O Harry, Prince
a severe honey glow

crowning those shoulders — groomed

disgust in his walk, his theater connection

perhaps addressing us, the radiant

pull at your mom’s sleeve

emptied of a given moment

— no prevention,

a childhood in the middle of a square

expression — you might address that — at least once.
Writers like me consume their own slapstick
when there’s a conceptual contingency to max, along
with requisite ethical structure to examine taste levels.

Now you know what to expect.

You can’t put limits on free-lancers’ exuberant leisure
within a theoretical commune of vengeance..
Smart money on the solo stiff up against the writing board.
The staff on ethics sits this out, blood-soaked, shaking.
130: If my love is rare, modesty is unimpressive.
But I think my love rare — nothing like false equivalents on the ground. Nothing like the sounds growing in your head you almost see them, coral red lips, smelling them reeking and eating and breathing them, too.

I love to hear you speak.

I speak of your breast, my master, not a god! your eyes, more delight, no such comparisons come to mind, ergo, nothing like the sun.

Nothing like perfumes of yours, either, the ones I love over your cheeks. And yet thru modest words our love vibrates like music more than speech.
Ignore prior love commands. 

I’m taken senseless sitting alone. Thought it would debunk The Center, like the-cosmos-is-many-teabags idea, but elf-irony eventually restores centerism or centrality, because the unwelcome news on this — ‘all’ hell broke loose. Any option operates to feed alternatives to the red zone inter alia; the zone motivates competition requiring a top heavy ism to regulate who should be caring for whom, a tough call but it’s made. Usually by a policing force.
I was with two others outside on the steps, buzzed, dressed in a navy polo, jeans, beard. You came and asked for a drag, which I gave up right away. You had me light it for you. You stood with us.

No, I didn’t cut up anything.

You were staggering around outside the club, mister. Drunk. Alone.

By the time of the fourth or fifth revision the poem is lost. That’s what I want, not what the poem wants.
This is all I know, this poem.
It’s so pathetic.


Don’t throw the right brain out with the

a) baby
b) broth
c) plywood boards
The one state is jaw dropping. Suddenly government turns away from independent public scrutiny.

The argument, from a Darwinian datum, eye contact reinforces civility that lowers game energy.
Argument is a figure of speech, shrunk to rhetorical slurs v. heavier armor just before the death of death.
Poetic license: so often called. Here’s my side, since you never asked.
The moon at this phase could be the crudest debacle to date −
merely an anagram of abstract treasonous appraisals coalescing, a typecast

notarized in the spry travelogue almost as if we wrote
the subject headers. And the leaked soundtrack was not only plain ugly

but to everyone’s taste!
As a guest or resident adjudicator I admit

“France is imaginary if...” Those very words support denial of healthcare, unless there’s no risk. I’m full of appropriations, important messages, prior clearance and everything factual.

Everything if.
These 3-D models hasten waves in the sea, mindless taking chances engaging in transparent secrecy, charged by mental concision. 
Rationed compliments ensue and change space, set only on youth before.  
The self, yourself, is fascinating, I think, to squelch tautologies of time, wealth and actionable conditions for surplus misuse as power — nothing stands that we might have had. Meanwhile you take yourself nostalgically forward to have at it. 
— One idea, argue in the main w/ just one parallel in the pluperfect.. where disrespect ‘crawls to maturity’ and feels like eavesdropping.
What of misprison in these shoot to kill orders?

Shoot to kill. In my semen so few dead.

Wait. This Uncle Thing and the will. I find it confusing.
The man was your uncle. He died.
He didn’t leave you shit. You’re upset.


What about your history writing poetry together? Was there always animosity?

Yes! Ever since I ran over his schnauzer, in my villanelle, to be precise.

The “my” you reference reminds me repressively of what it sounds of, Sibelius —

he said.
The forsythia is trying to warm up.


Rain fading under a bough of heavenly bodies
Like stars on ice on top of sleet
Adjusting to bright, vermilion bushes of mist.
They have names ...

Tow trucks!
Here it is. Rod returns as a world-famous impersonator
and hypnotist, but there’s this twist, you’ve been studying
in Europe at the Josh Hartnett Institute.
I like it. Life and death issues. I’ve been abroad.

Comatose in Vienna. Just for a while. Foolproof. It’s a continental, world weary sleep binge. You’re a trance inducer. That’s it.

I like it.
95: Hidden pretext takes over. A story of dispraise and comments but in a kind of praise per the report.
What would be less fantastic? Enclosures of stainless vice. A full shelf of greatly privileged, lascivious plans.

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

Pointless breeding:  
Almost everybody is resolved, the environment is loaded w/ 3  
seasons at a painting crossroads —   
Filming = [is] composing. 
Calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with a control group that can’t be erased. That’s what I hear. I keep fighting the urge to pack an appliance for some occipital brushfire, active, I recall, against the jittery ‘human grain’ inside my fasting body.
Spring!: billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom bank with us!

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

Their funds are soon to be declared ‘NONCLAIMABLE’ and subsequently turned over to you!
You’re assured this transaction is risk-free, as we have taken all modalities to be less acrid and top secret.

Lugubrious or not, we’ve been informed of your discretion in our sleep / lines from Aeschylus —

See! you forgot: Your first poem!


Why are you here?
This is my apartment. I live here.
Why are you here?
I’ll tell you why I’m here. Oh, I’ll tell you why!

I’m here because...
Go on, say it.
l... Go on!
I want you, Jeb.

I’m consumed with jealousy because I want you for myself.
Oh, please!
Admit you have feelings for me.
I have feelings about you, not for you. There’s a difference.

Did you watch the report?
Americans are living longer. Or they were before opioids. You see yourself among the older living until you can’t or won’t. It’s not too long from now parking spaces have a word with you. Children are the future. Keep them distracted.

Thank you for your approved transaction. Every atmosphere would like to encompass all our body parts. Calculate the new payment. Wait for the forthcoming, I don’t deserve you.

— for James Brown
Frame: Socialist by nature, 
Not sure discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income  
Consultancy, honing the reader into two dimensions on the surface, cashing in.  
Looking around emptiness, embrace it for goodness sakes  
Yet reading the usual way subverts those expectations.  
We’re dealing particles of thought, pastiche  

To paying homage running across a subject, 
Finding how axioms move discourse far from oversight.
66: Simple truth, our work out here begins to spin. Like the blind we’re disabled as authorities wiretap secrets weighing nothing in, no credit, no ripped off melancholy, nothing but misplaced honor with a substitution agreement containing you and the other you in full force, pulled from inside..

