Like nowhere else in one place, 
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable 
— a stream of gasses embossing / conjoining an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brays. 
If there were a don’t fuck it over manifesto it would be 
Why make so much of leftist political origin.  
Start for free. Let’s call this the time left.. the end of the beginning.  
The front gate won’t front. “I’ve always been afraid.”  
How do parallels on another plane threaten a referent? Which fed drug is best?  
Med visuals today are overproduced.  
Spot the dog.. or now his surrogate intruding a moment before he’s emptied of political content. 

Intrusions entail teamwork, coincidentally.
0) nothing horrible, no smudge at all, just horrible 
1) both perceptions of opposites are leveraged simultaneously  
2) meaning not only one and more original than none  
3) causing internal illogic along w/  
4) passing out on an ash chaise to bring you back to your senses, shouting  
5) I love your idea and I repent only to appease you  
6) as adages first thought / never think lose both death / life
109: Mind and body worship is vicarious, false of heart before conforming to a belief system to qualify. As for my soul, I’m too ugly to be molested. It’s true. 
But I like meeting new people and having life changing sex. Sex — that would be the interior storm window into no progress, the sum of time, not with the time exchanged among preposterously good but frail kinds of blood, but the sum of good. Hoarse for weeks.
I like gay art when it obtains, “a merry linking up process.” I know nothing about it. 
Bursting out of your head while you hike thru grasses: All this acreage owned by prosaic dabblers, a-theoretical factual folk. Taken for taggers-on, misunderstood.  It’s different evening on and children on fire tag back.   
Teamwork. Again, our people are what make us great.   
And if that’s everything for now, we’ll stick with loving and losing and loving. Fresh air excessive — a geyser in a box-set of watchful scenes in bigger sets you won’t see?  
Love / loss but for supplements nothing so merry and hereabouts as theatre, sleight of hand,  good posture and strategic emotional constructs.
As luck has it, sections of Alien Tatters (2000), a pre-nine-eleven work, are prescient or more recognizably urgent afterward: Then the top comes off of terror. You age. All the same pictures in everyone’s possible. They stir up the common in search, not to find but to wait. Images are waiting. Sentences are narrowing. Clark Coolidge tapers and tightens sentences to embrace “self-hung trouble” — “I know it looks like I’m not sure of anything,” not sure of monkeyman and his music / poetry that “kept turning me, the one with the three reasons sealed in a pod.” As luck has three reasons or meanings, when Coolidge observes, “..don’t want to see Abe lit...” does Coolidge include one possible meaning spurning the modernist Japanese novel? it would seem so, “House is brain, remember.” How do you like your dimensions? “What are your answers, pendulums?” Paragraphs of sentences. Sentences of captions to the late skyward paintings of Phillip Guston’s: [...]I’ve doffed my alarming with plugs and caps, And this’ll water your eyes. I don’t see saucers, I see servants. Or By that time the tower was broadcasting nothing but shrapnel. How could you bow down? But how does meat dream? Notice how they tend to keep the cows toward the center? [...] Five expansive pieces, the longest, the title poem in fifty parts, and a brief afterword in which Coolidge owns up to a “fascination” with UFOs. “ ..I was calling out to them [...] You guys listening?” 
Exquisitely handcrafted 
meditation retributions..


violet mist. This is a prison theme bar. 
There is evidence.  
Losers = worshippers of their detractors.  
We drink to everyone’s mistakes.
Then again — I’m hooked on figurative exposition. Maybe I’m inspired by your stockpile, your vowel-movers are striking — paramount for this, the rockiest of calculations, frontally self-effacing, tall, slim complexities and transgressive contradictions of metabolic ambition. 
This piece dialogs with others.
To want as well as have nothing. Whoosh 
I shouldn’t ask did I live like that fly on the wall?  
Surface depth. You wouldn’t expect to rework this at all.  
Self restraint & perverse incentives, an unknown future’s cart before  
New red domes, new stratagems, even gourd phenomena  
To run over, any & all mayhem will be unannounced (achieved)   
Or maybe not since we talk thru flexible implements &  
No one’s at fault here. 
You never can tell. I won’t.
Inundated with liberty, I talk thus in a mocking form. It’s well after the game. My face — like the next — supports layers of sleep relief, realizing exponentially our wildest ambitions. Men in tuxes.

I thought you... you as a musician.. would deeply apprehend these leftover radiant, interactive forms (and opposites, among variants), soberly and liberally studying them in breadth (if you can still breathe), alert to surface details, part of the work week.

I’ve made it routine getting you to these next points in our ongoing gay sports bar repartee.
Sonnet 78: 
Disperse my rudeness.  
See what influences of yours I’ve advanced and redoubled. See what more you do! You are all my art. Help my style, my alien use. Teach / learn my rude ignorance. 
Only these exceptions: I wasn’t talking to you. I was speaking higher up, and given grace, I’ll sing to the fair interest of the corps. Ah, same time, so often have I invoked you as a muse, I’m proud working with you looking over my shoulder ..  

... knowing our poetry is under your assistance, born of you.
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 aubergine smell of ash or fir. So there’s nothing to resent.  
I’ve lost my appetite. How does it resume?
We keep the kids for our national security.
Starting at the bottom of the pack, a fun strata, the face is inside a very powerful camouflage (instructing us to use it). That’s what I heard.  (God bless you, if you sneezed ...)


You, my man and woman,  
Pastoral you and all it initiates take humane power in socialist space. It’s rare.  
Home base, hierarchal Finland: say it’s working through the population. 
And we’re the entire crew. The socialist’s way.
Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment is cut back, 
Reminding us of a few contingencies we picked up off trays,  
Bright boomerangs that tantalize in the feasible, wanting nothing and showing  
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.  
And some of these pigeons are both dead and alive. Chew on that, Hobbes.
Guesswork, it’s hardly anything ..
Our area is interpretive search. 
(Want to read our minds?) Symmetry among unequal strains.   
No that’s not right.   
Yamaguchi feels self criticism got way over-modulated becoming 2nd rate, poor argot sampling hostility.   
Masked or not, Yamaguchi steals from me.. ..easy to cite in tones stressing processed shock of inexactitude,   
flipping out highlighting weak spots, our freedom, surroundings. Thanks for being next.
34: I have a base feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in my way —
Together, you and I define arcs of ironic repentance but worked out in a series of affable disputes. Just so, we’re still at a loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal but not the wind smudging our wounds into rotten smoke. Why?

It’s not enough I lose, I’m scared; ah, no relief as such. Not yet. I don’t travel well through storm clouds. I have your brave face but it’s shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.
Oh domestic servant, poet, heck, oh chanteuse — 
I’m your doorsill to walk on and grin at in anguish..  
Open up —    
Textual anarchy can muddy and arbitrate convictions.   
The crisis is now. Catch your falling voice.  
Form is no object but slots of hooded activity, dreams into photos — your getting to turn channels keeping to your non-hegemonic pulse — wailing out of a tunnel.
Blackened windows:
We know we don’t know
Facts are a marketplace,
A rendezvous to encapsulate sleights of tongue.

I’ll have sherry Pepsi. And just the sardines.
I’m sorry this happened. I was going to stay
from the moment we set the stage squinting within representation,
getting some miles in, taking them on board, putting them in mind
of a menial photorealism.
Peace, justice, ecology, all uplifting.
That’s not to say there’ll be any food. 

But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently. 


Should we have 
a message?  
We’re talking to what must  be figurative breakpoints with fate and fate’s consignments. Example.  
Empty messages remember nothing of detached  
sensory esotericists.  
Vault-loads of cash tho grant fame and no literal disapproval.  
We have  a message.  
A politic paranoia recommended for staying fueled and stable in an  emotional tri-level.
Suspend suspension..

