123: Lament — I defy you and your truth —

I trust the lasting timetables born to our desire. Nothing novel. Nothing strange.

Continual haste, our poor retention, our briefer dates give me the butterflies and more butterflies chasing more —
as 10 to the 10th more prefer polygamists barnstorming thru
a more ad hoc hemisphere where I can never forget you. No!
Mass shootings ship via FedEx.
First question, true or false. It’s the one I ask myself. Technology keeps humming to a manageable stretch to when you left, even while I ruled you out. Out on the sidewalk you hadn’t left a name, either. And yet, I stood close to you, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. To understand.

Fricative efforts add a bunch of O’s
— language & body mania, aqua ions show their molecules in bulk, imitating an obsessive personality. The rapid strength of bonds between metal & water molecules is their primary dissolution.

What can I declaim? Repeating prose clips transit through a few (of those) loopholes to confront loopholes’ necessities, maybe.
A true celeb shows us the assassin is uninvolved on every emotional level — even the one one holds oneself and acts on by serving others, one bosses & ‘ritual’ overvalue.


Technology’s refined flux appears noncontroversial.
At sundown my leftist French brain speaks, confined to a balloon:
“If you’re anamorphic, the flux within measures of comprehension too often adopts overheated lingo or low-to-overheated if you like.”

The remaining balloons shrugged to themselves in the embers; not really, they said.
Of all the varied and fabulous pieces by new pianists I wager many are bursting with personae — because of what theyrock to, also because many exuding confidence have gotten past graduate school, the corporation, a breakthru investment.

One of the donor’s places resembles a Marine outpost with sweeps of property edging a subdued headquarters.
122: The longer I live I can’t miss it, beyond all, your gift within my brain.

There’s a glow for seconds before razed oblivion, fun ..and explosive. Wow.

Or much like staying in the now yielded by nature to receive you more.

An idle life abandoned. I’m forgetting about it.
You and I remain beyond all date in my heart and brain. I won’t be funny or make a stab, score or tally...

I’ll subsist to import your love in me.. Again.
Repeat this until approved,
“I don’t know about you O astronomy”
But in a tone that’s affirmative
Like the jeweler’s words for whale
-bone / measured blues − while

This stretch, like all happy comebacks, tells a story of the future dropping hints of a larger, full-mouthed don’t-know − was it something to do with the focus on one side, therefore blocking another? Do we lead a life another sings with you?
We come to the marketplace in ease, partial self enhancement.
When we wake up I’ve moved to your city. Ka-cha!
I owe you so far for not murdering me O hand,

I’ll calm down, we’re almost rich and supposed to destroy ideas ..
I have to underestimate furthering research,
Solving the perfection problem, but not remorse.
Next, different morning odors, coffee, other pots, taste sets, sweet to complex, some devolving into a brawling randomness.. ..can’t make it out, call it leftovers, a Caramel Apple Ranch Cobbler fabricked in aromas of surfboard variations .. ..


We’re in business —
go online.
(Leave us alone.)
A poem is..
Does it matter a few minutes ago I learnt to write, if not well,
To tap on the keys and wander out above our welcome in a retrospective..

Again there’s no title because nowhere
Are my thoughts so hidden in use.

It’s a contraption. But that’s good.
Sonnet 94: Listen up...

If I had had the foreground I’d have subsided in attrition as it were,
I’d have heaven’s grace to weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken fewer notes I’d have less power to hurt
thinking of “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings

we had moving into our very own subjectivities,
an expense we can’t pinpoint or supplicate, my lord, my husband...

May I live, outbrave & die if fair ever turns sour
in these our summer to summer provisos
and integers-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none.
No orgasm. On second thought, call me. You touched it and sprayed me.
The herd rushed to the rescue (there’s a deadline), a tumble of inventions, an ambush

— a weakening of the night body — today in night — one enzyme waking up isolated above all, seeming eternity..
It’s about time for the moody and unexpected.

We mosey back to right about where we want clarity about motives.

We’re in no hurry.
Snow and sun? We’re expecting something.
Ice or melt go missing.

The reader note went on, One afternoon while napping one poured over a confusional book. We are at the dawn of epistemology raising consciousness one can’t get from career studies alone. It continued, the mood wobbles. It does. It vibrates. But nothing’s lost. It’s about time.
We have 9 pm poems and 4 am. Kind of noticed?
I’m keeping tabs on it like a Javanese statistician.
When information is relevant to sanctioned policy, communication goes private, all decisions should be centralized within a single metaphor for the most caffeine.


I want to remarry in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?
Marriage makes me horror-struck either way —
Aghast in wake of our previous melancholy.
Greyhound hurling on seesaw feels fine,
Any footage balances when pushed, so it’s
Not so entertaining or serene. A maelstrom lights
Up the foreground, no questions asked.
Pit Bull sits tangled in tree w/leash & kites.
Corgi spinning in washing machine, a hairy fox.
I’ve been on a nihilism binge; this is while I’m doing only one thing at one time on a crazed errand-stream to a structuralist’s degree.
I won’t cry when it becomes everything without a message.
I’ll trade you all the noise in my hands, still shaking — scared of leaving you among the spoils..

There’s a tradeoff, my trade. In the din hostility shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing for stopping messengers’ tears as the door from nihilism leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.
55: Nor aside, a period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity,
a living record. Nor against death can we outlive our doom advancing slowly.
Not marble nor rhyme so move.
Yet the fun workout once was of a soul, a tone beserk.
So why am I dwelling on posterity like some warrior groom?
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than all that, still brighter than all the wealth coming into this poem...

You and I find room in our prospect, oblivious, uninvited — statues overturned, and we brought guests — death and memory. I...

Even closer now in death’s eyes, I burn with quick fire for wearing out memory’s velocity — I’ll not speak nor ask (or shall I ask) more, should I?

War wastes time, a powerful judgment at rest and at work.
Ornament is content.

