Just before Halloween this comes in. 
“Your 1st lover could not heal your mind through his skin.  
We read spume on his obscure chin.  
Then we happened to answer him at a clip, seeing him double in hot sun 
and circles midair. We see his subtle flight.  Buried for dead but still in our view:  
If you can’t hear me you’re going too fast (bicyclist to bicyclist).   
It’s a mistake in tradition but it gets one to sleepwalk with one shoe in hand.   
I will find you.”
Sentiment can be taken out.
So a redraft prompts free-ranging inquiry tho tentative (after all) meaning of regard to structure. Putting it down in a memo, we have a relationship. It’s not an investigation but unimpaired pursuit. Rough seas yet you’ve worn down long enough to be admitted; you know how we leverage missing you at a time when it’s least expensive. Put to the test, Your are as I am happiest procrastinating, indexing suspicion and objurgating..
I prefer a clean hotel.
I’m calling time-out, a makeshift break, dull,
outside boundaries of regular hours.
Looking around we need smarter drywall to excite ferns and moss to grow
Up, shiny, imperfect, never held in place.
I see your nose looks finished beneath the stopper.

Breakfast at Starbucks and we’re off wandering
headed for B terminal,
a legacy installation in profane solace.
2: We never come across it here.

Slow, like never before. Yet a thriftless parabola intersects feeling its pedigree (that was).
Face to shoulders, gestures are precise thru your eyes, the viewer’s glass.
There are proud motions throughout — the viewer’s eyes. Warm and cold climbing down a first, second, third hill. Falling lower down — a new lusty mainstream-underground

with deep-sunken eyes — we — some of us — avoid. Of small worth. Will

you recover mine? Renew me? how much? let’s call back
successive coordinates, summed up in fair praise

remembering pleasures of the eyes! neck! and chest!
Yes there..
Prayer: All nature repairs to a cryonics lab that’s been reopened. Just for a second.
I reconnect to highlights and the mimicking hidden force of gravity. You guys go ahead.
I’m going to roll on, Volvo-like, like Gilbert; that’s the best stunt.
Gilbert Ryle asks, “might not every action or reaction be a piece of shamming?”
Let’s dance. I defy you.  
Empiricists map it, we know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n randomness. 
I will be true to conventional physics and change nothing empiricists spell out  
but pure benefits accrue. Newer inconsistencies never grasp for governance of the governed! Wouldn’t you know they show up in an infinite series w/in each day’s scuttlebutt. (Or from another angle they are the series, livin’ history over, as we have heard.) As you were.  
(The Chief of Staff said.
Suspiciously correct.)
High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long- 
stood. Helium released. Populations drenched.  
A circus repatriated.


Later, you do dangle like squalid balances netting zero, netting
a big zero from demeaning upper ends and
capital variables w/ an October surprise.
That’s everything, a verb, noun phrase, enclosed ..
How the prose poem squeaks w/ common sense, folds into dreams.

Everyday events like planetary ellipses emerge changing programming for greater disorder in business English.
In Throne of Blood — if you’ve seen it, you won’t forget — the tall growth of Cobweb Forest is sawed down to new ends, camouflage for soldiers of an avenging army on the march. The sad image is threshing fir and pine needles that shield warriors advancing to unseat a despot who is flummoxed by presentiment. 
Ontologically, a wild deed like rewriting poems is complemented by an autocracy of attitude toward the occasion; the autocrat and scribbler combine as a sawtooth. Standing by and looking on — face it, I’m prone to passive aggression — stunted, I limp off scowling to the deforested haze of profuse misses in experience and dulled lightness of touch.
If the president is a hoax, how about your boyfriend?

Missing an idea of particularity, there’s an unbuttoned, squeegeeing pain to wrest
Your hermaphroditic itches gerrymandered in ambiguity.

Contentment rates are raised where
They go away,
released at last as what-about-isms and impartial dyscalculia —

The tide appears to notarize all of this — That and best,
we have come to our senses putting up fresher signs of interminable equivocation.

Apology to your mate.
125: I believe we fall to nature so ketchupy-and-pink .. an oblative canopy over beauty, wit and fashion is established.

I blame eternity. Not you. Eternity is short of waste. Ruining only me for you?

I’m flipping out, whoa. Lose it all, and more! A white screen blackness. Inform, suborn, freeze freely up, screen — tho external leftist dwellers lower right, then in the middle your lips moving up and down, talking design.

Changed my mind. The rent’s too high! No one can help me switch compounds. Not now. To set myself up is to wangle a musical proof, great bases not mixed with seconds. And it’s clear whose side you’re on, landlord.
The once conservative invention of worship is over.
A wall thus of calm is put up.
Love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing adult ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering consensus and political distance. We’re redistributionists, youth symbolically living to do it over but scale it off. Everyday politics practiced by young and old in anger, useless bruising rhetoric, forcibly asserted.

Cultural obligations shape who youth are, you know, a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance with our future attributes.
I see it but am I seeing it? 

Were we mannerists, we’d describe this as Absence from This.  

Quick version: A wall of calm; also self-capture: The cross-hatching selfie that allowed ancestors to exchange traits for others... has just about run out of steam, my profane friend interjects, & leaves us wondering, once more what there is about our plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to. 

This version ushers in even more non-urgencies of grueling yet quickened aversion over entropy. Call it the ideas of how they work off This.
Just all right, try
soundboards, acoustic bass, audio chemistry turning out scribbled freshness for contraltos breaking glass over car hoods to drown out the dog track —

It’s no single fool’s doing, making it easier to borrow. Clenching-tight

I’m sorry so sorry — Can you sing that?


Errant is not mistaken for arbitrary.
In a way our two universes just feel like games..
2 side by side arrays for time & harmony within a philosophy (moving spatial dimensions)
a few hours forward.

Our universal inference, compressed form, a ‘crown’ of contradictions
veer toward approximal rhetoric —

Can waving time like a moony branch
supersede nature,

a piece of research asks. Why open
(structures are arranged by) atoms (holding on thru chemistry)
under quivers at the edge to sleep?
141: Heart to heart:

I’m dating other members while we go thru systems — I love you
in my eyes.