Our hesitance to go there is weather related warmth riding in and a similar improvised sauna of fog out, darkness offshore the day before.
The atmosphere wheezes common sense. We can’t drive it over though its pace is emboldening dreams.

What hinges out?
Hop in, I’m a musician.
There were deleted utterances refilling thought balloons with peacock fat, 
such pride and conceptual enormity it was hooded — a dirge of a term  
that cannot be considered in terms  
of checking cost or averaging that, 
since one’s intellect seeks damages. Chest with forefinger.  
Take my shoes to concert or even sooner.
62: No remedy surmounts heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots a whole life series, bright, tanned & then accounted in sympathetic parody and indeed praise. I define my own worth, contrary to more gracious remedies.

We have functional emotions, I think, grounded by sin, self-love & this choppy vocab of possessive affects. Quite, there’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I’m reading in the last place you are true, here in my heart, shifting iniquity to self-inquiry and dabble. Stay with me, it will never stop.
Skepticism is an exact sequence blacklisted by metonyms. Time to respect poets. 
There’s nothing left of an emergent zone for habitual procedures.  
Bend down.. Nothing.. even huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy in immaculate fictive symbols.  

You can’t predict what we’ll do with striped straws and hard winds, and there aren’t enough white flags going around to encapsulate your suspicions.
American justice, 2018: choke unions, ban Muslims, mark up Jack Daniels
with a note of no thanks to Addison Mitchell McConnell Jr.
This is a short study. Or it was. Youth is that impressionable.
Ultra blurry, anamorphic, bound movement sung by writing it down and it occurs in the latest form of repayment,

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

As it comes to the flip side, there’s an agent’s agreement containing someone to look up to
                    pulled on from inside.

— oh yeah, pulled awake more than once w/ a face, a filled out line. Or lines. Smiling lessons.
Speaker one. Two. Here I am on autobio. I work for myself.

My employer is a centipede.
I aspire to such simple random thought
I’d like to postulate I’m an
evergreen seed
-ling aboard a slow poke riding to work — worker and work all aboard molecules snared
in a semantic thicket —


I have aged for you. You may have noticed I’m on the side of folding in meaning that has no purpose, sheer falsetto.
You want in? Try eye accessing cues, carve out what rafter was last seen strapped at the top. A name for emphasis might be imagined.

A serious pronominal.
There’s a cloying aspect when able bodies gather to phenotype, we have to polish the devices
we had called gateways where wealth is wed (by the dooryard)
to far correlates, aspect 2, inventing a new intelligence of largess.

The third part is our resolve that comes in processing integuments,
weekly tea, investigative retailing ..

Here’s our take on never getting back together. It’s another part
to tensive healing (a forward-back method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow) ...
Sex has nothing to do with sex. Breakfast never eaten.
It’s a joy problem, love called out on a technicality. 
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch 

Per bantam partisans in gauged caution 
Toweling off for the next bracket. 
Boxing’s always hospitable. We’re not that stupid.
Mainly specific 
pieces of pieces —  
Most out in space are pulling apart. Often this is how the latter day sing  
as we come to our senses   
with a charming itch gerrymandered in ambiguity. Pull. Puller.  
W e’re pushing in genetic nutrients prompted by the assembly
surrounding nothingness.
54: You’re back!

Truth is, we cave wantonly to your lovely sweet odor (fairer in our forgetfulness).
O wooed rose!
Before they live 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.
I’m leaving disjunction behind. Dropping it off to work with you as one way to avoid occult fallacy.

To be anyone who will nominally die isn’t perverse.

Ah, holism doesn’t come naturally, Nickolas Christakis. Yet the parts know how to grow, Benjamin Aranda.
A battery bunny stuffed in an envelope is ludicrous. It’s untidy and young. I basically authorize it. While your back-and-forth is rubbed into my skull in all dubious directions you’re going in ..

That’s the gap in self presence, yourself, perhaps, to squelch rapport and foreign travel that seemed certain when hidden by how far we are beaten into the projections, a gleam of hydroplanes standing on the waves... sleeping quarters.
Trump has depleted America’s reservoir of irony ..
(for those over 30 and younger)


You’re a mess, honey.
              — Touch of Evil

Something came up.

Little or no, nothing. There’s so small

an exchange to transact, no product, only

an exhibitionist’s subtopic within the power den,

coming up again to prove repeated effort protracts pleasure.
Song: How long have you planted thoughts without a gender balance?
Teaching can’t be taught. Or

let me pull an invisible
to the eye hair off your blouse to increase speed.

When you write you find your living partner. She’s a social creature,
capable of more complex communication, traveling in large groups or schools.

Well, 2 out of 3.
I hardly know you. And will never know you. I’ll give you a call.
I may have torn up the text (though torn only from my mind — you backstroke, swim and still float around in my semen).
11: 1st choice for a sonnet is to solve you for x. If you must, be rude, foolish but coalesce; x takes my life for yours.

After, I feel a burst of fresh blood, copied wisdom and your living endowment.

Wait. Later, without x... it’s cold, a waning world away...

But so like-minded so fast —
we convert to folly ..

The world you call yours we keep featureless, barren.

Inky smoke releasing a genocidal collage, live
Thought in waves agitated, reproached, disappeared
In drumming opinions subtracting best practices —
Look for nothing here to help increase harsh times that should cease.
Cold freezing nature, per se, nature will age, decay.
And yet not you, my love.. The more you live you are given what you give.
123: Lament — I defy you and your truth —

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

Continual haste, our poor retention, our briefer dates give me the butterflies and more butterflies chasing more —
as 10 to the 10th more wind up as polygamists barnstorming thru
a more ad hoc hemisphere where I can never forget you. No!
No pleasure, just a breather, but not while eating. 
The show was called; the rain spat. (I'm sorry al fresco’s bad then.)  
Yes. My voice tended toward stridency, an unfortunate strain.  
The music took off about here. 1st smelt feminine along abandoned quays but now looking sharp with canals and minimalist carvings.   
We viewed them before the high brutalism of fine dining (Otto Dix).   
A violinist, hesitant but banging it out better tonight. This starts our cuisine engines mid-grin.   
Tho evasion foregrounds our coerced motives so they sink in more.
I’ve been on a nihilism binge; this is while I’m doing only one thing at one time on a crazed errand-stream to a structuralist’s degree.
I won’t cry when it becomes everything without a message.
I’ll trade you all the noise in my hands, still shaking — scared of leaving you among the spoils..

There’s a tradeoff, my trade. In the din hostility shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing for stopping messengers’ tears as the door from nihilism leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.
I read the body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons. My mind messed up. Sun pours down, unobstructed in the symbolist region. “Prepare your red matter.”


You put a question mark after feeling genreless, if in play, it becomes a pick-up line.

There is no personality, only successive time frames, so why beat anyone up? We can read back over found work but never go back to walk the innocent-seeming turret and loggia built by others’ labor, enabling and overlooking our conditional first day together...
Landscape: Driving over taking stock of action figures.

What’s my business? The apertures told me to spin off, and that led to my holding

all these are volatility models from T.V., vocalism in a sense.
The point ahead is to enable the passing tourney among seductive locals
to nuance hidden risks shifting weight (merging accounts request).

Modern proceedings like these day after day, not stopping, not finishing
‘You are out of your cotton-picking mind..’
— Fox News
‘The snowflakes are protesting..’
— Fox News
Dante nibbled, in mumbled tones... under a huge, ampersand-shade of grace.
There was a terrific wine list — and that made for light
cocktail perfusions. He had at strangers shedding their catwalk ambiguity.

