beauty, money come with their own flickering light; by your putting them to rest they take ‘full effect’ with no attachment to bad diets or addictive capital, arresting.” Leaving you gasp.
Is this documentary or did I make it up? —“when you remember wit and austerity read each other from the start, after wit — seems mathematical tho programmers have a fiercely vandal like impression of appraisal under uncertainty.”

So this is an edit. “That’s as close as no personality has to keen, endless pulse.”

..bicycling no-hands is what it reads over the entrance. To put it together, anonymity makes what’s excess pain disappear along with poverty and sugar.

83: Life with Mr Juice comes up short — charm
-ing & familiar — unfair tender shit in a paper sack.
Hostess Wheel Clacker, bike spinner & fake license & plate.
A poet’s debt.
I found (or again I thought in silence)
your eyes are nagging me for more .. admit you miss modern beauty.
You miss the first drag. Painting

Mr Juice imagines my wearing his credentials
As an inner being when others would give life.. I have nothing set.

Have you read, praise & worth get ten percent of their daily

Calories from soda & smoking — sleeping to excess


They become bilingual.
I never slept for my sins
Therefore I’m barren, being dumb.

Back when we’re on our own
as our only bard put it, a face

Boiling sad together.
Not pretty but there in print & around
A back to romance pile up. Rhythms about envy, fugue-sonata
moods for all time rigged

To full practice in one truce or august matter; lone
autumns & springs mutating in dark

Chez nobody who stayed home
tho slowed down to furnish the pace,

Prelude to singing along alone
as a forward part of the original anger to confuse.

Retour lorsque nous sommes sur notre propre,
comme le seul barde de notre époque, il l’a dit, un visage

.. ébullition triste tout ensemble.
Pas très joli mais il est en version imprimée et autour

Un retour à romance jusqu’au tas. Rythmes environ envie, la fugue-sonate
avec humeurs de tous les temps truquées

A une pratique complète au sein d’une trêve ou une question énorme.. où
les saisons d’automne, aux printemps, tous solitaires, sont en mutation dans l’obscurité.

— absolument personne — personne ne reste à la maison
on est ralenti, à fournir le rythme —

Un prélude à chanter seul
dans le cadre de la colère d’origine afin de confondre tout.

Atom = the first head turning in which a detail is effective in several ways at once. 

Clockwise = second head turn two or more meanings re-solved into one.


Counterclockwise = third turn, in which there are two or more unconnected meanings.


A pulse of light of the right duration = fourth turn, alternative meanings clarifying a composer’s state of confusion.



Superposition = fifth, lucky confusion: the author is enamored of her idea in the eventful processes of composing. 



A row of 10 = sixth, contradictory or irrelevantly ‘sweet’ new shades, this time the reader is forced to mint interpretations, make’em up. 



Measure = seventh, it’s official. Unbending full contradiction, among minds turning heads. Dirty men, sailors, all on board.

A signature concern is a reader’s experience. It’s peculiarly nepotistic, another point, that so many writers simultaneously figure out expectations within multiple, extra literary contexts, politics, cultural construction for personal (non)profit, corporate performance theory and the like.

Oil and vinegar mistakes, which in religion ..

There are different sapors, pots, odd sets, syrup-simple to complex, some devolving into a brawl, randomness, others, chaos, as well as a game of self-similarities... can't make it out, call them alloys of function routing. I’ve highlighted this one in an ivory box. A rolling bit of Apollonian male familiarity that will never feel safe, a Mainline ranch dressing refabricked in aromas of polycarbonate. Like a surfboard.

I’m a woman. Or you. We have all the training we need listening to Jim Carroll — chemistry, rage, this is my body. Almost the same as hopeless, the only oasis just passed. I was more at home with early stage fright than deconstraining tastes at war with passivity.

Then you and I a priori had an urge and we felt gorgeous wearing a hairnet over the situation.

67: Smarts don’t matter. You had a wealth of smarts. Advantage achieved?
I’m laying myself off. Shall I? Not that I’m smart. I’m imitating an evolutionist of avarice — loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer a bad infection — long since dead — of seeming false. For this is where looseness keeps young society on the gain side, an impious beauty and presence forward. And that goes for the sun shining with its indirect brightness on the street, bankrupting grownups.

Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping in net neutrality w/in the gloom of purgatorio as perceptions of different possibilities blow town including the best halo effects and feelings. They’ll come back.

It’s nice finally to put a class of face to the humiliating covered breathing.
Today, every day open censorship is going to be there,
filtered, unfiltered as long as it takes.

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

Getting ahead of message. Gas, food, lodging.

We all have squatter’s rights.

We never forget and we do not forgive. Even tho we’re too fat to have insurance, our moms have always been supportive. Viruses are like that. The wind too. Shivers of a sigh, glistening in black, I made messes all over the nestling ground to suit a creative purpose, balancing running around everywhere and getting lost and then explaining the gorilla mask as a prior condition.

Guards used to stand tall. United parts and parcels. Now they tell you to take off your belt.
The impression building is that every move serves a purpose. Then. A higher purpose according to religionists, in a word, a metonym for dizziness everywhere according to boundless practitioners. Their approach, heading toward devastation, collapses under its own glare into supernumerary states of emotion and minor readjustments on an international scale of anxiety equal to the light of my body. Then. Every dancer stops for a moment, and I feel better.

Imposture-prone or — simpler — fictitious avant-garde strategies as well as their vulnerable practitioners and critics are celebrated in the released film, (Untitled), written by Jonathan Parker and Catherine di Napoli, directed by Parker. In just two columns of text NY Times critic Stephen Holden deploys a massive array of double-edged vocabulary that unsettles to the gut. (Untitled)’s protagonist, a conceptual composer with a perpetually furrowed brow, is said to be tormented with a teasingly paradoxical attitude... [a] hostile scowl. The anti-hero is so self-absorbed and ungenerous that when confronted with experimental work in other fields he is as rudely dismissive as any provincial philistine. Meanwhile, to highlight the acerbic entwinement of sexual performativity and aesthetic judgment, a cheating, gallery-owning and aesthetically ‘disingenuous’ girlfriend shines her popping eyes like a bright screwball. Holden notes other types, including a self-loathing conceptual artist whose works have self-explanatory titles like “Pushpin Stuck Into Wall.” (Untitled) goes for broadly obvious, easy targets, in other words, in a line of lampooning artist-fish in a barrel, a long satirical line that spoofs an avant-garde tradition that goes back at least as far as Marcel Duchamp’s urinal. Some would-be targets are employed for aesthetic as well as comedic affect. Avantist David Lang writes the goofy music for (Untitled) and film maker Kyle Ng constructs proto-conceptual pieces, among them, a taxidermist monkey sucking on a vacuum cleaner (Jeff Koons, no?). Holden’s review encapsulates a chapter on current aesthetic temperaments and fomented doubletalk that run for cover under the rubrics of satirical outrage and conceptual deflation.