The yews know how to wear theirs, contracting buds to bury their might in content with our bed in it — the last day we ate the world. Together and tender, flaming, increasing now
and then their memory subsided in time, turning dull in bright green.
Why do varsity wear outfits that tame their tribute?
This café helps me keep that question from getting lost.

Reminding me of just where I was writing.

Finish a stretch, lines get confused. Fuse the way they

Continue. / I did have
A tattoo for a purpose, sure. You can promote your event.

Mine or ours?
Who? About why? And what was that about?
In the background: you hear the sizzle to rock climbing in mist, pointing to autosuggestion welling up from your placing bets, since you bring humor to the relationship. The climb is all pantomime about our ties looking wild in the frieze.

(I wagered my face the minute I handed it to you.)


Not dying is not not wanting to die, a unique semantic potential assigned an inventory.

There’s señor that needs you. He has no interest in poetry... I wonder if that’s true — His thoughts knitted together like mica piling up, shouts ricocheting through a voicetrack from the underbrush holding our breath, bounced, kicked and gloved by catalysts.
A messenger close by, a dedicated follower, packing a double voice range, love trouble, last blinded by Alfred Brendel:

Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions

like these unforgettable elements to touching and holding the message,
surrounding it with illusions of taking off for the unknown, spinning or spun,
upset, out of control yet

that’s how we fasten the starry messenger to move around objects.
139: A poem fires up photoshop. Excuse me.

A poem is a picture as love well knows.

That your cunning lays upon my heart...

Drown me out, my kitten, dear heart, but don’t wound me, not

this time, and never call me back to justify what’s wrong.
Your good looks attract my enemies — It’s your eyes
but glances aside — you overpower me with your unkind tongue

to kill me outright, not by art. So I’m defenseless.

Also I’ve saved your robocalls to prove it.

I’m not kidding. No more pictures, please.
If I hand it back — it’s about letting you go bold,
taking cannibalism out of context,
returning your bargain Sprite.

Let’s drink to downsized colors
off atmospheres of displeasure
then fall back, breathing while your
rescuers get authenticated.
“Great I’ll hold...”
2 out of 2 observers are cut off. Pretty please on wet
highways, casually substituted.

And during the break they reached the revolution.

It’s forbidden to talk now. It could be another’s
call, since poetry never acts against
Claymation teeth marks v. a gorgeous intent.
We were wondering about the invention of petty planets, sympathizing
With a numbers guy who is also the maître d’.
Often there’s a husky and determinative tenor to sing that section.
Swimming to there if you think about it uproots our own sun’s bright series — a disbursement of planets once exalted and stiffened into tantalizing cosmic parody..
To a nudist,
It’s contradictory to insist on any spoils from letting ourselves go ... over that money issue. I had a piece in there as well. My prose seemed resonant with your “rainwear fetish,” which I almost forgot I shared. (But not with you.)


To break this down, I’m always explaining the place where I work.
Gateau what’s his name is done (i.e., delivered) in a tangle of foxglove as you and I de-meadow.

A company like ours takes it into the physics facility.
We’re in the flat present tense, account outlines in simultaneous perceptions —
Reciting new slang exponents, since we have no major gay issues,
Making wave sounds while we scout flyweights in a recursive landscape.
Crime: The big picture shows me my modest place.
I’m technically adept dining in (or out).

From childhood, a few took umbrage from grumpy distortion,
fractured logic (Hex 39) and their own morbidity. While you party —

You picked up the check. That enlightened instant swells, we’re looting prestige,
the nether handle to misapplied figures, images,
exactly what the cradle requests; the place rocks.
Sonnet 131:
Meeting slander again:
A delivery system processes our facial powers —
they have many words for yours — doting, precious

But it’s our doing, picking a few others, throwing cash in for pizza ..

It’s a balsa wood decade, valuing hoax, coming too near tyranny
for it never ends, I swear.

Although I swear it to myself alone, my heart,
our love constitutes long shots. It also never ends,
not in a thousand groans to outlast madness
and slander. And in good faith — how fair and fairer that is and will be.
There are episode interiors silhouetted in un-analytical projection that screens an official episode [how to leave you] : However I believe we’re well past midway nearing the accordion fold of 1 — love time; far from accident the outlines say there’s a double interior where scribbling adjusts to long division, complex facticity that scribbling-2 — hate time — tears open and begins to pick at — to pay 1 off in near disappointment — both scribbling and scribbling-2 climb uphill, still texting odd incidents, and slide back down just before turning 17, fortune’s bastards biting down, gritting their teeth, older now.
Guess what, my singing has a square shape, un-bolted down in sections like rattles spinning for interpretation. Our enculteration put up with this, putting us first
breathing hard, leaving doors open to irresolution,
to make availabilities for picking up the dissolved thread.

Once you really had us. I was choked up by your running out almost in a sidle. I told you we agreed a little but not a lot. The plotting — lackluster, suspended now — I hope you’re coming back for one thing, us.
An icon within a cemetery could be
Ambition or love?
Who dealt this mess?


The guys with magic marker eyes who paid for this were enamored of throwing off articulate signatures —
But everything was your idea
reaching back where it whirrs & now sings..
Here’s another invidious comparison. Confucian poetry, unlike most of ours, deliberately chooses lexical anchors that can be rapidly translated to other languages (and cultures). This appears limiting since the deliberation is a constraint, for most of us. Nonetheless, the strategy presumes no hip readership needed to follow the broadly universal meanings. (Historically the cool or hip presumption behind a specifically cultural trope is encapsulated by the universal — coolness segregated within the hegemonic radius over the long run, clocking in with a short (2, 1, close to minus and counting) shelf life for the art product and reception over time. The surface warrant to the comparison, perhaps: Overspecification evolves into ‘period’ quaintness.
The full amount is not enclosed: So this is not the other day. And I don’t envy them — it’s a raw day.

