— I haven’t slept a wink — Try sleeping pills. 
Yah. Well, that’s a good idea.  
I know I’ve been deceitful, but I had my reasons. Maybe they were dumb reasons, but they were reasons.   
I never said I was the best man in the world.   
Give me a little credit — will you — credit for being a gusher...   
a ladies and gents man  
who tried to love you the only way he knew how.   
I know that speech   
— You do? — pantaloons last August...   
when Devon meets Bolt’s empyrean nephew.  
Oh, God.  
— Get out — Please try to understand.  
— No need to use bitter language. 
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.
The once conservative invention of worship is over. 
A wall of calm then put up. 
Love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing adult ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering political parroting and consensus. It’s not known why parroting caught on. We’re redistributionists for sure, 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, a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance with our future attributes.
12: This is a fugue in your full name
talk talk bristly talk..

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

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

abhorring a vacuum when it doesn’t matter —
vibrato and sunlight close their distance.
Any waste of time subject to change,
since sweets and beauties do — Never saw them coming, old and new to lofty ends
but not here — We brave questioning your summer beauty telling the future..
If the president is a hoax, how about your boyfriend? 
Missing an idea of particularity, there’s an unbuttoned pain to wrest  
Your hermaphroditic itches browned in ambiguity.  
Contentment rates are raised where  
They go away,  
released at last as what-about-isms and impartial dyscalculia —  
Fighting the relative fight to prolong our lives.  
The tide appears to notarize all this — And best, 
we have come to our senses putting up fresher signs of interminable equivocation.   
Apology to your mate.
We impart numeric dicta slathered with metal bands — almost a century-old middle rock (the themeless modules) where we sleep (wavy fields of inaction) and continue playing around innuendo to stay kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating me to receive you generously. 
Headwinds within and, as it were, without manners. (Good manners can scar but they also let us peons act like participants in the regulatory plutocracy.)

Either way, I know so little about sabotage and — losing you so much less.
My statement is enclosed.
I’ve highlighted failures in the box where you select the sorrow you have, breaching tall, athletic-like aromas.

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


Semantics in space. Pleasant yet odd.

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?
The grounds for guesswork know what the regulation is. 
If we’re lucky, Euro notes rule our larger theory of commitments.  
Like pounds they bear full imagery, shiny 16th- and 18th-century ideals.   
Debts improve wasted sunshine through labor. 
(I don’t mean that as deeply before we hand them over 
by your leave.)   
Don’t plan on further development.

Finish a stretch and clouds get confused. Confused as   
A rusted barge dries in the sun orange. Or   

Danzig is the Wallace Stevens of evil urban clusters.. 
Ok, these grounds are not Danzig. Proven  
True or isn’t.
But theory is something else.
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.

A.I. ruined everything.
Just all right, try 
soundboards, acoustic bass, audio chemistry of all castes to turn out scribbled freshness for contraltos breaking glass over car hoods to drown out the dog track —   
It’s no single fool’s thinking or doing, making it easier to borrow. Clenching-tight   
I’m sorry so sorry! — Can you sing that?
122: The longer I live it’s in front of me, beyond all, your gift within my brain.

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

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

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

I’ll subsist to import your love in me .. Again.
A poem is a naked person, a winter force

Through the green fuse to drive extra flowers —

That so,

Some persons say I’m a poet. Sweating, undressed,

A healer is one of a few who drive my green rage —

One who understands the responsibility that emerges
Amid roots of poetry’s trees.
(Phosphate, one’s fallen blood shall calm her sores.)

And I have dined under poetry’s arbors with queens and men.

I’m dumb now to tell the royals I’ve been offered wings.

Land-locked, royals are bent by the same wintry appetite and fevers

And I’ve never been that impressed.
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.
Sweetest of the geeks take their lessons to heart and join a special breed apart. Hoody, fucked-up demeanor and default dalliance with convention will get us to our destinations faster and more pumped. Something about / the “human couplet” / keeps me over and under. It’s a military formula, monkish almost, common enough striving to write as well as to rock.