— 2009

There’s a low threshold for unlimited text space and transfers, however.
It’s better when I wake up we’ve landed.

Volumes in the sun sound great. I started at the top, what was there? I was just there, then a few rain forest elements incised to form solid bands connected to now-text or a minute from text.

Come midnight Frog had a big smile. When I teased him or cuddled him, his four appendages went as wiggly as sexual urges. He’s silly, a smile across his whole face, black button eyes on top of his head because the night is not over — all smile and eyes in front, green in the back. When I held him he was a jumble of cuddles and inertia. His legs flopped around until I stopped.

That was the way.

Striking the bell, lightening round..
Brightness gushes out, but collisions roughened by screaming take a fall. Living ballet is euphoria-through-turbulent-process and comprises your early morning critique. It’s so tight. What happened? Diagramming conditions of jitters and others’ sentences, I am anonymous either way.

Before the mist rolled in I felt your grace, holding with both hands.

Logging a spigot startles the system on and off.
Seems the past was swinging but stopped somewhere, listened up
to bear the fruit of the horizon. We got used to the beat

Tied up reaching you by then to depart
smelling morsels jazzing a decimal of
butterflies who seem to have rabbit ears.

I am citizen physicist to an inner antecedent for shorthand deadpan. Drowsiness may be my great escape or I may walk it off, forgetting you’re allergic.

Your face, the trains I ride, it's all good. And staying casual definitely has legs.

(The above interlude rules us both, help wanted.)

When you got up your voice was
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling
Flat into dust in 4 dimensional motes.

I don’t know how motes, much less how 4 dimensionals rush

And flounder into mountains. I only hear

Vibrating = Sturm und Drang,
Dust controls anger / how severely narrowed minds are wed.

Levitation in words got modulated. They wanted to be. Modulated is like coming out to play, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact beats and multiplying love of what we were doing before the procedural took hold.
Then we are off, clouds keeping our eyes shut.

I’m drunk on history, empathy, bounce. Or plans change.
Kitty was homesick, having lived off nice things. Not now, it’s daybreak —

Conditions look staggered, off-ivory — wanting K (I do), a profane absurd Rubik,
not out of calculation, yet how far & vast connivance
liberates K to oppose purring put aside thought and its scent.

Alfred Starr Hamilton has been on poets’ short lists at the balcony edge for 40 or more years, but he’s undergoing “rediscovery.” A stack of Hamilton’s letters to the Montclair police is “the year’s least likely literary find.” The letter excerpted in The Times reads like poetry. For counters of endurable fame, it’s another 15 minutes.
— August, 2010

My name isn’t terrestrial playwright with hunter sunglasses.

Retreating to circuit theater is a bore, finding
backwater exchange wears down wanting more red,
floating pronounced — meeting up, we stand around,
crawl and cover gorged ground. A once frontier.

Then what if manna fell? Think
if our rich friends pull thru.
That’ll be the day to bring a guest!
We’ll put this on orange. Hold on.

52: I’m in lock-up because of you.

Therefore you and I are both scorekeepers. Ours.

I keep you among my jewels,
Blasted, blessed moods in ‘key’ to configure unfolding pleasure,
So I am rich I hope blunting your deceit for long years...
The time it takes, seldom coming one fine day
a special instant so rare —

Being had was worth it as it were

Like euphoria, an instant in doubt hiding finer points.
Speaking of solemn upper-lower class triumph and treasure,
We find thin lovers also keeping to the survey every hour, chest to chest, jewels of yours.

The sun is gray. Divided and confused.
The system is not perfect. It’s an everybody
movement with that living unlocked smell.
I set the controls; active ingredients are
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.

Noonish.

Social progress is in a pickle, a big abnormal mess, a product of our time. It wins all the half-eaten take-out on the table. 40% of obdurate hardly-ever voters like you and me. And how long can you live folding up conversation, shadows unused, perpetually minimalist verging on filth and circumstance? Who isn’t in one?

The you I
tableau sponged, spackled remotely,
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva. Anything
going to stay pure, immersed. Swimming
synchronized. The bellicose slunk back.
I left you out.

Upstate.

I write in my nature/head. Let’s hold a séance!
I snare us Joy to starve a fever. Is it raining?
Seven rooms (usually) with clay-toned physiques
fighting the relative fight waving, receding on one another

— everybody under an influence indoors, which is filthy.
A foot of snow from the window. Laps of water are filled with light, rotating in
reverse as if knowing how to purify their offspring & manage forever
in lurches of nibbling torque adjusting day into days.

Don’t we have an elevator to take (to meet you)?

Gavel to gavel hours and hours turning the page.
What we do converts to personality and stunt-craft.
What we have to act out is open discourse W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please,
have your way, fleets of stars, your options. Have your composite gods who do it.

(This soon after a last breath, is it safe to mention Yeats?) (Maybe not.
I’ll frighten no one to be temperate.) Some of us are too disgraceful to save the day.
Tho not all of us will friend you now or any time.

It’s natural, a picnic in the wilderness.

The wilds... on all floors.

I’m just a dick with variations.

Late November holds a preferred representational system after 10 at night. Floating too close, roofs blanketed in flyleaves. The styrofoam waterfall declares amnesty.

December is being booked. It just feels terrible.
One thing is that performance yesterday and the morning before that. After you wash off, you understand when to pause long and leave when and where you smell a rat.

You’re not alone. You want in? Try eye accessing cues with your interlocutor. You’re coming to take off dirt and I’m just looking to undress. A mindset carves out the rafters flute and our voices. What was seen trapped at top? A noun for emphasis extended from fire under your eyelids.

Thanksgiving poem —
Chestnuts stand around in jobbed hoards.
This is a country with open arms.
Click opioids
Close up.. Let’s agree you agree
Scrub jouissance good (character, bad) — improving, reformulating innocence
Getting good out of recoveries, re-do’s, re-applications,

Clenching-tight, we’re a team.

22: Inside you

The mirror shows raiment of sorts — therefore
so long as your youth & your ... April
or not — praise & the opposite grow acrostic, seemly rife, stirred by beauty
for days. I grab my pen and clamber over to write down hearsay bearing your heart
(unrehearsed washes of shadows as you will)
where we’re coupling to eclipse soundtracks, fixed in air, true in love. Expiators.

After you
I went into analysis alert. The twins
bear shame? Faces change when they use
our words; plus or minus they’re so close —
in a glance we’re all about to bail out, off —
why are we even arguing!