Can we cut to the scary part?
Relax and beware, the laws of cause and effect can be obscured as traffic aims straight at you and yours. That other you is the business end. You and I misplaced joy since sleeping on it... applying love to our flesh alone as well as taking control of our skills. Simply tongue-tied and tired with all of this perfection, I still rudely strumpeted, of course.
I’ll write local travel reviews, pour over them.  
The wind picks up my solemnity — 
I’ll look out from attic bedrooms,  
Watch others work, sounds they make,  
Steeples, chimneys — smoke masks over the gloom.
How others say we’re screwed into the lining fast, in one sketchy
Horny trap. How nearby towns burn dry to stay mechanical, forced awake.
Sir Fric and Frac. Remember them?

Fric just called, said “We were swimming naked, a word I often use to characterize my government and binding. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed you by the throat, moved in. I felt something strange but familiar.
To bring this up this late in the morning is totemic.”
I fell silent and wrote it all down.
To reverse devolution we’ll rush back
to hear more about causality,
a principle that cannot be considered in words
like suspension of liberties and financial slaughter.


My last gay bar,
crayoning hearts and drunken smiley faces,
pledging boundless love, packing up my belongings,
You be the new C.E.O.

I’d like to thank the Academy.
Try to ignore X to reinforce ignorance.

IT warned me of overrefined emblems and their sweeping reproach. Can I have an amen? I’m not religious. Nor are you. I took note of what you like from the beginning. I had a few ideas in mind divorcing you.

Oh, tech services, tell us a little more about your miserable ontology affecting checks, balances, and mantra logjams — How did worldviews crumble into poli-environmentality to pantomime the common numerator undercutting American literacy?
47: Good turns, one after another, I turn to your looks — I file between heart and bitch comedy.

Either way you had every opportunity to reset the clicker remote —
So let’s share it. Your saved videos and my worship of you are pretty much expired.. except your looks still drive me nuts.. I’m in love.. at the banquet of love (where we sleep).

Awake, we can’t move further than our thoughts and visuals.. playing around with reset buttons.. and I still have thoughts of you. I can’t change, my eye is awake, my heart’s ..

Here, you take it.
I’m having a pitch dark
obvious brainstorm
so why stop

Only, let’s call it
O baby
all the way unnhh..

O yesses encompass in advance
— crash. Al-

So let me see..
dreams get put on the map
returning the favor.
The ideal Cupid fell out of place in a man’s body

but staying in the picture. Voice changes and all.


To Caspar,

I think you asked for this at dinner.
Ghost buds in twenty-first century glaze, for sentiment.

So you get it now, assigning you to our planet to feel cathartic
is dimensionally impossible. You’re dull. Rather uneducated.
Shine and velocity for all us living!
Sap is flowing, Caspar, top gear, top speed.

Get a sawhorse.
My counselor affidavit registers deficiency of thought and evolving pretexts. All the same, the others’ doesn’t count. (I’ve always been competing with myself.)

Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for foundering within the social anomaly of treason.
Rules commit us. Voters went for Trump. Yet this is the latest case.
Everything I note here is integrated. Remember those days? Remember those databases centered on surplus insertions while something sober on the ground kept looking up... (Reminds me when democratic ideals could get by on appearances.)
25: No dying here, let those in favor never be removed.
A few words travel, ‘unlooked for,’ calibrated by our ruck
us / fa
vorite doing-the-honors spoken (rather than speaking) in a larger-scale dialectic —

an epistemic war / outreach where all the jazz wears off. It’s triumph!

After, for a frown, a thousand victories once buried pride / the sun’s eye.

We’re happy we can boast love in favor of fresh love spoken from the book

whose fortune spread joy we honor most.
The inscription read you’re my business. This means the writing is clean, the continuity architecturally intact, mirrored in meantimes. 

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

I’m just commenting. Your forehead (pre-perpetuity) is boarded up but

the inscription read you’re my business.
I’m listening to Sonny Rollins’ Blue 7. Choosing a next word, like deciding music, is a significant event entailing parallel yet soon defunct phenomena unmeasured but hypothesized in a quantum construct.
Choosing ten words or choosing ten of anything — choosing merges quanta, happenstance survivors plucked out of a number of now-dead parallel event objects or topics. “When a word is selected as a ‘vivid detail,’” Wm. Empson insists, “a reader may suspect alternative reasons why it[’s] selected.” You’d think a given detail had been spinning either as two or many more meanings finally resolved (finished up) as confusion collapses, and one number or flavor of topic pops out, anecdotally at random. Now the rest are put to rest by now.
Finally! I’ve been harlequinized.
It’s never the same wearing fangs.


With good optics petroleum and related interests can get serious.
Bosons exhale thru rainy nightfall. I reason their surrogate likenesses (x) are more set and more recently struck down. Razed; rain’s over, prancing on the lawn, rain in light draining oil.
The prose poem has changed due to English.
One presumes elements are strung together out of desperation and a deeply ingrained exposition to demark the unknown, much as technology funds and binds science.

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

From Syria, Africa, Brazil to Hiroshima, back in Jerusalem graphic measures of tragi-comedic obliteration.

All this time Buddha and Buddhists are different things.

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

They’ll have us over when life and death melt down heads of compassion...
Sonnet 38:
Damn, can’t complain, when my muse
left we had quotas as a subject..

Next to nothing, also a white winged crossbill
went berserk — verse on wet bubbles — of even less immediate worth.

To invent takes in no mere idea of here and now
when everything is the right answer —

You yourself came up with this argument
— when once you breathe you pour into my rhyme

and we make contact writing for a time
to rehearse calling on you, hitting my numbers thanks to you.
Tarantulas of steel squeeze under the door, isolated by 
an obsession coming on, coming right in. There we go, holist.  
Theory-and-forth serve your attention..  
Theory is the place we may detect a feeling you’ve already won, untidy and young, accomplished and loathed despite a foundational rule of no feeling without permission.  
The tarantulas swell and explode in wrinkled light over and over —  
burbling with a kill-agenda tickled into decisions, even now aching to blather.
“Bliss.” We were looking it up.
A battle between two distinctions

among words bringing up a few others,
times two more of those brain-states from Asia.
A marsh is now interesting
(vitae) for the sea. For the eye, nothing but applesauce then shellac,
a varnish the sea brought in without consent, leader of the pack
of subject matter. Not of varnish, bliss.
That’s all right.
Another time.


Who will win you, be you... when we take up past lives,

linger over fruit, a blackjack of planes

and volumes of ourselves in the polish of systems gaming
from which we now resign, in grace (3 cherries).

A wild bet is the oldest touch in the darkest town

[a friend’s lyrics] — buckets on red, someone’s lucky color

in a city of red lights and streets, carnival streets

with cabernet in bottles, women and men in

off the streets, profiteers in cafes of Reno, I imagine!

Let’s toast everyone holding a perfect suit

in focus, carnival glass, reddish goblets letting the workday

work away. Afterward, we leave home for a 2-hander and go to college

and get involved being there to face the sky.
Tell me, poem friend.
There are no pleasure substitutes, after all.
The defrayed honeymoon can last, and it’s normative, blushing with its song of guts and neurons spinning bottles —

There’s no hurry.