And we’re moving back to then, minus grace, wearing raiment emotions, passing drinks around —
The current is gruff, making up the news with — and about — excess freedoms of democracy.
Sonnet 1: Beauty’s rose is content and ornament par excellence.

The rose’s stems know how to fuel it, desiring more buds to contract brightness and increase —
much as we eat the world to save it — tender, gluttonous — your eyes bright green. You are now the world’s fresh ornament.
Remember about now we compile devices with motives, in effect, soft flickers of syntax, rather than comments — good hind (half-)thoughts spidered into leg & arm pins and something more. Get to resolute joy nodes, a punching bag of well refined tricks, compressed — holding you in my super thoughts. Go on. 

Check the front seat glowing with our golden characters. In other manners hold your breath. 
Graduate studies. Targeting methods.

To appear transparent out of a board game.
After a button is pushed a model young theorist says hello, how are you, then reverses course. She heads upstairs to an installation in perfect solitude.

I’ve heard that scream.
Anyway, I retract my falsehoods. & for the same sutra
I condemn & mourn meritocracy. For / & all men
are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geo-metry
to inspect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland
                     for nothing.)
It’s nice finally to put a face to the humiliating nickname.


Terry Eagleton’s formulations re text and production can be less daunting when edited to their central premises. 1) Production is the key. 2) Text is a production of ideology. 3) Text and performance are “analogous to the relation between grammar and speech” – a production of a production (such as a theatrical performance of a text, his example, or critical interpretation of a text, mine).

Speech is a product, not a reproduction, of grammar; grammar is the determining structure of discourse, but the character of discourse cannot be mechanically derived from it... In studying local color and relations between text and performance, then, we study modes of determination which are precise and rigorous, not accounted for in terms of ‘reflection’ or ‘reproduction’. We are examining, in short, conditions of production.
There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.

Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.

I lower your voice to approximate the closest parity.

Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?
The truth is a manifold vacuum. And we’re feathery.
Shorthand abstractions like these comprise unforgettable totems to our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off, spinning or spun, upset, out of control.

100% our touch.
15: It’s your last day of youth throwing trust out, insight and now telepathy — I’ll never feel his perfect arms around me again. Never feel wet air on my skin, or wake up in his sap on his secret warm bed, I’m done, I don’t get a chance to influence, comment, try again for anything, not even for something I’m not. I’m not.

I can’t do any better than what I’ve changed for love of you.
Hours..drain..blood.. Something came up.

Breaking news: As my body is now, Max Planck fellows are running off with radical research incentives for organizing treasures in a small package, tethered particle immolation. The dignity of boson appearances, confounding cruelty and love, alike, fed from memory.

Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn..
There is a lil automated palletizer of bread
with industrial KUKA robots in a bakery
in Germany where groove is still a verb.

The odd relay repeated.


Ornament is content.

The yews know how to exhibit theirs, contracting new growth to bury their might in content with our bed in it — the last day we knew the world as gluttons. Together and tender, flaming, increasing now
and then the yews’ memory subsides in green, turning dull in bright time.
Filming you again. Filming double quotes.
V. painting just your voice, a glass house perforated by action tones. Beating hulks to the punch as they pour the next vodka that makes us cry. A film with multiple data fields, a crew of stunning extras in malaise.

No ilk of valid colloids — No mimic measure, no ceremony “plinthing a drumbeat.” Also, no dyscalculia, no hindsight bias, on purpose no flavor.
High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long- 
stood. Waking up released. Populations drenched.  
A circus repatriated.
My job is moving the earth units until I get exonerated.
It could be evasion foregrounds my style and motives.

I’m a woodpecker.

And I have a woodpecker tone.
makes me tipsy.
— John Godfrey
23: My agent is a prick. Imperfect
actor, shortcomings balloon in ‘harmony’ & w/ use.

— where your epistemology scampers in transparent secrecy
in such abundance I weaken w/ fierce ideas to leverage your heart in the pluperfect.

My mien adheres to an expressive rule staying purposely
dumb, entered into by listening w/ my eyes to you first, always. It’s

more expressed where my rage offers you libation,
supports your tantrums from the underbrush. I can step right in.
One needs antic intellectualism. Lead-free prose. 
Four husbands.  
Simplistic, Manichaen juxtaposition.  
A solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.).   
Jousting snacks.  
New verbs like bishop-dave, firebug, Stradivari.
Worth repeating.

We weren’t orphaned, we just decided to pursue other interests

not to get re-elected to you as we’ll proliferate to here if you try, if you have the confidence and say it..

We wiretap the secret you weigh (you get no credit for this) —

Total lunacy.

No ripped-off melancholy, no spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in.

On the other hand, I can’t forget this is for you now.
There is nothing like an emergent zone of autonomy to find a prosthetic artifact like lack of despair. Except when you think it over.


We’re all buckeye strong. 
Very disturbing.
52: I’m in lock-up because of you.

Therefore you and I are both scorekeepers. Ours.

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

Until then, being had by you was worth it as it were

Like euphoria, an instant in doubt hiding the finer points.
Speaking of solemn upper-lower class triumph and treasure,
We find others also keep to the survey, chest to chest, like mine to yours.
31: You remind me of lovers gone. The morning crew, weathermen
Waving arms over their heads in all naked patterns —
This was their 1st stab at tantrics, due many now.
They merited love trophies — now yours alone.
You have all of mine,

My tears buried in view of you. They’re inside you,
Removed, disguised as glare hung from all my loving in you.
We are a color of cunnilingus. I noticed, though, you and I applied for pharmaceutical assistance, an oscillation gelatin called Sparkling Affront.
Nothing was more or less than arabesque, forgetting our place in the secret order of failure. We once left a lavish record of the male-female hush from hand to fingers to mouth: in epic hock, half-buried to our hips. 

Our temperature raised the magnitude of repetitions into a shriveling median in the after-life or its meandering dissolution ... 

An obtainable conspiracy, altogether, surely no hoax.
Song: The sexes are divided. I’m a wielder of ‘cynicism,’ a goaded identity. The whole 86 floors just snowballed.

Huge finesse augurs repression and destruction in one immaculate fictive symbol.

Jonathan stayed and worked with the new ones coming in, who were all “Could you be a little more specific, doctor?” while they were arrested on the beach after a session of folded-wing snap rolls.

Time to release the affinity shapes. But I’ll stop now.

petrified by merger talkathons —


East of here: There are ideas w/ smarter definitions. We needed the smartest drywall too, to excite ferns and moss growing, other side — every- thing about the yield blowing in its whereabouts news of perpetual unitary joy... I liked getting you to this point in our ongoing.
Hot wind becoming sullen backs into a slurry, plump, downy evanescing into fluff. The slurry rises above dropped affixes and gardenias. As if. It’s dead-on in our notation. Helium released — thrown in reverse in spring — trees light up. Better to heal resentments buried back in isolation again. Hot wind dumps more camouflage for everything in open trucks falling off or flying up like 2 sorts of woodpecker that came while I was there.
45: Libido and swift words send messages and return them — coming back as first thoughts even when quicker elements, my breath, say, my fire are both with you (wherever I am).

When I don’t hear back — I’m oppressed, no longer glad
or assured, merely present-absent, melancholy.
It feels by this quick account I’ve set my desire back, too far away from me, from you.
85: Takes substance and breadth; the going price reacts to audacious desire

(a spare cigarette case, may I?) looked after in polished forms and
No thanks. Just piano and voice. Piano and your voice. Words come last. Let’s
Practice being still. The big meal. Inductions to other habits; hearing your breath

I think good thoughts, speaking in effect, externalizing dumb ideas.