Waiter, there’s a figment in my soup. The quartet’s on a mission; higher
                   up, the soup’s part doodle/part ambitious love we can void
to operate micro acts, stacking thought like fluorescent tubes that meet
                   over magnets. Tubes lit & disentanglements.
Mercury selenide?

                   ... I guess we can keep that ambiguous in pastels —
indulged through wisecracks, guitar & voice.

                                        Prayer in all directions.

4: Unthrifty = extravagant; nothing = nothing.
To traffic in deception, film your writing, take notes.

Conditions look drugged — wanting you (I do),
not out of calculation.. and being frank beauty lent
you opposes given facts of pre-lent loveliness gone unused,
perplexed, taken outside why or what’s acceptable

to audit profit and thrift.
Is it largess or self?

So great an abuse of a different, denatured octagonal gloom
a sum of sums won’t leave us alone.

143: Kiss me, skull.
Paying attention is the field call haunting the future,
Be kind, turn back —
More bounce for the retina to unscrew internal hysteria pouring up then breaking away, embarrassing,

Losing both death and life in pursuit of other business.

You look how I feel.
No plan is perfect.

A lover is great at knowing when.
A younger lover is vital, not recreational.
We’re addicted to sculpture, nothing else
leads us on. Here’s an apple

for the teacher. (Everybody
does it.) It’s an evening signal:
No response is cool. It’s the payoff
as long as time that never was and never knew
those who abdicate are left, nothing else.
The dizziest and best rise up one day out
before they flow in.

Money money money I pray.

“Dear Hightop,”

It saddens one to inform the boss

she’s not serious, never is. She makes
comparisons during sex and makes
love checking in — whilst I live
off the equity of a third faculty
where the future holds — the one promised
Hermes that took him over the edge.

My friend’s snooty and sells antiques?
It’s about meeting people this way.
The charger thought we
knew we thought

the skull pile is hot
since it supposes completion as marsh

-puissance coming on —
Anyway, this just in:

Approximate loss’s really busy reaching across
the aisle — going there you and I earn points.

73: I take away what night hangs and by and by takes away —

Yellow leaves, or none, once a choir looks over once-youth, sees what? Only you and I hold this mortal glow drinking hot coffee from a can and sticking to its roots’ metallic gleam, seething too, proportionate to the open space. The smoke gets shiny and you’re mortified with ozone. Sunset. Twilight.
The whole firebox is aglow. The yellow wallpaper is engaging.
The ruin of saying it better is.. no, it’s a folding cliché. Whereon death expires.

111: Before I turn into another cure of yours, you for my sake, i.e., I assure you a bitter hand or bad toss took away anything too crafty in my nature... I am more receptive to work now and long subdued from harm, far and away at last. It all goes ah! nothing bitter, I’m your willing patient. Fortunes, manners, means, everything doubly correct is subdued, though. Pity in that sense our infection, bad deeds, guilt, nothing else — almost — the die cast.

There’s a container for every passion.
Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off
economy floatable within, once
regarded in wholeness, its contours
beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough
though meaner beyond its whereabouts..

I guess us.

Not running, walking rapidly, I cross the hall with the heat transfer ….
We DOLLY into a MEDIUM soft shapeless mass of subjects and no distance. No, forget it, that’s too risky. Not quite bigger than standard.

Scary Movie was a date flick. A private-public bond like Atchison and Topeka.

“My regrets.” Switching phones, I look up to the Great Plains waiting to take me somewhere. Thinking is enormous but I practice until my call went out.

I’m sick of nice things.

Sonnet 6:

We radicalize to what we know best.
Beauty is a 10 and like usury it’s a gamble.
My tongue in your ear refiguring 2 pair,
distillation, defacement. A fair hand, a treasure 10 for one.
Happy to pay or loan you the rest, and glad
you’re a willing fan, departing before

the winter leaves by the yard ..
And brush your hair? Brush it back down.

70: I don’t blame you.
Alone in your ‘kingdom’ works backwards. You’re facing the street, passing it... A science fiction flushed hollow, cankers and buds looking prime outside and you’re still passing, unstained by the ambush adhering neatly to nothing, just passing, yet suspects’ approval ornamenting impurities of state.

Who are they who envy? slandering even wooed — and such charged discourse? Don’t hold it in. Talk to your doctor.

Ironic judgment.
There are a hundred butterflies in perilous art. What’s wrong with watching one or two spin like happy mediums, go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?

Painting formalism.
It pulls you into painting along with lab wonks, emphatic cat stranglers, lesser rogues, screwball robots painting the same painting of different action hulks who celebrate casino archetypes.

Silent movies, early and often; three or more faddos over a twine painting attempting authenticity; spoken text in utopian media, tense and alive volumes of notebooks; high and low brow platinum blonds and flamboyant offspring, painting stagey inculcation.

Beating me up pouring coffee to make me cry not today.

A branch can be a sentence. And have a real day. There is urgency in ideas.
But the best living in a debt growing country feels worse

than version-2 pressures diffusing
the air that richly dark has the outer sky above.
During the break we reached anxiety. Big
thick crazy quilts the shame buildings

marshaled over property wings,
the bubble places where the “Great but I’ll just hold...” matter.

Fact: eye contact is more defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making a pattern to and from alterations sited within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.
At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)

Sonnet 7:

Outgoing at noon, attending on what? I’m not going out. I’m mouthing off about getting on with or without you. Just look how my sight’s scripted by high pitched infantile alienation, falling over you. Again. It’s not too late! New optimism apparently pays serving your burning head. Another way we’re both blackmailed over there is nothing low, nothing sacred.

Corporate design is a full-length mink coat, Mr Pence. What a pain to illustrate this, a trope from mid-century, the last century to put in an appearance confining this one, more of the opposite.

Do you like spiral staircases?

Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off economy was to result. You like it, Mike. Native fluency may be floatable within, once regarded in its wholeness, its contours beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough though meaner beyond its whereabouts. There’s a kiss whereabouts.

Where o where did we hide the donor workspace, the top percents of it who kept you from living freely.

71: We don’t remember your life, your name, I no longer mourn you

Like a surly, vile freeloader / poet I overhear captions in robot clauses... giving warnings. It’s vile-compounded if I think my verse would forgot you if you read this line in my thoughts. I’m the hand that writ ...I negotiate cash for rapprochement after I am gone. Hey, don’t worry, my next line is not incompatible with yours, for I love you so.

Planet Earth has been coined a Taoist hell. A coinage ringed with grassy estates where men like you with money and I can tiptoe or fall further. One observation is easier than the rest. Tag, you’re it, absorbed in desire to sleep with anybody great.

