C.V.: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating fair use praxis. My focus is the hand hath put connection to a nearby eyesore we could fix up, borrowing an old face beauty once remanded. Inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying nameless, profane, increasing inventory, keeping focus on their esteemed orientation, mining their richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday, they think: further focus on infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs that flare up into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer.
Well, I knew m’lord was a prevaricating, bloodlust child — the writs of Rolfe d’Hampole had warned — unceasing sycophant, his incarnadine shadow spilt down dim stairwells to redden more, divagating before olive branches in nightfall, exhorter of few changes, hardly any.


To tyranny,
I was thinking of god, shoplift energy ..
Hold on, I was handed this bag of sentences.

And this is what I did not want to say.
As a big spender you don’t have to be interesting.
That doesn’t sound right.
Always repeat what appeals to you.

Acquire many dialects of feeling beautiful, more profitable than deep discounts.
And you need to review hedonism before it’s retouched out.

So I’m returned to the foreground of what is more
and more like great footage with a shore

in bad translation ecrus, stock blacks, pitched provisos
and scripts-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none.
There’s a benign debate — where brightness bore in, grateful prenuptials stampede out, 

Drawing bonds along dark zones of propaganda.  
And owing to your interest... this won’t constitute a holy day, merely an apostolic sacrament.  
Or only one of many noted by a crowd of flutists aft. 
My terms are to settle down through the evening as our proud examples 
Gain longterm advantage spreading the launch.

Our ceremony for being creaturely unmarried and staying that way.
70: I don’t blame you.
Alone in your ‘kingdom’ flying backwards. You’re facing the street, passing it... A science fiction flushed hollow, cankers and buds looking prime outdoors and you’re still passing, unstained by the ambush adhering neatly to nothing, just passing, yet with suspects’ approval ornamenting impurities of state. Heaven’s sweetest.

Who are they who envy? slandering, even wooed — and such charged discourse! Don’t hold it in. Talk to their doctors.
It’s all set here. The economy is fixed to move. 
I’m a meta physicist to an inner antecendant for whom marooning was neither scarce nor chic. Tempus fugit despite taking an interest in properties & stratagems bequeathing us  

sherbet, oomphy comforts & massive inflows of feel- 

ing great! These brands are shocking taken to far corners every day, above  

a once bowling facility, now airbandb-ing. Tried to.  
Thousands tumble.
Very good, Jack. We were going over some numbers, audience shares, I mean maxims, and...
I would like to voice concern about poetry / critique spiraling out of control...

Look, I’m filling out forms by the nightstand.
The point is I’m not writing anything “garbage-y.”


Don’t be silly, Jack. You are daytime poetry.
That’s cruel, Rabbi, very cruel.
“I’ve got to get back to the city.” Why bother, Buddha imitator? Reeves is guileless, a pious, ethereal hulk in a collapsing bug life. He sneaked his junk across the border just to release his frustration, verbally sneering at no place to go in a natural voice.


Nice beachfront but there are fewer nouns
and fewer bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little) —
it seems immaterial — immaterial, 1 of those 2-headed enigmas :

nothing much and — hey! another noun phrase.
An eerie self-eating metamorphosis.
Bands break up.

I lost the point of that vast line.
To define natural tears...

Payback’s hardly nice
...coming clean is a neat precipice in myth that won’t stand for practice —
not while the restive recover from plumb numbness —

we see beneath their flighty dignity...
blistered motion common as flicker tails (the angles) in light made identically hot and cold,

restive, made of the same emotional thinness getting home. That’s the super-definition :

Especially on the hunt.
Mere research reports what’s on your mind. 
Why not reflect it in text?  
You’re showing one lie can never be replaced by another  
It contains.
146: I’m talking to you in American. 
Christ went missing. No more dying then? Won’t lie, I watched us dream economics weeding fertile ground and painting over a radius, destabilizing temperament like itty worms eating up soul after soul. No lie. Body loss. Looters and rhombus-gatherers, all doing well respectively — great work for them, cuts straight through an apparatus restructure creating more chopping patterns to follow the predictions.   
The chips mount a background to soundtracks muting key words. Entire sectors of you and me feel it’s about time to leave history alone, so short a lease, epic sums on slender gloss in silence. The walkway and manly instrumentation   
are redone for full combat. Let’s remember in passing notes of hyper-literal churning depth. (It might be feminists like us are on and off genome probation.)     
Is this decision theory now? Don’t know. Hard to lie. 
Often my partner exists in a fortress, deliberately passive-aggressive like any fool.
I’m kidding. Even alone.  