Your own speech acts and errors aside, in spite of foolish tunes, no pain, no taste, there’s always

desire.. it’s self-invited in faith. It’s inside you like sin. We’ve gone
over this. But I’m dissuaded of tender feelings by you alone.

And your views look great in text — I promise my five senses, your proud heart’s slave ...
Thus far — my gain — I am yours, unswayed by slaphappy-proof likenesses to-be, I love you
pleased, delighted, you only. Thus far.
Pierre Bourdieu threw a projectile that applies today while top donor ‘families’ are in control — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of capital distribution are streamlines like assembled heterodoxology vis à vis subdominant esthetic fields ballooning, caught up in baggier ideas.” 
Speaking of higher consciousness, Bourdieu came home to his Cajun kitchen then 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 like hours ago — and now — Republicans circling the wagons while checks and balances are nasally inspissated through fear.
The inscription read you’re my business. This means the writing is clean, architecturally intact, mirrored in meantimes.

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

I’m just commenting.

The inscription read you’re my business.


Adaptability in circumstances is hardly effortless: I add, ellipses.
Down: side streets drop into hourly weather; the power grid 
razed; rain’s over, its light flow slick on oil.   
Spills thru night rain and rain’s surrogacy the more serious and newer down.   
More angst driving over to a panel on reasoning and not writing anything first, a paunch turning experience   
in its emptied refraction on a taillight for syntactical beings (in a sentence) on a muddy drive.
58: Deserting the beach — god forbid 
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways  
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your beck and call, a handshake  
spreads the rain,  
flowers, rain,  
(That’s it! Do what you want.  
The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we  
can walk on with. Hell... a mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our  
This is spring history.)
It’s come to our attention a proposition digs into science or it does not.
It was amazing to meet you and your idea. Anyway

it was amazing to meet your funky penumbra, to be influenced by street life needlepoint 
and other class resentments.

I was astonished to communicate with inky musculature evoking nighttime.

Oceans then deserts.

‘Quoting’ here. I can’t stop. It’s my job.

That’s what it seemed.


I can’t circle my attraction to Japanese manners. Not yet. 
A Japanese color, though, is how a light olive shifts to vetiver or chartreuse, fading hunter into aroma of basilicum, dark lawn trimmed as ice minted circles yellow sage for citrus spritzes and multiples of khaki to translucent sprigs of tea in Kyushu last spring.
1st question, true or false. Is the last part ok? Technology keeps humming to Aristotelian systems extremes. The cigar and its plantations. It’s a manageable stretch from there to when you left, even while I ruled what went between us out. You hadn’t left a name, either. And yet, I stood closer, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. To misunderstand.
As ‘you learn to draw, remind yourself...’ the brain is said to resemble Chuck Norris. Interesting esthetic, Nordic but not fatal — Chuck or a funny bone will go for the reckless. Really his movies remind me of marigold & allegiance to the ice ants swarming the ozone so I look away — The earth is not the hearthrob earth, but it has strength and balance and Duma unanimity. Each winter corrupts the exterior.... poplars attaining their ultra field and stream, doing a job shunned by most, showered with tips.
103: You’re showing up more. I got wind of it, put you in
Just to make our 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.
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.)
Just call before you go.

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

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

We can remember when wisdom lay on the ‘rhetorical’ surface where middlemen / women are loathed today. Owning our own words makes everything phenomenally on our own.

(Our addendum is in the mouth.)

The French Suites in the mean get lighter, immune to desire & intimacy in the grips of mistaken identity. I’ll lead you to the border. Just call before you go.
There are three pleasure substitutes. 
The frayed honeymoon is first and, second, the writ against love is normative, blushing with its little chant of guts and neurons dying in a fascinating replica of functional equivalence.  
After a honeymoon deflections accrue. Third, there are mathematical laws that restore bits of you on all the planets..
Hanging on contains the universe. Imagine the hurt.


I don’t get what you want, teacher
— our lives are directionless without a group, a clan?  
The telling problem with engineered simplicity,  
You annoy others (doctored meditations.. I’m telling..).  
I don’t mean rampage in a civil sense,  
I mean surgically knocking other chanters  
Off, throwing knives, wrecking them  
From the inside, slicing up!  
I was kidding I’m not religious.
The president and his wife are a couple while we’re cruising at altitudes of theorem.

Quack probabilities dim until you restructure our credit history, nail it in clear plastic. Where does the political economy have us bury it? His and her turf — also yours and mine, since we’re all for one as subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy..
Let her go, let him do want he was elected to do..

But not tonight...
Sonnet 94:

We can’t go on without thinking it over.
If I had had the foreground I’d be subsiding in attrition as it were,
I’d have heaven’s grace to weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken fewer notes I’d have less power to hurt
expressing “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings

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

But may I live and will die if fair ever turns sour
in these our summer to summer’s pitched provisos
and integers-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none.
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, my example).

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 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, the conditions of production.

An empirical analyst accounts for the double performance of her enterprise.
Undressed — except for slacks — anonymous like Updike but I turn  up   as Camus. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back) . . 
The bear, untameable and wild 
But calm it down. There’s always a dual nature to justify finding “resentment and forgiveness” within our not being sorry we can’t erase.   
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.
When blood types were fresh no one faced blame. Now I am bleeding to see or set up the 1st position, be shown the dissolved needle and my as it were haystack with no frontiers, knocking the moment down with glances, nods, inspiring small talk.. yet keep it under wraps.

Deep-rooted. Soft-voiced. How now, my anapest.


Cloistered, possessive habits flatten into praxis
— tho it’s instinctive to watch who’s singing
I get no points jumping in or off.

It’s just synecdoche leaving not sharing to chance.
Focused. Demented.
No shortcuts. Nope.
It’s regrettable, they say —
Twin Peaks doesn’t add up
under binge watch...

