Hands up.

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

A heyday of hands.
Male muses

— the vulnerable and maligned muses were not held enough as children on a moonscape of beaks. Ever notice? Certainly I wasn't. Now I have to make excuses for friends of mine buried below their own animation with no heirs. They’re donning synthetics, and only half familiar, and just too intense, plundering the transport of their ambience.

And I was musing, simple stuff picking up a pen.
Blue Apron poem.

For fast delivery: A tormented lab mix of appliance and beast, user-taxed slabs of pork tortilla, melon and sausage sorbet on a woodenesque platter, all wrapped up for you to tear open, putting me in mind of a future photo realism, a live feed from the Fed Ex of poetics. Yes.
It’s tricky coming up with good examples of authored conceptual poetics.
Sonnet 6:

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

the winter leaves by the yard .. you’re much too fair
And brush your hair? Brush it back down.
Open the mic. Didn’t I tell you?
Squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one off color
Of a deceptive simplicity
in love as well as pride, duplicity.

Thing is, a boyfriend keeps faith
better than others, believing neither.

Separated from a source of meditation, let’s call it, you’d be sad.
The source is not sad. One separated from the source is.

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


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

There’s no description I can give,

No way to rhyme turning away, hiding on the loose.

Chords have their way in the air wondering how high an apartment we can get.
You’re a world-famous trance inducer. That’s it.

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

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

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

It’s all happening in Henry’s head?
So we need just one poet! You, you trancer ... Am I crazy?
No. That actually clears up free verse for me.
5: No remembrance. Of confounding beauty. Of the lovely gaze where beauty dwells.

Of course I did time as a stealth pathologist performing autopsies on women and men who lost their show. Subjects were mostly strung out on sofa sectionals — big, jaunty shapes who swaddled their inner pooch — gentle work but yes I’ll love you better frosty and lusty! —
Often I’d say I’m a pervert approaching you as summer’s pointilist / a man thinking she’s he of the pulverized, distilled dots — a liquid prisoner

pent in never-resting time leading me on —
How the fuck could we let this happen?

Broken, giddy up, dead.
Today I face thunder — how to pay homage...
Bouncy.. apocalypse..
My instinct when asked is to inch back
To the moody raw nation jettisoning any
Civil use of half-soothing words
On top various uninvented heights,
The same heights outward
Of looking into what we broke.
I’ve crossed a few lines.
Relax and beware. Certain branches of law aim straight at us. Fuzz, the pronoun, embodies overwrought subject matter while an emanation turns into a specter, brought up a peg to clear things with the bosses.
A starry equity or neurons? Words are beta worlds
that heat up while young at the edge yet a lost cause.
Vicarious is not strong enough.
And titles cost. Avalanche, a virus.
Cherries Hamlet.


Ours was a taxonomic relationship.
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax.
I’m bad at knowing when justice along
with passion is vital, not recreational.
I’m passive but I don’t believe in spooks. Here’s the outline.
A few strings were pulled to get me in this new factual place I would never have chosen.
Sonnet 65:
Horticultural boundlessness in impulsive concealment.. it could be a physics meditation held outdoors since last summer. All night flower action evolves stronger, steelier pretexts, many out of hand.. petals and stems sway over an impregnable riddle.
In time we hold our own, stumbling upon a miracle sonnet holding out for continuity as it were — trademarks of both natural and technical production, mortal yet like summer honey in value or a variable of beauty either way.
75: Every time I visit you in your mascara I become lucid about fears you strike. Day by day you are food to my life. I see the brilliant live again, sure enough, in vetted dormitories, always have, fudging abasement with rich food and drugs. Sorry concentrates. There you are.

Pleasure and then the transportation of souls and their wealth take place about now.
Nothing for me. I feel like a pursuer of no delight uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my whorl of cement paintings..

Starved for a look, now counting it best when the world
may see my pleasure feasting thus off you, on your dime so to speak, on / off your sight...
pursuing peace, all or nothing, but with you alone.
A script doctor from Jumanji drew the curtains to reveal Mad
Ave, outside NYC, where people in walk-on roles pass our dead end window.

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

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

From the original Mad Ave
in NYC

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

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


Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam, face down in the ferns.
A mind occupied, just so. A m I in an experimental state of forgery? No, I live in a red state. Prithee, how do I maintain balance sheets & my resolute informality? It’s one other day of no hope. Yet different, jokes turn into sleep. & dreams forgive paranoia’s belated redemption, trapping me inside ambitions to put out the house fire (in my head) by myself. New to physics, I talk in a low, medium braggadocio. My grin sports a few layers of sleep relief, aching in baby, calmly accruing intimacy to belie despair over entropy.
The will to quiet is the flip side of getting a ch-
amber piece to burble, crying doubly inaudible
for more power when a robot loses its job after a successful war on the homeless...
I get scared how the losers meditate spinning up to the extra surface,
no message. So there’s nothing left as surplus.


Sir Fric and Frac. Remember?

Fric just called, said “We were swimming naked — a word I use often to characterize my government and binding. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed you by the throat, feeling afflicted since you moved in. At first I felt something strange but now familiar.
To bring this up this late is totemic.”
I fell silent and wrote it all down.
To be objective and lack will 
is ambition..
Someday the male coloration returns as a feminine force with tinctures or inaudible signs from a long history of decision making, preparing us for more retrospective behavior, more implicative speech and extra sensory anger.
Yes, I’ve recently incorporated; makes me feel yes! you are more melted into tomorrow’s borrowing high, mighty simplicity. As when a killer bee leaves a pattern to teach reform, pushes a path open.

Pull it together, a life that’s sustainable you can just make up. (You are under no obligation.) This is a real company. We call her Cathy.
But this has nothing to do with
walking away burning more calories,
‘mountains feel empty’ / they’re
rude − here is where the card you play helps.

And there you go, retreating to that panoptic middle ground where you still discover the same 10 variations. We have to choose the Non-Group taking part in the landing, staying cool to outlast time. This is tomorrow.
To be objective and lack will 
is ambition..
Someday the male coloration returns as a feminine force with tinctures or inaudible signs from a long history of decision making, preparing us for more retrospective behavior, more implicative speech and extra sensory anger.
Nothing frilly or glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield.