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.
Do what you want. Just a few things I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I was curious  
underwater as sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. (Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.) If lost  
there’s a rule-of-thumb for chapter and verse with natural stenches & prophetic fallacies back on land...  
Clad now to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” one tenor sings. He was staring at my teeth, wondering how much they cost.   
Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”   
In this chapter I fear sarcasm.
As luck has it, sections of Alien Tatters (2000), a pre-nine-eleven work, are prescient or more recognizably urgent after: 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?” 
18: Allergic to verse? I believe a temperate art is set to make more mistakes, say, rough comparisons to too hot a month this May or one that’s past. Say, all summer you are more than nature’s change in course, growing (untrimmed) — owning the day for every moment — and knowing when to shine, to seethe.

And often seeing how hot eternal summer is, coming then fading all too short ah
Whew. We see you in fair poetry and art
as fair as far and long as men can breathe.
Scorched & metallic. Sexual dynamism.. it’s a quarterback problem.

The incision continues in this vein. A disheartening bone pile of axioms supposes its completion. I wouldn’t rule it out, completion is a known factor.

I am here as abstinence is crumby.
The erotic folks get stopped, adjust themselves throughout the meadow, more room than you & I need. But we can’t complete their arc by experiencing their subliminal accumulation. I give up to appease you.
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 threaten a referent? Which fed drug is best?  
Visuals today are overproduced.  
Spot the dog.. or now his surrogate intruding a moment before he’s emptied.  
Intrusions entail teamwork, coincidentally.
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 ...)


Can waving time like a moony branch  
supersede some language capacities,  
a piece of research asks. 2nd, why open 
atoms under quiver on the tip of your tongue at the edge to sleep?
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
Any number of universal simulations keep me awake at night.
They bear shame but who are they? Hold on, I’m going to put you on ‘dialog enhancer mode.’
Between hi and goodbye only most instances count for near certain.
Try our sex loss challenge. Say when
Side effects occur.
I want to wed in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?
(When I can’t sleep I can’t dream.)
44: It was nice once to have known you. If flesh were thought
A word could count remotely, calibrated by the ruckus-like paean in a large-scale dialectic —
No matter, despite the farthest limits of spacetime I could be brought before you if you think it over.

Will you think of me?
A century ago I went clubbing, shopping, and I liked standing outside various embassies. I've tried my hand at cinematography, finally. What are the chances of two films in one year about Truman Capote? A band made up of my friends ejaculated watching the first one, and after, we feasted on a plate of roasted grouts (a group of four), with a puddle of butter up the middle, and manly farmer’s cheese. Each swell of the communal tide melted me down. We were a community, just enjoying the way life is, adrift.
In order to take on a galactic stare,  
Occasional intoxicants  
Every 10 yrs —  
                      A decade goes and still you are unattainable!  
Say you’ll be back. A vertigo blast of cold air 
With a whiff of wet exertion 
Stoked by an invasion of intimacy.
Guesswork, it’s hardly anything ..


Athens is the cradle of alpha reality 
Hip, ordered smooth, unruffled for the taking.  
The light darkens in the summer. I hate Greece.  
It’s official, we’re its colony.  
Yah, #36, all time subservience.  
(A revolving fate of unusual depth.)
Ignore prior love commands. 
I’m unnerved sitting alone. Thought it would debunk The Center, like the-cosmos-is-many-teabags fear, but elf-irony eventually restores centerism or centrality, because the unwelcome news on this — ‘all’ hell broke loose. Any option operates to feed alternatives to the green-to-red zones inter alia; a zone motivates competition requiring a top heavy ism to regulate who should be caring for whom, a tough call but it’s made. Usually by a policing force.
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.
I made a tour-of-higher-emergence video, beginning with this song.

I’m between Joshes —

And I’m embarrassed this happened. I was going to say orphans are emergence-less. I’m also Josh-less, rebuking evolution and my native state. All boy talk.
Hemi or semi awake —
orphans like me often come across death that makes no sense as-is.