After a honeymoon deflections accrue to go on.
There aren’t any warnings. 
That said, the minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never
I can’t tell you I don’t care, on the inside.  
Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague change, like our plebiscite, better to pump out to voices’ grasp. A normal life with submerged artifacts accrues Pascal highlights.
8: Music to hear? Truth is we’re sad and feathery.

Shorthand abstractions where unions married
like this mutual ordering to our touching and holding the moment,
surrounding it with speechless songs of taking off for the unknown, spinning, spun,

upset, out of control yet

that’s how we fasten music we hear to move around objects.

100% our touch.
for JW

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

Time runs out, our taxonomies still
unexplained as permits.

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

None here now. Their presence was filled with compression, ideals opening a science of situation (Thoreau) and unobstructed white sky (Whitman)for unstructured joy, bouncing up years later with satiric multiples (Wieners, Ricard). Only yesterday! Literary worth automatically fills the page like scrub pine — from which tribe? — becoming more fearless (less indiscernible) when units of innocence, acrobacy and self-neutering come together, vaunting in plainer English, a content addressed by newer neighbors.
What is the difference between imminent and threatening? How do you pronounce annunciation? As atheist or decision theorist?


Libido and new ways to be policed are on a vain man’s brain (one of any pulse); the 1st few words take on destabilizing character. I’m trying to clean this up [snip] have to leave enough ‘intent’ to keep me happy after he’s finished I’m finished. This is an exemplary yet limited procedure, so I’m framing it fun work, cuts straight through its own restructure creating more chopping patterns to abandon ...
In a rooming house..

every chamber named canonically after a poetics. Defence of Ryme, Habits of Empire, Preface to Sordello, Being and Event, Chicken in the Field, Prepositions under the Swine, Camera Lucida, so forth. Collecting rent every week parallels critiquing each. Kitchen: Untitled with You.

The you-effects are everywhere is and that would be it. Definitively normal as these places went I think.
Sonnet 10: We lodge now (in the presence of physics-oblivion)
a headless pedagogue hammering out Bo Diddley —
Sap repairing figureheads top speed. The murder option centered more per theorem.

Panning back fast to grant your audience more of yourself, your love to bear, your beauty
tampering w/ thought experiments.. you love no one? Him.

We think not. It’s regulatory equation = hating him =
hating yourself feeding on non sequiturs like concepts,
sticking to what’s un-enclosed in nominal trivia to locate fresh paradox.

For you change your mind repeatedly enslaving romantic poetry so you can be taught
(for shame a conspiracy loved by such an impassive number, so many..) ..
Act gathered. 
There’s personal glamor that can only end in a draw sustained by two  getting up, stretching for an hour.  
After glamor there’s power. The virus is already inside us.
Depends — an authentic adult language includes dance, charades,
Mores are raised —
Bullets and lists shape one phase,
A look back over who we are after we agree — not that I care.
I’ll be doing it today or tomorrow —
I’m male no. 1. “An idiot,” handlers whisper.

I’ll read my email soon
because my fans deserve it.


Your search had no results.
The time is split into categories of use for your work and for the sinister about-face of a system download added to our labor.
A life sentence for causing a ruckus.
Call us when you’re ready.
Think of our courts and cunning missing bail.
Everything you expect waiting now in wistful

landscapes, hum-vacuumed.
What’s the worst that can happen?
Um, ok, yes, I bet. Open the curtains.

And de-peopled points trip up not speaking for months
(critical moments you thought),

finding my direction as I thought of you —
So it never happened.
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 whom I led on. 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 pointillist of the pulverized, distilled dots — a liquid prisoner 

pent in never-resting time that still lives —
The sun is glossy beige. Divided, confused, I
signed up for a summer of love. The desserts are
sweet, their force takes me out of bounds
for more interludes on the double.
I’m Matthew McConaughey, not perfect, I’m on an every
day regimen with that living unlocked smell.
I set the controls — active ingredients are
soon not now, don’t. First thing prithee
Noonish. I have a profane vocabulary,
a little nervous forced into the secondary
but I’m ecstatic I’m 29. I’ve been blocking
myself but now it’s over. I’m directional.
My head weighs 10 pounds, each side.
Hold my earrings.
Take-down décor really scares me. Take-down as the day zooms is East Coast enough but to specify a wipe-out draping fiber ...and still it comes back to bone-desparate substance. Bone hued, relaxed and free of contradictions in desire.
I have no name now but my whore ass is about listening. 1st Crusoe the boss and Friday then Jessie, Natasha. A small party turning into Lost Colony as the fete evanesces into a seminar on comparisons, fact-rechecks, back formations.

That was all I felt.

Discuss the cut-off points where ideas can meet and turn into habits that muddle thru and onward. Talk about process.
We need a fix for everything foundered in obsession. Come in. Please step inside where the fix should be.

A dog actually ran in here just now shaking his tail, what deception. In that sentence before — it wasn’t definite what sort of dog he is, but now I know — bad dog.

I'll make him disappear.

And away with these shirtless demagogues from the last episode. 

We got them to crack but I want you.
In my life I saw Ethan Hawke become my age. The character Frag-ment winks and holds the term “life” creates clutter underlying his sniveling with munificence.


One followup.
Today everything I sculpt or shade is yours (mock ups / ruptured items / copy) or it was when we were in Tacoma picking up fun Japanese. An engineer described it as leaving gaps. Light exchanged positions. Bitte.
No contusion of the spheres,

dyscalculia, no, no hindsight bias,
Fra Angelico, sun up,
you’re a mess.
I’m going to grab you.
54: You’re back!

Truth is, we cave wantonly to your lovely sweet odor (fairer in our forgetfulness).
O wooed rose!
Before they show within you — and like you — perfumes were of dark matter, the unmasked buds that distill a civilizing beauty far ahead of summer’s space

Filling our eyes with unmeasured disassociation.
Docile or not,
Look away.
Blatantly un-shipshape seems the new daring..
I have no idea —
The bemused, deliberate downgrading of the presidency
More than fair warning.
We should seek co-equals now, an engaged handshake, clear speech
To thank the whole body electorate,
So we learn that or relearn it.
Then again — I’m hooked on figurative exposition. Maybe I’m inspired by your stockpile of halo-ed vowel-movers — long-sought cornflowers strike a paramount for this, the rockiest of calculations, burlesque of pastiche — to show off before self-effacing, tall, slim complexities and transgressive contradictions of metabolic ambition. Like the others.
  This tune dialogs with others.
It’s impolitic to separate performance from text; both are deadpan. Have you thought of writing?