Not entirely, but it seems unforced holding to an ideally liberal weirdness.
David L thru Kyle M is an observer with an uncapped fortune,
reflecting what adolescents do when their backbones ice up,
raising all boats, all social levels.
Dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflects gritty, blind optimism and violence. 
Are you healthy enough for this perfection?   

A little off, ok — speaking the usual way subverts expectations.  
Stencils of our doctrine line up behind others 
As good critique pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.
108: Admit you miss smoking gold.

You miss the first drag.

Have you read, teens get ten percent of their daily

Calories from soda & smoking. That’s how

They become bilingual
Also. Now. What’s new to speak..
The smoke takes you & him in stride, in spirit
Among the underemployed in hyper décor —

Your glass is half full. Your hair’s on the brink.
Your eyes fill with manpower.

Counting no old thing old,
Stay informal in no time. Yuy...

What now to register?
Stop waving that grape drink.
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 bring back more  
nano-proposals, say, walking in, “hey..” 
No excuses, now 
make this a rite and glistening of the wild...
Onto what?

We’re a special team. We’re circumspect.
Our sharing mechanism (pretext) gives no voice
to repeated wandering motifs over a long silence
we back off from. Nightly

we face 10-to-life thickets of cloud & southerly winds
taking it to other investors who might stay offended,

the next step in the training.
Destroy and smooth nothing.
Mind control is a full canoe of alter-egos, disingenuous.


We sometimes need fresh lexicon to wangle a way to reset the mind-body problem, irruptive words to determine their own behavior, items like primality and cuboidal glints of music, human interaction in heaven, akin to the great abstractions around ambiguities. Never far away strove the steady salmon in jagged streams, eating air, a glorious set!
No variation. 
It had to be known to you v. you know.
Already short of truth, analysis suggests shorthand abstractions,  
buckeye elements surround international topics, street names 
more indirect than searches show.  
It had to be known to you going blind.
Minor formalism otherwise holds the screen for the overweening moments, 
winning or won in an upset, out of control yet  
surrounding our aggression with our touch.  
Because I’m a particle animal I can do it all day. 
Rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl  
A sparkle to figure life altogether, no vision...  
There is tho nothing like no despair.
We message from the ones column deploying 
Pigeons to pattern heaven where detachment is cut off.   
Our recipients remind us of a few contingencies we picked up off trays,  
Bright boomerangs that tantalize in what’s feasible, wanting nothing and showing  
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.  
And some of these babes are both dead and alive. Chew on that, Hobbes.
Sonnet 26: My life is charged by your sweet respect. A merit so great
I can’t sleep, given immunity, I hope.
My thought is tottered, all naked but fair. 

Dear you,

Finer aspects are lacking for a good generalist’s conceit. I’m wanting words to show I am barely half a wit, my words addressed deliberately to look made up, to look as if we need a hand skipping dinner, combing through jabs and moving high and low pressure points peeled back from getting our tenuous, jutting fingers into and under the interstate that brings you and me home.

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

Un-reproved, I love you till then.
If we hand Athens back — it’s about letting you go bold,
taking cannibalism out of context,
giving you your Sprite.

Let’s drink to downsized colors,
off atmospheres of active enlightenment
then falling over, breathing while your
rescuers get authenticated.
“Great I’ll hold...”
2 out of 2 observers were cut off, casually substituted.

Forbidden now for hipsters to talk. This could be another’s
call, since you in the sciences never act against self interest.

Classicists do tho, placing wagers on the original and copies,
claymation v. intent.
77: Society is like building blocks. When you’re on my mind I see cubism and social media touched or felt as progress to eternity. Vacant, minutes wasted, overrated, I whisper to myself, falling for your acquaintance.
Clouds are in slacks by the fridge.


The gear managers inserted a bonus to exchange and it’s not so bad — 
an innate physical act of fondness that ends in a draw sustained one  
by one getting up, stretching for an hour.   
Whilst I’m driven to de-humanize sweet totems that “look pretty close” with my eyes  
now closed, with you, I’ll possess our language with no lexicon,   
without conforming to a belief system to insert a hyphen and assert our memory.

This is the last time.

No punishment without a reward, reverend.
Only your own revels meet you halfway, morning blurring promises in
Aftermaths, letting your adages cool.

What are we thinking?

Is this a document or did I make it up?
Frozen water on Mars is a smoking gun.

Another question. Smelling coffee gasses a decimal
Of where should I hurt?
Once more and be done.
We got a grip on. 
Times are an outrage. Good times, bad, treason’s treason.  
We’re tracking themes thru anxiety —  
for prejudice damn well plays w/ a formalist bias,  
a tradition of selfishness I’m loosely not interested in.   
Tax breaks for the wealthiest keep it humming.  
Due process is to look, also   
(we note now at the end to factual conservation)  
to be seen.
Sonnet 7: 

Outgoing at noon, attending on what? I’m not going out. I’m mouthing off about getting on with or without you. Just look how my sight’s scripted by high pitched infantile alienation, falling over you. Again. It’s not too late! New optimism apparently pays serving your burning head. Another way we’re both blackmailed over there is nothing low, nothing sacred.
Poetry is like poetry. For
Clinging to one tradition, poetry is like nothing
Else in entertainment; it reveres collectivity,
Tiered access & flavors of spontaneity.

I’m thinking of a most awkward color.
The ballroom looks
Tiled back & forth mistily
Across immense miasma. That seems useful.

“Do we get party hats,” asked one rich in the tradition.
In another direction an ex-party manager
Advised a close reading of The American Heritage Dictionary.
The poetry label can be part of a headscarf, more than obvious:
Wild-eyed, one of the top tens, one makes a preparation response
Framed like all the others’.
I don’t know that much about you, but you remind me of someone
who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far away or far off, quelling fear.
Half a day goes by and still you resurface.
You are unattainable.
You are hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.
“Indebted” to you may think sounds offensive and depraved — down where
“forgive me” and “accept me” weave around power lines, ow(n)ing. The next step in the training.


Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam, 
Accounting disappears like functions of context (procedures) —   
Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to amoral schemes, quieted  
But more fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — I never mention you outside of therapy.
Are they saying the same thing? Chögyam Trungpa teaches First thought best thought; George Balanchine, Don’t think do. Both mean and don’t mean it. Put extremely, the meaning / meaningless exotica buries itself in application: a first thought in Trungpa’s belief is already broken in two; thinking (or not thinking), even (or especially) when it’s “first,” impedes being (and incidents not attached to being); while Balanchine wants physical movement to write over and above mental representation, yet one thinks on the way forward to execution. Both statements — first thought, don’t think — are similar examples of intuitive layers in which meaning deploys no meaning, slaying the butterfly native to these parts, reflection on and of opposite outcomes.
Can we straddle the divide between convention & sorting through unattenuated sense-making?
Every Harvey Keitel film substantiates you may have a gun, you could be reaching to get a gun, or you could just be, in essence, fronting.
107: Even tho you can’t concentrate, you’re in a place, well
A place I’ve never been before. Your dreaming on things to come.
You look fresh. You have on your eyeliner from long ago.
I like what you said to the speechless that time.

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

Suppose forfeiting doom, suppose
Peace with no death, of endless age.
Should we have
a message?
We’re talking to what must be figurative breakpoints with fate and fate’s consignments. Example.

Just kidding
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 brainy and stable in an
emotional tri-level.
It’s a classic knife-in-sui-generis. 
Parts of recovered history come to streets whooshed by impurities of state.  
The furbished carport reflected in this broad point perched high above molecular attitudes of state, grammars of people using data for material, like us.  
There’s an end note for those out of state sweating liens on older attitudes.  
That’s why everyone polishes the text and hands it in.
My area is interpretive search.
You’re always not talking.
I get your point (approbation without the tedium of argument).


Sobriety, not mine, makes the case for / against boredom in composition, that is, in the poem-making venture. Boredom? Blame it on relatives, the empire-prone who ride escalators up and down the Radisson nearest you.

Sociologists are stepping up and nodding off
Under the influence of futon cramps at home and similar vehicles
Transporting pouti debs and elephant men,
Dostoevsky wrote.
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.
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 produce a text or, broader, any artifact of value — a central concern, subject to critical and meta analysis is, how does the product influence ways of thinking about the invention or the writing? 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 the final year(s)?
151: Our berserk contact squeezes us into gentle shadows that are too numb to know what conscience is.

We learnt lightly, love is too young. Yet triumph in love is slathered over the poor, betrayed, cheated and excluded. Axioms and other proofs are what we are deft w/. So the poor-excluded conscience doesn’t count? I can’t tell, I wouldn’t know. Who does?
When instrumentalists and the proud struck their alliance, you and I thought this is a gross prize although our ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspirations became more footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.
Next, different morning odors, coffee, other pots, taste sets, sweet to complex, some devolving into brawling incidents.. ..can’t make it out, call it leftovers, a Caramel Apple Ranch Cobbler fabricked in aromas of surfboard varieties .. ..
My first night at E. 12th an impression was I had decamped here weeks, months ago. Tub in the kitchen will be finessed, a foyer, walled in packed bookshelves, a studio workroom off the foyer filled with files of graphics and drafts, a large emptied bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows, large, no curtains, just windows and walls with decades of paint peeled, peeling. My bedroom is perfect as it is, futon, a damp sprig of pine in a ceramic bowl, one or two books in a stack in-process. I knew the poets in the building, a few famous, many pre-famous. It will all be familiar backdrop in a newer craft, hazarding and giving.
Lilac is a devoted zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it. 


Meantime we’ve moved off the mainland. 
No unknown futures present newer phenomena, fenced off. 
It can’t be easy. Dig 
around for numerals and replacements.
We have no perverse incentive to take any more chances as we talk thru our replacement words.  
Frame: A diminished mood will surrender, scattering photos and books, many unread. Cast more atextual sources as fodder for your new faculties in text engineering, new excuses for bringing up composition sophistry to measure the temp and humidity in law and order, as well as subprocesses harder to isolate and observe as they flood into short term memory. Keep feeds in order and fixed for two (or three seconds, as many as you like). Liberal arts breaks further from esthetic scholasticism, inventing new suppositions for species martyrdom and intimacy. After government, wiry empirical jolts, semblances but enmeshments all the same in a readymade mood and control structure parallel to vocational ed for poetics. 1st defense, an old appliance: a metronome.
Beto O’Rourke, 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.
Anyone can wish for ‘portal trans specificity,’ Me? I replace all the markers to get inside a face. Your face. Your brow sports a few layers of sleep relief, accruing intimacy. Meanwhile we form a new team on portal strategy, yielding larger holds on dispossessed cynicism...
Sonnet 100:

We have spoils subtracting song
— idle work converted to argument
that sings to the ear.

Worthless to speak of darkening power, but surveys add up.
Numbers and verse surveil life everywhere. Time and again
you return, lending my base subjects light — you’re faster than time.

Return! you, your fame and skill redeem our fury within what time spent,
if not, a despised waste of life in satire and base argument.
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.
What’s a bleb? It sounds small.
Jumping ahead. A decade from now no one’s big and famous. 
We’re forgetting nothing moves the needle. This argues for problematics.


Should we have 
a message?  
Possessive self-possession. Without a bleb or title.
The School of Nobody takes 8 lives.  Nobody wins in a debate over no- and not- distinctions: for incorrigible voice matter is always interesting  & moving to work for meaning in two instances of no stages. 


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

Controversy, like injunction, comes to us commonly or frequently as back-formation, a provisional ethos after the conceptual stroke. We were constrained by the profound assumption, for example, that a play requires a tone and the stage set in more than five words. We were tacitly sure of this, marginalized more from other minimalist affects until we read Beckett’s new direction: A country road. A tree.
Flashbacks pertain.
Large reflecting pools in the future, it’s just a thought.
If I introduce vagueness as a more devout
machine therapy, we can escape

thought-train derailment, bringing on experiments in graphemic parole,
rescue room from disillusionment.