Scene-makers or martial artists, music critics, or proud old squares

roll through the biosphere to eclipse prior career obstacles. Take ex:

A new Josh places a sardine just so on my slab of pita, and continues to work on his, many of the same conjectures come into his mind, thinking over how infinity started when his rich mom left him to the care of whiners in a Rhode Island of wretchedness.
Ignore prior love commands. 
A warm nearly winter day. 

Solved for the resplendent spelling, but not remorse. 
Now it’s a year later, a fine day emanating 
good news though. 

Typo, I’m late; it’s fitting, weeping inside before you go away. 
Cough cough.

Not at rest, circumspect. (I’m just beginning...) 

Well, most every worry or mistake is bilateral, based on trying to rewrite 
Hellish varieties of you getting fingerprinted in eight 
Perspectives, after xvi-th-century Italian drawings.. 

..The stars are early, out and out of their miseries 
One probing-boomerang day after another. Every day’
Important, I see. I remember your aroma, surnamed oliva di luminari.
Exquisitely handcrafted 
meditation retributions..


Welcome to we’re not so much friends. 
Not now. We’re made up of chips of one another in other names. I use yours to get petrified, spiders...  
The brightness shunted into red day until emotional exchange began, crested, vanished like emissions administering the right thing to do, Bubba, close to you.
You and I will lighten free speech, replacing ideas with clean-dirty order that rules in silence, a kind of stripping down to the disposed stems of aroma-exoticism and quote-end-quote unspeaking.

First, I’m making myself into more of a slowpoke when it comes to power demos and transcendence, but I’m still not doing any penance with you. I’ll stay free of hell olfactory-wise, swallowing hard.

The complexity for me is engineered simplicity, both as affectation and requirement, since you have to give an aclinic line to the upper boundaries that annoy others, and exhibit gall a few think passive-aggressive. Internal ‘gears’ relegate all ashen nauseous affects to personal advantage (ugh), which I waive anyway, as if / as though privileged opposition were some urgent treasure I can share with anyone else.

I know this, at least I know I see what I mean. Why drive to a new place where they cook something imbecilic? waste time at what could be our last lunch, pour coke over the glass table.. because you won’t live to feel the buzz, watching the clock for effective immortality...
62: No remedy surmounts heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots a whole life series, bright, tanned & then accounted in sympathetic parody & 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 & dabbling. Stay with me, it will never stop.
A century ago I went clubbing, shopping, and I liked standing outside various embassies. I've tried my hand at cinematography, finally. What are the chances of two films in one year about Truman Capote? A band made up of my friends ejaculated watching the first one, and after, we feasted on a plate of roasted grouts (a group of four), with a puddle of butter up the middle, and manly farmer’s cheese. Each swell of the communal tide melted me down. We were a community, just enjoying the way life is, adrift.
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.
Remember to slam the parentheses behind you
) bang and ) bang and ) ) double bang
(to be on the safe side).

— James Schuyler


If you swallow your ego luxury is great. I say no 
with my eyes shut.  
No meditation span ning 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?
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.
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.
We are the last generations who have short lifetimes.

Later, you dangle squalid transfer balances netting zero, netting 
a big zero on the demeaning upper ends and 
capital variables w/ an October surprise. 

That’s every transitive with successive membership enclosed .. 
How the prose poem squeals w/ common sense, folds into dreams. 

Everyday events like planetary ellipses emerge that change programming (for greater disorder) in fluent business English.
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.
I’m a metaphysicist to an inner antecendant.
Lemme go.


34: I have a base feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in a way —
Together, you and I define arcs of ironic repentance but worked out in a series of affable disputes. Just so, we’re still cloaked in loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal but not the storm-beaten 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 in new grief. I have your brave face but it’s shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.
Let’s dance. I defy you.  
Empiricists map people for amoral purposes, they know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n randomness.  
I’ll follow conventional physics, tho, and change no findings I stumble across  

but I’ll focus on pure benefits that accrue, often in the future. Newer inconsistencies never bother w/ governance of the governed! Wouldn’t you know they show up anyway, in an infinite series w/in each day’s essay test. (Or from another angle they are the series, livin’ history over, as we have heard.)