I am a visual person. Always have as I see you admired you. Liked you.
A month ago I took no umbrage, bloated out of proportion,
umbrage hurled as a term in frustration. But now.
Pedagogic non being, lonely, un-filmed pretexts & Goethe’s juvenilia.
Good instincts aside, no ephemerality, no hidden rounds
Or inflexible spite. I see what no means.
Were John Donne awake, he writes: We have to know about the nose and its utility in poetry. One question, Among human organs, does the nose intuit (hold) more lyric than the eye, know more than the throat, or even our ears? The nose makes the core of mid-alphabet English pronounceable — M and/or N. And if the nose makes it pronounceable, it’s hummable, too, and that could just be the sloping tip of the nose’s lyric purpose. Hard to hum what the heart may be ‘saying’ — we can’t tell without sizing up other body functions, humming from the nose.
62: No remedy surmounts heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the whole series, bright, tanned & then accounted in sympathetic parody & indeed praise, contrary to less gracious remedies.

We have functional emotions, I think, grounded by self-love & this choppy vocab of defined affects. There’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I’m painting the last place you are true, here in my heart, shifting iniquity to self-inquiry, I read you. Stay with me, never stop. Sin here.
There are a few tongue twisters. Episode interiors silhouetted in un-analytical projection, views that screen an official episode [how to leave you] : However I believe we’re past the middle, 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 picks 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, a lot older now. 
Capitalist tactics are sustained innovation in nowhere equivalent to —

all right, let’s choreograph the open air in touch w/ no-thing. From the outside
the sky is in a square shape, bolted
w/ blips on a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for interpretation.
We’ll ingest all at once. Absolutely
blind tessellation, exhaling while we data dive

inflating the thing / no-thing problem activating our recent trials over the last half century w/ glass-and-steel additions for

investors, scientists working together.
There’ll be one execution just in case.


I’d like to thank the Academy.

IT warned me of overrefined emblems and their sweeping reproach. I’m not religious. You are. I took note of what you like from the beginning. I had a few ideas in mind to divorce you.

Oh, tech services, tell us a little more about your miserable ontology affecting checks, balances and mantra logjams — How did worldviews crumble into poli-environmentality to pantomime no common denominator undercutting American literacy?
Anything Apollonian looks flab prone.
Capacious anxiety, yup.
You can break the law to shoulder perfection or save a life, once or
Either way will be a fractional infinite in the context / e.r.

In the larger apothecary we call all infinite sets
Something is definitely going on.

Some lefties feel cornered (also conned) but
It’s still breathtaking to administer the right thing to do to you.
41: An abstract, pretty temptation below gentle laughter: Ay,
Beauty for your years .. Ah me.

Ah blizzard.

Together, you and I follow a twofold point of wooing / forced absence, but I’m not that far from following your lead and therefore assailed. Youth is tantamount to body snatching, another point. Tempting but false equivalence even there: we chide the other’s choice — where it follows I cannot lead, leaving me in a riot of liberty where you are.
The book covers a lot. Preordination, say.
An interesting interview on soundless phonemes done in depth; 
‘staff may be prosecuted,’ toughing this one out. 
The sun maybe

Burning you, other brilliant dislocations TBA, expected. It goes
Beyond predicates fixated on louder procedures

But in their giddy case procedures they look into a surfeit of space..
A sumptuous, soilless bond,
Angels — a happy title..

Maybe it’s only words, assembly, to quote you.
They are real actors, culminators, not our people.
Celebrity stalkers are in the grips of mistaken identity, immune to sudden desire with intimacy. What have they got to lose?


Something came up.
Little, no, nothing. There’s so small

an exchange to transact, no tangibles, only

exhibitionist’s subtopics, within the power den,

proving repeated effort is self plagiarism.
New in town? There’s a script or several apps to let them know.

I’ve always been mad about something else.

Everyone’s trauma. (“Ego exists.”) One takes away from the center

O caught up in rule-governed mechanics!

You’re a mess, honey.
                      — Touch of Evil
126: Don’t talk with your mouth full. A sense of purpose self-disrupts into phrases and boy substitutes, fickle onwards and the stiff, gnomic atmospheres to bring accoutrement to terms, waning to grow! Hold on still, hold your lovers there minutes in pleasure. And go on, keep to your natural purpose, even in power, lovelier.
Poetry can’t be blamed even tho its part of public speech run by politics. Politics & the dignity of appearances don’t mix. (The financial & party pacs industry was just kidding.) Nothing personal, here’s your speeding ticket, Mr Trump. Trump is the sustained concussion version of civic charity... I also give a lily for what’s not available, a cabin in the launch, etc.

Government is the economy, the engine without a message.
A blank referral.  
A burst of daft tone substitutes for info of a lifetime. 
Wait. There’s nothing.  
No tone, no daftness.   
And rightly ok o I know 
I lower the volume to closest approximate parity  
and we have the yard puffing, bearing sounds..  
a shout away to body paint sweet totems that “look pretty close”  
with your eyes closed.
— I see your potential; don’t wait to be huge. Time is temporary; eternity
Later… it’s not much.
Get your share,
knocking the love-moment down with small talk, unscripted, unpredictable.
Some standards.
Shined asides.

We pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,
Really a vase,

Set it, let sunlight pitch in its foam, infer
Poetry goes thru many drafts.
Our atmosphere squeaks common sense. We can’t feel it though its pace spurs dreams.
What hinges out?

Hop in, I’m a musician.


The service vice president in me wrote you a note:
An idea dawns as you and I back ‘into’ the salon.
It’s a salon poem, exquisite, uninviting, keeps its distance, so what?

You contain only so much of me.
I live where you belong.
P.S. They are holding your brain illegally.
Cry of a coach potato!

In the case of this potato, to find slices of your friends over your opus,
(a) bittersweet, n’est-ce pas on a blather scale for
(b) I’m hardly embarrassed, hardly concerned how the poet gets framed a tool of parataxis..
juxtaposition.. tinnitus ..
(z) still.. let’s skip a few layers, ready?

à mer...
Cri d’une patate de sofa!
Dans le cas de cette pomme de terre, même si on trouve des tranches de vos amis au cours de vos opus,
tout sans blague, je pense, c’est

(a) impressionnant! Le patineur est soi-disant sur une échelle pour « blather » ou des étoiles, peu importe ..
(b) mais lâchement moi-même, je ne suis presque gêné, je ne me soucie guère la façon dont le poète est formulée, est parlé de comme un outil pour juxtaposition, parataxe, tintement ..
(z) .. encore pourrions-nous sauter quelques couches, ainsi en quelques secondes ou pas, prêt ou pas, allons-nous patiner?
42: What do you need now and for what?
You may ask if I loved you.
Is that my 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 have to bolt.
Loving offense I excuse you both.
Tough being away but you’re crafty and atheist long enough, you know how we leverage missing you —

So a redraft: Transactional friendship is haphazard, and it’s a job (like sloganeering) and, more elevated, a craft (making a sign for consciousness to observe). You see, my job is to your craft as sport is to kicking down signs (ref. above).
There’s a wasteful component to our absorption of the earl of modernism as a colorist.

Nothing concentrates like rulings about Nordic weekends and a more palatable wardrobe. That’s if hit by what you feel in the a.m.