The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of wool

Like praise warmed over by spinning in freezing wind. “Amen”

— I cannot phrase the scent of snow and sunlight, your utter loss

— my tongue tied crying, holding you in my thoughts.
Let’s bring it. I even agree if
Conditions look not upper great — wanting you (I say I do),
Not out of calculation & how far & vast connivance

Take us. I’m holding out.

Daybreak now —
— everybody under lunar waxing
credited to whipsaw. Just a running joke transposed
from the window, licked, healed, eyebrow roughened.
Aren’t we supposed to feed even the bad dogs? Yes but summer, winter?
Minutes after the work was filed, dozens stood in line for a treat,
free rein over the next sentence.


Peace, justice, ecology, all uplifting.  
That’s not to say there’ll be any food. 

But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently.. just a cloverleaf...
Sing: I love it when prose or song digs in and flails, goes 
down. That about covers it.  
(One’s destiny is that emotional core between personal and professional.)  
The larynx becoming free is a moving and intimate narrative.   

Got to run, prose.
43: There is your dead-of-night agreement to let me in. Iron clad. Skull with putty.
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down to earth in dreams, darkly bright, best seen directed by dark.

The more you put on earth, you know shadows, Hades’ colorations are evidence of imperfect unseeing, but blessed (made more adhesive) and happy when looking on you.

It’s much clearer in the light. Yes. Quick. This is a speaking animal in heavy sleep, you remember —
all days are nights and nights bright days. Time’s up.
It’s pie for the new year to set yourself free through what you don’t know — that takes a kind of unfinished aplomb, needing practice and achieved overviews. The verbatim relishes living among a slew of lucky design ideas orphaned to an alien ethnicity, busted out of place, in the wrong skin and age. 

(Welcome home.)
Ambience is a novel with your logo.

Amusing to read from sobering, antic design. Likewise to write it, at least for you and your author. As a poet who rolls with deadpan offshoots of good taste and reason, you might string sentences together like paste rubies and artificial pearls deliberately mismatched. Sentences would shine in meh as the wily ends of ideas fail to match up with new beginnings. Beginnings are lit up jewels of propositions before each gets dulled into falsehood yet contextualized by the faintly plausible, as if draped over a bowl of fish hooks — jewels, hooks — an incident in the making. You and surely your author might throw a personal datum in, offer the bowl an opinion (not yours for real, clearly) a bonne idée around sex as a gross linear process or, similarly, around the death of family, so personal mentions achieve the same (but no higher) level of emotional force as boilerplate for standard FAQs or photos. This produces scrubbed sober reportage typical of social democratic atmospherics. The arbitrated décor of your short text can then be looked after in “poet-novelist” ways (as this is a mock-up toward an after hours bildungsroman you are attempting). Your author’s ways include weighting the bottom of many pages with partially extraneous footnotes — beginning with number 31 (footnotes 1-30 are fully extraneous) — as well as mediating random elements, mostly unfocused snapshots but also font variations, lists, and a couple of equations. Humor is allowed. Humor justifies the enterprise but it is only one facet of shifts in planar and tonal assessment. Process description, your American ethnicity, John Cage, touring Germany, attending Carleton, “a face derived by software,” all these are data sets fit to be twisted, falsified or erased, as your author fictionalizes with what you see as temporary accesses to abstruse info, including fuzzy photos in a book.
Gas, food, lodging. You’re on your own.
A soulful lab mix, appliance and beast.
It’s nice to win over 90,000 grammars, all those associative halos.
Your novel is a conference. Believe nothing I say.
The back office is an eyesore, assembly required. It makes itself think...lets itself think... (It’s a coin flip.) I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems. Thanks for the memories. You ruined everything.


Pierre Bourdieu threw a projectile that applies this new year while top donor ‘families’ are in control — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of capital distribution are stopgaps like assembled heterodoxology while subdominant esthetic fields balloon and get consumed by baggier ideas.” 

Speaking of baggage as distraction, Bourdieu went home to his Cajun kitchen and added, “We gain as much knowledge from our shortcomings as insights.”   
The shortcoming between having things to say about ‘tastes’ back then, only a few years ago — and now — Republicans circling the wagons while checks and balances are nasally inspissated thru fear.
That slap in the face harder to explain now — a waste of energy on a streetcar..  
Traffic jammed under the apartments — tropic action — wallops 
W/ a cruel lemon sliver caught in my nose, pairing up past reason,   
Romeo and Eurydice. Just a wedge. 
104: You’re fair to do this, my friend. Etc.
I saw both of us stop the actual dial, reset the pace. Still

you and I may be burned, turning toward seasonal
purebreds for fresher figures, new times and hot pricing, unless

Your turning from deception and envy is better.
Burn for me, friend. Hues balance in your greener motions

Since.. I have seen shaken fear and beauty from your eye.
I eyed your figure before you were born to me.

Perfumes of April so stand as axioms this June — in cold pride
you’ve already processed.. stolen for future use.

You turn summer into spring’s first age —
to me, such a future never can be old or done.
Making love is war. It’s not just money: 
I’m afraid it’s a Little  
Dipper: Emma, you’re handsome!  
Hold on?  
..membranes are functional! It’s an open   
Darwinian algorithm to back more  
nano-proposals, say, walking in, “hey..”   
No excuses, now  
make this a rite glistening of the wild...
In a mean perspective Bartok reached for
the moon. How is that helpful?
With your brand one constant.. you cut the rest off...
Remembering you forgot your killer monologue.

Taking your curtain call, you hobble

Away like a name dropper.

Emotions were something else, they don’t belong.

Follow instructions — slippers, noodles make us warm
‘As rouged scholars of what’s next to us’ repair to an adjoining display.
A starry equity or neurons? Words are beta worlds
that heat up while young at the edge yet a lost cause.
Vicarious is not strong enough.
And titles cost. Avalanche, a virus.
Cherries Hamlet.


Hail, love, I’m in hell with you
Having seen again all the mud we know about us.

We’re not living there now; it’s too far to drive, leaving us out drenched to the waist, hanging down on the sidewalk in blue and green concepts of mud looking a little ‘filmed over’.
The now is? I don’t know where it went or was. I wonder if we’ll show up.
These questions are battered about.
O ouch. I’m not sorry.
This is my first try in three dimensions.

There were more debris balls thrown so we ordered an atemporal zone of grace — w/ the emancipatory norm of curiosity —

Set it to limitless, w/ its winners & losers, a humanist quiz.
Facts are a marketplace; figures look good when least derivative, swinging fiesta-ly. Volatile objective content triumphs. Right or wrong it’s kind of a snob racket (Charles B). 
It’s profound and prefigured... mark how the Frankfurt School’s defenders get nested within the keyboard to flatter contingent values within partitas, quieted down, trios and quartets for others’ voices from inventory.  
Our nervous system can distort music abysmally, Charles might say, ignoring pain to emphasize changes in radial evil neglected by the super ego. B is for Bukowski.
154: Once asleep I’m sick of true love, disarming love; I’m diseased, too hot a votary of yours.

I’m sick and so I take a vow to a life of heart-inflaming desire — never touching you..
Trompe l’oeil conditions I now know approximate maiden hand abstractions.. (tripping by..
each taken up hot as a brand) ..and so well inflaming we can grow

mind and body worship by your side, worship un-quenched, a general practice that warms us before perpetuating our healthful belief system. Or

do I prove a chaste remedy never cools, but heats your heart for a cure?
Our supply chain deals fatalism whose allegory
can shape and twist any desire, except a ready
-made means to change the supplier that feeds us.
That tells me
I love needing what tv does.
It feels great here. We’re on tv.
Flack? You gave me flack the moment you cried — Before taken whole.
Before moving on,
It’s typical, offhand.. rather:
My point if
— I’m probably not taking this all
In for the sine function that it is.