You sit languidly, the other side of the room. You’re locked in circumstance.
Your party last night was great. You like to dwell publicly on crispnesses in whispers in the air. Not only that, you may already be a laureate.

You’re the single most meticulous detail for me. You chill the sorbet and warm the surf insidiously. Your sleep is like a language recognized by flowers of near distances.

Mercury is wow! Mars.

Antinomy. I should know. Something after was pouring out, dazzling its double structure forward filling empty screen boxes you were bound to organize.
And you were rushing and pausing over more optical symmetry. An interim for you, pushing up and out. There is little point to cremate your fixed melody tonight unless there is nowhere else.

I am a non attorney spokesperson.

Sonnet 93:

Better to live altered, a newly minted change of heart — our love may be facing what we know
Supposing I’m in many ways a deceived husband.

A coterie of enablers cooperates thence. For us,
Love interests are made to seem calculated.

For there can be no hatred in our eyes.
But, facing love, heaven’s moods and many looks
Urge us to go out, rehearsetoo much and get wasted, frowning —
Tho Eve’s apple was Adam’s thence.

What have we beside our thoughts, the inner workings, the trappings, our show.

17: We don’t want to be a second late — I’m hellbent if I could, to get it down again, to write the beauty of your eyes where numbers number (poets rage) — hidden with only half the story in time to come.

That and your grace. You should live twice. Tho who will believe these touches are living parts of you without touching, without your offspring stretching into the night, keenly inanimate tho alive that time.

You said no way, I don’t and half like it, blah! / This poet lies
...lies, but were less truth than tongue filled with living rights to an antique song...

My friend’s snooty and sells antiques?
It’s about people acting this way.
The charger thought we
knew we thought

the skull pile is hot
since it supposes completion as marsh

-puissance coming on —
Anyway, this just in:

Approximate loss’s busy reaching across
the aisle, going there you and I earn points.

Hey mmm
Europe with Alsace in the middle about to be a pain ..
I’m furious about pure consciousness, its tranfontsparency and orchestration. A conduit of expanding stops and sharps. Or is it a geyser in a box?

Sorry, I have no association I can share. I was held up at work as songbirds flew in from the sky everywhere. I don’t know why. When I was eating more I stuck my fingers down my throat to empty it. I am yet to be reborn and am thus a saint.
A saint in a new era of a minute from now learns to kiss your life goodbye. After the credits an aggressor from wikipedia opens with a right cross. I usually fall asleep before the u-boat takes off.

Take-down décor really scares me. Take-down as the day zooms is East Coast enough but to specify a wipe-out draping fiber ...and still it comes back to bone-desparate substance. Bone hued, relaxed and free of contradictions in desire.
I have no name now but my whore ass is about listening. 1st Crusoe the boss and Friday then Jessie, Natasha. A small party turning into Lost Colony as the fete evanesces into a seminar on comparisons, fact-rechecks, back formations.

That was all I felt.

Discuss the cut-off points where ideas can meet and turn into habits that muddle thru and onward. Talk about process.

92: To my love in constant revolt, stealing yourself...

Once again love ends. Next, let’s be happy it never stays; love’s vexing weather of manual labor, inside scars. Fearing the worst, a heightened blush no longer. Blots far from love-happy — I find American Gothic under manageable stress, learning to fear the worst in the least, I don’t know — what’s a fair question — is there one last better state to restage or not to live? For it depends on you, not false, not wrong, terms of our lives may be dashing or humorless for a term without love. I love you is self-assured and formally difficult and, ooops. Someone happy to die is on fire.

Now — do we take their place?

29: I am deaf, “bootless” you say, never hearing I’m scorned, despised, all alone for desiring you...

Yet I make a fortune wishing, thinking of you when? when disgraced

Remembering hymns for love rich in hope, wealth, art, a human’s scope.
How all men’s eyes rise at dawn from birth, this outcast state, when..
Almost enjoined as to the sullen lark least contented, almost cursed —

Looking for, singing from earth, thinking of you through break of day.

Language is spoken better where it’s taught. While you’re at it wedge correspondence. Then add neural linguistic product with teal / aubergine edges to develop squeeze pages; flicker the colors and offer joint ventures in which you apply marketing’s advice. This is the ballad of how especially my guest room is the office.

Nero fiddles for the top one percent.

The door to the exchange left ajar

fizzy purviews haunting what hang around from The Inferno. A wave beats my eye off. Don’t care. Structured improvisation vibrates thru volumes in time. I’m chatting up my repressed side to save us from scrapping our early decisions. The charge is to pass/fail to remember the (mission) exchange.

Your reading was beautiful, well pronounced. Perfect make-up. But boredom is poor experiment; that’s what we said to snap out of lightness, joy, the eyes-open dream. Knower and known are clean, osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the public, our public. And I’m less affected by less meaning, un-giddy like you. Duly of course sounded, I cover my throat.
“It’s nice to be interrupted twice.”

110: What are resonators for but to effect command of offenses we’re uncertain of or sold cheap. There’s nothing but our affections left. Love’s confinement a desperate measure, and it’s true, in reckless hands, yet for silent partners like us there’s depth to surface and mostly un-despairing perceptions (grinding truth) of what won’t be contained. All of the above.

34: I have a feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in my way —
Together, you and I defined arcs of ironic repentance but in a series of affable disputes. Just so, we’re still at a loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal, yet not wind smudging our wounds into rotten smoke. Why?

It’s not enough I lose, I’m scared; ah, no relief as such. I won’t travel well, off through clouds. I have your brave face but shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.

126: Don’t talk with your mouth full. Process self-disrupts into phrases and glass, fickle process components and the stiff, gnomic atmospheres to bring accoutrement to terms, waning to grow! Hold your lovers there minutes in pleasure. And go on, keep to your purpose, even in power, lovelier.

As you say in social sciences, it’s too late for Cy Twombly’s nervous breakdown. There are gaps we see now and through. Louis Pasteur enjoins the loyal center. Candy ass.

During the break, there’s a nightmare where we go away. Go on a way for now. We’re on tv a lot. It’s a gen condition, but hushed up. On tv I have a family resemblance dilemma along with young poets and cohorts I encounter. We’ve been brought up in visual culture. And since it’s being archived, there are poets who affect me in lit-crit ways I will never let them in on or admit to, ways tied up with influences and emotions and, notable (notable on a paranoid scale, i.e.), I get it they may be viewing me in common, collateral ways.