Fungibly discerning not wishing to die holds a semantic randomness, otherwise empty space.

There’s señor that needs you. He has no interest in real physics... I wonder if that’s true — Our thoughts knitted together like mica piling up, shouts ricocheting through voice tracks from the underbrush holding our breath, bounced, kicked and gloved by catalysts.
Sonnet 86:

The future reaches full sail bound for intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to prize and grow, that is, write great verse.
I thought of you
giving us cohorts aid.. But no, we see our pride flies off as it works around a crowd of familiars whom we teach to write.

Once our brain ripens, we concede to neither victory nor fear — at night I lack a precious affable character beyond feeling mortal myself.. both that and a familiar’s ghost morality strike me as too precious, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling this line.
Falsehood is an actuarial stat, a subjective state and quality of the frieze in progress, not an elevation or height. 
This is a true/false dance question. Fibber Perseus v ‘radium’ Danae (his mom). Which are ya?  
For one draft you as Perseus can place big futures and puts as taller mouthpieces enter the salon rolled ‘into’ B flat major, ‘into’ spools of more of her opposites — Danae’s tendencious pedestrians, 1st- or 2nd-years, sweating lead colors.   
Danae can’t help smothering her loved ones. In her wake birds assume instantaneous velocity.
RNA itemizes facts.
Do you like spiral dares?
Or to be bubble-footed in dark briefs!
None of the above!

Fat, never satisfied, we live on the edge, they say,
we come from creatures far back, slowly calmed
by fear we were of a kind they were to others, lacking
redoubled patrimony and finding-it-out tools.

Distribution adjustment @ sports.com has those to spare..
tasked down from behaviorist beliefs. Hi, they say.
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.


There’s no portrait, not even a good i.d.; the lion took  
the eagle’s wings yet kept his own name. 

Then he had an idea. O
there were reproofs he keeps inside him just the same. 
I notice the lion hadn’t said even half  
a word before he took off.
All experience is seriously correct.. 
But what is?    
How can it if I tell you what I’m?    
A blind accident, 
I’m in no hurry. A life was charged   
now curled up on the menu.     
(Have to go.)     
Here I was, preaching to your eyebrows.   
(Cave safely.) 
Things started to leak last week.
I can’t disagree.
Call it one ocean if you want.
Dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflects gritty, blind optimism and violence. 
Are you healthy enough for this perfection?   

A little off, ok — speaking the usual way subverts expectations.  
Stencils of our doctrine line up behind others 
As good critique pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.
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.
Foolproof intensity is an egg-hatching moment, kairos, and from there we can move forward and back to detect duller undertones that encompass our naïve expertise.

Yours and mine.
Dull, but there are no nasty values in the executive nest. There’s a flywheel effect turning conversation over to science and edacity. A private-public wholesaling of prototypes that mess up one’s visual cortex — pasting-in blind spots crammed with luxuries that bind. The flip side — tooth and nail radiance.
Half of the unknown universes have astrophysicists.
Our prospect ices. Breaking appointments,

Time lapses are at acute angles each winter, no lie.
One improbable is the climate’s finite performance before it veers away.
Switching phones, I look up to the crazy dental intern waiting to take me out.
Kites: pinky juicy crisp
Space parlance —

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

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

Pearls — trance police, a hex video
On top various under-invented heights.
What’s semiology? unless we’re in life to gnarl sparkle to figure it out? laboring for invention?
No futures present new phenomena — what older worlds once could say —
I have a tiny soft view of holding to their path, a core harmony of former days, purring yet put aside. (One chord after another.)


Politics is the gene expression omnibus.   
Each of us is one viral video from partisan fame.    
Vanity is promotion. In vain.  
Amen to white boats opposing innocence.
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.
No futures present new phenomena —
I have a tiny soft view of holding to their path, a core harmony purring yet put aside.
3-D models are mindless taking chances, everyone we can engage in transparent secrecy, charged by mental concision.

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

— an idea to perform w/ just one note in the future perfect.. where disrespect feels like eavesdropping.
Sonnet 65:
Mortality’s boundless, impulsive rage.. it could be a physics meditation held outdoors battering for days since the end of summer. Battering night flowers to action, to evolve stronger, steelier pretexts, many out of hand.. petals and stems swaying over an impregnable swift foot.
In time we stumble upon a miracle sonnet holding out responses for fearful continuity — as it were — trademark of both natural and technical production, mortal yet like summer honey in its shining value, a variable of beauty’s strong hand either way.
Erasing the new narrative,
Baseline coherence had been a standard, believably denying

Abstraction through sleights of cohesion. Then that,

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

In our epoch of fakery..
That’s what I would be attempting — if I were to talk to you
Even for a second so that sleep goes away

To keep from you forever
Nothing, not a thing.
A foolish few of us keep fighting for independence. But bosses are out there. Sure savages, quick with their own designs. Yet I keep running from the bosses above — psycho-analogs, nonverbal monitors of sensory and motor operations standing up to view the repaired wall unit, hearing you read fibrous new copy, pacing in warrior suspense, smelling something burning, watering potted moss, falling asleep. When you listen closely the analogs are meddling, nudging nearer to a verbal core, editing prose, keeping everything tidy; above that, less of a presence, there’s one or more crisis managers descended from a family of ethicists, whom Freudians describe as facets of the superego mostly whizzing by shaking a ‘finger’ up in the brain and mumbling something half-received, half-worked-out for the moment — be tiny, be warned — there are tribal icons above superego facets, and their points of view are even more fleeting, harder to perceive as they’re fossils — given up to us like paste gems and gluey blobs, deliberately dulled into falsehood with real results! 

I wear them indoors.
“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.


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.
Media is clogged with a reductive, neo-fascist message... 
Trump just has to look presidential for a few minutes to emerge [..presidential]. 
Fascism stays underground for as long as it takes. Now here it is — it’s about to play nice. 

Nice or mean fascist views won’t disappear. Unamerican discourse has entered our lives. It’s commonplace in our high schools. 