As you were.   

(The acting chief of staff so responded.  
Suspiciously correct.)
There were deleted utterances refilling thought balloons with peacock fat.
Such pride and conceptual enormity was hooded — a dirge of a term  
that cannot be considered in terms  
of checking cost or averaging all that, 
since one’s intellect seeks damages. Puffed chest with no forefinger.  
Take my shoes to the concert or even sooner.
I may have torn up the text (though torn only from my mind — you backstroke, swim and still float around in my semen).


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.
Down Maine. Wondering at an anomaly,

I write in my nature/head. Let’s hold a séance! 
I snare us Joy to starve a fever. Is it raining? 
Seven rooms (usually) with clay-toned physiques 
fighting the relative fight waving, receding on one another 

— everybody under an influence indoors, which is filthy. Snow!

A foot of snow from the window. Laps of water are filled with light, snow rotating in reverse as if knowing how to purify offspring & manage forever in lurches of nibbling torque adjusting into days.
55: Nor aside, a period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity,  
a living record. Nor against death can we outlive our doom advancing slowly. 
Not marble nor rhyme so move.
 Yet the fun workout once was of a soul, a tone beserk.  
So why am I dwelling on posterity like a warrior groom?  
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than all that, still brighter than all the wealth coming into this poem...  
You and I find room in our prospect, oblivious, uninvited — statues overturned, and we brought guests — death and memory. I...   
Even closer now in death’s eyes, I burn with quick fire for wearing out memory’s velocity — I’ll not speak nor ask (or shall I ask) more, should I?   
War wastes time, a powerful judgment at rest and at work.
Never forget this is a musical.
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.
‘The snowflakes are protesting..’
— Fox News


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’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.
See, is it a pigeon?
It’s a true albino!
Incandescent, I was thinking. It’s hard to pick up ornithology or meanings of jazz composition — also, a table for the counters of instinct and learning in the shortness of thought. Then there is objurgating.

As I’m happiest procrastinating when stairwells mesh and go nowhere between you and expulsion, for the hole in my cohesion is closed.

Turn here, there’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, submitting to your own perks.
Sentiment can be taken out. 
Nothing to it. So a redraft prompts free-ranging inquiry tho tentative (after all) regarding the understructure. Putting it down in a memo, we have a relationship to more than fast thinking. Not merely an investigation but unimpaired pursuit. Rough sledding 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, you’re like most trouble shooters — happiest procrastinating, indexing suspicion and lodging complaints..
11: 1st choice for a sonnet: to solve you for x. If you must, be rude, foolish but coalesce;
An x factor takes up our lives for yours.

We feel bursts of fresh blood, increased by your wisdom and living endowment.

Wait. Later, with or without x... it’s growing cold here, a waning world away...

But so like-minded so fast —
We convert life to folly ..

The world you call yours we make featureless, barren.

Inky smoke releasing a genocidal collage, living
Thought in waves agitated, reproached, disappeared
In drumming opinions subtracting best practices —
Look for nothing thereby to help harsh times that should cease.
Cold freezing nature, per se, nature will age, perish, decay.
But we keep x in mind, cherished love..
The more you and yours live on .. we are given life back .. what you give.
We break for the Beijing Olympics. Secret ballots have to float free to find an atheism of situation (rap), steam and rush-formatted white sky disappearing like factions of multiplicities (an ear for sax). Rationed effects (sub-procedures) become more fearless (less indiscernible) when crossing boundaries within codes of conduct. The main event calls for open hearts, the color of glue or bone, an addiction to no one. Late afternoon to another who, like you, partakes of epiphenomenal symmetry.
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 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.”


I’m craziest when I cannot be saved. Who isn’t? Pre-existence does not pertain. Nor nonexistence when it turns to leftovers, raw as theism.

Existent secrets of satire go free of situation and structured sky, fomenting complicities (skydiving).