It’s impolitic to separate the performance from stage direction; both are deadpan. Have you thought of writing?
To continue, asymmetry solves the perfection problem early on, not remorse. To think you got to witness young Myrtel Hammer & family out of the box on parole, draped over a bowl of smashed lures & hooks.
Myrtel, you & yours were boring. Is anyone related? We see too-serious regard for perfect categories evolves at the outset competing with yourself... Oneself

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

Read the inspection label.
36: Repetitions. There they go. Altho one,
you’re mine. Yet you get somewhere then stop. You’re not alone.
I may not acknowledge you my love’s delight. You’re not solely mine. It’s a shame tho we honor inner living love that divides in stolen light. I confess in that respect — or let me confess our two loves are shamed into love’s altered effect —

Your love, mine — separable remains of the nervous system that distorts public kindness and two lives, our undivided love radially.
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 contort controls; active ingredients are
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.

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


Pure gentrification directed to cheap, unearned consensus —

Everyone needs a secret life.
I got the idea from going to church.
Am not believing this.
What’s the worst that can happen? One’s partner —
is a doomed villain — twenty times one’s own weight.
On a second take one is defined for video senses
by god, by sex. Thank god that intimidates.

Not scat, I learned squat, handily
...I get the feeling
god has gone one’s way.
107: Even tho you can’t concentrate, you’re in a place, well
A place I’ve never been before. Your dreaming on things to come.
You look fresh. You have on your eyeliner from long ago.
I like what you said to the speechless that time.

Down with tyrants, their crests and tombs.
No sad augurs, no uncertainties.

Suppose forfeiting doom, suppose
Peace with no death, of endless age.
Standing — rain and others’ happiness that neutrinos can’t stand scattering. Next the sun we say shines, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of our meaning it and not tempted. It’s still my life, we say. Some of you and me was here, and more ‘you’ve been away,’ retreating to emancipating solitude, keeping / adding up the wait time, sporting by degrees the related changes you seem to see and are.
It’s hopeless, my life like my sweating over you, nondestructive, unextreme. I crack up when someone mentions reincarnation, but next time you’ll pick a family from a line of tenured scientists in the non-snickering future. We on the left are depressed because ours is a classless de-corporated shtetl — no need for socialists, time will tell. Tho, maybe there’s no option?

You’d still love political poetry, but with reservations because of the dirt, the skid marks and resonance of decay, “refined by distance.” I’m sure you could tell.
National treasure: Crocheted titanium with a clown’s face.


After Rimbaud, Pound was nuts. When it comes to the poetry, some think thank goodness. There’s no defense, today, for calling Bollingen panel’s perceptions “objective,” and it seems reasonable to imagine a few, such as Eliot, were willing to overlook a man so “situated” — that is, despite Pound’s anti-Semitism as well as his insanity, he was ensconced on the “legitimate” bases of shared esthetics, the shared part left, even now, unspecified because it’s easier left out.
Affluent boys, effeminate — it’s a sane part of rage — guys get to a point where they think they’re not deep enough: “I only want to lie flat on my back and read a book. (I can’t grapple with what else I’m thinking..)” That’s where poets step in. Poets get dudes to want to read and write.

When love is missing shame is worth nothing.
You devise virtuous lies (dear love) .. I picked that up, false, smug and cute,
a braid of welts around your neck.

My name may be buried where my body is
the body you should love...

I’ve just noticed you haven’t said anything, Gabby.
Let’s rewrite your true love untrue. Make it count.
In this I fear sarcasm.
Fair weather clouds
So far: There is still no nastier event in poetry since top dawg Arthur Rimbaud snitched on Paul Verlaine & switched off poetry to run guns. (What about that prick? Rimbaud, I mean. Can you rap over Bourdieu & Weil’s take on renunciation of the Dionysian crafts, poetry & lovemaking, as a coherent strategy in Rimbaud’s case? The system upended — production so restricted it pro forma led to killing the craft? leaving oneself out by reference to internalized, thus revised, social norms of cultural legitimacy & self-perfection!)
I once had such brilliant optimism. Promise of a good life. Poetry came along. I meant — why not, let’s go try it. Then the coordinator wrote something down. After that I snapped.


While a quarter of creation eludes direct detection until spring
Another quarter, evangelical brick and mortar show up everywhere.

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

Jesus, what’s behind him, soup to nuts pull enough strings
In the American narrative. You can slurp it up off cable.
No escape no fooling.
Snow is a collective that takes singular form.
Replacement snow falls on snow, a term of art.

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

I watch the clock. Being your slave, what can I do?
I wasn’t just orphaned, I pursued other interests
but time’s precious,
save I feel and still show our absence of movement from the inside sometimes, absence
upon hours just a sour dare to spend ...
and to question my jealousy —

— It’s taken this long to read the gospel of wealth and service.
I dare not think of desire diffused at any cost to render your mouth a sobbing mess I feel world-without-end after. On the outside how happy you are ... are you? Tho amiss I think no ill. Adieu.
It’s spooky rhyme but it wasn’t my first

choice; the machine flunked me — burst
my thought calculating stretch space sitting here, smelling of weed. It restored my faith in the bonus shod of prowess, smoking in slacks (touching my two knees behind your back), undressing. Exercises for us commoners become a habit we can’t keep up for more than an hour but the revenge police are baffled, turning bright green.
This is an impressions album. Or it was. (Youth is so impressionable.)
Ultra blurry, anamorphic, bound movement sung by writing it, but occurs in the latest form of repayment

— you
weigh nothing in and get no credit, no
spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in.

                  There’s a substitution agreement containing someone else
                  and me in force, pulled on from inside.

— oh yeah, pulled awake more, more than once w/ a face of a poet. Or a filled out line. Or lines. Smiling lessons.
Especially if snow forms see themselves as shades of Marat — a snow that does it and is done in by it.


The government could be in trouble.
I hate to be asked the price. A fortune.
I’m boiling sad, practiced together.
wish it was just cable all right..
I hear more solid drama down the road,
a binary fission when you’re expecting
rudeness, so we’re attentive bound for well armed
crazy-not-good disturbance ...
Stick with it + have what you own condition growth
as an entire practice, possessive habits flattened into
proscriptions + looser distinctions
over words bringing up the actual goods ..