The time seems backward. There is the example from frog species. Frogs lost teeth in the lower jaw at least 200 million years ago, but whoooa.. lower teeth reappeared in a marsupial tree frog species about 20 million years ago. 
A new problem set: 
Work through naïve discourse —  
Keep methods observable as mayhem —  
Call this ‘transactional’ waking action  
Unlocking — on sight of you — my feeling from the start, the only unmoving part.
134: Dirge: Knocked up by sure bets and unusable vote counts = usurer intrigue, equipage of the self-illumined or half-taught —

An inured slice of childhood domains — all to attain another, future time.
Back in time. 
So now and then I may have liked primary grades more. Later, romantic couplets —

Lost in bromance, wearing nothing but motives for aching to keep doing what we feared, overlooking our lives in love? So he’s yours? 

I’ll sue you for disrespect, covetous of my comfort, my couplet. I lived for your peach flash thru witless dialectic. (See above.)

I drank your Labrador tea. And for further research I took up free, motorized speech. (Note above.)

Similar theories, large discontinuities. Dirge:
I don’t worry or pierce my ears further.
What is known is types of metonymy. 
Outside branches of instrumental research,   
poetry, a subset of epistemology, entails voicing new speech from old — 

Even blindfolded, we see paradox smirching curvatures in space, observed in continuous motion: Air puffs dart away, streamlined and compressed, aiming fast — but never landing — 
I’m scared. Good night to catch up on a poem or two that don’t matter, unfinished odes to Zeno as we circumvent Euclidian voice commands, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, only having to know.
We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. Miss you.. There you are! What’s the matter?

To explain leverage inside a more collaborative framework..  there is the physical sound of a frame along with the framework. What’s matter..

Nonetheless we’re adoring you reflecting our status wanting a moral politics where leverage follows its bliss

(returning to duty)..
Shopping sprees are migratory patterns. 

They get disrupted but like age and defeat don’t let up.


Early nesting 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 for everyone.
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.
Bad news, I was 
struck by the French property owner. You know,  
plagiarism done in loose quotes.  
It’s cold indirection (sangfroid),  
but my metabolism really took off, along  
with emotions from a huge songbook  
I’m freezing,  
‘quote’ watching text spin like sentience  
refined by distance; since  
it’s none of the above ‘end quote.’ This could be for you now.

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.


146: I’m talking to you in rebel American. 
The poor soul has gone missing. No more dying then? Won’t lie, I watched us dream outward, destabilizing temperament like itty worms eating up soul after soil. No lie. Body loss. Looters and dross-gatherers — great work for them, their sin cuts straight through an ‘apparatus restructure’ creating more chopping patterns to follow your and yours’ loss. Poor souls. Then. 
Death chips pile up to background soundtracks muting the key terms: Entire sectors inside you and me feel it’s about time to feed on death, to leave the body, to be alone. We have so short a lease, ex-inheritors of gloss, slender gloss, the body’s end. Death once dead. Then?   
Is this decision theory now? Don’t know. Fed within, without I’m rich no more. Hard to lie. 
Often my partner sits 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.
Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises.
Never enough zest or sprouts. Propose a dozen synonyms.


In my illusion
of minimalism
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down
and got lost and scattered trying not to be distracted.
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 say we pushed our feelings out willingly (thru nurture, nature, frantic relaxation in stormy gusts).
The fit is that good to hold.
Yet I notice you work away from me to keep your poise, make it smoke
against the end that’s coming. Prepared after yourself

against my love, your semblances had no results. Click, or better, call.
O Jesus 
A severe honey glow   
crowning his shoulders — groomed   
disgust in his walk, his mystic theater   
perhaps addressing us, the radiant   
pull at his mom’s sleeve.   
Perpetuity emptied of the given moment.
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 alcove with murals of doves dropping out. His critique has no name; it’s all about listening.
So I put my name in. Just one. Am I fit for the scenario? The next one. Are you and I? I ran out of balls rating you. Instead of my goals, I found so much of what you say unique, but our data are adulterated. Both sexes. Barns and shrubs. You’re driving me nuts. 


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.”
Channel my absence from you. 
While my paranoia reminds me of you 
when I am feeling discordant, scared of death 
from which we come back as braggarts getting it all wrong.  
Or mostly. We both goofed but it’s negative minutia,  
only a fleeting year — extemporaneous, rectified,  
less or more spasmodically through time restored removed.
Anchored in the bay I need to remind myself 
Larry Kearney rhymed all with skull, internally. P Inman’s  
Echelon hairnet shifted putty, thumb-nailed into  
An agreement to let us in. Skull with putty.  
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down to earth.  
The more you put your fingers in it, on it, on earth, you know retouches, colorations return as audible signs of evidence-based rivalries to make fitter (more adhesive) decisions for correct behavior.
117: What’s virtue? J’accuse thus: We have to repay all bonds for punishment on platform hoists.
I recommend frequent time with ex-writers, video vignette makers, tinkerers and others unknown, indistinguishable from applied scientists.

For now, after work we non-haters should accumulate human illuminated octane and wear Ray Bans and short sleeves.

Whereto (given time) ‘should’ = ‘want to’ — our gusto waking proof, scant without you, dragged, transported in ropes far from your august level.

All bonds tie me day by day to your dearest love:

Solitude, confidences accumulate as we’ll give in to willfulness then errors, the dry plays and the desert constants farthest from your sight.
We need a clearer message. There is nothing swift
in discretion. Neap tides in grasses previously made us sick.

Their flowers’ name is hooded.

I’m sorry about blunt, contradictory line breaks —
more confusion for ad finitum, signing in ...

but we trust you with these melodious issues.
Yes. It’s speaking animals that need you, remember, and

Timespace, s’up?
’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, nonambiguously. 

It was everything. All pre-happened and post-decided.
Early nesting 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 for everyone.