Let’s file it down.
I’m sipping Tropicana on your behalf.

All the time, staggering!
There was a boom in robots once.
Then Alexa came along.


I remember those breasts..

A geometry that respects the brain,

Fred Astaire kind of shit.
When I win, I’m

Drifting toward us,
It’s a back-drift

Under your blanket. I’m

Over you now. I’m half-awake

Falling asleep in the speaker’s presence.

It’s deeper than that really.
Impulses to conceptualize or collectivize contexts are fabulously auteur-like;
sentimental to the core, even if in fact especially if sample texts (poetic treatments, meta-essays, e.g.) argue on the surface against individuation & sentiment. This is self sentiment affecting triumph.

The war rooms (ivory/media towers) in times of blanket authority — assumed — instantiate slaughter of memory & varietals of ‘superseded’ texts, schematic petals or stems from where the other goes after s/he drops a thread.
Nature is too loud for poetryts.

I’ll stop here, because I know you dislike machine habits:
Des ert-wise, how’s it going?
Well, you know, for a few weeks words like ‘trounced’ came up.

I lost how small I get.

Here are today’s avoidance words.

More bloom in the rubble.. sands mint white
Sonnet 6:

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

the winter leaves by the yard .. you’re much too fair
And brush your hair? Brush it back down.
Let’s say you’re a man in your teens — that’s how it seems. Also, you were a near-death nut, now coming back to life. You say you saw strangers, that is, the appearances of strangers that fade away, persuading you
it’s for good reason there’s oblong smoke.
You read in the report one investor came to deny he forgot
he saw angels act like strangers, glancing back

as though we never knew the ‘aggressively disposed of’ on a first-name basis
or we forgot the name of our buyers who were reluctant to pay.

The new world has been well-informed, laying out bike paths that emit
repetitions in the bushes. Tremolos — we just don’t know — beautifully made.
The pattern is expanding.
The polls are now tightening.

Your proof is the topic sunburn that we can take indoors to paraphrase with little experience.
Give it a chance. Even interrupted our conversation never ends —
You’ll be taken up on your offer.
We’re enormously self-disciplined torpedoing expenses when it’s cutthroat & officially sanctioned.
Getting a pulse, fixed pupils, dilated. Don’t try this without the others ...


Statement of purpose —

 Just because we attribute work to personality doesn’t mean I’m not a brute with a hammer in my hand. My nailing us together takes a moment of your life.

Whatever takes substance and breadth, I’m not doing it!
A hobby becomes the color of dreams then addiction.
Can it hold the same seasonal affect?
I know what I need, blindfolded.

My life is the intervals it contains minus your presence.

Which is a way of drawing in regret.
A futurist has a softer side.
His life is his poetry, which appears as a biopic on my writing poetry about our lives.
His life then is built around sane choices w/ a sense of a person, even though in a few seconds, I’m in memory* of that person to come. Aw.

That a fact?
Some don’t hear clearly when one’s “voice” joins others’ to deepen ultimately anonymous expressions of desire.

* Any memory part is mostly vice versa and simultaneous.
151: Our berserk contacts squeeze topical structure into gentle shadows that are too numb to know what consciousness is.

We learnt lightly, love is too young. Yet triumph in love is slathered over the poor and often excluded. Axioms and other memes are what we are deft w/. So the poor-excluded combine doesn’t count? I can’t tell, I wouldn’t know. Who does?
When instrumentalists and the proud struck their alliance, we thought this is a gross prize although our ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspirations became more footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.
Creature masks are prerequisites, in reprieve at the School of Nobody 
Teaching can’t be taught. You live within practice 

To engage another’s psyche. 
 You’re always wrong to prolong your appeal. 
To vote is an act of federalism.
Voices in our heads are social media. How far is it to the casino?

There is a civilizing process to telluric space

entered into by putting some wheat germs in.

Before the kill, yoga’s fantastic. You complain I’m brusque. It’s urgent.

Beads of moisture are in a pickle. Who isn’t?
I miss knishes.


A fop sur la route is a Parisian invention, an essentialist’s incarnation.

Steer clearly. Highway safety — bow, I love what we do together

Like switching work bags, mixing it up then. We should be mortified but impressed.
(This siegecraft apparently works.
For my driving, I’ve hired a fop strategist.)
How far? Rub it in.
Think or don’t think of it as conspiracy of/in the sun

in/of a square committee afternoon.
Space time. Whole minutes, days. Slash pauses.  
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /  
not while angles of light are brawling over taking us home.  
Vaccinated, a merciless itch, what is this collapsed satori we travel into?   
Passing though with amazement the X+1 “casting  
of cities,” thinking past us, pressing against me.
146: I’m talking to you in American. 
Christ is missing. No more dying then? Not going to lie, I watched us dream economics weeding and painting over a radius of death, destabilizing temperaments like worms eating up one’s itty soul. A body loss. Looters and rhombus-gatherers, all doing well respectively — great work for rebel power, cuts straight through the soul’s restructure creating more chopping patterns to abandon as dross.   
The chips mount, background to soundtracks muting the key words. Entire sectors of us feel the large cost’s about time, so short a lease, epic sums on new slender, fading glosses. The 21st century walkway and manly instrumentation are enforced for open combat. (It might be feminists like us are on genome probation.)     
Is this that world’s decision theory now? Don’t know. Not going to lie. (Ideologues often get stuck on last lines.) 
There’s a term for attrition of affects, eyesore. 
And there’s a hypertonic struggle to housesit too much information, pliable and glossy. You know it exists. Human body fat is worth $100,000 a gallon.  
The good gold. I fall into it.  
A life is charged for care. I’m otherwise a coffee head! But let’s pare it down.   
Have we ever done anything but tamper with the weather? Oh, who knows?  
Oh, Ladytron. You seem so fake-ignited in the sprayed periphery, a three-dimensional muse keeping her balance inside a soft radical vapor of vastness, loosely demolished.
Did you watch the report?

Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of industrial knowledge that considers prototype approximations in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard. At first.

Moving forward we have all of an hour now to take in sweetness made for infamous exposure (in costume) outdoors.
Lights up — we take ourselves inside the libretto where we reserve dissonance.

Sweetness is vacillating as usual after hours on clear nights. Robbers, cops
Though fragrant, turn opaque
And poof — still,
It could rain.
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.


Physicalism (neural brand continuity) adapts to schemes.
Government is not that impregnable. The background is a colorful PROCESS shot. A lethal-to-pallid graduate group locksteps to the scent, clothed less formally, save motives for eagerness.
I see your idea. Gnarly aviation. 
Purity of the surface deed is recorded, perked into light  
Public-private property hit on a plan wound up slugged in disguise,  
A ‘contract’ on big physics, ghastly on its back.  
There’s envy of political haters’ swimming synchronized,  
                          beyond prayer —   
(In or without ebon ink, capitalists itemize all bets.)   
One pleasure is borrowing sentences to raise our debits.   
All experience is seriously snipped off.. how to wear a summer dress.
143: Kiss me, skull.
Paying attention is the field call haunting the future.
Be kind, turn back —
More bounce for the retina can unscrew internal hysteria pouring up then breaking away, embarrassing,

Losing both death and life in pursuit of other business. You’ll

Look how I feel.
No plan is perfect.
I’ll put it this way and be done. 
I misfiled my core principles, went 
for higher ones in baroque-neurotic REM sleep. 