Conditioning’s a question of .. you can say
there are no stages.
46: Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions
like unforgettable elements
in our sight, touching and holding the
moment, dividing it with
illusions of taking off for the
unknown, a mortal war
spinning or spun / upset / out of control yet
just outward parts of how our eyes impanel freedom and my rights
to your appearance, to your quests and thoughts, your inward heart.
Notes on Expressionism:

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

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

— Empress Eugenie
Best practices, #12:
There’s a cloying aspect when able bodies gather to
phenotype, we have to polish devices

to reach gateways where wealth is wed (the dooryard)
to far correlates inventing a new intelligence of largess.
Invest now before daylight garners
each of us a stairwell math to snap out of going off half-

footloose & naked...
The estate repaired to is offered on the ‘thereabouts’ platform only: still, it’s not overrated, I whisper to you, falling myself for reincarnation roughing it ..oh, wait we did this already..


Land use. That’s what the new world is about. Are we breeding steer or picking pansies?
Two modalities. Sorry, I have no other apolitical associations I can share. I was running through the dude ranch and everywhere. Don’t know why we are here in this summation after the transaction but before it turns up all hat, no cattle.
Slumped over in gaffs, so
many without pulse, how did one stand tall, pause
then brush his hair back? Men
like him looking up like flight risks; say
“Exactly,” in that miracle voice?
A faint breeze on zoom as you slip
your phone in his pocket — How against

containers hanging along the bow all fonts
are justified by defacing matter —
1/2 linguistics, 1/2 I’m sick of nice things. Whiskey.
47: I’m between heart and bitch comedy.

You had every opportunity to reset the clicker here, the remote control there —
So let’s share it. Your saved videos and my worship of you have almost expired.. except your looks still drive me nuts (in a sequence where we sleep).

Awake, you can’t move further than my thoughts.. pressing reset buttons.. my thoughts are with you. Still can’t change channels..

Here, you take it.
Take a look.
All this repetition is not good ahead of patterned, glimmering haze surrounding powerful men, dating them, finally; you know, the level of glamorous self regard here is high & gnarly. If all we do is seduce & note our conquests, we lose. We lose austere joys, cloud dogma, sculpture perpetrated out of full transparency on stilts w/ quarks & rare minerals that take on blackened colors.

Much like Byronic properties of a nonprofit love nest heated w/ sea plankton.
As in Where the 舞踏 were you?


113: Cheaters with Clark Gable. I’ve seen it.

Replete with you I selected his rogue anime, you with favored vision to sight my truth
to catch birds, creatures, the governor e.g. — Mountains.

Since I left you I’ve gone partly blind, seeing you day and night.
My point is quick — incapable of more, out and about, unkind
~ For leaving you to me seems effectually rude ~
Even dove- or sea crow-forms pay homage to you, shaped to your features.

The sweetest to crudest hearts impart your functions
and get noticed — but deliver no part of you, true mind.
Do not take poison if you are allergic to poison.
Show more of you.
Here is our ocean. It is not the ocean.

In our heart of hearts we’re wading out to meta-trigonometries ..
with a natural moon shining its belle-lettrist metamorphoses over the slip, damning loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer every opportunity ..
to let us go. On.
Up. Now.
It’s a real privilege to be singled out
..once there was a C-class ..

We stay onboard

Suffering, complaining, two out of 3 observers got off, depleting the shipment. Surnames are ..oh forget it, huh? They’re randomly conjoined.


Any hesitance is weather related warmth riding in and a similar sauna of fog, darkness offshore the day before.
The atmosphere squeaks common sense. We can’t feel it though its pace is emboldening dreams.

What hinges out?
Hop in, I’m a musician.
Without counsel, full consent is a slog mating a slow burn.
You trust yourself by age 600 satisfied
Euclidean space holds the blueprints to make your home efficient.

That was before you were reborn or uninvented.

Recursions set in. You had no modesty issues.
You have none now, none detected, and fewer and fewer policy goals.
You change your shirt, put your weight behind a sketch (a study)
As there is no theory there isn’t theory
— efficiency one on one is galvanized torture which escalates, utter

Formalities documented in the eye, so fine counter-stretched, kept on balance / in suspense —
I’m right beneath my shirt. Kind of beery.
What if there’s a non-theist way to prepare, provide? & what
if we’re both wrong, but less wrong than who?

Let’s keep to federalist motives, far from fashion simplicity, & let’s
live together at night while we demodify

malfunctions that blurt out permission extemporaneously,
license to authorize no god’s sorrow over death.
Nolo contendere, so it must be spring, just one daffodil standing,
Gothic non being, lonely contexts & forsythia’s juvenilia, pancake brown.

No good acid, no sulfur brown, no browns in hidden rounds
or flexible spite.

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

Nobody has to talk to me about me. I see what no means. This island,
the water rosy cast.

Poll these opinions. No contest.
Creature masks are prerequisites, in reprieve at the School of Nobody ;
Teaching can’t be taught. You live within practice
To engage another’s psyche
Puissance of a quick jolt sort, holy body of music.


High cognition animating your new bankcard
Observing very little ethical cohesion. For oomph
The gloves come off ..

Modifiers in its little chip note each commitment of yours on its riddle gauge, new units oozing w/ data until you stop.

Finish a stretch and the state gets confused.

Citing a theory of state w/ good grammar,
Your card de-activated.
The music brokerage remains in aerospace.
A morning flew by.
My best friend is my
most erotic partner. It’s a corporation.
But nature’s purpose has nothing to do w/ that.

It’s snowed,
attack dogs toughing it out, snow
melting before white statuary. Of cats.
45: Libido and swift words send and return messages — coming back as my first thoughts
even when quicker elements, my breath, my fire are both with you (wherever I am).

When I don’t hear back — I’m oppressed, no longer glad
or assured, merely present-absent, melancholy.
It feels by this account I’ve sent my desire back, far away from me, from you.
Is that how you see yourself?

— your idea of daylight
every day becoming ordinary knowledge
of parallel ebullience

                                waiting to come up
half in sleep,
steadfast in geometry to grant the horizon an horizon, the whole body.
Once your public is mounted you can add your own awesome content!
Your first lover.

He could heal you thru.
Then the forces of narrative happen, seeing breath fixed

on the floor as it circles midair,
and we see your ETA.
We won’t be a second late — your exes
understand we can all meet seeing you.