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 floating government like ours gets re-formed.
The gist in a slurry, plump, downy evanescing took the elevator. Up buzzers rise above affixes and urgent notation. Helium released — pushed in reverse come fall — trees light up then darken amid writhing worms. Better to heal resentment buried in colossal Orpheus, the un-spontaneous summer physique. With his gift of sullen madness signing everything in burlap, compounded and oncoming in percussive isolation. The upshot. 
Creature masks are prerequisites, in reprieve at the School of Nobody ; 
Teaching can’t be taught. You live within infeasible practice  
To engage another’s psyche  
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.
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 slog 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 (unlike chemistry in its infancy).   
You changed your shirt, put your weight over and into a sketch (a study)  of one on one in galvanized torture that escalates, utter   
formalities documented in our eyes, so fine counter-stretched, kept on balance / in suspense —

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.
Cliché inflects necklines. But I like your flask.


Aw, come on, try an exercise in subject-mood agreement.
Then Alexander (...great knowledgeable Alexander) moved over, blabbing to his dark lady, oh, ’I’ll bet a thou, maybe 2 we can blow up the empire again in modern English.’

I’m happy in English I’m not Alexander. I can’t sob much. The ache of early summer is palpable, and night drops as snorts of derision dampen my naïve representation of democracy.
At a new level of storytelling that hang-in-there ideal is on your side, time sick. 
It goes with a backhand irony like pigeon guided missiles or extra guards at the gate.  
A free coupon! No, the front gate won’t front  
As there are centers of wishing beyond your closed doors.   
All batteries are charged (that’s the feeling). I’m pouring  
Molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with microfiber  
— I’m about to walk the spiral and more!  
While chestnuts stand around in verbal hoards  
Coupons expire.
Any hesitance is wind related warmth riding in and a similar sauna of fog, darkness offshore the day before. 
The atmosphere squeaks common sense. We can’t feel it though its paces embolden dreams. 

What hinges out? 
Hop on, I’m a musician.
31: You remind me of lovers gone. A morning crew, weathermen
Waving arms over their heads in naked bosom patterns —
This was their 1st stab at tantrics, due of many now.
All merited love trophies — now yours alone
Since you have all of me, my heart,

My tears buried in view of you, inside you,
Removed, disguised as glare hung with all love’s loving parts
Living in you.
Stick with it + have what you own set conditions for growth 
as an entire practice. Possess habits that can be flattened   
into proscriptions + boost distinctions  
over words bringing up the actual goods ..   
Conditioning’s a transmutation question .. you can say  
there are no stages.
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.


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.
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.
What’s the worst that can happen? One’s partner — 
is a doomed villain — 20 times one’s own weight.  
On a second take one is defined from video senses  
by god, by sex. Thank god that intimidates.   
Not scat, I learned squat, handily  
...I get the feeling  
the one god has gone one’s way.
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.
What’s missing is, why is there feeling?  
It’s a state of mind according to Hoyle doo wop;  
Global warming jazzes a decimal of our pablum.  
Where should I hurt?  
Once or more. A few more.  
There’s no projected torture unless it causes organ failure.  

Baby steps fix the climate really fast indoors.  
For we feel tall  
and inflatable as we cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.
Standing — showers and others’ happiness that neutrinos can’t stop scattering. Next the sun we say shines, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of our meaning it and not tempted. It’s still my life, we say. Some of you and me are here, retreating to emancipating solitude, keeping / adding up the wait time, sporting by degrees the related changes you see and are.
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.
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?
Notes on Expressionism: 
Ridiculed by sycophants & inferiors, RM Rilke talked to whom? 
I rank his output high.  
Off the scale, 9 plus or more to exaggerate  
(if I could, hmm)..   
Duino. No lacunae needed, Rilke’s asyntacity sets an extreme standard atop  a maximally tall order, looking down over his sprawling, immersive, dark & smoky project-for-good, 10 or higher.   
— Empress Eugenie
91: Who owns property, names, anything under formalism? Boasting, proud
of our skills, we grew up 20th century, years before feeling wretched with wealth
taking hold in one general malaise, as adjuncts measure it.

High birth of hawks or hounds, formalism of all men’s pride. Your love tho better than a lease on pleasures that

don’t last — I find your body force a joy above the rest.

Best owning some of you, finding and owning joy in your delight.
It’s a real privilege to be singled out 
..once there was a C-class..  
We stay onboard  
Suffering, complaining, two out of 3 observers got off, depleting the shipment. Surnames are ..oh forget it, huh? They’re randomly conjoined.
“...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...”
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.


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.
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.
(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.)
48: One only care, a trifle..

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

Tho a treasure you are left prey
to 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.
Yes, I’ve recently incorporated; the firm makes me feel yes! you are more melted into tomorrow’s borrowing high, mighty simplicity. Like when a spelling bee hints at a pattern to teach reform, pushing a path open. 
Pull it together, a life that’s sustainable you can just make up. (You are under a firm obligation.) This is a real company. We call her Cathy.  
Or this has nothing to do with  
walking away earning a higher degree,  
‘mountains feel empty’ / they’re  
rude — here is where the cards you squirt help.   
And there you go, retreating to that panoptic middle deck where you discover almost the same variations. You’ll have to choose the Non-Group taking part in the landing, staying cool to outlast time. When this is tomorrow.
A convert sings:
Dear October looking like June,  
my notes went outside and cried. Happy nerves. I’m on welfare from scansion,
just remembered.   
A heart holding  
my tongue on the verge of resisting notes of civet and holding.   
In the right daylight outside yet  
“In each house a different hall, adapted to sever the head  
from the vine. That’s an odd thing 
to say casually, are you now self-embedded or out?   
In faith I infer all morale is short lived.
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.


I forget what really and concretely meant to nature. 
My post values are really skewed, I forget William Blake.   
I forget historicism.  
I forget the Kennedys and the Dead Kennedys.  
It’s the same with my wearing bangs.
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 ...
It’s open mic. Didn’t I tell you? 
Squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one off color equation 
of a deceptive simplicity  in love as well as pride, duplicity.  
Creationism = a lone boyfriend keeps faith  
better than others, believing neither.   
Separated from a source of meditation, let’s call it, you’d be sad too.  
The source is not sad. One separated from the source is.   
Or it’s obvious.  
Sadness is beside itself.
for Paul Manafort
Leaves are no longer the leaves, you think?  Don’t come near — I’m writing in fraught cycles of perpetual panic. 
The warden had called for vinyl yellow corn husks flanking french doors leading to the territorial room where they proceed with surgery to remove complainant fat..   