First reading H.D. (in high school) set my fingers tingling (not my spine, tho). Reading Donne, breaking down how conceits interlocked parts of the argument fired my brain that, great thing, I experienced physically, but I don’t remember which parts, precisely. (Again, this was high school. I bet it was adrenaline added to all the braining in Latin and German and maybe the attendant headaches. I was more involved with Keats before college, but his poetry came in dreamy concretion, to me, and I don’t think I “felt” his words so much as “saw” them and me in them. The visual over feeling. At this point, embarrassing to admit, I wanted to be an amalgam of Keats and Donne. I was I anxious.) First time I felt a poem through my skin was long ago, listening to Kenward Elmslie read in Boston for the first time. Boom boom up and down the limbic whatnot. I still feel it, breathing free..

Fair warning.

None of this is quite déjà vu. It seems rational that with a little prep you can achieve more intimacy with a poet you’re initially trying to know. If you want. And, of course, you’re helped by the other, the other’s writing, I mean, since poetry is one medium for splendid self-introductions of a stagy, framed sort. No, what I am about to say ...I want to put here and it’s not entirely rational ...there may be a blushing-waif-zeit and atmospherics, but certainly a range of collective empathy (psychosis?) with a potentially or partially vulnerable social manner that, together with your own empathy and vulnerability, will put you both a way forward; you’re talking fast and can’t help rolling your eyes, even before you have intentions. This happens a lot but not forever, especially with one ill bred who misapplies the moves and the language to enact motives beyond the immediate speech act.

You all right?

There’s a title for most any time lapse. Stick around.
The sentence: ‘The Jets, Giants, even Broncos lost squawking about losing’
Diagrams the opportunity


‘But should we use quotation marks?’
Came up as a refrain.
By then our thought freezes,


Just why we reserve dopey incongruence for fill-ins.
‘When you put it that way I can’t complain.’
Dodge this bullet, I’m only fucking with you, you all right?

113: Replete with you I selected a rogue anime, you with improved vision to shape my mind
to catch birds, creatures, e.g. — Mountains.

Since I left you I’ve gone partly blind, seeing you day and night. My point in sight, incapable of more, out and about, even untrue

you and I will strike commanding octaves and quickly favored rumors then circulate.
~ For leaving you to my understanding seems sweet and effectually rude ~
sea crow- or dove-forms impart their homage to
the likes of you, shaped true to your features. Those substitutes govern what I do.

For in some directions the rude go about your functions, get noticed — blind seems seeing,
but deliver no part of you, true mind.

The traitor’s bags are packed.

Gyoza, tofu tempura, veggie soup, fried cricket. Democracy progresses on almost everything, available now.

$1.5 trillion added to our deficits. A structuralist’s dreams centralize.
Federalism & the dignity of work slide down between national gratitude and liens. (The financial pacs industry isn’t just kidding.) Nothing personal, this is the sustained concussion version of indebted citizenship... I also give a lily for what’s unavailable, a cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments, for the boink of whinnying for pleasure.

Or I cry when I know you love me. Same thing.

When I get to work I credit everything from the atmosphere, the engine without a message.

There’s always looking out, up, through fitful silence & a humane sense of feeling cornered in music practice. Enough, enough men and women are deaf to ruin

wherein love rebuilds their smirks pressing on — drizzle would hurt if they could see but it’s only visible as a short, stout white truck rolls under the haze, Kia-like, choked in a soft, fluffy diorama.

107: Hand-me-downs are not deconstruction, not mine or yours.
So this is an edit. Rent the wide world v. purchase. Own v. confined release.
(Color had risen to his cheeks. “I want us to be in charge.”)

Seconds later I was reconnected. Uncertainties are now assured.

Would you like to ask questions or can I dream on the problem?

Sonnet 86:

The future gives full sail bound for intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to write, grow great verse.
I thought of you
giving us cohorts aid.. No, we see your pride flies as it works a crowd of familiar ghosts.

Once our brain ripens, we have neither victory nor fear — I by night lack a precious affable spirit beyond mortality. Or morality. Both strike me all too precious matters, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling up this line.

Surely I have ideals and uncoded momentum, bolo intact.
Rain twisting, “tensile lines.” So wave back, s’up?
We’re at the prelims of collapse, I suppose.

I’m on the outs with prelims, down with the innards of English.
Down with collapsing too. In fact

I’m breathing without commodity or form, trained in my language.

The trees are full of policemen — Filip Marinovich

145: Once I don’t hate you

there’s mercy to renew my argument and song. For your sake I saw chidingly day follows night, like an avalanche...
lips almost breathing, a languished state but explosive. Just like a fiend’s ...
tongue from heaven to hell taught me to hate those lips — yours altered me
to greet then end each day with nothing woeful or sweet. But today I saw your hand in this... A great doomed sound flown away.. I’m saved, flown straight to your heart now, not to hate, "not you."

In full bloom, full blown.
There’s too much junk in triangles. (Conductors know this.)
That’s how I got to live alone anticipating mind control as
disingenuous. As
my own adverb creator I found action verbs with alter-egos,
asides, and decorative indeterminacy.

Love memorials are cool.

The smitten dissipate. I’m a fan without a noun.

152: My honest faith is an American idiom
in keeping faith in you. I lie.
You have twice vowed new, constant hate for me —
My eyes swear against the broken things they see.

Perjury. I have lost faith in you —
I accuse myself of blindness, torn most bearing love in constancy, in loving you.

New day! Matins yet ghosted, Starsky’s tongue in my ear
& all the bobwhites in Appalachia hush... off

& then — second — noise
of collared, greening hospitality where Hellenic

banter might calm a tax credit havoc.
Third, I stay nonprofit
worshiping that everything belongs.
The rest is stress related.

As noted last century, there’s a rustic prep for a painterly style and muddled cool. We come from some landscape with a father, calmed by his fear we were of a kind he was to others.

Let’s see what we get at the top of the poetry game.
There you go again. Tax and spend. Death panels. Lyin’ Hillary. Toxic concepts infuse social ideology and organize perception. Political samples predict voter behavior.

J is crazy. Play along or rue it.
You guys go ahead.

I’m going to take my inside voice and ...and turn around and walk away.

Outdoors I pledge you a wholly hidden idiom of renderings, highlighting themes out-of-focus, left to twist in the leafy apolitical acreage.

Director’s cut.

for Souza

Music up. See this pigeon? He’s a true antihero. Incandescent.
Along with the meaning of structure for couturiers and magi,
varmints in then shortness of breath are indexing our suspicion
tho objurgating — Varmints and saps they are — knitting their brows to go
nowhere wearing rubber suits stepping in, out of buildings, thinking
climbing stairs, it’s 100 percent normal running up
debt to keep devotees heartbroken. So we’re with pigeon.

Music up.

2: We never come across it.