Not dying is not not wanting to die, a unique semantic potential assigned an inventory. (Dying is not wanting to die and then waiting not to die: countering selfmastery. But I wouldn’t envy them anyway, not if it was their best day.

Between waiting, not wanting, desires crowd out a covert, unplayed suite shaped through a decade long derangement..

We’re on the edge of a storm.

I put out the light and lit a candle.
118: Kissing is poison. It makes appetites cloying. It’s bad for you but I wasn’t. Then came anticipating intimation of solitude .. goodness, a sort of I-actually-miss-you .. Diseased, sick of our kissing where you are so blatantly filled with my anticipating your love spreading everywhere completely negating its purpose — needing starlight at the edge of freakonomics in a world of mockery, an otherwise healthful state of illuminating our bitter departure from what is present in original experience. Even so, actually thanks.
1/2 a crumpet
charges the batch. No I’m kidding.

The cuisine and silver service you’re acquiring fake you out big time —
large stairwells mesh yet go nowhere —
between you and expulsion, a gaping hole. A ‘nervous’ tic.

— one enzyme waking up quite agitated, it seems
slinky. I watched it and it spayed you.
Back in the day when the fair-minded had complex appetites,
when pragma-morphism brainstormed about innocence

— in the larger context there was no recidivism to refashion.
A song about innocence was a meta proposition.


Kites: pinky juicy crisp
Space parlance —

The language predates motto handicraft and canned vibration
Slithery, waxed down toward our bumbled abstentions.

Life is better, a few times
Looking broke with pencil marks across gessoed

Pearls — trance police, a hex video
On top various under-invented heights.
Po st-cogency, you still doing that? That’s what’s oblong about sadness,
the real overhead. Lost time, money. A sky of ice cubes for what party in sleep? I'll take sherry Pepsi. And just the sardines.
The cat owner in me is unknown to me,
permeates me. Consequences...

Lost time is sawed off and doing better.
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 too when a lightning rod derives its light while lightly
its chemical wind thrives for a second and returns to stars —
doomed as cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.
A nonreligion of men, a High Service
Sung along both coasts:

Our people are what makes us / great.
Love and heritage go down together.

The last nonpoem eases the dress code, a bolo tie display on 2 thru 8
For a race of giants (giants are made up pieces of one another in other names).

Love came up short for a few and drove them to forgery. Then shatters.
The taking of whatever works to swat the hand that feeds them,

Sharpening endurance,
Risking focus.
Weight loss by design. Classification = evolutionary collisions =
Their work multiplied by adapted preferences in a prejudicial vapor.
You think transparent rhetoric all-purpose, all calm, never resolved,
Because you’re only one sailor, one swab

In a climate of drumming opinions and best practices —
Your bacchanalia talked up while slotted in —

Sailor tattooed with an addiction to visceral consequence — swab
Reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, sailor.
In vain a head transplant brings on the knowledge affect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower.


At Maybelline you wear wet marks under your shirt — there you go — sent,
Slotted for long scream divisions raising heads and
Lines of argument stampede out bourn in heartbeats .. bright debate
Drawing boundaries along dark areas of youthful propaganda. And ..
.. owing to your interest, this won’t constitute a date.
Or only one of many as noted by spreading the plan.
My winning Lotto ticket.

The carbon steel of all day dimmed
Second after blasted second.
If you don’t look directly my way, into my face —
I can’t give it to you
151: Our berserk contacts squeeze topical structure into gentle shadows that are too numb to know what conscience is.

We learnt lightly, love is too young. Yet triumph in love is slathered over the poor and excluded. Axioms and other memes are what we are deft w/. So the poor-excluded doesn’t count? I can’t tell, I wouldn’t know. Who does?
When instrumentalists and the proud struck their alliance, we thought this is a gross prize although our ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspirations became more footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.
137: Love is a blind fool. Among the true and false. You can’t see what they see. You’re wide awake thinking it through until a subfocus gets lost. You can’t see, you grow accustomed, so to speak, directly oblique : but pointedly no name escalated or united w/ the width of what beauty is! And where it lies!

Bon équilibre, someone else won’t choke (and in a common language at that), one a 2nd person, your “someone else,” comprehends. What do you say? Why of falsehood, tell me, speak to the wide world where several are over-partial to my judgment. Why should my heart do anything?

Yet I give up these weak words thinking they seem right, hack at reasons to try more with the grit of fairer and fouler understatement, neither the worst or best.

And you know, that’s what’s wrong then. Over-partial to you I can’t see what the world sees..
Our dual cosmos doodad self-inflates as a product injector, like window-dressing or cultural exertion or weather wearing Beirut colors, pebble and pale, lucent grays.

Colors burn up, each color of stone perpetually raging with a claque inside, giving more access to haystacks we call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.
I might happily have lived in another state
Standing in neoplatonic darkness. A white bike
To follow any path out /

/ still I have a green thumb trying to cover
Dabs of marine titanium that oscillate
Blurring my root views for up to an hour —

Inky smoke releasing a genocidal collage of screens, like
Thinking in waves easily agitated, reproached, disappeared
In drumming opinions and worst practices —

So that services requested go off the board.
A white bike, please.
Hooray.. There’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. Here’s the last place you look. Stay with me. This is the islet I was going to take you to; it lifts, lukewarm, tender. Splash, preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.


I cannot stress enough
we’re suspicious of wormholes, tho

I get off my resonance to give joy.
The boat’s cortex held out. Together.

For what party in sleep?
Really, we get down to petroleum
In a bucket? Filled with cash bags! I can see some pulleys ..

A smoking outline that subdues us
edging our blond manes that distract scoutmasters.