Any higher, they’re not talking .. 
(there’s tighter discipline)  

Highly apéritif, 
morally camouflaged cold indirection.

Violence advocates
have an entire stance in mind. Our freedom is success.

But our counter was preliminary and really took off, along 
with raw emotions from a huge manuscript 
I’m freezing, since 
It’s none of the above. 
Pericles, Funeral Oration
Sing, my next self:
Balls of steam suspended in bacteria over our hands, discouraging others. (A boiling kettle contained prescriptions, a guess.) Better now not to digress but file out a shade apart trailing the other copycats.

At top the penis is everlovin-elastic.

Heaven is in the heart with its egg drop of credos and documents.

A mood is an emotional state. Comcast.
Your poetry is preliminary,

I reserve comment —

Don’t get the above wrong

There’s below to mull over.


It stays in the mind when the words evaporated.
Where we live now we’re “into” military opera.
Adherents have henchmen, dogma and the finesse of needle-felted wool.

Clear clear bright morning.

I won’t do your religion, good day.

Just piano and voice. Sunken gardens with a fountain of moods for here in Four Corners.
A bright spot on the game horizon, we’re beginning to see a need for a blanket authority or foundation to issue antinomian licenses. A nondemocratic institution that constitutes only one of a set to which no democratic or parliamentarian voice matters, no second thoughts, no heuristics, and in which nothing un-elfin or hurtful belongs or stays put, holding ourselves to the test doctrine of multiple shots at Todd’s Miniature Golf. 
133: My strategy is sweet sleep until we wake.

Who is calling?
Your friend is coming. Must I abandon myself? then my next self? both appear wounded players, both slaves to slavery?

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

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

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

And I keep you in my heart on guard for all of you that is in me.
Once your public is mounted on tiptoes you can
add your own awesome content! 

Your first lover, dull, expressionless.  Tho

he could heal you thru ballast. 
Then forces of narrative came
seething, your breath unfixed 

from the floor as it circles midair as if it had a right to. 
Large blossoms are about to push
Also we see their ETA
We won’t be a second late — your ex boyfriends 
understand we can all meet taking on a form of you. 

That’s the gist.
Blimey. (There’s a new policy to block deletions.)
I’m sipping Tropicana on curiosity’s behalf,
It’s close to a curio.. writing in sheer Lucida Sans
All the time, staggering!
Tomorrow a friendly caveat for the melder up there,
your ‘work-arounds’ bully sarcasm to un-wit ways and means to spiraling.

“My regrets,” switching phones.
Everywhere there’s fog off a force field you tend to dislike, nowhere better!
No ripped off melancholy in a sky, no lecture / rap / blues, no shelter against the curious. I’m lying.

Part of what I do here. Throw up my hands!


Sonnet 135

To commune sounds spacious, un-calm, bent to boot. In the same call you vex prerogatives, that is, your voice does. (I’ll table the large difference.) 
“The sea.. all water” 

— Your message is mixed but never better aligned for a way or a will of mine. We’re rich together in our acceptance of death — this will be our hideout, learning the ropes, perusing scraps and hopes of coping. 

The unoccupied mind long overdue. The you 

I reference in primary season. You with your suitcase. 

I’ll unpack for the gracious aftershock of your going ahead, reading, lifting, adding and reflective or reflecting? you in the foreground, all water. 
Here’s a proposition. Start over. Compelling work toasts knowledge construction — in plainspeak — as well as finds, explains & reforms infinitesimal times-spaces reflected infinitely. Your optimism is required (a) to keep everything open for reform; (b) to understand we are beginning our work, always.  
Tho overstated, the mind is a beautiful tool of late capitalism (the unwitting effect and cause). 

Capitalism stands at the curb, a whiff of more aroma, waiting, eyes unblinking.
(Or one could seek documentation, semblance, something Swiss.. From now on the mind is Switzerland, ok? Two eyes staring everywhere, mein Herr, leave now.) Capitalism thus gives up its dude ranch, akin to its rustic factories on the way west to prey on the drunk and disorderly. This is the highway the slug runs out on, leaving us up here.
Here we go. I got you.
Here we are.
I got you.

My back!
I got you. It’s okay.

You sure that’s why you’re here?


Naval voices wake me up. 
It’s too embarrassing 

pulsing in a deep mirror, 
light rain to snow performing butoh. 

(Ethical and mammalian boundaries pertain.) 
50: A hip cast of super angels strumming harps, an encore by Zeus Arrhenothelus

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

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

Unprovoked, a heavy vacuum still.. you are far away while I am on the way at my travel’s end.
Having only a sec, you never know there’s an animal that needs you.
Someday tho the fragile male coloration returns as a feminine force with tinctures and inaudible signs from a long history of decision making, preparing us for more retrospective behavior, more implicative speech and extra sensory anger management.

It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and

in time was up.
Another moment to stare out the window, a flood lamp over my shoulder to herald the swindle in wind farming. Craning one’s mien goes on in this vein, time passes — comments from barbers on stale movies, political lies — freedom takes off at many a midpoint. It’s personal, e.r. managers tell me this ought to be.

It’s almost sullen to write enflamed birdsong and comb back your hair at the same time.. Can you do that? At the barber’s? To sound like your own critic stay light with a spooky edge.

Life is short and good grooming rakes you all over. No victims.


64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced,
increasing store with loss, done in by time’s fell hand,
the rich proud cost of grief and American English.
I hope you can let this go..

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

I’m just ruminating on having you; slave to you, I fear losing you.
The soul’s inscription reads you’re my state of the eternal state, my kingdom.
Rush to earnest sentiment and keep me there, do me up.
Only four exceptions: I wasn’t speaking to you.
I was speaking to strong, sustained interests of Oil Inc.
Oh, and incidentally, I can’t keep working with you
Looking over my shoulder. Don’t be afraid,
I just kick back and relax, the year will be half over.
Summer .. if I could let myself be completely a nano reading.

I should add I don’t know anything about microspores, also
Heavy pollen, nothing! I should add I’m writing on borrowed-spores.
I haven’t done tranquility either! — not even a feeding..

Making up a to do list! blinded by periodic breakthroughs,
A pragmatics circumvents the will —
The focus is on nothing we won’t do..
How to hitchhike. I come across an organizing principle and pull the trigger, replacing
subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: structure, acquisition, use, media — no eros in ideas.

Self-conflict and compromise keep popping up as rich bases for satiric 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.
Define a language with no kids.


Go, go, go!
Oh, my God. This twistee’s blind as a bat.
Doctor, what a surprise. Are you having lunch here?
Well, I would if it’s that simple.
I wish it were that simple.
— The test results have come back — And?
And I’m afraid the results are very disturbing.
It seems Jack has a rare case...
of brake fluid.
— Bran fluid. Bran flavor —
Brain fever — Say it!
Brain fever — Yes. Life can be hard..
Brain fever. Or what we call at The Tech...
At the current rate ...
his brain will laterally explore...
Literally explode — Exactly.
— within the next three houses — Hours.
Yes. It will literally explode within the next three hours.
I would suggest leaving the restraint.
— The restaurant — Restaurant.
His brain will actually explode?
Yes. I’ve seen it happen — Check!
It’s a dread.. ful...
Vile. Vilest. I’ve lots of life parts going in, a series of vignettes, monologues, whatever comes w/ writer’s block undiagnosed. An intersection of an un-demarcated self, motion in unrecognizable patterns, math as therapy and fear of validation. And another thing is a screenplay called Standing Dissolved, My Back to You about a homeless guitar sampler befriended by a yachtsman who hides from the world. They head off exploring Taoism so there’s a lot of take-out. For a documentary short it’s a bracing swim. The guys bond fast and plot their way around eating, watching tv, taking long walks, suffering — all of which figure in my earlier career, more cold-hearted patterns I hadn’t even realized!
Alfred Starr Hamilton has been on poets’ short lists at the balcony edge for 40 or more years, but he’s undergoing “rediscovery.” A stack of Hamilton’s letters to the Montclair police is “the year’s least likely literary find.” The letter excerpted in The Times reads like poetry. For counters of endurable fame, it’s another 15 minutes. 
— August, 2010
43: There is your dead-of-night agreement to let me in. Iron clad. Skull with putty.
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down to earth time in dreams, darkly bright, best seen directed darkly.