Yet a thriftless parabola intersects its pedigree that was.
Gestures are precise, eating shame. User eyes,
proud motions. Warm and cold climbing down the third hill,
there’s a new quad mainstream-underground

deep-sunken eyes — we — some of us — avoid them. It’s hardly objective
when a big tantric realignment is authentic now, will

hyper-rufflers be juxtaposed by an advanced milieu? If
you, will you cover me? how much? let’s besiege the
rectangular coordinates, summed up as praise

understands pleasures, the eyes, neck and chest.
There. Got it.

for Rene
Heedless and highly egotistical,
Two good words; and too,

The beautiful person deals in opinions on redeeming enterprises and I’ll —

Conquest contributes to a wonderful unanimous
Just unnerving enough atmosphere
— an image of while.

4: In a coin flip, you
and I’re leisure-loving. Nature’s doing.
Fair and it’s that easy
and so great I’m leaving you
my saddle in your extrication from hallucinatory delirium ..

Tho you’re still up front, in legacy jeans, what nature calls
trafficking with fog to bequest lilac-dark in the air
and offshore atmospheres yesterday and the day before

If you could answer.

I’m a year late. In choosing what rubs me wrong or why I don’t want to be seen with you or apologize for one more ode, can I eat something?
I repeat.
I’m making an ode to winter, coming on, just getting to you. As marriages go it’s not all bad. I owe my bros an apology. (Not you.) My better half too. It’s just an exchange.

Summer!

What about Lars?
We didn’t kill him.
                          — The Thing (2011)

Why tonight?

My day jewelry drove out surface tension and gave us balls that took off and ran.
Software permeates where we hurt —
Show me holding the moment once.

Once and be done.

I know where I am going
gawky, rattling my enormous will.

I know where the caged bird sings.
I shopped in Brooklyn.

Shy of seduction
I worry about the big family.
Like Clint Eastwood I was shifty.
Once. What was that all about?

Have yourself a good time. I’ll have you over when political science gets to better thinking, Aldous Huxley augmented with a good bouquet, plus a full deck of historical raiment among the aspirers decoding automation... After that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous to grab at, but for now, good talk!

Who is this? Nobody’s first choice.

We’re fine with “no real choice.”

Pavane:

At arm’s length..
There were dimensions an hour ago enabling 2 events in a plot we’re party to. Tenebrae, we said. Let’s return to the olfactory sketches, in which the cosmos is left and right unexplained. Constant and converted. Incandescent, then, our ardor comes back to choke a rocket sidelined by a braided chord worn as a necklace, a burning space distinguished by the compliments contained.

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

Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”

In this chapter I fear sarcasm.

Sex is a sardonic comfort with a sober edge.
Time’s up. I have to guide this girl back to her tapestry, a big beldam with a visual cortex attending what’s neat in the future, and she finds me attractive!

In every country other than the U.S. Wilbur Crosses are taboo. Not here. A first degree economist is like everyone else in lyrical society, boasting bragging rights for having interesting things to read, packs of old love notes, crayoned hearts and drunken smiley faces, pledging boundless love.

Of course the letter-C tropes are... sticky. The Crosses in love act as if they spent decades on self-gazing, an expanding assembly of pulverized dots — big, jaunty dots that gather at will to darken world markets, ducking your punch and closing your mouth.

Sonnet 65:
Horticultural experience in impulsive concealment.. it could be a physics meditation held outdoors since summer. All night a flower action evolves stronger, steelier pretexts, many out of hand, petals and stems from an impregnable riddle.
In time we hold our own, stumbling upon a miracle of zoological jewels that held out for continuity as it were — trademarks of both natural and technical production, mortal yet boundless in value or a variable of beauty either way.

Sing:

I’ve got film goals. I’m an anthologist of agitprop. I think it’s colossal. It gives me a perfect boost as a lifelong cold intellectual. Fun is fun, but now? not when friends and starlets are struggling then flattened intentionally. An observation from no claustrophobic yet sober, easily misrepresented. Both wrong.

Lately and I don’t like it, it’s out on the town looking for the g spot to brush up on the visual grammar in the director’s assault on what’s deeply held.

14: In my judgment
what I know is in your eyes.
Good luck can never bite. Except not at night. Newer urgencies
where prognosticators feel rained on, pointing to each other
so exposed they feign ignorance, aimlessly...

And yet bad luck when a lightning rod derives its light and lightly
a chemical wind thrives for a second and returns to stars —
doomed as cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.

Our dual cosmos doodad self-inflates as a product injector, window-dressing cultural exertion, just like weather bombs wearing Beirut colors, pebble and pale, lucent grays.

Colors burn up forever, each color of stone raging with a claque inside, giving access to a haystack that we call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.

Do what you want. Just a few things I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I was curious
underwater as sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.
So there’s a rule-of-thumb with natural stenches & hidden dimensions back on land that seems ultra altered, it’s just too much. My..

rain, obscure nights at a movie and a bar to do what we want. Tall men are restless in the rain. Excellent. We’ll conquer, read over the presentation, juggle heads.

62: No remedy surmounts heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the whole series, bright, tanned & then accounted indeed in sympathetic parody and praise, contrary to more gracious remedies.

We have functional emotions, I think, grounded quite inward by self-love & this choppy vocab of defined affects. There’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I’m painting the last place you are true in my heart, shifting iniquity to self-inquiry, I read. Stay with me, never stop. Sin here.

74: I agree with / to your bail. Security should have conducted a more scholarly pat down.

We are under arrest but you’ve lost nothing.
Ten to one, better parts of our street rep show up in literature and data tracking. Faint Italian opera on one receiver as a memorial.

When you have a chance to review, I think this is due you. Layers of my spirit are made yours & what remains leaps out of no life, no death, carried away having some interest in what’s going down on this wretched yet contented earth, all it contains, even this line.

Sing:
The virus is already inside you
Hunting in a lather of swing, lacking other nouns.
Remember thoughts?

What if thinking doesn’t work. Now what?

No single body move thinks back,
a trick the unexcelled Spinoza observes when a lather foams.

Waiting for Hillary.

The 10 impulses exist. Do tell. So it’s a great coaster. We can go for a ride?
That sleeping 26 hours would be correct appears a flaw in the secession.
And we were on foot.
That’s what it feels like or sounds like, not is.

Dating overnight could keep on as long as no one cared to read into it.

You cannot win. It happens fast. Less than a flash. But the kiss you depend on disappears. Go for parallels yourself.

Sorry, felons, there’s a fool’s guarantee. All you have
to do is ...
Choose love as a buy or rental option equidistant from defunct phenomena that travail and make surprise visits within quanta. (Too early to tell.) Choosing love creates an entire platform to spin off much slower tangential constructs. Happenstance plucked out of a good number of now-dead parallels.