Everyone has to wipe off while, boo, you’re impersonating a folk guitarist I outgrew,

So now you want to spend it all while you can,
floating to eke out an ornate living
In a snow globe, thankful for one small chest-hair.
And there I’ll leave it top of the scout manual ..
34: I have a base 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 worked them out in a series of affable disputes. Just so, we’re still at a loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal but 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. I have your brave face yet shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.
Your poetry is preliminary,

I reserve comment —

Don’t get the above wrong

There’s below to mull over.
Erasing the storied narrative,
Baseline coherence that were normal, believable

Then that

Waking up, hay-feverish, stuffed-up spirit
Standing far off across
Yours, just considering you

In the era or epoch of fake announcement..
That’s what I would be making — if I were to talk to you
Even a mote so that waking can go away

To keep from you forever
Nothing, seen forever.
Monkeys are ironic. They can’t help it.


Been reading about accelerating destruction in the Amazon. A chunk the size of Rhode Island burns down each year. This buckaroo practice results in rich farmland that’s productive for about four or five years. After that, the soil turns into dust and sand.
Carports for the farmers, then, are an interim step. Dust when it rains becomes haze and steam the color of moist bubble-like illusion.
To wield a conceptual brush is to terrorize, even if your motivating injunctions steer clear of violence or unregulated emotion. Terror here is poetry’s swift, certain, nontrivial insertion through a crucial hole and/or through self-negation in certitude and flatulent controversy, such as with Basho’s disproving human sound unable to transform animal to mineral, or with Duchamp’s counter-ploy to the rule, toilets are never foreground.

Controversy, like injunction, comes to us commonly or frequently as back-formation, a provisional ethos after the conceptual stroke. We were constrained by the profound assumption, for example, that a play requires a tone and the stage set in more than five words. We were tacitly sure of this, marginalized more from other minimalist affects until we read Beckett’s new direction: A country road. A tree.
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 years...
The long time it takes, seldom comes in one fine day
A special instant so rare —

Until then, being had by you 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 others also keep to their survey, chest to chest, mine to yours.
For Tu Fu can I state my own fact as fact?
We’re nimbus-wet. The dark edges must be why
We float in clouded white without a seam,

Two very different outcomes equally square
What we hear.
We met at a fashion party, Homeric possibilities in extremes.
A couple of days reveling in delirium, haunting. Breaking the ice when it dawned on me:
That driveway could be the fucking beachhead steaming for real, along with amalgamated events summarized best, perhaps, in this question I’ve been asking myself?
There’s nothing linear going on. Everyone knows that.
Unless you want to.


This is my deciding moment. As a consequence doors open. I’m auto-electrocuted.

And that’s good, because I snuck across the catalysts. (It’s what I’m good at, wearing pajamas as weapons.)
My plan thus converts meantime. So you detect I’m pretending to be a spontaneous asshole, intimidating death.
Switching phones, I look up to the crazy dental intern waiting to take me out.
Silence is oversexed-enormous but I practice it.

I’m sick of guy’s things.

Not running, walking rapidly, I cross the hall, the long one with the heat transfer ....

... come out the complex, take the duck walk ....
...go through a dedicated lot ....
... and into Q7 in one STEADICAM SHOT.
I’m a dental monitor, not a dentist
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.
Perfect color is an egg-hatching moment, kairos, and from there we can move forward back to detect undertones that encompass our naïve expertise.

Yours and mine.
There are no nasty hues in their nesting place. There’s a flywheel effect turning conversation over to science and greed. A private-public wholesaling of prototypes that mess up the visual cortex — pasting-in blind spots crammed with luxuries that bind. The flip side — powers of color broker enduring benefits, tooth and nail radiance.
My boss sucks.
That’s because she has to. Some job titles are, as the expression goes, anathemas. Disquiet raising the roof. Boss, leader, principal, chair, honcho, prexy, director, officer in charge, master chef, head of the shift, muse. What does it take to earn and maintain these titles? Ideology.

Casting spells. Constantly interviewing me as I do with every other employee, affiliate, colleague, member, collaborator, associate sans souci. Muse first!


Encore... A poem is a picture. Have a Shrek glass of water after sunset, a big help defining bird properties degrading, shaken to a brink ..oops.. It’s a picture like hydrangea in labor (staging nightmares) ..in this one I’m emotionally shot with depth as a thespian-rapper rounding off contrasting demands of flimsy seriality and sequence. We never meet on a Ferris wheel.
The prospect ices.

All the lapses are angly in winter, no lie.
One thing is the climate’s performance yesterday and the morning before that. After you wash off, you understand when to pause and leave it pointless right here but you really care.
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 when I think you read this line into my thoughts. I’m the hand that writ ...and 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.
I don’t get what you want
— our lives are directionless without a group, a clan?  
The telling problem with engineered simplicity,  
You annoy others (meditations in telling).  
I don’t mean rampage in a civil sense,  
I mean surgically knocking other chanters  
Off, throwing knives, wrecking them  
From the inside, slicing up!  
I was kidding I’m not religious.
Eden. It’s drizzling in one panel. I’m a folk musician brokering low interest loans. I talk thus in a low register. To effect a good commission my face sports two layers of sleep relief. In one direction the focus is lost. I grow accustomed, so to speak. In the other I’ll let the snakes speak with English subtitles. Assembly required.
Clouds are in slacks by the fridge.


Beaten up hulks pour vodka that swirls on action tones. A film clip with multiple data fields and a crew of deft extras in malaise, one supported by another grabbing a ring to a rope, expressed in pain.

I’m told you’d prefer not to watch. Using your voice, better to ask a friend or two to make you hurt, pretending they are you, falling mute.
Artifice, craft, life are short and drive you all over.

Making out, I can drop the questions and shoot for craning my mien, through whose squint everything is scattered. (Behind artifice there’s an interaction lab.)
(Behind life, a free agnosticism. Easy sway. You’ll be taken up on your offer.)
136: I am nothing. What’s my business? Blind soul systems led me to O you

— whereas my epistemology scampers in secrecy, the password pilfered, your soul already knows it’s admitted...

W/ several newer proofs that would leverage you right there in the pluperfect, had your love held me by my name.