In our farewell, as I see it, our descendants build a museum to spy  
us & others. They look great — stomping out corners. That’s their 

moonlight, indispensable today for smearing glows  

down walls that follow a trajectory
aimed at each atom of both of us in maroon cords.
1 enclosure without a pulpit, no dogma...
outdoor passages to enter then exit self sponsorship
spreading out in willful overloads of language design —

Skilled decor, de-simplified, or notional contracts
between science and who knew?
Ironic technologies without precedent —
A corporate hold across manners and adaptations, restrained praxis
and hermetic syntax, all noun phrases.


Tattoos first, second, his hair.

The plot leaves the door to irresolution ajar —

Guess what, the grabber is un-bolted down in segments like a rattle
spinning to take effect. It adds an all night ring to our narrative, id est,
the needle breathing hard, leaving the hole
open to irresolution,
to set up availabilities for picking up the dissolved thread.
Here’s one’s take on getting back together. It’s one part
to tensive healing (a method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow)
& aspected by hedges, almost. To go on shifting subjects
— I whisper to you, falling myself for revovery —
panicked a zillion light seconds too soon — too late thinking literally
in compliance w/ odds off bets already placed... wherein
chants, conflicts w/ breakfast & rubbery clouds, a proverbial laugh:

Nobody totally killed it. The bonuses were un-reneged-on.
It’s not large irony tho the freehold repaired to comes only in the ‘thereabouts’ pattern...
Psalm make me sorry with the music. 
Nothing is unimportant. Neither the bray of birds nor their sweet after play. Send for Fr Pierre.  
He lives in harm’s way. Sit on his face. “A pure transit of showdowns.”
13: Father, son, you’re looking up big-eyed instincts? Instincts:
to get out of the valise, dear. My love. We pirated the code.

I can’t say we pushed them out willingly (nurture, nature, frantic relaxation in stormy gusts).
The fit is good to hold.
I noticed you work away from me to hold your poise, make it smoke
against the coming end. Prepare for yourself.

Against my love, your semblances had no results. Click or call.
Criticism “must take a wider horizon of use.” But my notes are lost, colonized with off-rhymes; my lexicon of rhetorical “skirts” wrapped around a few “legs.” 
Between a minimum and maximum 
Buddha retires in expired turmoil. His daybed is in the new office with murals of doves going out. His critique has no name; it’s all about listening.
Who ism?
Who is Meghan?
You don’t deserve to be left out.
We need to get you into a smile.
Father’s Day for the dead? hold on
I’ll put you
on greenish “pallor enhancer.”

Granddads breathing around us, sweating under a river of supportive skin
that flows on,
waking up for compliments ...
What’s your problem?

I’m too ugly it’s true..

No counterarguments.

(When I can’t
sleep I can’t

A politician, claimant of the photogenic vitamin to stop the bleeding,
is not much of a sentence, lacking meaning, more useful settling in mere syntax
as warm-to-medium as a visual partnership queued up imitating /
replicating Dionysius for the evening drive, before severing the vines.


Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises.
Never enough zest or sprouts. Propose a dozen synonyms.
Time runs out. Taxonomies
still unexplained as weather permits. Black
ops at certain altitudes, these are the hot facts; I’ve
or we feared anti-humanists w/ covert specialties
at the tip — just the tip;

I also squandered ellipses that add up
to my mostly forgetting I stood there with nothing to give
’Recursive perception‘ — 
For your birthday (bleak as mine, too, fixing drinks) I came straight from the agency, this text’s agility welded to the dirty platform on which I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception and Inaction,” which seemed all I wanted to think of, ambiguously. 

It was everything. All pre-happened and decided.
63: Hours..drain..blood. And something came up.

As I am now, Max Planck fellows were running off with radical research incentives for a frontier in unboundedness: Youthful treasures travel in crushing, tethered particle immolation vanished in time. And something came up.

For such time I fortify your love against life-draining injury, confounding time’s cruelty, fed from your memory. With little or no motive, the sky foregrounds our process style, never cutting, and stealing us all away always.
Poetics process stuff. Ketchupy
The coast is never clear, fat boy...   
A whole new side to nuts & lightening bolts, narrow & hollow in the center,  
along with holding on 100% — inflatable as you lay back in a blank whisper,  
clearly in the nick of it, spoiling the fun.
A breach of manners can be a sentence. Or a fragment. There is urgency in ideas.

I live in an echo of a country.

In the interim we reached many arrangements.
E.g. sex would be redubbed genetic sleep deprivation.