The more you put on earth, you know shadows, shades, colorations are evidence of imperfect (un)seeing, but blessed (made more adhesive) and happy when looking on you.

It’s much clearer in the light. Yes. Quick. This is a speaking animal in heavy sleep, you remember regression —

all days are nights and nights bright days. Time’s up.
40 winters: a sorry concentrate: I went broke to be indebted. 
Unable to owe enough. Do enough. 
An international scale now attributes innovation and its subprograms, scary-loud at first, yet comic ultimatums as dreams seem to centralize, acquiring a new fixed order.   
So what if I say prompts an assembly of torn Gillette letters and fractioned decimals?  
Simple-torn versus complex debt proving my excuses by succession under the laws of physics.
— Let’s be fair, the partnership was an accident enjoining boosters of equity.
Runic, compared to poetry now.

It just snowballed until all frontiers on Earth were taken under one rule.

Our slogan has been restated: Bodies of formulae destroy poetry until only style prevails.

The elevated prose idea of August
helps you get through life wellness rooms
circling a moratorium on consumption —
so help yourself — June thru July.


Vengeful dioramas later ..
soaking up positron equations that might italicize sex (our hobby and bent!) annexing us to commune midstream freely by the humming fireside. Yes?

Yep. I’m not picky. I’m trashing blushing shame / anthropological-foam-bearing puffiness, that’s all. There. Chucked.
Song: If every frontal-ist were interrupted, we’d never get back.

This is an integument first to seeing speech as transparent. (‘This’

“is” a great uncle of frontal opportunism.) When you’re young
nepotism is also rampant in meaning maybe.
Maybe not as opaque.
Ok. I hear voices in the kitchen. My thoughts freeze in total makeover

as this recedes — putting it mockingly — heading back w/ nothing.
Websites lie. This a translation lesson. I’m elegant and round. I can’t snicker. You can though. ### I’m off the wall. So I turn blue when I cool up. I blast by myself when you leave for work. When you come home I produce a mental readout of how long it takes you to set the new temp, humidity tolerance and so. ### I can’t snicker I’m elegant and round with a mirror finish.
102: You’re the matter at hand merchandized within isomorphic rotations from green hues perpetual to earth.

You’re asking a lot.

Still our love was new.
Well, most of these “notes” are literal, based on trying to sit down [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still the matter.”

The access air of inevitability around more advanced codes got shattered. But I hold my tongue. Shattered seemed inauthentic in the first mustache sense. You are more than sex. You’re holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. This.
I see your inside voice, binary to binary autosuggestion. 
When it gets dark rebooking happens fast.  
The voice we wanted to get to go to a naked singularity, that is  
This abstract point now stabilizing outdoors — over the ocean  
— smelling you in all your possible reassignments. 
— A rank in heaven!
My alter ego leaves for finishing school. She’s wearing khakis and a red T-shirt and my new backpack stuffed with graphs. She wants more than a group-regulated ethos for the manufacture of comedy and verse. Auteur-ship is a social construct.

The archives are at risk.
Hypoxia: poor make us sick, The


Provincetown: Veined staff encourage sampling
as Lt Benji takes fingerprints, a full-time hobby
for Meister cabin boy put in charge over 30.

No evidence yet (or ever). The night is young.
Tv interview:
I still write poetry. Yet I have no regrets.
I subsist in attrition finding and picking up purviews —
Th e enigmatic verse syllogism under one rule is eaten alive by song layouts,
that’s the power of bounce over provisos.
13: Father, son, you’re up against big honey-eyed instincts?
to get out of the valise, dear. My love. We pirated the code.

I can’t say we did it willingly. In storm gusts

a semblance of you as some other was good to hold and lease.

Then, again, only you are love for me, against certain fall,
against the coming end, against death and eternal cold, dear,

we here should prepare
but against love, semblances bear no results. Call.
You’re a mess, honey. 
                           — Touch of Evil   
Something came up.   
Little or no, nothing. There’s so small   
an exchange to transact, no product, only   
an exhibitionist’s subtopic within the power den.   
To prove RNA is a computer protracts pleasure.
Marriage season. The mood passes, theory laden. From desolating satire to
Constant assumptions you parrot for executive control.

Who designs your utterances? Finitism.

Holding firm in the wilds where signaling is slowly ignited
“In the slumbering gaze” parallel kill and be killed, united obliteration.
A chance at a longer life.
The copy writes itself.
I pulled out a blank check and left it blank.


I’m dating other cast members while I go thru systems
as in your own speech act II.

We’ve gone over this.
You look great in text, available when I promise not to rewrite.
Before I’m never to see you again of course there’s a way unfolding since the Enlightenment to take you out, shake you tamed,

You don’t even have to be interesting.
T hat doesn’t sound right.
Always repeat what appeals to you.

I’m captioning this Token Austerity, sleep-laden.

Copy-fitting is more profitable than deep discounts.
W e need to see everything before it’s retouched out.
This is a new policy to block deletions that go missing.
This is a short study. Or it was. Youth is that impressionable. 
Ultra blurry, anamorphic, sung movement bound by writing it down — it occurs in the latest forms of repayment,   
— you  
weigh nothing in and get no credit, no  
spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in.   
As it comes to end, there’s a substitution agreement containing someone to look up to  
                  along with me in force, pulled on from inside.   
— or yeah, pulled awake more than once w/ a face, a filled out line. Then lines. Smiling lessons.
4: Unthrifty = extravagant; nothing = nothing.
To traffic in deception, record your writing. Take fast notes
.. and I’m being frank, beauty lent to you
will oppose given facts of previous loveliness gone unused —
a perplexed legacy taken outside why or what’s acceptable

to audit profit and thrift. I’m lending you
my saddle for your extrication from delirium ..

Love whom else? Is it largess for me or you to go free? In a coin flip, we

traffic with fog to bequest lilac-dark in the air
spending upon you and me
so great a denatured octagonal gloom
by our own natures, sum of sums, we must take our notes alone.
1st proponents of holding go on.
Sometimes when a slob takes over
For seconds, sloppy seconds — versus

Achieving something.. Babylonians count a lot.
We remember them for progress.
2018 now in a back position that puts

Shame to shame. My right.
You’re wrong, 2 new tattoos,
Change your name. You

Can move on and do independently produced things.
We talked about this on television
Last night.
So far I can see your light
tendencies shifting free of fever, ague,
Intemperance, the flu.
Coming clean is part
Entering & staying w/in a value

That comes into you, fantastic to watch!
Won’t lie but sleep in it.
Hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to behold
but with the same vulgar, adolescent cri de coeur.

(Good night, wallet.)


Gilbert Ryle asks, “might not every action or reaction be a piece of shamming?”  

To throw out sleep, trust, and nimbus-wet telepathy — I’ll never feel his arms around me again. Never feel the air on my skin, or wake up in his warm bed, I’m done, I don’t get a chance to try again for anything, not even for something I’m not. I can’t do any better than what I’ve done. 