Therein, a civilizing process today to staying purposely
dull, entered into too by spotting it first. It’s
a clear refinement where character offers liberation — my sweet nothing

for nothing will hold me, nothing
supports the love-suit from underneath. Only you win that job!
You’re my own nothing boss.
to dead poets..

Been holding your tongues. That’s how it works.
Non-interference takes charge, under which an authentic kindergarten language, dance and charades get raised and quest is forcibly asserted. Working against deadline shaped the last phase of withdrawal from our deadlock with future attributes.

Meantime you targeted a fan like me because of familial obligations to ageless platitude, your camouflage in plain view, the focus of stiff winds over centuries-old middle ground.
Truncation covers about half of winners and victims in crossfire. How you answer — anything you come up with will stomach fair use doctrine — what the privileged young play by, but the next resurgence is an elaborate gerrymander where ambiguity vanishes for a seeming long time.
History is old as mutt.

As the past tense broke, rich mutts of infancy regenerated, feeling there’re future ticket holders rising to the occasion with pretty good probabilities, because they win at the beginning.
I once had an idea today was over. I forgot, man.
With less & less destruction of our marriage, we constitute the Non-Group taking part in the co-ritual to outlast time.

Over & over. Today again.


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

Paradoxical tissue is still not perfect, having that living unlocked, scrunched for breakfast body purity up to a point.
Conversely it dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for consensus over these flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions.

They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole sector before repro-ed onward..

offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.
77: Beginning to get the picture. Beyond the blanks
you can taste love printing out its progress to eternity:
Our love (a winner when you take a look) is a time share in choreography.
Joining you, me — my writing learns & shows a shady stealth of other men — committed to your writing now, delivered from your brain,
nursed on your beauty’s imprint.
I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Resentment buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous,
drumbeats through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right, clinging to my male sexuality

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

Fizzy yet salient points soak into the beach hanging out for the escape clause (always the last place you look)!
We reach elements within erotic catalysts where touch management is unleashed. But the scenery is suddenly beyond diagram while the crew is calmed down. There’s a dual nature to anonymity that makes what’s inside disappear, a bright pulling apart at the summitry of escape.
What’s semiology? unless we un-gnarl affects to figure it out?

(I don’t remember whose or how.)
A note on aging.

Smacked down by a coordinate from outer space,
Keanu Reeves is not reckless, iniquitous, or anatomically complex,
though monotone to the gills like a slower yet more self-subtracted Rod Serling.


To resist extreme sobriety of the autodidact bouts of hedonism are recommended under the guidance of loving doctors, nurses, others beyond family and school though you can try your luck there too.
My last friend is
my most erotic partner. Joy’s a start-up
But has nothing to do w/
My opposing ideals of corporations —

Our music brokerage remains in aerospace

Within no sound where there is none
Other than the last
S’up? nothing else —

The more he says it the pushier he gets.
You bet monkish materiality does not exist. No dissonance, no disruption! There are appearances, such as separate questions and baseline boundaries in self-abnegation.

The book covers a lot.

An interesting interview had to be done in depth, ‘staff may be prosecuted,’ toughing it out.
99: Stay on the hunt, tough to please, speculate (ouch)

even as vengeful tectonic plates jump over
our fears, shame and despair.

Annexed to you, a purple violet seems grossly dyed, your soft cheek
raining havoc for lilies.. marjoram, my love’s breath, your breath. (Uh.) Here’s where you and I lose the scent. Ever

-yone does. Clouded (ouch)
flames ennoble the sky to blush through

my love’s veins, your hands, both of us in thorns
condemned for pride, going on all nerves stolen from you.
It’s impossible to separate understatement from performance; both are adolescent in a good sense, pitch. So that’s how cave and landscape can be felt. Next, a cool minimal database advanced to burn out your swing — try living on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent.

The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity or trance. What matters is how to find and / or emplace each close to noble attempt to be you.
Bliss. We were looking it up.
A battle between two distinctions
among few rules bringing up few others,
times no more of those brain-states from Asia.

A marsh is now interesting
(as well as vitae) for the sea. For the eye, nothing but applesauce then shellac
the sea brought in without consent, leader of the pack of rule breakers.
Favorite restraint = get it done / don’t talk to me.
I wouldn’t say “favorite.”


I was game for coming back, a cult classic
giving less weight to fantasy —
less to breathy folk components,
listening and showing we both are here, one part

another I guess is where we part ways.

Holy shit.

Bye, Weltliteratur...
At least I have my rectitude and pancake mixes...
At some tiny level there’s spontaneous disintegration of what’s on my mind until I find myself in a half-life where speech still matters.
By way of a PS on bohemians, Schuyler (ravaged of course) was more of one than Ginsberg, unravaged. And Brainard (ravaged then unravaged and then ravaged) was a big boho. Auden? Think so. Jim Brodey, a boho. Less narrowly, Harry Matthews.

Back when there was a hell, each vow deemed sufficient and inclusive for a new occasion or faith.
It’s easy, too distinguished and uniform now.
Once back in the day the fair-minded had more complex appetites,
when giving eyes to blindness they brainstormed over innocence —
truths, lies never happened.
In a larger context there was the most recidivism in fashion.
Dante nibbled fast, in very mumbled tones... under a huge, ampersand-shade of grace.

There was a terrific wine list — and that made for grace twists, kindness,
drinking perfusions as he had at strangers shedding their platform shoes.
Everything I note here is integrated, resonating
within symbolic thought that’s both magnified and askew.

The float is radiant, jammed with radiant things,
a collective but no modernism; had you been eloquent on the spot
we’d need no captions.

What does there’s still a move to go do?

We got the feeling, the only naked part.
This is your and my feeling failure now
in a city of kowtowing moguls who pay for it.
Moods are out on a late lunch given our place in biology.
We bear no responsibility

foundering within the social paradox of violence.
If you admit you rejoice in tricky intersections you’ll be taking sides.
To Caspar,

Simple imagery and endowment like yours in the twenty-first century are glazed over fast.
So you get it now, assigning you to our planet to feel cathartic
is dimensionally impossible. You’re dull, slow. Rather uneducated.
Shine and global velocity are notarized now for all the living!
The best sap is flowing top speed.
I bet in the future we have no mail from the here
and now. We’ll be on site.