I’ll admit this seems crazy as softly the sun

marshals over the property.

I should break my leasehold, ergo.
Not really, she said out 
loud, ahead of how I was supposed to know.

This was the first time.
Longhand example:

Anguish over a panel about reasoning and not writing anything down, angst in its emptied refraction dancing on a taillight for syntactical beings (in a sentence) on a muddy sidewalk.
So that’s one.



The ‘universal’ that’s so uncontained and biomorphic and obvious in Joan Miró is less so

here — here in 21st century America. (I’m just making excuses.)

Our emblem today is design resolution to be decorative

— unless you already live there, take shore roads in bad translation
blues, stock blacks pitched toward numbers-to-be, numbers found in a conceptual style atlas, contradicting formal transport to an ageless place we had in mind.
Flynne drops his device. He looks into the Escalade that will take him beyond and on. By now keeping close to Flynne is challenging but I have practiced warrior politics a bit. That’s a fact, just as crews of outlaws and as we hoped heroes are arbitrarily broken up by the parking arcade and doorways where a government like ours gets re-established.
Sonnet 40:

When you read this, my injury appears prior to who prompts it.
Not you.

We were informed of your deceit in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with new features and a few we move in any direction.
Not you.

Take all my loves, love. You steal from me and vice versa since all of us is in use.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom
interest me only so far. More curious is why we approach English language poetry primarily in terms of understanding it.

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.
Not you.
Aw, come on, try an exercise in subject-mood agreement.
Then Alexander (...great tone) went over blabbing to his dark lady, oh, ’I’ll bet a thou or 2 we can blow the empire in modern English.’

Sob being happy in English I’m not Alexander. Can’t add much. The ache of early summer is palpable, and night is falling as snorts of derision dampen my naïve representation of democracy.
Romance forward: service details.

I’m thinking of an awkward color.
The masked ballroom look — glowing
& tiled back & forth mistily
Across immense miasma.
Half of it waxing along with the bride
Adorned in varietal circumstance.
Identity theft occurred when the sky was an idea
Of seeming permanent as a child
Utterly absorbed by stars.
Step Five (ok, I hardly get to do this one): I start nodding off admiring invisible gamma material at some teeny level of stochastic persistence. Waves go away. I can imagine a spontaneous disintegration of all of them until I find myself in a place like here, only a ‘half-life’ where speech is still material.


Can we construct the weather to circle bright light credited to seven chimeras in a purified labyrinth?
Yes, I think we can. Those seven now under the weather quiver to sleep, resembling one another trembling.

Pine assembled.
Death, I still haven’t figured out why I’m restricted to a life without suffering
That can’t exist.
From here it all seems a miracle;

It’s good we are now separated.

Misshapen rain drops prepare motives for fog storms — more rain —

gracious and fresh bodies of work, their work, fill

the globe’s air too thickly (black and thick in spades then as thick racing hearts).
We can see the excess atmosphere conning our brains —
because our shared secret has great importance —

... here’s where I lost you. (Tho ever since

everyone recognizes the secret, the secret who one is, always at it.)
You now me. Clouds yellow venturing far at night

— a mutual mist from moods drifting around in the distance, like wee dust balls.
48: One only care, a trifle..

Save where you aren’t / tho I feel you are. Careful..

Tho a treasure you are left prey
Of tomorrow’s falsehoods before the fun starts.
But our thrust all for it, both arms.
I feel you over my chest, my dearest care, you and I playing a best-of-vulgar, thievish
Long shot in a pleasure ritual for the true prize outlasting how we come and part.
You were good to give us storylines, battle scars, vanity, thrills, sky 
dogs, paint & sloppy intercourse under conditions that surround our desire 
calming down time for loving you.
Yes or no in tokens, symbols and their prototypes. Yes or no signs. Yes or no to feuds, grim ball-bearings. Forget but never forget the asseverator’s vulnerability. And yes or no rodent names. No yet also yes to poems scoping life as a masterpiece, addressing a doormat standing an inch off the casing, fourth-up past the itch out of somewhere but nothing like every itch up your sleeve. Yes or no tempo of glyphic turmoil grounded into dotage and torpid incision in not one vowel or all 80 of them — 800 tones, yes or no prophase for pensive description. No to yes there’s insatiable shine.
Just saying
Spontaneity backs up position vectors.

Woe is paralytic.