Not yours, happily. But close enough . . .

The screenwriter, who cheated your father, wants to stay chic simple, s/he develops fat samples — tints them solar . . 

Then changes fat to bay windows . . 

And the surgery is successive! One by one the windows break down with no views.
Aren’t we supposed to feed the acrobatic dogs? Yes but summer, winter? Minutes after the work is filed, dozens stand in line for a treat, free rein over the sentence.


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

Minutes after our extra work is filed, dozens below management are called to line up for a free run of the orchard, company-owned. “This is a very nice benefit,” a leisure pursuit like playing shipwrecked, held for ransom. Those were the funniest jokes, too. I don’t remember laughing so much. Ever. Or I can’t recall.
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 like taking dictation, taking after your love of my love of you.
I’m bad at knowing when justice along 
with passion is vital, not recreational.  
I’m passive but I don’t believe in spooks. Here’s the outline.  
A few strings were pulled to get me in this factual place I would never have chosen.
Survival here is strung with progress.
All my teachers are dead.
I’m still looking.


Then it happens. A man’s voice, handsome, calm; also nervous ab structure.  Too much strength? perhaps. Protecting a man’s dignity threatens it. Altogether. Everyone knows that
But — ‘worth the trouble’ — called out in a trembler voice to other men fomenting like brats 
blurring terrain,  
accessing the matter, stenciling closure.  
He shouts, ‘Can we search for reason in nature’s chaos... ' 
No one reads aloud like this, it’s pulsating — and wonderful.   
A near miracle in drag.
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.
81: I forget so much memory is empowered by mistakes = my gentle verses.
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 re-rehearsing life with the dead. Haven’t I

Lived to breathe your epitaph? Shall I lie?
Here’s a thought. Stiles of cash stuffed inside passions, stacking up with such speed our global historiography reflects the world as it is, advancing toward convenience stops and arbitrary stretches we don’t care about. 

Well, most of these “pieces” are literal, based on trying to sit down and sing [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still wearing your headset.”  
An air of inevitability around advanced codes has been shattered. It seems inauthentic in your last mustache sense. I am more than at war. Your holding me, the middle of the throat..   
I kiss the air. This.
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.
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..


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.
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.
Since you brought pizza — 
What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us and sociopaths to raise your experimental stature, fabulously?  

That aside —
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 — everywhere times
we don’t have to see you
to get the job done. We’re faster than time.

We forget that’s why singing actuaries went wrong,
unmoored. Their affection all 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, hymns,
a despised waste of life, if any, as satire.
A headboard with no utility other than book nooks. 
Can we cut to the scary part?  
Materiality won’t exist. No dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo that’s 4 ever sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness, unraveling humane optics in dissolved questions behind the good times 4-ward.
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.


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, over heinous Persia  
Long overdue, you said, any day. A refreshing reminder.  
My sympathies.
Your bromide is familiar. Let me grab a pen. You’re gaining attention for the wrong reasons, dummkopf. Stay where you are. Exploit the familiar, even an inkling. Glow fast.

The cosmos is unwilling to go very far, now or later, this way or that — what we inhabit is neither a stoner planet nor merely a plywood-and-particulates object flown in time. Earth turns out an enormous intimation as sexual icon, promoting violence, death, laughter. 
Those not laughing are listening, assuming we’re incandescent.
How the fuck could we let this happen? 

Broken, giddy up, dead. 
Today I face thunder — how to pay homage... 
Bouncy.. apocalypse.. 
My instinct when asked is to inch back 
To the moody raw nation jettisoning any 
Civil use of half-soothing words 
On top various uninvented heights, 
The same heights outward 
Of looking into what we broke.
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.
I promised you a ham for quilting bombast. 
Hammy man of arms.  
You live within politics and practice warfare  
to engage another’s psyche, smiling; you blow yourself up  
& you’re always wrong to prolong your appeal. Ham.
I say you sign off on others’ labor — A newspaper edition, documentary remnants, penetrable databases — We occupy this clever, conceptual nook, curling up, thinking up ... At times siding with the powerful (administrators) seems deliberate as well as passive-aggressive, love’s public effect, blots of respect for undue labor. 
I’m kidding. I’m staying sarcastic — unironically. Anxious pleasures bearing pleasurable anxiety, repeating ...
Don’t pick on anyone else...


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.
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.
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.)
36: Repetitions. There they go. Altho one, 
you’re mine. Yet you get somewhere then stop.  So far you’re not alone.  
I may not acknowledge you my love’s delight — you’re not solely mine. It’s a shame tho we honor our inner living love that divides us in stolen light. I confess that — or let me confess both our loves are shamed into love’s altered effect —  
Your love, mine — separable remains from the nervous system that distorts public love into two, radially.
Colder rain, even snow has a profile that can only be screwed to logic in drier spells. 
Either is widely construed as audible, partially plundering suspicion within either’s wider asymmetry.   
Rain or snow, the great work cuts straight through restructure, roughing up more remakes and models we can abandon.   
Either or we. Precipitation becomes a shadow racket. Tattooing, that is thundering, in the air — if we could see up the walkway and through the instrumentation if they have any.
Stacked tonal aspirations.  The luminous patina of an excommunicant / He thought about SciFi from the Sixties / Of a bright, lit, obvious labyrinth / All his life as if he were a mercurial creature / As if meeting death half-way by making connections / The kind of greenish pallor you’d desired — 

As the furry chestnut shadow turns from the window / Fighting the relative fight to endure / His coat with his assassin’s bullet, effluvia, life / All his life as if he were a mercurial creature / Etc.
Modulating the self comprises an apotheosis 
according to types of daring.    

Don’t smolder, show us.