The you-effects (more secrets) become less fearless (more or less) when innocence, dance then acrobatics cross lines and context. Codes of boundaries. Certain crossed lines score from beneath; a fulltime hobby waxes into heavy addiction to you.
The virus is already inside us 
Hunting in a lather of swing, lacking other nouns.  
Remember thoughts?   
What if thinking doesn’t work. How do you know?   
No single body of quantum gravity can think us back,   
a trick the unexcelled Spinoza observed when lather foams.
90: Hate me now.
It’s up to pond structure to model strains of passivity onset by shore in the rear. Only don’t drop in.

The pond holds scraps and parts of nesting authority, an after-loss. Rainy tomorrow. I join you to re-reference an arrow and bow made out of many purposed m.p.h. gusts — and this is your and my body as well — a priori nil in inner life razing names of sorrow.
Have yourself a good time. I’ll have you over when political science gets to better thinking, Aldous Huxley augmented with a good bouquet, plus a full deck of historical habits among the aspirers decoding automation...
fter that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous to grab at, but for now, good talk!   
Who is this? Nobody’s first choice.  
We’re fine with “no real choice.”
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 amusing 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
Are you thinking of me? 
I used to believe so, along w/ the grossular and pine boxes keeping us apart  
opening slatternly to our former lives, a win-loss for comic, breezy  
violinists in quartets w/ silver hats — Startling w/ their jodhpurs and  
instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge.


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.
Snapping to / not snapping.

Anyway, hipster memory
is a contradiction in terms.
A shortcut to an off prediction.
Unilaterally a hipster

throws out softballs,

variously literal —
mounting a bait

and switch to chalk up

the utility of hip lingerie per se,

discreet shipping, and in
this case it won’t be serene.

Anyway, go to long love making, serene now memorizing

parallel futures on a projective plane.
Why move into anyone else’s crash test?
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.
Some time back, long before punches of text showed up on the phone, there were snores from ancestors with frequent coughs and grunts crowding together in caves. Back when our bodies taught us phonemes shrieking to signal pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition — folks like you hit upon logic that’s crazy fancy, headed for greatness in the morning. 

It’s different from the evening on and someone with hands on flame hits back. Teamwork. Our people are what make us great. 

The thick grasses go out on a date, back dabbling in craftwork while we roll thru them. All this acreage owned by production-geared landlords, prosaic at base, that is, a-theoretical, factual. Broke, misunderstood.
I could live next to a place with water views. I would continue feeling deprived per diem. 
Like smuggling triplets, ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home. High tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. on the armchair that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for another fluke look-see next door.  
I watch a dying beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!
Like no premium withholding option holders, we Americans can relax, clouding up other ideas!


Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — hints I don’t care.  
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you how we’re doing. Force the window. 
There’s a piece of karate, a fragile backspace we erase, open it to how 
turbulence’s... and your eyelid more active, blinking. A sign your  
push reaches a pull where time management is good hearted unleashed.  
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting your brow.
You won’t win. It happens fast. Less than a flash... kisses you depend on disappear. Past and present, neither play of emphasis false, soundtracks on pulleys, suspicious... these tracks overlaid w/ speech you keep delaying. I’m so sorry the music became an investment vein to punch and then pull-quote from.

Sorry, there’s a fool’s guarantee. All you’ll have to do ... 
Choose love as a buy or rental option, both equidistant from love’s defunct phenomena that travail and make surprise visits w/in quanta. (Too early to tell.)

Choosing love creates an entire platform to spin off slower tangential constructs plucked out of a big number of now-dead emotions.

Also suspicious, emulations of you both, standing up w/out sticking, detouring into aah

choo! the roof of your mouth unhinged keeping suspicion warm to the bridge of his nose.
Heedless and highly egotistical,  
Two good words; and too. 
Conquest contributes to a wonderful unanimous  
Just unnerving enough atmosphere  
— an image of awhile.
How in the ---- could we let this happen?  
Today I face thunder — how to pay for this...   
Bouncy.. apocalypse..   
My instinct when asked is to tilt back   
To the moody crayons junking a   
Civil spell check of half-soothing words   
On top uninvented heights,   
The same heights outward   
Of looking into what we stoke.
123: Lament — I defy you and your truth —

I trust only the lasting timetables born of 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
an ad hoc hemisphere where I can never forget you. Not you!
Dark energy turns out a soulful lab mix of you and me. The further we go on

Descriptors peel away, earning more penumbrae.
What a night. No problem
Expunging the storied narrative and

Ordinary one-in-a-million stuff that’s normal, believable.