(The lord’s will tilting my ribs reflected aphids gathering on a wall, also unanswerably, in the hand. Whose hand? Those were my sentiments. The last ones. I’m pretty sure. If I weren’t sure I’d take it back.)
Doomsday Door A or B? Let’s start with an idea that makes us think differently about its components. If you or I have an idea to process a text or, broader, an artifact of value — a central concern subject to critical and conceptual analysis is, how does the processed result change thinking about the process? In other words, does the artifact generate inquiry into both (a) the who, how, when, why it came about and (b) the utility of its replication or adaptation into future results?
Sonnet 61:
Simple enough picking up a pen . . . land and those living on it have data functions, similarly I see you

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

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

metaphors and substitutions, one at a time — less formal, so near home it’s taking dictation, taking after your love of my love of you.
“...all men suffer:”
& what of? 
I’m like everyone else who grew up refusing novels, a nutshell of a wonk
glaring, boasting bragging rights over inexact outcomes, crayon-ing onto smiley,
boundless love non-judgmentally! Silently indicative! 
& of course I too did time w/ “live people...”
I don’t know that much about you [hi.. ] but you remind me of someone
Who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far off, quelling torture.
Half a day goes by and

You are [hi..] unattainable,
Hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.

Pull over, [hiccup] this is serious.
Soft fear and despair, the flip side to formalism ...
There is slender lovemaking on square obstacles. To stop tremors, rouged slippers are warmed like leftovers, something a lapdog repairs with, to a separate bungalow. The commissary is situated down in sub-chambers, getting there aimlessly onerous. What will they spell for lunch today?


I’m a little I guess confused

I thought you might understand I mean

I'm surprised, do you know

what I'm saying? I guess so

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

Is this bluff for real? one asked with good reason
before the ice scissored out the upper grades.
Here’s my favorite. 
Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection and uprising. Here, the audience rises.  
(That is, artisans among the audience rise, impetuous (hex 46, top line), some from costive stock, unflappably happy, even brusque.)  

Somewhere I float in. I’m late for the prom fitting, weeping inside. Funny place  
for a dance, Mr Baker.
67: Smarts don’t matter. You had a wealth of smarts. Advantage achieved?
I’m laying myself off. Shall I? (Not that I’m smart.) I’m imitating an exchequer, an evolutionist of avarice — loose ends everywhere giving wind an upright advantage and inflection point — long since moot — wherefore roses in shadow seem false, laced to society. For this is where wind and other loosenesses keep only youth on the gain side, impious beauty and true presence forward.

And that goes for the lively sun shining with its indirect blush-to-blood on the street, bankrupting grownups.
Then it happens. A man’s voice, handsome, calm, also nervous ab structure.  Protecting a man’s dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that
Bathing — ‘worth the trouble’ — called out in a tremblor voice to men aroused like children  
blurring the terrain,  
stenciling closure. He shouts,  
‘Can we search for reason in nature’s chaos... ' 
No one writes like this, pulsating — it’s wonderful.   
A near miracle.
How to hitchhike. I come across an organizing principle and pulling the trigger, replacing subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: there are structure, acquisition, use, media — no eros in no ideas.

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

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

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

We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown,
The great We of fish, that's what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.
The hollow inside is mixed up, the survey said

overlapping symbols’re happening way out in the ocean.

Your ocean. Your flamenco in transition.
Our faith and consequences.


Once your public is mounted you can add your own awesome content!
Your first lover.

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

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

That’s the gist.
Role switch. I’m editing you a poem.
I’m not unversed in universal postcard theory. I hear it’s packed with shrill ideology, multivalent intelligence, ultra-experimental conversation. But postcards, man, they feel good as marginal surprises.

I’m writing where the living talk to the dead, like the hushed ones in mysticism boasting of their willingness to reach compromise.
You’re going to fall, fern.
We have empty form in grizzled perpetuity and a hip cast 
— super angels strumming harps for a full encore of Zeus Arrhenothelus  
Bringing up larger drama for the stretch and preen in uncanny vigilance —   
Fall back, breathe out while other cast members get authenticated —  
Casually removed or   
Restored at a slight remove since we are implanted with manifold waves  
From darkness as most 3rd-dimensionalists will tell you, like most vacuum ..
69: Kind eyes are in deeds,
sang an inward voice (of souls).

Thus measured thoughts uttered in tongues more confounded
watching you bathe parts of you the world views
in the same image-cluster now crowned in tawny daybreak.

See-thru flowers and hues your body accents seraphic white, others sang (seeing farther). Wanting nothing, although

bare truth, we are of two hearts. They can mend.

Two more loiter over the beauty of your mind.

Looking on, both smile, neither laugh. They’re extending their blood-pull orbit toward Pan?