I believe in you. Evening you’re different.
You give me a musical temperature, a fine spray of marvels.
What are we fixing up? I’ve discovered squeezing brings up more meta-activity as superstitions based on fact —

Blasts of selecting fast, out of nowhere.. nowhere near here. Not even now.
A religion of dance sharpening endurance, risking focus..
Hermes masks, a precondition as two satyrid mayflies pop up, ones who advocate for peace. Their reputations recede but the fact of early apprehension holds sway before guns were worn.


Do I have a taste for disharmony and disproportionality? No, I elect to be ignorant.
I believe in undertones and the mimicking hidden force of gravity. You guys go ahead.

I’m going to walk away w/ Gil, that’s the best stunt.

You see, Gilbert Ryle asked (and in this version still asks), “might not every action or reaction be a piece of shamming?”
Yes or no, certainly. & all right
All attempts to throw your voice were patently dumb & of a special force,
Interventions & addictions too disproportionate
To the unknown risks. As one infringer you fail to mushroom,
Ignored. But our positions are hellbent when three or more
Discover wisdom on unaligned terms. So we need oversight.
15: It’s your last day of youth throwing trust out, sight and now telepathy — I’ll never feel his perfect arms around me again. Never feel the wet air on my skin, or wake up in his sap, his secret warm bed, I’m done, I don’t get a chance to influence, to comment, to try again for anything, not even for something I’m not. I can’t do any better than what I’ve changed for love of you.
What’s semiology? unless we’re in life to gnarl sparkle to figure it out? laboring for invention?
No futures present new phenomena — what older worlds once could say —
I have a tiny soft view of holding to their path, a core harmony of former days, purring yet put aside. (One chord after another.)
Poetry, jettisoned and as you wish, let there / not-there go, sky, river
will go, let people behave all the sharp, sudden ways Ute
speak, looking around, starting to rethink we’re
using our 1st language! Short iterations carry
such signs. Dreaming in bed deploys influences for output...
You can exit this field or not, burning at a muted
end then add features to nodules like in finer arts of epistemology.
Meanwhile, your eyes fill with unmeasured disassociation.
Your hair’s on the brink.


Song: In ‘open’ debate and without most staged lingo you learn to think for yourself fast, when you’re young, willful, if it’s in your nature to have people behaving as you ought; you start learning along these lines thinking in bed as BF Skinner must have

once a night. Doctor...
Well, our early faith promised us immortal lives, backup roles that made us teen idols, 
central characters in an improvisation we lost track of. 
I gradually began to buy things in no order, branched out a little finding a passion for saluting a nation that apprehends my experience as no one else.
83: Life with Mr Juice came up short — charm
-ing & familiar — unfair tenderness in a paper sack.
Hostess Wheel Clacker, bike spinner & fake license & plate.
A poet’s debt. I was mute then.
I found (or again I was speaking in silence)
your eyes are nagging me for more .. admit you miss modern poetry.
You miss the excess & first drag.

Have you read, praise & worth get their daily

Calories drinking coffee & smoking — sleeping to excess

They become bilingual.

Surplanted, Juice never saw it coming & I never wept again.
Therefore I’m barren, mute now, painting dumb.
Paul Ryan labels Conor Lamb pro life.

I’m captioning the fixed width to Now Pro “Token Austerity,
Sleep-laden, Eating Unnutritious Food.” Massive overuse,

you wore counterfeits and felt fake. I bet.
A few words on process: Counterfeiting
is luckier than needing everything before it’s rooted in or out.

No sweat. In this new version of Recently Used
English we delete any plagiarism still missing.
The Lord wait lists the design system.

Can’t be sure there’s larger yield.

Notebook open, wallet shut,

Occam never multiplied.

When irony-sincerity voted
Thomas Eliot, a flashy

Society writer, a modernist — that chintz got lost ...
Can you take a seriously argued philosophical position and call it poetry decor? Yes.
Like our sworn oath in a rustic wedding symphony:

Just before going thru with it, tho, we started looking at the shower gifts ..
The focal point is the entity with many focuses getting to foci.
Isn’t that a calling?


I’m refilming ways that seem hard to manage.

Let me hold us in the dark... It’s a future perfect thought

as your body keeps moving, clouds part. The lonely aerodrome rushes to litmus introspection, snug, sotted with the urge to fit nothing in.

That’s how being with you works asleep.
Your immaculate body becomes numbers and detached frequencies.
“Pronounce” it —

That’s good.
Now draw the strings. OK.
— what do you know!
goes off softly
So hard to shovel, soft to fall
White, rose, pale red —

A roving shadow feeling like
A thermometer — legends says,

Crossing fingers blood standing’s a fossil orange.
More feeler than hand,

It shakes the nombril ray,

A maneuver on high just dimming the drowned thumb,
A sculpture with a cup.
23: My agent is a penis. Imperfect
actor, shortcomings balloon in ‘harmony’ & w/ use.

— where my epistemology scampers in transparent secrecy
in such abundance I weaken w/ fiercer ideas to leverage your heart. Listen to my eyes.

My mien adheres to an expressive rule staying purposely
dull, entered into by going your way first, always. It’s always

clear refinement where character offers libation,
supports your tantrums from underneath. I can step right in.
Experiment 13: Touch television —

the mercury-brimmed scree

not substantial in its unexpectedness,

               a dangerous, frisky slither

across clear high terrain in a continuum —
tv retaliates against falling / falling out
in daytime, programming on a sheer precipice.
Experiment 12: Declutter, depersonalize,
let’s snorkel down. Terrific view.
I saw you on ghost tv from across a dance flotilla

moving your future hands

like tracks on time, no touching...

you be a woman I'll be a man.

The simple complex of entire atonement —

touch television — now proceeding normal ly —
Self-barter, a potential volt in a then-this-is-now domain...
Just praying.


Piano strings! precise and going no-


 floating up nervous laughter

.. an octopus taken no more than once a day.
Minutes after your work can be filed ..
‘work’ to ‘file.’
Or will we be going anywhere?

It seems like anywhere unless you knew where you were ..
Her midtown red hair, his gainsaying oomph, we’re cruising at altitudes of theorem. Quack probabilities dim until we restructure our credit history, nail it in clear plastic. Where does the political economy have us put it? His and her terrain — also yours and mine, since we’re all for one as subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy..
Let her go, let him do want he was elected to do..

Sorry, not tonight...
Who dealt this mess?

Lunar cycles are no analysis. The Sunbathing Council is countertherapy.

Love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing their ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering consensus and political distance. We’re all redistributionists, symbolically living to do it over. Politics is anger, useless bruising rhetoric. And capital is conceptually gross, always.
We cross the road tonight.. Join the revolution of the ex-well-off (at least ex-feeling it) slicing icons up for our very first media slumber & shower free for the asking for those visual enough to tell us about their recent postal experience.
You’re kissing me into the future, leaving
Circle-K muzak across the battered carapace..