That’s the gist.
After glamour there’s power. The virus is already inside us, wo-
lfed down
improv crap, we’re pre-wired or is there a fee?
Radiance now is the lather of swing. Remember deliverance?

“What if it doesn’t work. Then what?”
In every time and place of our choosing: Act gathered.


Core descriptions updated, untitled.

Later you and I went to the movies.
I was wearing the shorter
spring outfit again. I got it down in

the bus terminal,
a little installation
by itself.
Anchored in the bay I need to remind myself
Larry Kearney rhymed all with skull, internally. P Inman’s
Echelon hairnet shifted putty, thumb-nailed into
An agreement to let us in. Skull with putty.
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down to earth.

The more you put your fingers in it, on it, on earth, you know retouches, colorations return as audible signs of evidence-based rivalries to make fitter (more adhesive) decisions for correct behavior.
44: Once it was nice to have known you. If flesh were thought
A word could travel, calibrated by the ruckus-like paean spoken (rather than speaking) in a large-scale dialectic —

No matter, despite the farthest limits of space time I could be brought before you.

Will you think of me?
What’s missing is why is there feeling?
It’s a state of mind according to Hoyle.
Global warming jazzes a decimal of our pablum.
Where should I hurt?
Once or more. A few more.
There’s no torture unless it causes organ failure.

Baby steps fix the climate really fast indoors
for we feel tall
and inflatable as we cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.
My blood is your poems, how they make love. That’s why
I’m close to invisible as a companion, not of this sexual province.

One by one. Everyone else smiling. A sober intro...

We’re having a fit with anxiety. Everyone a worker-sleeper.
Then I remember there’s exigency in our good fortune.

Not like feeling mortal, all to the good...

Well, a few drinks later the silver range blows up! We’re

engaged about engaging — part of the work week!
I-Ching for idiots or dummies (like me):
Go on.


The gestalt is to look urbanely offhand and sound normal, asymmetrically curt.

In the change-up scene everything is repurposed into conceptual deflation.
Psychotropic bios now are commonly diagnosed as parallel discourse stratagems.

One concentrates on the next available thing
Until one goes broke; summarily I am screwed.
I then center on perception (whether beauty or wit), sustaining losses out of irony.
No futures present new phenomena —
I have a tiny soft view of holding to their path, a core harmony purring yet put aside.
3-D models are mindless taking chances, everyone we can engage in transparent secrecy, charged by mental concision.

Rationed compliments ensue and float
several kinds of math.
The math is fascinating, I think, to squelch tautologies of wealth and actionable conditions for surplus misuse as power we might have had. Had the self taken itself nostalgically?

— an idea to play w/ just one note in the future perfect.. where disrespect feels like eavesdropping.
64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced
done in by time, grief and American English.
I hope you can let this go..

Time will come to take our love away leaving me breathing without form; structurally I’m sustained by so lofty a hypothetical force —
I can’t go on without an interchange — an episode in your telegenics.
When we walk together, it makes no language difference what we believe, what the soul is.

I’m just commenting having you, I fear losing you.
The soul’s inscription reads you’re my business.
the thought is out there
I did not finish the sentence.
This is my first try in three dimensions.
There were more debris balls thrown so we ordered an atemporal zone of grace
— w/ the emancipatory norm of curiosity —
Set it to limitless, w/ its winners & losers, a humanist quiz.
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.
Thanks for the memories.

You ruined everything.


It was great being with you.
Or was it just me?
There was a boom in robots once.
It all came about back in 1st or 2nd grade.
And if you invest now, daylight garners one
several that breathe, toting examples of published cook
-ing ontologies, whatever they got alleged. Memory has it we
don’t have the brains to enumerate an open enough peace
next to sleeping people staring through the ice.

Is this bluff for real? one asked with good reason
before the ice scissored out the upper grades.
98: Smothered abstractions. Absent from you. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different jokes turn over in sleep in the spring, dreams drawn from you, dreams that forgive not for holding the moment but for paranoia’s trapping you too. Summer’s story, flowers’ smell, lilies, roses are but sweet. The spirit of youth losing control. If we let it go we yield all authority.
Close to my sources I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Resentment buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous,
beat through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right, clinging
without a theory of purpose or the gift of agency to promote his case, as masking vanity becomes a sidekick’s challenge.
Baby Watteau —

The empty sale window is closing and I’m on the move (or we are). Early or late, the sky’s not falling as point of fact. Watteau flows like a dancer / stripper in a spiral. Another point in fact, harder to verify. More blessed, Baby’s greatest came early, someone like Cézanne was late. These data still matter, in a manner — I’ve found someone else, deeper in, a thinly veiled version of Cézanne.

The flow is hard to describe — a man, a higher up, going blind. Perfecting for a fall. My baby traps me.
I’m a little I guess confused

I thought you might understand I mean

I'm surprised, do you know

what I'm saying? I guess so

not exactly.


Concision in detailing method is a catamaran in process.

This is how morning began.

Getting there we wait in long lines for a Trane. The Japanese are hardly speaking. I turned to a companion and asked if he was interested in how poetry’s put together.
He thought about pure things are style surrounded by syntax. All at once.
It has to be done but it’s one-sided.
It seemed artificially important
The screech was spherical.
A seagull.
No one’s there.

I missed it.
42: What do you need now and for what?
You may ask if I loved you.
Will it matter, that bravo question?
Do you test, tease, defame to get the best?
I ducked his punch, closed the distance.
My loss is my love’s gain for my sake.
I told him, no don’t, I want to bolt.
Loving offense I excuse you both.
Trump investments.

Absence of thought rules for higher authority. Top markets fill to their edges with intricate crosshatches over pastel word clumps, busy yet redacted, hacked into coherent thought. The soft vellum pellets change our impression a bit. A busy, contingent thoughtlessness that’s slimed, generally.
Summer’s welcome. The emptiness that was

one fine day...

                  A mercury-brimmed scree

insubstantial in unexpectedness

to dawn, ‘disappeared’
into the leg o’mutton of oblivion :
You behind the scene evaporating..

— we owe you nothing
                  falling out w/ your daylight and sexual theater on the same sheer precipice..
every day becoming ordinary knowledge

of parallel ebullience
                  waiting to come round up ideas sprouting from half-sleep,
holding up w/in geometry to grant the horizon the whole body.
Light with a spooky edge
To sound like your own critic.