For you, that’s outward praise.
Rough framework: A giddy notation to a story.
Visuals like tenured blurs formally at odds,
split seconds in a bigger, frank understanding with no data.
A bog of cloudburst capsizes, disabused of clouds,

blending in, no longer exterior to land

untrusted and abstract, a heavy rain

snapping into randomness.
Everyone needs a secret life.
I got the idea from going to church.
Am not believing this.


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 raw shoot from every progressive angle.

I'm winding into a reliance on hardworking pleasures, broccoli, incense
and venue rumbles, open plans, open lots,
and this most generalized, I guess,
burning, turning up.
Methods for substitution include straightforward word shifts within text that is otherwise not disruptive — intra-textual cuts and pastes, say — as well as extra-textual processing of found passages, more often now digital copy and hybrid processing from search algorithms, remixed with other types of found or authored material.

To employ terms like ‘authored’ or ‘intra-textual’ is to risk not paying enough attention to the bigger point that cut-and-paste pastiche has evolved into a vernacular strategy for disruption, including wrenching formal droplets from their generic management.
Poetics of the last decade or so continues to foul up methods and standards. A direction that looks facile and promising is genre-swapping, appropriating and incorporating whole chunks of alternative discourse within plain speech (scanning other people’s suffering, one readymade example).

Panicked, we stood and talked it over until, with Trump-ish aplomb, his stand-in lifted the tarp and showed it to us.
Extortion mirrors bribery. The mirror puts itself out there.
‘See, I am everything I usually ignore.’
89: In relation to conflicts over scale, Habermas and I want to inspect what you and others say.
Truly offensive. Forgetting what we both add has nothing to do with current biases of mine. Like so many others, I’m fixated on warcraft, loss of democratic principles and governance procedures —

procedures again, only this time writ profanely large. The writ carries a stark reference to the last liberal prime number among us, John Rawls, but how wrong, inarticulate and superficially sweet to use him this way. I’ll disgrace myself if you don’t tell me to change.

And speaking of lameness, I’m conflicted about criteria for justice, I have questions how these may apply to our acquaintance and your stranglehold now ...
Sonnet 100:

Muse. You.
We have tangibility subtracting song
— work converted to worthless argument
with little or no honor.

But it adds up. The numbers spoil everywhere — times
we don’t have to see you
we get the job done. We’re faster than time.

We forget that’s why singing actuaries went
unmoored. Their affection is idly vicarious here. Vicarious isn’t crooked enough. Fame, skill have long
redeemed our fury over what accounts spent.
The survey speaks of love only in numbers,
a despised waste of life, if any, as satire.
Treatment: This is tomorrow before the cart.
The vapor’s portrait all for it, both arms..
You’re welcome, Mr Speaker.
You and I constitute the unmarried Non-Group playing along, a wild shot
in a ritual to outlast how nice that would be.


A new problem set:
Work through naïve discourse —

Keep methods observable as everyday mayhem —
Call this ‘transactional’ taking action
Unlocking — on sight — your pervasive hesitation.

Make it personal then dorky. Work on your arms.
Without counsel, full consent is a slog mating a slow burn.
You trust yourself by age 600 satisfied
Euclidean space holds the blueprints to make your home efficient.

That was before you were reborn or uninvented.

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

Formalities documented in the eye, so fine counter-stretched, kept on balance / in suspense —
All my teachers are dead.
I’m still looking.
82: Sing:

I swear..

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

Adorno says strained rhetoric is fair game starting over (in the middle) but true words have always been devised.
And therefore there’s no foundering beneath the social parasail of violence. Plain speech commits us, forces us.

And do so, love. You are as fair in knowledge as in hue.

Devised in love, that’s the plain worst case, and here we are — let me give you a hand.
to Advisor Bolton
One thinks one loves you all-purpose, all calm, never resolved, 
Because you’re only one resource, one swab   
In a climate of drumming opinions and best practices —  
Then driving rain and surging seas, heinous Persia  
Long overdue, you said, any day. A refreshing reminder.  
My sympathies.
Is that how you see yourself?

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

                                waiting to come up
half in sleep,
steadfast in geometry to grant the horizon horizons, the whole body.
A life is charged by voodoo graphics. Once you sleep, you take up the ‘thereabouts’ pattern: still, it’s not overrated, I whisper to you, falling for reincarnation roughing it ..oh, wait, déja vu..


I chose my ode and it’s a strange wacky ditty to summer, just getting to you. As marriages go it was not all bad. I owe my bros (not you) an apology. It was just an exchange. Excuse me.