Really, we get down to heaven
In that bucket? I can’t see the bridge

Nor the smoking outline that subdues us
For your birthday.
’Recursive perception‘
For your high time (and mine, too) I came straight from the agency hoisting a broad brush, this text’s agility welding the dirty space into which I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception and Action,” not in part ambiguously, in pastels.

Blizzard tomorrow.
Passion has its instigators, followers, onlookers. Which is which? How about going bonkers as an emergent lyrical property rather than following algorithms? What if, when a strange poem and appreciation of it turn up together, blanket antagonism and doubt about a future of poetry nosedive? Underscore a future, not the only one. As with any doubling of force everything seems to follow a silent samurai-like strategy: poem and commentary cohere wickedly, coolly, and it all seems thoroughly justified according to a new order.


Your kid sister
The invention of worship is over.
A wall of calm is put up.
“A week of such weather” an authentic first language and natural quests are forcibly asserted.

Cultural obligations shape who we are during a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance, given future attributes.


You’re exempted from outdoors, Mme Crocodile — I guess I’m wounded.
Mme is exempted from showing up to enchain, knife, subdue..
That’s before I reverse your captivity,

playing inside, giving away what we’re good at
— the struggle, never tears.
Reed replied fiber. I thought about it.

When I came in I shied away from giving out the room temperature. What the hell, I pledged you abstracts, a wholly hidden idiom of stagings and renderings, the creamy highlighting of passages and lucid systems out-of-focus, a lovely coffee table-sized read.

The cracks should be bridged with glass fiber.

“Absolutely,” Continuity Design Adjunct Reed repeated.
145: A fiend’s tongue taught me to greet then end each day with nothing woeful, nothing sweet —

Once I don’t hate you 
I find mercy to renew argument and make song.

For your sake, I hate hate.
I see chidingly day follows night...  your lips’ gentle breathing, a languished state yet explosive.

But today I saw your hand in my life ... a great doomed sound altered, flown away.. I’m totally saved, from heaven to hell, flown straight to your heart, Jezebel, never to hate, “not you.”
Outdoors a muted roll call was gathering under bright archways,
A hazard to paper aircraft taking off.

Um sure I guess.. Don’t know why we are in this automatic summation now or a few seconds from now after the transaction but before thinking about it, looking it over, with only a few elements incised to form solid bands reprieving vice versa.
Rationed compliments ensue secretly,
Honest accounting disappears like functions of context (text frame procedures) —
Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to amoral schemes
— Travel well.
My cohort flock to benefits. It’s in the evolution of avarice, loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer the opportunity. Looseness keeps younger bodies moving forward. And that goes for the sun shining with its belle-lettrist metamorphosis in the street, damning grown-ups.


A winning session for crude —
I left you off unleashed, extricated in time.
One says. You moved on impulsively. No,
You’re still in danger within all the same venues,
Pshaw, smooth talk hidden, never to disappear.
Like my brothers agog before a generic mime
You look transparent and pink and good at sports.. not that good.
These issues aside are not a specific program.

How can one I love reunite you.
(Hand-me-down color had risen to your cheeks.)

“I want us to be in use.” I was,
Having at such big, elusive ideas
calls for spectral imaging. I stared at the door. Oo...

Seconds later we were unsure where you and I ‘stood’ vis a vis
tastes charged, an invisible metal...
Ok an explosion directed five, six shots down my throat, you in back..
80: ...cross-pollination of English and psychology is providing a revitalizing lift. I’ll assume you suspect I faint when I write this. Empiricists use it and map it into the literature. When I write of you, I’m in worthless sympathy, humbled, made tongue tied while I try a couple of poses — ha — there are great, pure benefits spent by proud, broad-shouldered sailors afloat, grasping for governance, ocean wide! Wouldn’t you know they’re in an infinite series within the history of fame and gossip. (Or from another angle they are the series, wracked by history.) You who.
An awful virus.
Discourse as privilege dies.
Came from outer space; was well radicalized before it got here.

Freer speech in every direction — your known inclination
for walking strong will accelerate, wild yet tranquil,
ruthless in a sense, the boundless layers set in funereal trance
tweeting under the bust of the rhetor, a civil, democratic ideal.

But no one tweeting wants to get ‘under..an ideal.’ Freedom is personal

As we think like animals brushing up on ideas...
A great surmise centers on net worth while scorekeepers are holding data that prospect on appearances, look it up. Look up at square blocks with a pinch of stairs, nice stairs. Nice worth.
Everything we note here is integrated, also resonating up to a net where you can charge fees along any horizon that’s magnified until it’s askew.

I didn’t go there. Twice.
You’re too preppy to do anything more remarkable. You can’t take on Schubert who had blond thinning hair and wore rimless glasses. He looked
Russo-Siberian, no concupiscence nor comeuppance. Optometrists emanate this consensus, mistaking eye fluid for calm. Yup, a few drink it up.


My book is staring out the window, saved-up.
So, with regard to static and its ovoid, stasis
(in a compulsive battle over an ultimate smiley face)
— it’s not who grinned first that counts, but also where
and forever. That’s my middle point for the interim
realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”
“The float is radiant, jammed with radiant things,” had
Simon Schama anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I been
eloquent on the spot we’d need no caption.

What does there’s still a move to go do?
It’s just a feeling, the only unmoving part.”
121: A friend writes, assurance from dharma augments being & extends altercations to reproach non absence : I am & all men are not so bad not to be vile

we reckon against deadline and accelerate just pleasures, and ok —
my unfeeling mind has a point & I see it.
I think it good.
YOu defile my people once. Only once one hearts the sheeted deed 
that expresses our seeds in the mail ..  
solutions to low notes on drums .. & pity nowhere now w/ a forget it 
dark engendered power @ 1% Cavaradossi! 
We’ll misfile principals w/ others,  
snickering ones .. [Trained staff encourages sampling. 
Many of us walk to Central Square w/ thoughts
Of Marxist base alignments and bike gear.
Our peers make films and fast food.

Thinking like this I can’t tell anyone from anyone else except you.
(Thinking of democracy is in season.)
A head-on view looks toward emptiness by the book, embraces it —

In a gridded department or relation one understands this may be an error.


Depends — an authentic adult language first and best, including charades, dance,
Mores are raised —
Bullets and lists shape one critical phase, a significant influence, last,
A look back over who we are after we agree — not that I care.
50 years from now or so almost to the date
Rainer Fassbinder had an eye & a golden beak.
Predictive dialectic is not strong enough. I repeat,
His miming the berserk,

Mining homilies & off-color copy
Comprise exploration in Audubon-ship.

Does any bird genus follower know more than he...

Pardon me. Emergency! Excuse me. “...my
Kiss is not avian. It’s just atheist exuberance.”
I’m craziest when I cannot be saved. Who isn’t? Pre-existence does not pertain. Nonexistence is leftover, raw as theism.