Everywhere there’s fog off a force field you tend to dislike, nowhere better!

No ripped off melancholy, no lecture / rap / blues, no shelter against the curious. I’m lying.
Part of what I do here. Throw up my hands!
O Jesus
A severe honey glow

crowning his shoulders — groomed

disgust in his walk, his mystic theater

perhaps addressing us, the radiant

pull at his mom’s sleeve.

Perpetuity emptied of the given moment.
56: Lament:

Prose enters a poem. It has a work permit, a blunter edge. That’s why
The place has been wiped clean of unforced errors. A sad interim:

The poem essay invests in spontaneity gleaned from what icons blur;
Hey, there are no middle class essayists. Yet, we can rubber any room —
My advice for exploring ideas, renew your force, stick to the sentence.
Come daily to the return of love tomorrow today.

To go along continue needing riches, sharper appetites.
Rare thanks for the view.
Snapping to / not snapping.

Anyway, hipster memory
is a contradiction in terms.
A shortcut to an off prediction.
Unilaterally a hipster

throws out softballs,

variously literal — the power

system (it’s decentralized)
mounting a bait

and switch to chalk up

the utility of hip lingerie per se,

discreet shipping, and in
this case it won’t be serene.

Anyway, go to long love making memorizing

parallel futures on a projective plane.
Why move into the crash test?
It’s up to future officials to unpack Zen’s base ironies. Where are they, let’s see... I’m not picking up any .. acoustics. Where I am, they don’t hook up to
get supplies flowing out since they
make love too much — so and because every irony wants to stay on a comfort-slope, to live well too, staying relaxed can lull you into a slippery tranquility.

That’s Zen-not-Zen up to now.
Define a language with no kids.


* Before I turn into another parabola of you, yours, I should take myself out and stay out, crabbed, hesitant to set off emotion that might fail. There’re signs you just want to cry — and it’s not a bad smell, just sad or wifty in dimness when I wake up. It all goes well. You and I take off, tho. One by one. Reasons are weather related, paleness this morning and a similar wash of fog coming back, lilac-dark air and offshore atmospheres yesterday, the day before. Winds shifted and I barely pertain, and why should I? It would be contradictory and limitlessly impolite to insist we’ve won in a runoff of longing and gratitude. That you and I are taking time to sift through (even the slightest) parts here would be a datum of coincident poses. I cherish your transitioning to mine, bringing it up to me every day yet I can’t presume what we can’t express, foundering and tongue-tied, handing our fortune over to the 1st letters of the alphabet. You want back in — me too. Keep in touch.
Production through retrieval and communal ethos are distinctive features of the medieval era. It’s not unironic in the least digital data assembly enables our return to those kinds of production and ethos. Work produced now is parallel along almost incalculable dimensions. And if most of that work is still authored, we can posit the mushrooming of art production (including poetry) over a relative short time will totalize individual product into a kind of arguably 2nd-tier relevance (with a few nonconceptual exceptions, of course).
14: In my judgment
what I know is in your eyes. True for now.
Good luck can never bite. Except not at night. Newer urgencies
where prognosticators get rained on, pointing to each other
so exposed they feign constant ignorance. True for a night.

And yet bad luck when a lightning rod derives its light / very lightly
a chemical wind thrives for a second and returns to stars —
doomed as cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.
If you know rhetoric
it changes your feelings;
it changes others’ behavior,
especially in poetry.

Our poetry changes
our writing now,
the one you’re reading at another
time coming up now.
Benji, stop that. Strange dog. We’ve decided to beat it out of you.
Say something. We’re losing your spirit and pulse.
BF Skinner watches a boy develop — to spy on sleep when you can’t dream..
When you ripen, parking spaces have a word with you. Children are the future —
keep them distracted.
if you lock your rooms you can’t get anywhere. Ask Caligari. Bright blues on white, a looming sluice through the discomfort zone. Here we go, head din, bones saturated watching out for huge snowy droves of behavior.

I feel absurd in doctor’s hold still shining through milk-white conditioning. The dirty side of dressing left; way left, skin head.

I don’t deserve friends like you.
In my illusion
of minimalism
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down
and got lost and scattered trying not to be distracted.


Sitting down delivers good news, stateliness already had its faint say. Now we can text and steer over time and zeta functions falling in hedgerows like a new highway divider along an infinite axis.
How to hitchhike. I come across an organizing principle and pulling the trigger, replacing subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: there are structure, acquisition, use, media — no eros in no ideas.

Self-conflict and compromise keep popping up as rich bases for ironic pleasure and symphonic failure.

If that’s allowed. Failure, pleasure, pop up, to that effect.

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

We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown,
The great We of fish, that's what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.
144: You and I model language as living matter, two loves we have re-involving impulsive energy that courses through particles of appropriated intellect, especially given appearances and given language itself. Still. Never in doubt, you and I may yet not directly tell this synthetic transmutation of fiendish intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t folk history of subjugate pride and procedure.
2. Bad news, I was
struck by the French property owner. You know,
plagiarism done in loose quotes.
It’s cold indirection,
but my metabolism really took off, along
with emotions from a huge manuscript
I’m freezing,

‘quote’ Watching text spin like sentience
refined by distance; since
it’s none of the above, this could be for you now.
1. I use bigger words than you,
The spring flowers, the moon in autumn —
Classification by evolutionary collisions.
I think I prefer staying all-purpose, best calm, never resolved.
Freakonomics in a Trump-era world, driving toward departure from what is present in the original meaning to experience.


Shoo-ut, I’ve been put on a 20-year watch list. Again.
Good I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of misnomers. Eating and breathing them too.

Ghosts roam with the panicked. (All of them.) It’s like a last dance to respect what you guys were doing — you were working on it.

There’s hustle to market, along with rips in the cargo of space/time whose vessels burgeon on ennobling, blobby warmth, piped in like Berlioz, accompanied by addictions to risk. Come here often?
A poem fires up photoshop.

It’s often said a poem is a picture — I read madras pea
Coats — albino kittens hitting crescendos annoying cringing robots.
Drown me out, speed bags.
Drown and kiss the cleft, sanguinary as dissolvents —
Love makes lock up toxic.