To protect yourself from a wrong-headed (naïve) build-up and still call your portrait “transactional,” limit data to phenomena that are easily observed and stick with expedient production from self-contrived ideology and history.
The skinny review from last night avoids defining any parts obscure or complex.
Yet I admire a text assemblage of contradictions. Neander
-thals constructed runes in two rings of deliberately broken stalagmites, 400 per ring.

First to impress their Swedish hosts by workshopping them into volunteer flotation gear.
33: I may not be deep enough; loose alliteration masks that, only maybe
— maybe I’ve got a thought altering ‘mentalist’ landscape up my sleeve.

My love is the sun in the morning .. You have a roundish face, green eyes and a slender yet blunt nose that hardens your otherwise sad, unrecognizable features and your sovereign eyes.

When I read about alchemy and ‘splendor’ I keep wiping tears from my neck, but I never read the sun in the morning as love before I met you.
for February
Ontological waves beat their briefs prompting fish next
Out of breath, nearly within sight, cinched it seems, huffing at the mouth.

Sister Fish wishes nobody had cared. A collapsible bottle of wish with

No message, just hunger and digestion.
Caspar continues,
I’d rather not trouble you with my impressions of resource hoarding, so dependent on flow of daytime into night. Shades at midnight can ‘almost’ whisper faintly but I botch capturing even a fraction of their message. My willingness to keep watch through the evening keeps up only to find your granting me permission to maintain my distance. I’ll let you go then. I knew you would understand.
This is a formlet of pathology —
standing in waves smelling of pleasure
a dream of immense peering through
as if I were an action that couldn’t write

yet whose estheticism enlarges.

Diagnosis is a mystery.


Riddle: Struggling between comparative and (purely) descriptive vulnerability to vie for solitude, taking your hand to suspend my paradigm... I killed for you. Why’d you bother (“looked pretty close” — )?
Avoidance with a message sounds handsome, calm, also nervous. In the same robot call he reverses prerogatives, tha is, the voice does. I’ll table the difference — a mixed result but with swift powers that have never been better aligned. I’m altogether devoted to the happiness of the robot and others in the call center. It gives me focus, serves as my hideout, while I search for a motive, learning the ropes.
Sonnet 105: We express idolatry as science. Fair, kind, true.

Amazing to meet you as well as science, two in one.

Amazing to touch your penumbra, feel influenced by funky themes, many songs.

I was pleased you communicated thru love.
Take care, and take your time;
likewise, inspire small talk between you

while keeping your sum under surveillance. You look good together.
I am a smoker :

I blow black smoke in your eyes when you want.

“Tear up this paper,”
Everything is trauma (“I exist”). Whoa...

The way you move for me tonight is a fair shake at fame.

When you put your money down
We can start over in the middle but it’s just the beginning.
Fame’s either one long consequence or buckets of sequence.
Experience is impulsive concealment, according to unrigorous physics from the outside evolving pretexts for work with no possibility in the future of the past.

No such experience predictable for a pay grade gaining access to weather bombs in a manifold vacuum. Algorithms

Would be taking on and over and winning without wanting to substantiate or junk it?

Algorithms are vicarious. We thought no way, no ultimatums to rephrase, immoral aspirations — nothing but work slathered with work!
Marriage is looking good, a mistake but “not a lasting one.”

Who owns my house under socialism?


Most cavemen taste of sitcom overblown for Broadway.
They never make it, go back where they come from,
corroded with physical self-disgust, chained to their desks.
Kittens 1st

— you translators are a close second.

The end divvies up the ethnic accordion out of haze, round wedges shooting blanks!
A brick housewarming and your point?
You appear ordinary. This is about barricades and perhaps something else.

Horizons w/ no rooms.
Sonnet 93:

Better to live more as truer love may near
Supposing I’m in many ways a deceived husband.

A coterie of enablers cooperates fully. For us,
a love interest is altered to look calculated.

For there can be no hatred in our eyes.
Tho, facing love, the early light seems to
Urge us to go out, rehearsetoo much and get wasted, frowning, grow moody —
Eve’s apple was Adam’s? One love’s face? I cannot know.

What have we if our heart is in another place?
I have aged for you. You may have noticed I’m on the side of folding in meaning that has no purpose, just sheer falsetto.

You want in? Try eye accessing cues, carve out what rafter was last seen strapped at the top. A name for emphasis might be imagined.

A serious pronominal.
There’s a discontinuous method to share.
There is an automated palletizer of bread
With industrial KUKA robots in a bakery
In Germany where groove is so a verb.

An odd relay plants these thoughts.

We don’t do pinpricks, I’m told. I did my research.
Since I’m not adding bespoke grammar to anguish,
This would be a special offer, today only.
Anyway, I retract my falsehoods.
I know this sounds lame — you and I annulled our thingness with a few hand-waves and it felt major, the way I inspired your open, emotional austerity, rubbing eye cream in, admiring buzzwords but no ideas. No fins of infinity. Nope. You and I have no controlling issues!
Targeting methods
To appear transparent
After a button is pushed
— I’ve heard that scream.


Yes chaos no.
Yes. Tomorrow can mete out facts to impel comfortable indeterminacy —
as if we could rush ourselves thru election to our next decimal of the property.

When it comes to half-dog leitmotifs
no manners of men pick up during voter fraud registration.
We’re in charge, we’ll stay here. And while anyone can stumble and a few of us slip into reduced circumstances, the failure to consummate redeeming relationships is no problem. Repeat deferment is strategic, and there’s a sequel. We keep the sweetest for now, that is, we’ll keep the best of what life offers, the youngest males and females, un-perched, close to our pulse, and poke them tenderly like endangered kittens. And — sure — there’s still an itch — we can’t sublimate — needing cougar breath, dog fluids, and more infusions of cash. Savings, inheritance and loans that paid for all this look more ghoulish under the froth of rulership’s new austerity with mirrors.
114: I say.