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

The last nonpoem eases the dress code, a bolo tie display on 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. And shatters.
The taking of whatever works to swat the hand that feeds them,

Sharpening endurance,
Risking focus.
In our heart of hearts, lord, we’re wading out to meta-trigonometries ..  
I’m wanting respect, witness to a natural moon shining  
its belle-lettrist metamorphoses, moving sweet points  
over the slip, damning loose ends even with fairer aspects, so great a duty  
but giving wind sheer every opportunity  
.. to let us go. On.  
Up. Now. 
Prove me yours.
81: I forget so much memory is powered by mistakes = my gentle verse.
Versus I forget umbrage derives from distortion = from a common grave

Fond pleas, fractured time, your and my memories, our deaths and morbidity — all survive.

For in men’s mouths death lives in thoughts of dying,

Thoughts still read aloud by tongues also rehearsing life with the dead. Haven’t I

Lived to breathe your epitaph? Shall I lie?
I’ll assume you suspected I know you know. It’s in the literature.
I feel bad about blight on leaves,
I hear their effort but there is no god.
Hell is too big to fail.


What a night! No problem
I slurp eating what’s reflected in your mind.    
Milk white saucers containing light — ergo
The dreamboat approach never grows stale.
You just don’t patent it.
Paradoxical tissue is still not perfect, living unlocked, but scrunched for breakfast.
It dawns on us I am covered with joy reform. That’s why I went for consensus over
the tractor-red flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions!
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole ironic sector before repro-ed onward

offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.
Modulating the self comprises an apotheosis 
according to types of daring.    

Don’t smolder, show us.
91: Who owns property, names, anything under formalism? Boasting of birth,
of skill, we grew up 20th century, 100 years before joy in wealth
felt better in one general way, adjunct research suggests

now of hawks or hounds, of all men’s pride. Your love tho is better than dreams of pleasures

that don’t exist — here we go — your love goes higher in value.

Love’s body force richer, prouder, always on top —
The better having you, finding our joy above the rest.
After the decline of the XIXth century, there were little insurrections 
The state held sway, even on the 2nd floor near coatcheck.  
Eminent domain: Paranoia engaged us then passed out.  
Young & ugly you & you were next. Clouds dumped into drinks  
Not to arouse the unknown or undue, your well-being was my concern.  
Few invitations. I won’t forget. In, out, very well. Plato in French. 

To resolve a domain, auto-explicability emerges.
& that does it for this hour. New world seasonal circumstances had  
Postponed further equity & because of you =  
No end to inquirers laughing thru-out. Keep them waiting.
Keep to an order to begin —
Is it the broad-armed approach you took

Erasing most of marketing, any

Specificity that seemed normal?

Looking at the pebbles and snails
And tiny shrimp-like creatures..


Wok breakfast, man, a chef
Standing off across

Your whole food outlook!
Compression is particulate and coarse-grained. But —
It remains
Both our voices have to grow

Until I know you from a prior life or loss.

Hot sun, cool air, and no clothes.

Loss of pain penetrating like moral gelatin
That pressures, punctures social tyranny

Generation service portion. p 00, bad line breaks, no indents; p 00 bad spacing for stanzas. When a poem goes to 2nd page, the 1st line begins at the point where text begins after the title — that is, 2nd page text is formatted as tho there were an invisible title above it..


Low mountains stew out back under the sun in blistering speed.
Front and back: Ants climb blades of grass, over and over, seemingly without purpose.
L.A. has always been a wide-open town that devours its athletes.
Astronomers from a famous university have nothing to give back. The known entity we reference as perpetual as well as outer space is erratically arced with self-erased trapezoids and dull oblongs scratched over with olfactory précis: Cosmos unexplained, fingers crossed.
Given our double indemnity, our unfulfilled categories sit atop broken mosaic atmospheres, molecules pounding from overtime. Fast above the lush, appointed blur.
Damn, dancing, can’t move you too tense, when your children  
left we had chipmunk.. too mild. 
Next to nothing, and a crossbill I said 
went berserk, wet everywhere.   
The chandeliers giggle a little. 
Long shadows of slurs.
We were used by demolition pros,
sliced, etc. Oh
You were fantastic, metallically shaded,
an arms race in refuge.

This is the bridge.
Have you been?