Photoshop that.
No problem.
No appointments today. Triumph** is creepy*.

*Creepy widely construed as inaudible tendencies toward plundering contexts to alter the body’s asymmetrical neuropsychology. 

**Triumph, group or personal, can be unscrewed during Q & A’s. How does triumph threaten a referent? when going straight to the point? Was ist das?

I’m asking out loud for one reason only, so the receiver will sound an alarm (an annunciator light).

Merely of course sounded.
59: Sonnets are ok, nothing new here — going backwards —

Let’s labor through
this ostentatious luncheon in old world pensiveness,
self-admiring praise.
I might see more, fool my brain mended by your image yet your fly is open.
Stay in character.

O sure you’re freaked by what antique words
dig up and how re-inventions are composed, but we have to keep our wits — and under whose

thumb? And am I yours? At first revolutionary, we’re going backwards —
Our politics are criminal.
That way it is (the way it is).
I’m going to try and get around this.

I’m going to take my inside voice
...over here I have news to
twist in cold but leafy acreage.
‘Come here, get out of here..
I’m out of here..’ other poll data
. . Out out of
mind I guess —

That’s how we want it.
Absolute vice concerns phrasal pyrotechnics, no news content.
Honesty — we used to say — is the sanest practice for thumb control and body fitness.

I have nine lines for you:
Let’s go thru it again, generations of worship set in. They come back. Soon you relax your balance, honestly, equipoise for a good writer is common enough, even now.

We went over appearances, for instance. Funny and finally, nine lines are one-sided in three dimensions.
Key is you volunteer in a regimen for hours at a time and it wears off — here’s what’s known: secretions from glands hang out in our brains, slanting the blurred promise you have, had or you don’t know in the aftermath of the hiatus, revving up.
Modulating the self comprises an apotheosis
according to types of daring.

Don’t smolder, show us.


Bandits 1st.
You translators are a close 2nd.
That leaves ‘just the 2 of us.’ We appear ordinary.
This is about something else.

Then I repeated if I were you I’m all I should have —
Dawn went. You were next. Nothing else. Eminent domain:
Not to arouse the unknown or undue, your well being was my concern. I won’t forget.
And that does it for this hour. Circumstances have postponed further equity w/out a wife, w/out you = one counter-narrator chuckling in introspection as an open reading picks at our rhapsody rights, erasing them (or trying) in observed time, laughing behind the capitol. Many observers.
Just because I feel nothing, Pessoa,

You’re leaking results before ‘thinking it over’;
IF I have no idea that holds you,
THEN how does an idea
Of idea an
-ticpate stipulating processes for missing the feel of practice?
Let’s start then w/ an idea
Of making out
Up a big tree in Zion where detachment is trimmed back —
Just because I feel nothing doesn’t mean
I can’t or won’t come up w/ representational songs of cognition, w/ jaded lyrics.. Literally externalize my comfort. Externalize discomfort, too.

You’d lose a lot of the dude and preachy man. Sounds yeh.
Show me a locket grant once.
Once & be done. A few more should
Do the climate fast with aughts shining

A whole new side to nuts & tightening bolts, narrow & hollow at center, along with holding on 100%

— inflatable as you lay back in a blank whisper, fragile, dark in the nick of it.
Angst, a buffered work force roughens up indulgence.
You got married without thinking about known side effects,
without — wait, I forgot why I called.
We’re halfway there. That’s when the aliens evanesce.
The loneliness and excruciating pain
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing
basin, weeping .. Trumpets! You try piling on debt, ok?
Highly readable to a point.
These data waving in rocks of sunlight, gaunt & obese
Blowing cold.


Here’s my favorite. Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises. (The audience is artisans rising, impetuous, some from costive stock, unflappably happy, even brusque.) Somewhere I float in. I’m late for the prom fitting, weeping inside. Funny place for a dance, Mr Baker.
The it happens. A man’s voice, handsome, calm, also nervous ab structure.
Protecting dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that.
Bathing —
‘worth the trouble’ — called out in a tremblor voice to a dictator eating a banana casing the terrain. From the next room.
A white room with a sense of space and ruthless closure.
50: A hip cast of super angels strumming harps, an encore of Zeus Arrhenothelus

Bringing up larger journeys for the stretch and preen in vigilance onward —
So far the miles for me are measured from my friends left behind.
I fall back tired, breathe while new cast members get authenticated —
They are casually let go as they groan for us.

Our joy restored at a slight remove from sharp pain and darkness in grief, putting this in mind
Since we answer to manifold waves that weigh in:

Unprovoked, a heavy vacuum still.. you are away while I am on the way at travel’s end.
I had this idea. No ethnicity.
Not like gogo boots or a crucifix or ...
longer eyelashes to bring your pupils out.

We have a cigarette for the beach.
What do you think of smoking?

No, I don’t think I’ve seen anything like this before.
That’s why I slept so poorly last night.

For if I tell you, you’ll say
I’m making a big deal out of nothing.

You know I’m two-faced. What? Nothing. All right...

We can make the poem mute. If it doesn’t
speak, we don’t have to pay it as much.

A wordless deaf-mute. What could
be more what you are?
Producer to producer, a private-public distinction
no longer limits enormous outcomes.

Besides giving birth
I write on my agenda.

I manufacture algorithmic flyweights.
For lunch I drink up history, empathy, bounce.
My protectors are brokered by a security alliance like yours.
“Let’s trash love stinks.”
Rakish note, my mixed medium ..

The exact second you insert the first-person, a moral freedom can and will drill five feet down under the ground, a strafed, natural spectacle falling into coherence, something you never saw and you never will, you existentialist freak-Jack.


Japanese all nighter :
Dedicated robots embrace the free market, she announced in a penetrating tone,

a pale mist of drifting nothing. Blameless, free of anguish for the moment.
She picked that up from them..
..wolves running through snow melting into wolves..
O Buddhists of progress **
We’re back in vertigo

Yielding authority practicing karate high noon.
: Yeh, sure, take me on your own.
Karate brings up vast nothingness just now. Nothing is vast and tiny. Or vice versa.

Or maybe nothing is merely pragmatic, more like mannerist enigma-cutting, modifying collective memory w/in incessant self-interrogation?