Then that

Rolling out of bed far off across

Yours, just dreaming it up

Putting you in mind of a future photo realism.
Cupid, the ideal, fell out of place in a boy’s body 

but staying in the picture. Grrr. Voice changes and all.  
Happiest when stairwells mesh to go nowhere, our bodies gesturing, with diagrams: Brass band. Orderly thoughts.   
We’re going to finish them. Turn here.
Since when is / are government 


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.
Woe is paralytic. I also detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of it, even when love centers on abandon thru the sky with a body of rare happiness like popsicle rose gold in outer space — 
all of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest to seem stupid Dionysian.  
Dionysian = garish calculation, puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight. 
Outer space in theory.
I feel socialist. Rifling thru market snapshots, validating
The center 
More than any single system, a tenet of

A huge agnostic discipline 
About attitudes behind morals. 

You know this open and shut — 
But take it down again / or thumb thru 

The balance left over from a computer
Of pure tides. Inhabit the tidal brim 

To the point you don’t have to know more yoga than 
We know now — less than nothing that practically exists.
49: Let me hold you ... don’t, I’m a future defect in law against your time.
If ever that time comes within my own knowledge, no, I’ll know
love is no more or less the thing it was...
                and no cause alleged.
I raise my hand now, called to, on your part
when you scarcely greet me as we pass.
That’s how with all due respect works in both our times.
There aren’t any warnings. Tensions were apparent.  
Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam. You were saying..  
That was said. The minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switchers return to a sacred lotus position. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never happened. 
Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, nationally, floats me into the future, new windows frame up vague change, like converging plebiscites, better to pump out to the fog’s grasp.
For design resolution cross the glacier 

— unless you already live there. Take busy roads by a shore in bad translation blues, stock blacks pitched through numbers-to-be, numbers in conceptual realism, contradicting formal transport to where you thought.
High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long- 
stood. Waking up released. Populations drenched.  
A circus repatriated.


My statement is enclosed.  I’ve highlighted failures in our trance where you selected the sorrow you know, reaching total silence dramatically — tall, athletic-like aromas.  Speaking of what it’s like, impress me with your counter statements gripping me in hot water from hot springs.
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.
I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Drumbeats buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous,
drumbeats through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right,

clinging to no theory of purpose, no gift of agency to promote my case, as masking vanity becomes a park manager’s challenge.

Fizzy yet salient points soak over the water poloists hanging out for the escape clause (always the last place they look)!
To break this down, I’m always explaining the place where I work.
Gateau what’s his name is done (i.e., delivered) in a tangle of foxglove as you and I de-meadow.

A company like ours takes it into the nanophysics facility.
We’re in the flat present tense, account outlines in simultaneous perceptions —
Reciting new slang exponents as we have no major gay issues,
Making wave sounds we scout flyweights in a recursive landscape.
42: What do you need now and for what?
You may ask if I loved you.
Is that my bravo question?
Do you test, tease, defame to get the best?
I ducked his punch, closed the distance.
My loss is my love’s gain for my sake.
I told him, no don’t, I have to bolt.
Loving offense I excuse you both.
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 night we ate up the world as gluttons. Together and tender, flaming, increasing now
and then the yews’ memory subsides in green, turning dull in bright time.
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..


Check list.
Check the bill. Check it out. Don’t expect much.
Chew a bund loaf, make out with bullish dolls.
Map out roughly how to play dollhouse.
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.
Tv interview:
I still write poetry. Yet I have no regrets.
I subsist in attrition finding and picking up purviews —
The enigmatic verse syllogism under one rule is eaten alive by song layouts,
that’s the power of bounce over provisos.
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 do not.

I can’t do any better than what I’ve changed for love of you.
I’m shading my eyes with my right hand.
I step to the water’s edge.
What’s wrong with me.