Tasted great.
And after

Lilacs with mesh
without a searchlight to blemish
the vapor

Polarized as boats
keel and cover rubber planks
across their reflection,
an essence of flame pink
and orange.
32: You’re reserved outdoors, Psyche, for his love
Exempts us from showing up to enchain, knife, subdue.. 
That’s before reaching heights with happier men.
Satie playing, giving away what we’re good at 
— gosh! I read a generation in tears warmed up in bettering concessions, 
A class struggle thinking it’s for real. 

The struggle, not the tears. 
O tranquility, your presence
symbolizes conquest that feels great.

You hate closed doors but like
to close them.

Conquest in your wake gathers late,
You laugh and put me in your head.

You imitate the inflection
rather than the sound of local slippery

conditions. Your victims cohere intermittently
as victims
Of deceptive simplicity
within love’s presence as well as the weather, the weather man.
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.


It sucks less.
(Reflected aphids
gathering on a wall, also unanswerably,
in the hand. Whose hand? Those were
my sentiments. The last ones.
I’m pretty sure.
If I weren’t sure I’d take it back.)
I hate being made fun of.
In the interim I’ve written jokes,
All natural as clouds part — over 1000 —
The aerodrome softly moans .. it could be roars of laughter in introspection

slotted for long silent scream divisions
— raising our heads front and center.

Heads up = you’re paying attention to adapted preferences, opposite Proustian project boards.
And owing to your interest... this won’t ever constitute a date.
When shopping from your texts I find solid proof 
Showing stunning results for innuendo: You’re good. Doing this, I offered. Just 
Report to duration centers for the rich for best pricing, unless  
Outright theft looks better. Go. Fees balanced. Eject.  
Then you told me repetitive purloining motion went much further —  
Making money w/out reason is mass   
-ive. After.. surely if that’s the mood, there are vector  
Utilities for expressing amassed wealth after dark..   
Sleep has no idea of here and now when ordering everything is the right answer
.. all on your check!
Sonnet 38:
Damn, can’t complain, when my muse
left we had a subject..

Next to nothing, also a white winged crossbill
went berserk — notes on wet bubbles — of curious worth.

To invent takes in here and now
— who’s so dumb when everything is the right answer —

You yourself once came up with this argument
— breathing now you pour into my verse!

And you give invention light outliving you and me
rehearsing, calling on you, bringing thanks to you.
Sitting down delivers the good news, stateliness while steering already had its faint say. Now we can text and ‘drive’ over time and zeta functions mowing down hedgerows like highway dividers along an infinite axis.
Dawn. I thought I wouldn’t get back to sleep.

I was going to call you “Draped Profile.”
Held from both sides.
Distinguished in feel. “Pronounce it.”
That’s good.
Now draw the strings. Ok
— what do you know!

It goes off the air base,
Hard to shovel, soft to fall
White, blue, pale
— lavish as

Intoxicating creatures but
Uncertain how they unite us in separation
No matter how we change in love.
Anima to Anima, you couldn’t be ruder.


How can I neck with you warming
up tomtom heartbeats, migrating
to youthful boundaries by hand
to hand in a laughing manner?

Trick question.
That’s how comedy for squares works.
If it’s a question today,
Tomorrow, what’s the transition?

A man in drag wearing gowns I tie.
Your cool red bones,

A cold star, partly the wind,
Your superb gall
And me, I’m feelings which move in time
While this lowest button erases..

There they go
When you say

Well stay well
Where they rang.
We already have what we ask for. 
Vainly but not fast in never induce italics:  
We gave at the Office.  
We gave it up.  

This is hardly ever for the 1st time,  
disappearing in molecules like context, just molecules ago.
132: I’d like to bend rules for a stretch to wipe within a finger painting
where we get dressed soberly for the sky out west —
It’s so cold here. A place for mourning w/ subdued hearts, rare
minerals that look like tree colors we paint back east.

Your eyes I love, and they usher us
where stars are filled with your grace to torment me more —
more than half the sun, than half the glory of heaven
as those eyes become your face.
The tallest paintings remeasure your height.  
Painting ideas.  

You had heard accelerated pilgrims eat paintings stretched onto canvases of different sizes, gloomy jigsaws, severed threats, sticky placards in paint that’s waste emaciated into planes of junk and prosaic emptiness. This rural road. 
Painting double quotes.
Tonal jumps signify charity in a literary
float off.. .

modulating one’s ego, raising stakes
according to odds makers for daring.

Don’t smolder, show us
your simple skill.

This is god’s country.
I don’t know why it’s not winning.
I am of two minds husbanded into a common marriage.


Have a Bud.
I treat our sect thermos as a norm for trade
finding order in play divisions and muscle octads
glinting with swapping.