Who can share one’s convictions?
Since the larger backdrop flows, for my corpus I’m writing in a bristling cycle of perpetual panic.
The set director has called for corn husks now, vinyl-yellow, by french doors in a gentian shaded room where we proceed with surgery to remove a wall of fat.

Not yours, happily. But close enough.

The screenwriter wants to stay translatable, simple, s/he develops the fat — rewrites fat as windows.

And the surgery is successive! One pane at a time, the windows break down, riv vu.
18: I compare eternal lines to you, as you are more.

I believe a temperate art is set to do so, to make mistakes, rough comparisons to too hot a month this coming May or one that’s past. Say, all summer you compose more than nature’s change in course, growing (untrimmed) — owning every day for every moment — and knowing when to shine, to seethe.

And often seeing how hot eternal summer is, then fading all too short ..
Whew .. we see you not fade sometime and often in poetry and art from fair as far and long as men can breathe.
I believe in fact
There’s a way we recover from riches and most happiness: as litigants in the field henceforth —

With context as the right field once there was a C-class.

We stay on board out in left ..

Breathe, kick, push, kick, four / five ..

It’s about letting go and taking you out of context —
Donor class curricular adjustments. They apologize for the inconvenience.
Tons of special forces in silhouette .. we’ll ..
Near the top filling in with capacitance-assistants, managerial sweepers,
Theorists of a visual world culture wholly populated by posturing.
Remember to slam the parentheses behind you
) bang and ) bang and ) ) double bang
(to be on the safe side).

— James Schuyler


Ever the moment to play all night.
Look around, what’s background?
Barely perceptible lightning over fog. Homology and prudence. Package v immolation. The expressed instant comes around, triples our worth. No questions asked, we work the lower teeth for the same carbons to put this together literally, a textual refuge.

Meanwhile something came up.
Variation: Small islands serve as hideouts. Safety regulators are restless. Excellent. We shall conquer childhood, read over the presentation, juggle a few heads. You’ll need a new camping saw and hood scoop. I’ll invade your space then leave later, lately not feeling calm over you but crazy.
51: Movement, not lineage — war is unjust when there is only one side to wage it.
Gleaned from what war is, my desire keeps pace.

I’m an angel investor in spontaneity, no need but love, for love.
This is strictly deliriously a business, self-realized adventure
losing daily battles, no excuses.

What time do you get off work in poetry? Shall I know?
Speeding up when swift extremity can seem but slow

I hasten to run toward you
before even starting ..
It’s real privilege to be singled out
.. Suffering, complaining, 2 out of 3 observers got off, depleting the shipment. Surnames are ..oh forget it, uh? They’re randomly conjoined.

They mentioned their legendary roots, cleansed of terror. (I heard there’s a user’s list of trainers and trainées.)

Fall back, breathe while our new rescuers get authenticated.

Breathe, again, push, five..

It’s about not breaking ranks

To achieve a balanced personality we come to bury.
Affordable Noh. That’s us w/ big hanging wolf eyes. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to breathe when we meet, somersaulting in /

What goes around then comes gasping, the more irregular the verb:

Inductions to your other habits ..
Gleaming haze drags down sculptures of felted helium..
A little like nerves done over by spinning in warm wind.

Noh stuff.
Are you sitting in the sentence
listening ? wearing nothing but
eagerness for a motive to
hear what we were afraid to be?


I’ve tried my hand at cinematography, finally. What are the chances of two projects in one year.. I’ll lighten what’s complex, replacing clean and dirty dialog with ad libs, also silence, a kind of stripping down to not using your poems. Not reading enough of them for two films!

I’m making this next one into more of a slowpoke essay when it comes to transcendence. Filming is writing, so the essay part is built in. The problem is engineered simplicity, both as affectation and a trans requirement.

Looking into the camera, I go protesting demons, go shopping, and I like standing outside various consulates.

I’ll let you know how diners at the beach fare.
A beautiful writer, standing in the sun, front and center. When
distracted, one heard “Continue − to enter the contest area − Continue.”

Not going to lie to you, I watched both of us — affecting a radius, destabilizing ‘oppositional’ temperament. On our side, all going well, considering;

                    — to consider is the great work, cuts straight through restructure, throwing out hyper-nonliteral churning depth w/ gutsy abandon.
* The budget cuts (last line) are background to double-rhymed soundtracks. Entire funding sectors feel it’s the end of capital, epic sums expended in slender career arcs for you. Bitcoin walkways and instrumentation

are redone for full combat. I pictured us in another life or

I’m wondering about our lifetime, what could be. Male feminists are on genome probation,

according to decision theory. / Only for you...
Sonnet 61:
Simple enough picking up a pen . . . land and those living on it have data functions, similarly I see you.

I watch your synthetic appropriation by composition, the vigil and force applied putting your youth

into a piece, since the grown man does not come by himself, regardless of beauty — the river bank plied by far off

metaphors and substitutions of the time — more informal, so near home it’s taking dictation, thinking after your love of my love of you.
All your life as if a mercurial quantum.. floating in erotic lurches and nibbling torque measured across dotted lines..

On and off I discern your underwear, a denomination marked by intimacy. Tangentially they pill.

Yeah, that’s funny.

Take all of mine.
Puissance of a quick jolt sort, holy body of ... could be Christ —
Sir, m’lord,
Parlance should sound ok, staying measured outside,
What Esau called discourse in action ...

Our love may be fraught but
Esau is the Seth Myers of discourse pundits for Christ’s sake.
The mind just calculates sitting there. It wants to be best friends. It’s saved us a burger. An idea of glimmers, aroma: The apparatus out back, grills in place, waiting —


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

A flaw to syntactical secessionists —

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

That’s what one impulse sounds like, not is.
A new problem set:
Work through naïve discourse —

Keep methods observable as mayhem —
Call this ‘transactional’ taking action
Unlocking — on sight — your feeling from the start, the only unmoving part.
To declassify is to achieve: Aiming faster at deficiency of thought, a text of ideas. All the same, this is the 2nd point.
Surely there’s no rebounding beneath the social parasail of poetics administration.
— not even one’s afterlife can break the dark rules that commit us.
Universalisms belong in the verbatim over

-supply. That is, which lexicons will be appointed most enabling. Ellipses point a way out of rational elements & will continue — how we express and re-express others’ ideas, cup

in hand. Big, multiple ideas are broken down or / add up..

constituent, subordinated data emerge, repeated as big data, simple / and not.