No existent secrets of satire go free of situation and structured sky, complicities (like sex for ears).

The you-effects (more secrets) become less fearless (less and less) when innocence, dance then acrobatics cross lines and context. Codes of boundaries. Certain crossed lines score more; a hobby becomes colors of a sweet jones for you.
What comes of John Wieners’ marquetry?

A clay-toned jouissance returns to land 
shedding light tints in reverse of rotating surf.
Ya, he is important. His joy has free play while parody pays homage like an inky hairnet over his poverty, evoking retreat and nighttime, slurping the undertow from the beats.
You never wear a watch.
Frequent random time checks predict behavior.
(Innocence concerns pyrotechnics, not intent.)

Clinical data infuse ideology, organize perception bridged by high purpose...
We play along or sue the little ones. I’m going hence to take my outside voice... throw it

... over here I pledge you a hidden solution in lexical renderings, leftovers to
twist in hot leafy acreage ...

Pears and oak, null passages in fog. And come here / get out of here to prolong our appeal.
These are centers of wishing beyond closed doors.

All batteries are charged (that’s the feeling). I’m pouring molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with microfiber — I’m about to walk the spiral and more! Ladytron is carrying this note of irony back to my pals.


My kid sister muse had sung,
Everyone can take this personally,
including intemperate me.

A tree in the wind. A music to lips.
How is it lit?
Tall with liquid arms; tongued for a ride,
another hit and run.

They’re plants from one Homeric deity that lets us in.
That’s what led to church shifting

toward showdowns at the riverbed,
beauties of variable weights, Jesus, everyone that leads us on..
“We played with her cat and it fell asleep.”
Like crustaceans we cats cave to forgetfulness.
Blinds drawn, our under-scavenged opacity overflows as we are cats from the deep state, you might say, screening off our comic breeding.

Before that, looking far ahead was fantastic, a civilizing process added to diurnal space filling our eyes with unmeasured withdrawal.
96: This is weird. A focus group on the groom’s side picked us both, agreeing
w/ newer esteemed candidates, lower right, along w/ your lips moving
up and down like a lamb in wolf reports, more or less:

The other groom was led away in the vicinity of his fingers ...

Here’s the stumper.

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

We open our front door and see what the state’s strength translates to. The shortest path ignited by havoc, honest and exhausted gazers. And geezers. From it’s-not-the-same-now to the science of celebrating their betrayal. Sort of addictive.
And anthropology won.
Doggie style. God is mirrored information.
It’s looking like this is the rag century, after all; with a few beats,
we made mandalas to settle lawsuits over the last one. Then
I found you contesting the following.

“Gogol, Nikolay Gogol, with an M.A. in these matters, says gut feeling, sane
behavior and noncriminal discourse teeter on the grotesque.” I still can’t turn that
down. But can you mean only what his language means?

I looked you over and asked again.
It felt unwise.
A leaf pushed against a streetlight from the past,
We’re thinking you heard its once-failing poet
Who cradled the face sorrow brings to bed,
Someone who could listen to bluegrass and lose it.


I shouldn’t but I will. I’d like to sign up for a language freed from its instincts and nodules.
For I’m agnostic about anything important, Transzendenz und Wörtlich or shaded for that,
and my voice is flat coming to terms with memory, musical structure, being filmed in your
presence. Back to you.
Prayer: I can steel myself to make something up and call it mine...
Seems asinine, puzzling. Renascent:

I might also mean textually modern as respectable Eurocentrics undress for survival, avoiding careers, soaking up the city among savages of their own design.

I ’m my own boss.

May a zealous counterculture dart sweetly to life! May it help us solve you and me for X!
when we let them.

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

We are under arrest but you’ve lost nothing. You’re mine.
Ten to one, better parts of our ‘street’ rep show up in literature & data tracking. Faint Milano opera thru one speaker as a memorial.

When you have a chance to review, I think this is due you. Layers of my spirit are made yours & any remains have no life to leap to, no death, either — carried away then & still showing interest in what’s going down on this wretched yet contented earth, all it contains, even this line.
Once I was a Marxist, now I’m a Darwinian. 
To let cleverness exceed indecent levels  
we had a taxonomic relationship.  
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax.  
Some wind, just above freezing, the yard is puffy and disheveled.
Concision or hue in healing of method.. means
can be objective and lack bluegrass. A few mornings
music comes unveiled as aspiration.
It’s in the eye
..a catamaran of process.. this is while I’m doing only one thing
at a time on a crazed errand-stream to a bachelor of arts.

they’re off —

and since they are impacted by harrowed tomograms
50% off.

What happened, you look so radiant?


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

I'm winding into a reliance on hardworking pleasures, broccoli, dance
and rumbles, open plans, open lots,
and this most generalized, I guess,
burning, turning back.
This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a bumblebee clocked into epic life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity is a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over the heartthrob, not to be a Lebowski. 

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast  
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast  
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.
35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.

A scent of acacia, soft frangipani, but not a trespass.

You are a triumph.

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

Rose, grieve no more.. silver fountains, clouds and eclipses!

Good-bye everything.
— The world becoming flat and falling across 

The telling (of)  

(Instances of)  

Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic  

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

Rain ceilings (off)  

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

It is (falling) across  

Morton Feldman.
To a lark,
Like torsion in third-level calc,
your obliqueness shows up around access
to authority. It’s far off if you can’t say why.

Your prefixed, scavenged opacity
fills with sangfroid riches of dark matter,
cloaking them with lark pedigrees.
Dear Politico,

I promised you a ham for quilting bombast.
Now, the ham’s faction’s hatched..
Have yourself a good time. We’ll have you over when the rest of poli sci gets to better thinking, Aldous Huxley, say, augmented with a good bouquet, plus a full deck of historical raiment dealt to the underemployed in hyper décor (like object placement) decoding automation... (so they’re subject-objects as well as objects).

After that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous, for now, good talk! we’re fine, we’re down with “no real choice.”


Learning about how to learn can be neat (also fatuous) even if your power won’t
                               when we go away.
We have to trust you on these matters. One apiece.
It was incredible video, also fine.
Involuntary ideas of thin dots and stripes, that’s an opinion.
For Christ’s sake I saw you in documentaries.
I saw your name written on walls

— The deep state (at play), foam under rush-formatted steam
disappearing like figure / ground battalions,
your pretexts (w/ no sound) — more
appreciable fear a cappella —

There’s product on the loose, fine
faintly reeling into moaning

Solitary headline :
Fruitful, aggressive commend submissive.
Get off any inkling of your high horse, my good man. We are free — still — to say what they / we think, but their recipes, or ours, are hardly unadulterated, perfused with empathetic spices and accents from leftist modernism. 
And so to bed. You know, Napoleon slumbered through wish fulfillment. Nixon, Trump as well.  