(Party is just one axis.)
I’m not afraid of showing the much simpler, formless inexact I wave and dissipate into highly animate raw munition. My hands are supposed to cohere in what I cull from hearsay. Raising one hand exudes only passion, which if you allow I agree with, with intertwined wilderness raising two, but a misdeal.
One assumption is tomorrow’s flight will be an extension of how it’s going now. A disclaimer in Chinese contains characters that aren’t pronounced 
Or displayed. It says you have an upgrade but there aren’t any.
Broken, giddy up, dead.
Today I face thunder. How to pay homage...
Page 10 concluded some orthodontic advice.
My instinct when asked is to inch back
To the moody raw nation where these talks and notes
Jettison their own use. No half-soothing word
On top various uninvented heights,
No heights outward
Of looking into what we broke —

The soul is a hypothesis, a sweet flying
Fish out of water wind-surfing over interstates
To destroy itself.

We begged it to go faster and keep at it,
Stick with a sublime subject or object, rally
For more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can slap it perhaps you should.
A few minutes ago there were bright blue shadows.
The quartet’s on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part scribble / disassociation.
I can hear Johnny shoveling the drive
like a voiceover to operate microspores humanely,
stacking ideas of alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.
Heavy pollen, nothing! I should add I’m writing on borrowed-spores.
Making up a to do list! blinded by periodic breakthroughs,
A pragmatics circumvents the will —
The focus is on nothing we won’t do.
Sweetest of the geeks take their lessons to heart and join a special breed apart. Hoody, fucked-up demeanor and default dalliance with convention will get us to our destinations faster and more pumped. Something about / the “human couplet” / keeps me over and under. It’s a military formula, zennish almost, common enough striving to write as well as to rock.


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

signals liberate you to oppose other facts,” you wrote.
Or plans change.
Chinese chill is tossed thru the window, surf rotates
about-face like a mercurial tidal pool

filling sand and dusk with water wheels nearly at rest
as lurches of nibbling torque days into weeks..
Here’s how I hitchhike. I pull on my gloves and come across an organizing principle for pulling a trigger or 2, replacing subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: structure, acquisition, mis-use, peasant media — no Eros except in ideas, room for the best but never the pure. 

3, One who hitches has no right to speak other than excellently. Self-conflict and compromise keep coming up as rich bases for ironic pleasure and symphonic failure. If that’s allowed.  

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

We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown,  

The great We of fish, that’s what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.
Matters of faith:
Mind and body worship is vicarious before conforming to system leaks.
I’m too ugly to be molested. It’s true.

I kissed a cat. Once.

Once out of what? out of dying belief
I wrote on otherness when down (“I’ve stopped looking”) otherness came.

A sober-garish run on sentence
Lay before my head cold rumbling..

My body in the language of dunes and trash
— soba colors with melons and blues.

I’m sorry for shoddy reasoning and growth. Sorry as pieces

Of aqua and orange foam and glass.

Even more I like meeting mates’ life-changing kisses —
Kisses like odes on progress.
Hoarse for weeks.
Lots of us are gifts
and land across our example
while we watch the wind taken
that the waves under you lift
Tho see-thru as doves
which today are nothing more,
swept with a visual certainty
no matter how we change in love.
A few minutes ago there were bright blue shadows.
The quartet’s on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part scribble / disassociation.
I can hear Johnny shoveling the drive
like a voiceover to operate microspores humanely,
stacking ideas of alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.
Without speech sex is peroration.
That’s a normal reduction or formula for my song,
So few words on process.


... the rookie burns on the outside, his only credits were adamance /
to squelch any dramaturgy from theology, wealth or actionable conditions, missing how far you are beaten into their projections.
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 operate on one another.
Sonnet 150:

Power to the powerful. A truism like this reminds me of a simple turn of the ignition, not a big deal.. A journey over a pathless scrubland back at that bind when you and many were read by the last data beyond the (evolutionary) point. All in an identical manner, everyone getting one message while sugar consumption skyrockets and textless news advances in choppy ‘prose.’
Would you like to ask questions or can it diagram its strength of skill?
The message refused to come here directly deducing another head scene to make me love you like the first time. That’s in my mind ever since love’s regimen bulked up, competing for powerful excess, powerful perspective in every word mentioned or about to be, with all syllables performing as one compass spin between you and others trained in our elite language packing questions, giving no cause of hate. Who or what taught you to make me love you more?
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 smell of bullet points, no pine. So there’s nothing to resent.

How does it resume?
This original copy has been duplicated.
The rest is history, throwing leaflets.