Simpler the better. Poor verse yes, scansion none the less.
92: To my love in constant revolt, stealing away...

Once again my life ends. Next, I’m happy love never stays; love is vexing weather dependent on inside scars. Manual labor. A heightened blush. Learning to fear the worst I’m happy to have had your love — I don’t know, what’s a fair question — is there one last best state to restage or not to live in? It depends on you and me, not false humor, not wrong, I belong in this humorless state without you, without dashing our love. I find my lifetime love for you is self-assured and formally difficult and, oops... Others happy to die are on fire.
Happy to die! — do we take their place?
How could I be so foolish in bed, you ask.
You’re the matter at hand.

There are subtitles, various languages. You pen and ink while staying awake and translate the exposed back of another dreaming.
Nothing accrues but there’s a lifetime of waking thoughts.
I’m taking you taking this from the back to the throat. (You asked.)

Sleeping has nothing to do with nothing.
You can exit the room at any point, burning, or add features to nodes, as in rote ed like foundational philosophy.


Wearing new ear buds, flashing forward. Unnerved by this chamber piece somberly floating in fun stuff, now audible jokes of mute resignation, of intention preparing us for a fixed melody with renewed power. Not hearing more fosters coercion of what evolutionary good was before it ran through some options.

Unless there is nowhere else.
En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse within; pushing deeply, our lot’s in a hurry.
Can we cut to the scary part?

No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there is no threshold. Matter persists, no dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual, sparkled amid meanderings that are ordered appearances going dormant or running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in unboundedness, optics unravelled in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.
97: How to croon: Conditions look hopeless — like winter without you —

like wanting you (I do) for pleasure,

not calculation. Being orphaned began vast and bare, removed from summer.

And yet fleeting — I feel you like to stay away!
What freezing and dark days! Seems to me the very birds are mute.

But I’ll wait on you, perplexed by December’s bareness

and now everywhere dreading the winter’s near.
Falsehood is an actuarial stat, in a more subjective state, a quality of the frieze in progress, not an elevation or height.
This is a true/false dance question. Fibber Perseus v radium Dana (his mom). Which are ya?
In one draft you as Perseus can see big futures, taller mouthpieces enter the salon rolled ‘into’ burbles [B flat major], ‘into’ spools of more of her opposites, Dana’s tendencious pedestrians, 1st- or 2nd-years, sweating lead colors.

Dana can’t help smothering her loved ones. The very birds are mute.
On morality,

I’m a big baby. That’s b for clarified as black-and gold pelage, married and vulnerable, exploring reiterations of my own duality.

I’m alive, wanton feeling the swansdown of DNA. Soon I’ll be comically dead — that’s married to a duplicate database — sinking into forest behavior, giving up swans, emotionally shot ..
devoted to seamless disproportionality.
Mere research reports what’s on the mind.
Why not reflect it in the text?
One lie cannot be replaced by another
It contains without a filled out license.


Sweeping reductions were next.
One pleasure then is borrowing sentences to cut your rent.

The previous owner told us to cut it all off, gave us gobs of cash
and that led to holding our share of a volatile

augmented beyond constraint, driven
by the smallest shift in feeling you all over me at the core.

I never use that word now.
What is known is types of metonymy.
Outside branches of instrumental research,

Poetics, a subset of epistemology, entails voicing new speech from old,

I see the wind smudging a porch, observing what’s streamlined and compressed, aiming fast —
I’m scared. Good night to write up an accident or two that don’t matter, made tactical as we circumvent voice commands, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.
95: There’s a container for every vice, every sport or budding passion. Also the story of our days.
We leverage, if we really want to, commenting further w/out you. But there you are! my heart.

How long does my tongue have for praising, telling your story — how great, how sweet it was / adoring your beauty

.. yet .. Here I am! Lascivious conditions. Only naming a name, your name;

No hope it’s you. Bliss bundles this large privilege, including all my shame all eyes can see — in a kind of heedful praise of our sins, my heart.
De rigueur for now is farfetched. / Let’s consider what might outrank Zen. / Your dialogs sound libertine laced w/ Frankfurt School brio, some science fiction

— all right, let’s start the open air in complete command of nothing.
Wearing a wigless wig is 1 method and standard model.
Measure = unbending contradiction, full, official division in one’s mind and 1 other, you!
Start writing.
It’s easy going out and doing things you don’t know. No repeat parts.
The charge is here, thrill in peeling back from nothing as well as failing to remember the (mission) exchange. Or extra charge.
Your every utterance is on the jet trail — quelling fear of pain —
That’s how being with you seems in sleep and still you are unattainable —
Say you’ll be back. You never can tell.
Poverty is all right, but fuck extreme poverty.


You’re on every page you were unmentioned.
There aren’t enough shortcuts to go around ..

My soul’s on break, thinking in a style of incompletion (tourist boats),
Obsequious, sharpened,

Few motifs — the wash of light gets exaggerated.
I need you and wonder on (language).

: A new music took off about here :
To encapsulate your suspicions ..
“To 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.”
35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.

There’s a scent of acacia and soft frangipani, but not a trespass.

You are a triumph.

Don’t worry about past comparisons. Done.
May I bring up you love skiing and even play chess against yourself?
It makes sense at that, loving you is civil war — sensual to a fault —

Roses, grieve no more. Silver fountain, clouds and eclipses.

Good-bye everything.
I’m thinking of a most awkward color.
The masked ballroom looks glowing
& tiled back & forth mistily
Across immense miasma.
Half of it waxing along with the bride
Adorned along varietal circumstance.
She once kissed a cat.
She made an inappropriate shoe choice.

Identity theft occurred when the sky was an idea
Of seeming permanent as a child
Utterly absorbed by stars.
There are no thresholds as if

monkish materiality does not exist. There are
appearances, such as a vantage baseline holding apple trees’ leafy

To be chaste is on the house.

In the States yoga is really charming..

First done wrong, quaint, then drenched though slackened
Janus was proud to sponsor Janus.
Book-worthy twists. Cross brandings. Contracts.
I promised you a ham for painting bombast, yonder.

That would be deep indoors at your place and mine. I’ll have you over when life and death crack the lobes of automation... After that, there’ll be everything standing in rain to grab at.