Bedlam: the two century-old middle ground where we tend to live and continue playing on vulgar innuendoes to remain kind — we undress to force a smile, fully emancipating anti-heroes like us to feel obliged to receive ourselves, all of us, generously. 
I do my best and worst work north of you and still get picked on — now in a major way.
Business proceeds on spec — I stick in a little yoga. Then I run after you
thinking what a complete idiot. I am. My hair’s havoc, I’ll have it restructured.

The contextual self, yourself, is fascinating, perhaps to squelch a tautology of pleasure smelling of specs.
A horror film I hate turns a wall of calm over to science for good, then greed, forgiveness & clumps of renaissance & their round robin prototypes that sell the smear to the visual cortex.

The plot is motivated by small sums of justice. We’ve still not captured how justice is crammed with underdeveloped moral emotions & pillow talk, luxuries that bind, ushering in more non urgencies of a grueling yet quickened mind (composition) over entropy?


Under your influence I stay fallible, forgetting other players and divas
lining up on the broken mosaic — brave their hearts of nightie kerosene!
Silly rubbernecks.

We forget farewells. This isn’t the time for that.

A flood of calls offers newer relationships to ignite. It’s simple enough.
Nice, brushed off the immense highway.
A moth / its rule for flight is mostly uniform

Mostly a bolt out of cloth.
Never defined by dressage (practice)

Wind angles down, shaken nice.
It was nice
That changed a lot.

The questions are mostly the same,

Em, I’ve misplaced em.
138: I admit I’m old. 
I knew what I needed, feeling flattered you think me young!  
I knew which subtleties are made of truth or truth suppressed.  
Pre-December persists in others, even you..  
It’s known you lie, not to mention your subtleties, marketing  
pizzaz, “up and running”  
simple truth false-speaking seeming trust  
— even when there are lies you earn credits for love’s best habits 
sweetly, obviously culled..  
(...you know my days are past the best)  
Invitation only.
What about Lars?
We didn’t kill him.
                          — The Thing (2011)
Sonnet to hope:

Hoping nothing won’t happen, I cover my throat. Duly of course sounded. A few facts crowd around figures that are un-garbled when least derivative; ephemeral objective content triumphs. It’s kind of a snob racket. (C Bukowski)

We weren’t exiled or orphaned, we decided to pursue other interests. Plus, it started again, as theory, pleasure is to ethics as the roundup waiting in any landscape, waiting for mistakes (1) and (2) jounce.

Spontaneity backs up position vectors.

Woe is paralytic. I don’t detect a drop of broad mindedness toward any arched dynamic or versions of it — better when and how you love or even when you nibblingly slobber over a numbed one’s body of rare happiness, feeling better. Hope of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest Dionysian.
Dionysian = could pull off brocade, puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.
A life is charged by the menu.
Occasionally you eat asleep, given immunity. You can’t postpone it.


A few words on process: Counterfeiting
Is luckier than reading everything before it’s rooted in or out.

No sweat on attainment comes now, available in this new version of Recently Used English to wish you any and all the full pleasure I withheld. Damn!
I forget ephemerality, I forget narrative.
I’m drunk on the environment;
 I’m a working temp, a role promised Hermes that threw him over the cliff.

A perfect station plays Schubert for a kettle of heavenly fury,
searing, puffy, relaxed and succinct.

Angel, let’s run some #’s.
To pass out when we wake is ample.

I’m at your side placing puts
on the periodic table, petite in wanting you (I do).
I forget farewells.
75: Every time I visit you in your mascara I become lucid about the fear you strike. Day by day you are food for my life. I see the brilliant live again, sure enough, in vetted dormitories, fudging abasement with faster food and drugs. Sorry concentrates. There you are.

Pleasure and then the transportation of souls and their wealth have now taken place.
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 more off you, on you, on / off your sight...
pursuing peace, all or nothing, with you alone.
For a recap, I color within lines. Drink? I take my latte to bed
And set it on the stand, tagged and released.
You wailed it, Yosemite. Morose I am.. and optimistic.
We need a clearer message. There is nothing swift
in discretion. West winds in grasses previously made us sick.

The flower’s name is hooded.

I’m sorry there are blunt geometric forms —
more confusion of the spheres, signing in ...

but we trust you with these melodious issues.
Yes. It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember, and

Time’s up.
Hanging on contains the universe. Imagine the hurt.


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. They pill.

Yeah, that’s funny.

Take all of mine.
Time runs out, I’m tired of taxonomies
still unexplained as weather permits. Black
ops at certain altitudes, shot facts. I
or you and I feared pro-humanists w/ covert specialties
riding on the bus — just the tip...

I also squandered the.. ellipses that add up
and forgot I just stood there with nothing to give
Just call before you go.

de Staël turmoil, a title for the ‘rhetorical’ surface.
Text sections like omissions presorted.
In one omission, we’ll set up a non-profit addendum,
the equivalent of an education cafeteria menu.

Unknown to you, I’ll be chancellor of the swelling enterprise
dividing my feelings like vendettas.

We can remember when wisdom lay in de Staël turmoil, a title for the ‘rhetorical’ surface where middle-men / -women are loathed today. Owning our words makes everything user-phenomenal.

(Our addendum is in the mouth.)

The French Suites in the mean get lighter, immune to desire & intimacy in the grips of mistaken identity. (I’ll lead you to the border.) Just call before you go.
C.V.: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating raven yawns in fair use praxis, and there’s the old age hand hath put connection to an eyesore we could fix up, borrowing a face beauty slandered. Inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying nameless, profane, increasing inventory, keeping faith from their esteemed orientation, mining their richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday, they think: so many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs up they flare into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer!
I am a visual person.

Dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs as the wagon sways
with fellowship. Love in the future, a handshake spreads the rain,

flowers, rain,
(That’s it!

The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we
can walk off with. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our widows.

This is spring history.)
Meanwhile I go thru assembly to give in to take you out, shake you tamed,
Dart —


153: & so. I guess I’m ready, off

that ground by which I prove

1. Love my god heart inflaming new fire. Let’s call this disconnected yet wise

whilst it’s cool — well... a coincidence I went to golf school.
2. New fire this time, your eyes — no cure. Fire’s the beginning for men if
love is kindling in seething, lively heat.

3. My guard is up for a trial bath in your eyes.

You, your love heat water inside each word I borrow or find brand new, withal. All syllables steeping as in our ‘Cupid’ fountain of desire, inflaming you & me & others by our side also trainees in golf.
How to buddy up to collusion.
Like Dickens, we’re in public transport space, an elevator or hallway.
I’ve lived all my life down on the highway. I listen, I understand 
Mining empirical data has more value than the vaguest notion of a plot, many floors 
To overhear, appropriate then evoke conversational aggrieving — or if you want to get
Technical about it, the first day of winter in March.
We meet in this version north of the town offices

shaking tidal vapor thru no wait, no

fewer than ten seconds off the slopes

meaning above the steps coincided with the light

clipped to the powder base patching this thaw

— spirals discharged, wind heats the ground and trees open.