I say drink up.
My eye says thanks there’s so much.

Haiku-ing to Delmore Schwartz repeatedly gives me monsters. Monsters giving head.

We or most of us have a destiny within flattery, after all. But it’s after-hours

To vocalize what my eyes sink into. I can’t worry or pierce my ears further.
Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush nimbus-wet in devotion to their next decimal of the property. This might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads

and let you know when. Tomorrow.
I own two-way ideas, to scale.
It keeps adding up. I have no modesty issues, none detected, fewer and fewer policy goals.

Soon we relaxed our balance to parry something (or perhaps two things) that once seemed clear enough, but not now, here we are...

like two radical vapors, untitled moods.
My statement is enclosed.
I’ve highlighted failures in the box where you select the sorrow you have, breaching tall, athletic-like aromas.

Speaking of like, make your counter statement gripping youths on a glacier.


To wield a conceptual brush is to terrorize, even if your motivating injunctions steer clear of violence or unregulated emotion. Terror here is poetry’s swift, certain, nontrivial insertion through a hole and/or through self-negation in certitude and flatulent controversy, such as with Basho’s disproving human sound unable to transform animal to mineral, or with Duchamp’s counter-ploy to the rule, men’s room accoutrements are never foreground.

Controversy, like injunction, comes to us commonly or frequently as back-formation, a provisional ethos after the conceptual stroke. We were constrained by the profound assumption, for example, that a play requires the tone and stage be set in more than five words. We were tacitly sure of this, marginalized more from different affects until we read Beckett’s new direction: A country road. A tree.
Wha.. sorry. I was wondering if you’d care to show us around..

Last night or the last few nights taking the wrong bus.
Dropped off in a maze.
‘No normal’ locals with misleading directions for the way out.

One rooming house. Inside, every room named canonically after a poetics. Defence of Rhyme, Habits of Empire, Preface to Sordello, Being and E-vent, Thick Field, Prepositions, Camera Lucida … the kitchen Untitled.
Sonnet 120:

En route to password assistance, astronomical infinitesimal amounts are rounded off as unsolved,
unkind problems, compelling work that front-load knowledge construction — like your
finding a bowl of light to explain & reform a ransom bow of times-spaces.

Sure or no, my deepest sense certainly. Nerves of steel.
Yes, attempts to throw your voice are dumb & of a special force

— I suffered in the same crime —
From the unknown risks. As first-time infringers we don’t mushroom,
Ignored. But we seem hellbent when two or more reach assistance,
So we need oversight.
We strewed photographs along a shuttered residence, having
an interest in opulence & stratagems bequeathing our
ing great! Those brands are awesome announcing oops, they’re
digging in bins?
Feeling is feeling.
Then it’s said repetitive motion has gone too far
and some at all levels got enclosed, not spoken of,
climbing into casual spectacle, ritually putting
our lives together & keeping nothing.
[Trained] S[s]taff encourages sampling
sharpened by a moral duty.

That was the life of the party speaking. Highly attentive,
morally camouflaged. A gun fired.
So you get it now about dualism, you make 4 walls the rendezvous, hang a roof, lounge in queue for the motorcade. The ride is brief —


* Milk skin therapy rallies across the Atlantic, abundant, compulsive, redemptive and with slivers of nourishment, some rousing start to en plein beauty. It’s a trap, why were we going? It’s easier to French-kiss over Europe, more natural to pose — here we repeatedly set it up — a painting in asterisks.
Massively cool but no gracias. This is tomorrow.

Rescinding our directive, we constitute the Non-
Group taking part in I-hate-new-calculus speech acts ..

We win door prizes in the periphery

if we let politicians get wild

losing the meaning moving sands and forgetting about it —
Tasting shale, we met some firepower to prevent further questions.
73: One will die; one sees all sunsets fade to black.

But I’m leaving the night choir behind. Awake making love with you where yellow leaves still shake blowing past bare boughs and ashes of twilight, glowing, seeming content, consumed consuming to expire.

Death is a nominal fallacy like twilight now. To love that well, more strongly is my late take away. I don’t understand the cold fire this time of year in the west, where the sweet birds sing by and by sang, etc. 
How I do love U —
Graduate studies seem piecemeal.

I watched U & me dreaming in economics
affecting a radius of 2, 3 coasts.
What happened out there? What 4?
The survey said I made it 2 the 2nd challenge,
a winning session in crude instrumentation.

Looking into the camera makes this a document.
Gestalt-like comfort in disruption is 1 point of a # in our seminar on 6.
You may have noticed I’ve been planning in my head,
flashing a badge. Home is a test pattern across an all-species
life span — everybody under anesthetics for a mo, lunar waxing credited to lexical
whipsaw! Ok. A foot of sleet
through the window, the surf comes to mind in
reverse as if a long eyebrow, roughened

over & oh, hold it —
this is not a test I’ve been holding out to you
for you ..
Lilac is a favorite zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.


I feel socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing
The center
More than a 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, the center of systems.
A ruse can be your generic object that looks transparent, emerging as sleep.
So you’re still in danger within the same maize corridors

— How do bricks
hang through the duration? (How is the easy-hard part.)
Ruses write themselves.
12: This is a fugue in your name
talk talk future talk..

We do not count the clock telling time
..we’re spry in our motives, underhanded
getting back to catch the slapdash in how it works.