Passion motifs die, death too, no recovery to get “permission”
as The Analects 論語 will be tantamount to sex and medicine
boosting value, in cold bewilderment over consciousness / a risk
for vault-loads, bags and bags of humanly virtue, and
many new non-identities that bring risk-takers close to within.

Or live to be admired. You might like to check it out. Ask
me. We have a fund and a losses board this time.
Growing with messages. I keep circling staring at the new wing
thinking how light, how each light beam
can be rare and mysterious, a physical

crossing between Religion | How People Talk. Where did passion trend?
Search: Wittgenstein reads False Prospects. So too The World of Normal
Boys transcending genre, understanding a field painter’s task.

Why I don’t suck straight up? I’m on lockdown. But you’re in first love now. Near-great beliefs with old factoids, nothing much but attitudes struck, days of learning in spirals, an undulating façade. The other day I walked into a bar, the old place, saw endless tunnels, gadgets and immortal lighting that interconnected music while underfoot. My fingers boarded the apologetic apparatus, some of it; it was thumping on wall screens... Every minute whenever I learned all this, eyes rolled, doors slammed. After worship, there’s little but great necks guided by the star beats. Yesterday was bright as today.

Don’t argue with the shipment.

A line from an emergency

each year corrupts the exterior ‘filth of life,’ field and stream.
Secret pools, I’ll show three cologne trails. Be funny and serious, first.
Lighter comfort is literal and has more fun naked. Inserts a handkerchief.
Shaves twice a day.

My door is open: Last, best, final. For the good of your person, family, the total airborne, hands down, if
I rest for a moment, I’ve been up all morning.

I miss knishes.

The no-fantasies plan, weeks running backwards
After the Geico announcer’s ecstasy — there are no water edges or dikes
Yet or even a fleeting of civilized dichotomy.
Music filters out at the one crack in the bridge against the sky.
All the airports sink back in black and white marsh, just fine.
Day to day sometimes in sunlight geographers breathe utterances.
We’re going to be here as long as it takes.

My best friend is my most erotic partner. It’s a corporation.
But this has nothing to do w/ simplicity.
His music brokerage remains in aerospace
Within no sound
where there is none
other than the last.
No other devices for years.

The more I say it the closer it gets.

96: This is weird. A focus group from the groom’s side picked us, agreeing
w/ newer media featuring youth lower right, your lips moving
up and down, sport documentation, more or less:

The groom is in the vicinity of your fingers being led away...

Here’s the stumper.

Whatever base of ism the urge to love is put down to error and wanton anthropology.

We open our front door and see what the state’s strength translates to. The shortest path ignited by havoc, honest and exhausted gazers. From it’s-not-the-same-now to the science of celebrating their betrayal. Sort of addictive.
And anthropology won.

Spent the weekend in Austin deeply depressed. I was charmed at first and then lulled into dissonance gazing at sheer limestone foothills with humid vistas and can-do vegetation softening a bustling, armed, politico academic subtopia awash in petrodollars. The petrodollar, we know, is the currency feckless leaders proffer, enlisting youth to carry guns and leave home to fight terrorism abroad while depleting national coffers Stateside. Our leaders in turn subject to capitalist paymasters who pay no taxes and now lecture via GOP talking points against big federal deficits. But I digress.

— 2010

Update, 2017: Nothing about deficits for now. They'll wait until after midterms.

I like art.

That’s your interpretation.

Can you penetrate our people’s ethos growing up empty of teaching, unavailable reserve? Reserved to understand thick grasses amounts to ridiculing the phonemic state of flying birds.

(Someone asked me not to float this.) That’s how not-shitty is while our so-named public face makes a living, almost kidding and choosing hands on fire. What kind of prose government takes dabbling more lightly?

It’s a misunderstanding of gym etiquette but it gets you ashore with one* shoe in hand, mine.
I’ll find you.

*that one shoe = 2 I stole from you.

I feel socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing
The center
More than any single system,

A huge agnostic discipline
About attitudes behind morals.

You know this open and shut —
Take it down / or thumb thru

The balance left over. Inhabit the brim

To the point you don’t have to know anymore yoga than
We know now — less than nothing, which exists practically.

A while back, long before punches of text looked great on the phone, there were many snores from ancestors with frequent coughs and grunts crowding in together in caves. Back when our bodies taught themselves phonemes thru shrieks and groans to signal pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition — folks like you hit upon logic I feel crazy fancy, headed for greatness in the morning.

It’s different from the evening on and someone with hands on fire hits back.

Teamwork. Our people are what make us great.

The then thick grasses went out on a date, back dabbling in craftwork while we roll thru them. All this acreage owned by the production-geared and prosaic at base, that is, a-theoretical, factual. Broke, misunderstood.

55: A period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity where we can outlive this, advancing slowly.

Not marble nor rhyme so move. Dropping the nor verb mood... our fun workout once was of a soul, a tone cucumber if I were a colorist in Lyon.
So why am I dwelling on posterity like a warrior groom added hastily
and who’s decided to blab about all the wealth coming, going into the poem.

You and I rather lived in this prospect before it became oblivious — uninvited, I brought a guest — as death and memory, statues overturned. I...

The so-called unswept stones power fabulous glossary. Even in the eyes, interesting definitions for outliving velocity (rapidities) that ask or shall you ask, Why is posterity at rest?

Un-sober gestures are precise. Bright eyes, sparkling motions. You should get a huge lollipop.

Climbing down the outside of pure hell there’s a new mainstream with an underground that merits a visitor’s gaze — we — some of us — avoid it.

It’s hard to plot let alone hatch a plan objectively, yet pressure is mounting full of smoke. Mm-hmm. Chestnut tones of half a political realignment are hemi-obscure now, at this hour of the fireball pyramid scheme — who votes to allow public squalor juxtapose obscene capitalist private milieux?

So let’s start at home with our infrastrcture’s rectangular coordinates, understand pleasures of the neck, chest, and eyes. That’s the bigger half.

Before thrills, yoga is fantastic. I’m 12 years old for years.

95: Pretext takes over. White lascivious comments per the report.
What would be less fantastic? An enclosure of stainless praise. Full shelves of inexpensive great plans.

Naming your name heterosexual tells the story, you’re every blot and sin in one, widely preached against, seldom commented on against ill odds. How sweet Christ demoted you for shame. One spots your vices, pieces of sporting nonsense, beauty’s manly tongue negated, verbs rounded off randomly, veiled, knifing you out..

I like art. I know nothing about it.

Colder rain or snow has a profile that can only be screwy beyond logic in drier spells.
Either is widely construed as audible, partially plundering suspicion within either’s asymmetry.

Rain or snow, the great work cuts straight through restructure, roughing up more remakes and models we can abandon.