The you I 
tableau-sponged I’m now waving to with my other hand.

After all, the water spackled remotely, 
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva. Anything 
to stay pure, immersed. Swimming 
synchronized with the bellicose you. I’m slinking back. OK..
I’ll leave you out.
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.
What makes chosen words dressed in black? 
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority.  
Months passed! 
Most rainbows taste like a slow motion cosmos, but we can’t look away.


This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a Zoroaster bumblebee 
clocked into life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side.  I’m certain its lack of manners, of historicity  
are flaws like vetiver too broadly smeared over its mad parka-like body.   
Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast  
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast  
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.
Libido, the big reach of the brain and new ways to be policed are on a vain man’s mind (one with any pulse); the 1st few words take on destabilizing character. I’m trying to clean this [snip] to leave enough ‘intent’ to keep me happy after I’m finished he’s finished. This is an exemplary yet limited transmission, so I’m framing it fun work, the kind that cuts straight through its own restructure creating more choppy patterns to abandon ...
23: My agent is in a rage. Imperfect
actor whose shortcomings balloon in ‘harmony’ & w/ use. 

Imperfect — love’s epistemology scampers in transparent secrecy 
in such abundance I weaken w/ fiercer ideas to leverage your silent heart.
Listen to my eyes, please. 

My dumb mien may adhere to expressive rules, 
pleading w/ you, entered into by trusting you first, always. It’s always 

your clear refinement where character offers libation, a rite
to love you, and act on my own might to speak —
To wit, I can read and hear love from your eyes.
“Dear Hightop,” 

It saddens one to inform the boss 

she’s not serious, never is. She makes 
comparisons during sex and makes 
love checking in — whilst I live 
off the equity of a third faculty 
where the future holds — promised 
money, money that takes me over the edge.
Hate altered. 
So shall we carry on. We can’t do better. 
True physicality dwells in our minds and other matter even as  
Our hair hangs down to the ground in a consciously mixed media ceremony. You can’t throw consciousness out. It helps there’s a mating dance to appreciate what we are shadowing — working on it.   
There’s body hustle, along with cargo rips in the funnel of spacetime where uppermost thoughts burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth from a sweetheart, accompanied by addiction to risk.   
Come here often?
We’re all buckeye strong. 
Very disturbing.


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 heartthrob 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.
There’s a twisted but thoroughly staged oral tradition that’s like trail mix, so rhetorically honey-sealed and narratively palatable anyone with a few years of good high school English can have in. It’s clear long jumps and pull-ups in tone are deployed to signify irony and distance about food prep and galley stainless. The gestalt is to flare up yet relax a while, stay urbanely offhand and sound normal, not superior in any obvious way. I’ve been saving a spot for you, waist high.
Do hang on.
75: Every time I visit you in your mascara I become lucid about the fear you strike. Day by day you were food to my life. And I see the brilliant live again, sure enough, in vetted dormitories, always have, fudging abasement with rich food and neater drugs. Sorry concentrates. There you are.

Pleasure and then the transportation of souls and their wealth take place about here and now.
Nothing for me. I feel like a pursuer of no delight uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my whorl of cement paintings..

Starved for a look, now counting it best when the world
may see my pleasure feasting off you, on your dime, thus, on / off your sight...
pursuing peace, all or nothing, with you alone.
After  you  
I went into analysis alert. Less mistaken misconceptions 
bear us shame? Facts change when the less mistaken use  
new words; plus or minus they’re so close —  
tho without the answer in a glance we’re all about to bail out, off —  
why are we even arguing!
From the moon — the world becoming flat and falling across  

The telling  

(instances of)  

Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic  

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

Rain on ceilings (of)  

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

It is (falling) across
Morton Feldman.
There is nothing like an emergent zone of autonomy to find a prosthetic artifact like lack of despair. Except when you think it over.


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.
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. A.I. ruined everything.
I know where I am going,  
gawky, rattling my enormous will.  
I know where the caged bird sings.  
Philosophy is ironic. 
Shy of seduction  
I worry about a bigger family.  
Like Clint Eastwood we were shifty.  
Once. What was that all about?
35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.