You may have noticed we’re behind open doors, past

abhorring a vacuum when it doesn’t matter —
vibrato and sunlight close their distance.
The wastes of time are subject to change
— never saw them coming, old and new to some usual ends
but not here — we’re braving talk of your beauty telling the future..
Socialist by nature, cashing in analytics, we’re
Not sure discourse product pertains. Sacred axioms certify wealth and income
Consultancy, honing acolytes into two dimensions on the surface.
The one state is jaw dropping, turning away from independent public scrutiny.
The argument, from a Darwinian datum, eye contact reinforces civility that lowers game energy controlling sciences coming up with goon armor.
Today’s game harnesses breathless slurs to insert alterations within argument’s force and structure, redoubled in ear bending silence.

Argument is a figure of speech, already shrunk to pellets against the losers’ armor just before the death of death.
A cubist staring in the mirror — back to her tapestry, a big girl with a pineal gland attending what’s neat in the future, and she finds me attractive!


Scruples? It’s advantageous to poetry in English being excommunicated
as we’re British by nature; more, it’s not in our nature to boast. Fortunately, we don’t have to.
We’re British.
Then King James proved some others saw an arrow has feathers, flying as it works the crowd.

Later something came up. The fuzz of taking on a set matter ..

Each distraction raising uncomfortable indeterminacy.
G forces gathering momentum in shade
Midnight dining, rambling like deer in bed, shiny
in smoke, how
Without jitters will vacillates
every time in passive groans
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches —
opera and shush..
Sonnet 26: A life is charged by your sweet respect. A duty so great
Occasionally you sleep, given immunity, I hope.
My thought is tottered, all naked but fair.

Dear you,

The finest knits are lacking for a good generalist’s conceit. I’m wanting words to show half a wit. I’m clueless about vertically integrated brinkmanship. Conceits in that field are deliberately made up to look made up, to look as if we need a hand skipping dinner, combing through motions and whatsoever chrome and low pressure peeled back from almost getting our tenuous, jutting fingers into and under the interstate that brings you and me home.

I don’t think driving in my mind can be boasted of by moving points but it’s so fast I’m not worried it gets easier.

Un-reproved, I love you till then.
If you swallow your ego luxury is great. I say no
with my eyes shut.
No meditation spanning the surface of the woods, no
massage. No scent of wood. So there’s nothing to resent.

How does it resume?
You have kind eyeholes.


The quartet could be on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part doodle / part disassociation
as a voiceover to operate humanely,
stacking ideas like alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.
My position is rebirth roughs it, because it’s not safe to lounge at home without saying oh, wait it’s been done ..

I refuse if I don’t want to ...

My position is to add design to physical combat.

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

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

signals liberate you to oppose facts,” you sing.
Or writing et al. change.
A frayed honeymoon was a pleasure, felt normative.
Pleasure gets exaggerated but there are three pleasure substitutes. Here’s one, an itch to borrow sentences to raise one’s consciousness.

Another is coming up with filaments like attrition of affects = eyesore.

Third, after a honeymoon deflections accrue.
It was great being with you.
Or was it just me?
Like manners of ambiguity?
To buy her lipstick.
You seem spacey in snow

When you make angels.

Hiding for two hours snowing

Against the snow you’re really spaced out...


Yes, you sick intern — gallery bobbing,
Learning how to learn are cool (& fatuous), else officialdom won’t count
when we begin stepping out.

We have to trust you on these matters. One apiece

                                                            to the tenth.

Post-Film-Vinyl Stairwell Math


From time to time snow

sees a bodyweight in snow,

a liter of snow pounds sticking to her diet —

Snow packing new snows bound thronged into blue purple columns..

moving like a herd and suddenly forcing exposures within

creeping fast, loosening and nettling snows to toss and flake

overboard, self-torquing until each part drowns ahead of snow
as quadrapeds pace on fresh snow.

Straddling an hour snowing, flapping in snow

now into cold slush and melted snow,

clouds connecting to wet hooves in snow.
The cicadas are in their rooms.
140: Leading with wise and cruel. Should I grow mad?
In sleep even a con anarchist gets immunity.
Going wide, this is madness, better it were bad news washing
over time under preseason wraps.

Snow this soon is a surprise.

(Didn’t know I’m a novice enthusiast, the manner of my pity.)

Should I despair?
It’s snowing, nothing personal, wafting like foam over my awesome hamlet —

Further out the world is blown up with descriptors peeling off like spiders hustling
Noir is for life.
In America, of all places!
For all appearances nothing lurid is due at signing
It’s privileged out there..

I was saying endless tunnels, gadgets, after effect impulses — Come,
join us here as Jerusalem waits.

Here are my fingers dealing an immersive element, some of it; it’s on cleats
in an infinite series as the glow that’s breathing and regular

— maybe 18,000 years ago
Next time I live in the swansdown of DNA. I’ll be comically dead — married and twice committed to a duplicate database — a seamless reiteration of Mr Picklepants with a flat floppy build. He determines forests and wilderness and my movement and behavior, charming, polished, emotionally shot with depth as a thespian-prole rounding off elaborately flimsy seriality and sequence.


You need to review hedonism before it’s retouched ...
& there’s nothing wrong with my commitment. I am massively committed. In national interviews, if I have to give others the finger, even faction members, I’m committed. They get it. You’re the problem.
Friendship is a job (like sloganeering) and, more elevated, craft (sign). To illustrate, job is to craft as practica to theory or open animosity (a sign). Free speech is cool for sure and I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend. What’s it? There’s no work-around to the observer influencing the observed except later — for now rolling in multi-era fears and heroic fields — much later.
79: How it may happen..
On a highway, gentle blue lights 
— Luxury vans flow in aid. Further uphill 
Hauling “rays of virtue” — stolen beauty, yours.
He can afford it.

A ray’s lip, your lip, curls in his record performance /
Your opinion / your position count, a worthy argument
Made easier — you take the wheel, 
Officer. I’ll hand it to you & have your way — 

Then thank him —
You pay him what he owes.
Some had swing,
You saw that? Haphazardly

the scandal passed, hardly worth the coverage,
otherwise excellent.
Newly a couple, we got back into the van.
May we trespass? It seems relevant
if any jaw trembled.
Don’t argue with the shipment.