Either or we. Precipitation becomes a shadow racket. Tattooing in air — epic sums up the walkway and through the instrumentation if you have any.

I go for the moody and unexpected.

The color of one’s spine goes ultimate, high to low, unlikely yet foreseeable.
So I put your name on and I put it 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 your balls are hardly unadulterated.)

You’re driving me nuts.

117: What’s virtue? J’accuse thus: We have to repay all bonds for punishment on platform hoists. I recommend frequenting, willfully, day by day with ex-writers, video vignette makers, tinkerers and others unknown, indistinguishable from applied scientists.

For now, after work non-haters should accumulate human illuminated octane, Ray Bans and waking-white sleeves.

Whereto (given time) ‘should’ means ‘want to’ — our gusto surmised proof, scant without you, brought far from your level.

Solitude, confidences, we’ll give in to transport within the day, the plays and the desert constants farthest from your sight.

77: Society is like building blocks. When you’re on my mind I see cubism and social media touched or felt. Vacant, minutes wasted, overrated, I whisper to myself, falling for your acquaintance.

118: Kissing is poison. It makes our appetites cloying. It’s bad for you

but I wasn’t. Then came anticipating imitation .. goodness, a sort of I-actually-miss-you ..

Diseased, sick of you kissing where you are so blatantly filled with spreading everywhere completely negating its purpose, needing starlight at the edge of freakonomics in a Flemish-like world, a healthful state of illuminating the bitter departure from what is present in the original experience. Even so, thanks.

Since you brought a pizza —
What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us and sociopaths to raise your stature, fabulously?

That aside —

Mobs and their terms of justice, um, I’m ..
Am thinking of some upgrade. For anything more cautionary and uncool we’ll have to shop politics further, some interpretive search worked up into a deep steam of entrepreneurship; we’ll get back to you all —

My purchases for now are long history.
I really don’t know what I’m buying.

I was sideswiping along with you, among maples and acer pines, no contrivance or Schubertian opposition. It felt like what heats up under prehistoric pressure; our roles were to fill this in, lengthening ancestral menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus language, thought, attrition.

So I have put back late footage of infectious provisos and integers-to-be, no rocky shores to fix. Schubert had blond hair and rimless spectacles, no concupiscence and no comeuppance.

115: Devouring and reckoning, I love you best, babe. A certain aspect of our fiction will hold. (I could not love you more altering things in soft Southern truck talk.) We have no clear incentive to divert, mindless of taking chances, since we have already changed through fierce blunt talk — too much and too often raised a toast to sharper minds and the certain madness of it’s desperately over the course of millions of accidents, doubting the rest (and how angry rewrite gets afterwards) and how it makes us enflamed for the late poetry of Rene Ricard.

[Hint: this follows the ungrammatical itinerary of manic, tasty Sonnet 115. Back to you.]

for JW

The images are confused as of an understanding.
Cassius Clay. Premiere then curtains.

Time runs out, our taxonomies still
unexplained as permits.

We loved your altitude, your trafficked facts, but
we feared anti-humanists and divas
wound up in your senseless apartment at the nation’s tip —
just the tip
...you know what I mean standing, promoting popular acceptance there
with nothing to give back, not mad enough, feeling too little.

A headboard with no utility other than book nooks.
Can we cut to the scary part?
Materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo that’s 4 ever, sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness, unraveling optics in dissolved attitudes behind all the good times 4-ward.

Living somewhat left of Unitarian
(Japanese cranes)

I promised you a ham for quilting bombast.

You live within politics and practice warfare
to engage another’s psyche, smiling, you blow yourself up
& you’re always wrong to prolong your appeal.

Full employment.
We like new taps on the shoulder in a way when both leave imprints. Like
how I graduated from this shame of yours and mine, this ceaseless pride

in the going battle between the sexes? (The rich won.)

Can you place our names? I trade you. I have a canoe for an alter-ego, asides and decorative indeterminacy. With various hats, I got to anticipating mind control as disingenuous.

82: Sing:

Affidavit.

...I’ll say it again, there’s a dedicated method to overlook, a high-five as you whisper this is the second point, both natural and gross.

Adorno says strained rhetoric is fair game starting over (in the middle) but the but doesn’t count. (It’s always been technical.)
And therefore there’s no foundering beneath the social parasail of violence. Plain speech commits us, enforced to. Our card is activated.

Love, that’s the plain worst case — let me give you a hand. Finding our words muses put us on a riddle gauge, our part of the solution on the punishing ground straining up.

Rightist verse, M.R.I., not hot.

It’s meta-conscious. On the surface it projects text as selfie, “poking” materials, assemblers, audience. Selfies however adhere to reticent agendas.

Pedagogic systems schedule examination of dominant samples. Absorbing their data is high achievement that’s duplicable.

Rightist epistemology’s key reinforcements:

a) algorithmic methods underline skillsets bias.
b) calculable hierarchies, A.B.’s, Ivies, W.S.M.
c) satellites derive from a) and b).

It’s all about people acting this way.

Frank O’Hara rather not.

83: Show or tell. How impossible to set apart understatement from tender painting. Both off us poets are adolescent, speaking of worth, our pitch. A pitch that grows — what the thrilling cave and landscape felt. I found or thought I found I came up short, too short, my debt-tendering sin. For I live on dumbly to meet death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing beauty is contingent. Partly in praise, partly not.

Brain damage is in the eyes.

I’m slaphappy-proof to diffuse your feeling me up. What you say is the whole body of it.
Rethought transactionally.. parsers in their teens put on rheumier shows,
it’s simple enough. I think I said that, and made it a quote: a dream

of immense sadness peering exclusively through me promising not to point.
Of course there’s a way or two out.
Say a bird in flight.

Achievement.
There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden. Heck
Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for a lifetime.
I lower your voice to closest approximate parity.
Somewhere, who’s a sociopath?

Finalists have slender bending necks.

Tarantulas of steel squeeze under the door, isolated by
an obsession coming on, coming right in. There we go, holist.
Theory-and-forth..
Theory is the place you and I may detect the language driver, a feeling you’ve won, untidy and young, accomplished and loathed despite a foundational rule of no feeling without permission.

Our tarantulas grow mute in dim light over and over —
burbling with a kill-agenda tickled into decisions, aching to blather.

Here’s a thought. Stiles of cash stuffed inside passions, stacking up with such speed our nation reflects the world as it is, advancing toward convenience stops and arbitrary stretches we don’t care about.

Well, most of these “pieces” are literal, based on trying to sit down and sing [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still wearing your headset.”

An air of inevitability around advanced codes has been shattered. It seems inauthentic in the last heavy mustache sense. I am more than at war. Your holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. This.

My peers make films and fast food.