“Absolutely,” visiting professor I don’t know her last name will reply, if asked.
Dispatched for

subjects of desire in another sense, an echo
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible
June light
and suddenly just theory

awing in a wolf’s regime,

There’s brush
fire toward mosquitos — shot
through the throat, asking too much
Frame: A diminished mood will be buoyed by scatterings of photos and books, many unread. Cast more atextual sources our way as fodder for your new faculties for text, new ontological components for bringing up temp and humidity composing, as well as subprocesses harder to isolate and observe as they flood into short term memory. Keep the Fed in balance for two (or three of you, as many as you like). Liberal arts breaks further from esthetic scholasticism, inventing new suppositions for research and intimacy. After government, wiry empirical jolts, with semblances of enmeshment in a readymade mood and control structure parallel to voc ed for poetics; appliance hint: metronome.
16: It’s hard to do a mock-up & care. One idea for you, keep still giving yourself away.

You have no better, no sweeter skill than to fortify my grasp and rhyme with me.
Girls, gardens, “outward fair,”
Nothing less! No less and still another idea for you standing happier than the rest — only a wish.

To make you live in the eyes of all living now .. only an idea, yet unset.

I can’t tell you I don’t care.
Don’t expect me after all. 
Even if we kiss later, it saddens one to inform the boss  
You’re not serious, never are.   
Like you we’re turning state’s evidence holding on to meet  
                  even newer phenomena (‘stolen parts’  
To run over) any & all mayhem coming unannounced (achieved)  
Or some won’t since you and I polished the text equations,   
Already saying goodbye takes us far up the jet trail! quelling fear of want-  
Ing pain. You never can tell. I won’t.
Credo: You’re good doing this.
Report to command centers for the new pricing, lest
Misery and universality look a lot better. Go. Fees balanced. Get out!

After.. there are vector
Utilities (direct flares) for expressing blinking enzymes. I believe we never saw them before.

Burn, turn, run away
Suffering coincidence in time
To hit the meaning of just whose future is come..
I’m a year late. In choosing what rubs me wrong or why I don’t want to be seen with you or apologize for one more ode, can I eat something?
I repeat.
I’m making an ode to autumn and then winter, coming on, just getting to you. As marriages go it’s not all bad. I owe my bros an apology. (Not you.) My better half too. It’s just an exchange.



Semantics in space.

The Stanford-Benet mentions a handbook (or its conception) for encapsulating syntax to denote space-time, uniting archetypes found in even more complex disproportions that achieve higher cognitive value than meaning itself.
What have they done?
How could I be so foolish in bed, you ask.
The matter at hand is you.

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

Sleeping has nothing to do with nothing.
103: You’re showing up more. I got wind of it, I’m a flake
Just to make your list. I’m from and form the periphery;

My muse makes it so. Don’t blame me.
Say I’ll be back. We’ll look into it. You never can tell. I’m a fan.
Poverty is all right but not extreme poverty. Without you I’m barely striving,

“How do I love you and have the scope,
And expect no help?”

Some things you need to whisper again, and more, much more ..
(I forget now what you sound like.)
Here’s what I would say to your teachers.
* We started hubble. The shavecraft.
Being a family is our work.
Classics are for romantics like the Raveonettes.

I digress: y+z (1-x) is a blind patch of petit point. Kissing is sick. It’s bad for you but wasn’t as destructive as the filching of imitation.
Anyway, kissing where you are is so blatantly filled with what it spreads everywhere completely negating its purpose.

So why does it get processed in your eyes through history?
Maybe I’m a critic who’s decided to blab about all the wealth we have coming.
You may have noticed I write on your face, a kind of praise,
fuzzy & lovely fragrance of rose choosing you out
of many then forwarding you as backdrop for a dear heart’s new old face
I’m prone to rewriting, scrunching it up for breakfast. O. That’s you.


There is no circling the rink.
No complaints or sworn declarations,
Nothing frilly and glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;
We’ve lost your 名刺 and your name.
The theory,

pleasure is to ethics as Spode is to gastronomy

while across the terrain a recurring nightmare, film tunnels’re lifting wax paper (wind) when the water is abusive — yet all ends adaptively,

nearer Duluth — you can’t handle Duluth. (RF)

The strategy is
like any landscape, wait for mistakes (1) and (2) pounce.
Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush nimbus-wet in devotion to their next decimal of the property. I’m not anxious and this might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads   
and let you know when. Tomorrow or much later now.
You lose your place.
29: I am deaf, “bootless” you say, never hearing from you I’m scorned, despised, all alone for desiring you...

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

Remembering hymns for love rich in hope, wealth, art, a human’s scope.
How human eyes awake, rise at dawn from birth onward, an outcast state without you, when..
Almost enjoined as to the sullen lark least contented, almost cursed —

Looking on, singing from earth, thinking of you through break of day.
My area is interpretive search...list after list... You’re always not talking. I get your point (approbation without the tedium of concrete argument). Capital is redeemable as abstractions change in all directions yet barely pertain, and why should they? Why? What’s on our minds will be low on your practical list, even lower than that. Off list.

Capital brings about physical causation, lists and causes, abstracts themselves.
Teen to older person:
cornered (not to say conned).

Hold to your decoder status that’s forever sparkled quo vadis,
gentry observers meandering within ordered appearances unraveling optics —

Either way is a fractional
infinite in the context / e.r.

OK I mean
I’m done.
Sundial-changing sex contests a thousand bees stinging our feet
— after we polished the text and handed it in.


Elder solarization = zealotry = teen manners.
Down, one-eyed birds. I may have to leave you guys.
Thin in Henleys you and I got dragged to the ceremony, moist, asleep.
My own appearance leaves me acknowledging you,
forbears, quickening what we expect from
fallen heroes on the diagram.. cheers for inviting us, as well as differential probabilities.
Very differential... very well, improvisations solve for paradox
— a more refined backdrop in so circular an ambiguity of scale.
Sweeping reductions were next.
One pleasure then is borrowing sentences to cut your rent.

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

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

I never use that word now.
Kind of stuck up.
I impersonally maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic one more time. 
The place is firmly democratized, sir, once it seemed and was 
interpenetration among important parallel scenery et cetera running this.
32: You’re reserved outdoors, Psyche, for his love
Exempts us from showing up to enchain, knife, subdue.. 
That’s before reaching heights of happier men.
Satie playing, giving away what we’re good at 
— gosh! I read a generation in tears warms up in boutique brothels. 
A class struggle thinking it’s for real. 

The struggle, not the tears. 
I came for our invoices.   
Ever notice? No one lives in that town.   
Half-vegetarian, self-colliding fog drinks only from its disconnected, treasured demographic squandering energy.  
We cannot mean erasure, remember.  
Our nerve infused by regulatory propriety until we get up to dance founding paradox.  
Name a landscape and give birth, rename it and you bestow an ecology of resonance and history.   
We’ve heard enough.   
This is strictly the governor’s business.
I remember when common peril for any politician was taking a supersonic flight carrying a single Russian. Wisdom lay in de Staël turmoil, a title from the ‘political’ surface as if exclusionary discourse / action is exercised to preserve future salient differences emanating from the core.

The again so-called establishment are working on blowing up salience, a peril upgrade. For anything less cautionary or wishfully uncool we’ll have to shop outside the left wing. Each of us now rendered a non-donor monad and pre-mogul again — our search, yours and mine, worked up into retrievable data of auteur dealerships; we’ll get back to you —
Brain damage is in the eyes.