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

You are a triumph.

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

Roses, grieve no more.. nor silver fountains, clouds and eclipses!

Good-bye everything.
Do what you want. Just a few things I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I was curious  
underwater as sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. (Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.) If lost  
there’s a rule-of-thumb for chapter and verse with natural stenches & prophetic fallacies back on land...  
Clad now to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” one tenor sings. He was staring at my teeth, wondering how much they cost.   
Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”   
In this chapter I fear sarcasm.
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 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 to be  
(we note within a screened residence  
now at the end to physics-oblivion)  

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.
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. 

Check the front seat glowing with our golden characters. In other manners hold your breath. 
What about Lars?
We didn’t kill him.
                             — The Thing (2011)
Our last owner had an understanding with multiple staff. 
His happiness washes up in our candy bars and cudgel DNA.  
O we celebrated, beaten but breathing in what’s next.  
We have a most advanced gene distribution system.  
Try to look better. 
31: You remind me of lovers gone. The morning crew, weathermen
Waving arms over their hidden forecasts in naked patterns —
This was their 1st stab at tantrics, due many now.
They merited love trophies — now all 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-in loving you.
There’s a container for every passion. 
Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off  
socio-economy floatable within, once  
regarded in wholeness, its contours  
beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough  
though meaner beyond its whereabouts..  
I guess it’s pointing to us.
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.
“I’ve got to get back to the city.” Why bother, Buddha imitator? you’re guileless, a pious, ethereal hulk in a collapsing bug life. You sneaked your junk across the border just to release your frustration, verbally sneering at no place to go in a natural voice.


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.
Hot wind becoming sullen, backs into a slurry, plump, downy evanescing into fluff. The slurry rises above dropped gardenias. As if affixes. It’s dead-on in our notation. No helium released — thrown in reverse in spring — no trees light up. All months away! Better to heal resentments buried back in isolation again. Hot wind dumps more camouflage for everything in open trucks falling off, not flying up like 2 sorts of woodpecker that popped by while I was there.
To resist extreme sobriety of the autodidact, bouts of hedonism are recommended under the guidance of loving doctors, nurses, others beyond family and school though you can try your luck there too.
22: Inside you

The mirror shows a raiment of sorts — therefore
so long as your youth cover me & your ...

breast live in mine
— praise & the opposite grow acrostic, seemly rife, stirred by your beauty
for days. I grab my pen and clamber over to write down hearsay bearing your heart
(unrehearsed washes of shadows at you will)
where we’re coupling to eclipse dated soundtracks, fixed in air, true in love. Expiators.
Don’t we have an escalator to take (to meet up)? 
Gavel to gavel hours and hours wasted turning the spit.  
What we do converts to personality and stunt-craft.  
What we have to feed on is open discourse W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please.  
(This soon after a last breath, is it safe to mention Yeats?) (Maybe not.  
I frighten no one.) Some of us are too profoundly false to save the day.  
Tho not all of us refuse to understand further (to meet up).  
It’s natural, a picnic in the wilderness.  
The wilds... on all floors.
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.
It’s here. Tedium released, the admonitory tableau sponged in saliva — ecosystems thrown in reverse with hotshots to bang triangles, hybrid collisions playing junk ballads within a migratory pattern. The honest joker is emotionally unwound, one point...

brain-body fiber pierced, two... sherbet dolloped. I’ll be right down.


Skilled decor, de-simplified or 
wholly in contretemps between science and who knew?  
ironic technologies with no precedent —  
passing one to another.  
A corporate hold across a matrix of manners and adaptations, restrained praxis and hermetic syntax.  
Nice beachfront.  The sky
amuses our ears and eyes, there are so few  
and fewer bonds with the mouthpiece, semiotics doubting itself (if only a little)  
— ‘whooshed’ seems an absurd referent and then less  
and less so, here and there.
I will think in porn titles.
Levitation thru words was modulated. They wanted it. Modulation is like coming out to play, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact beats and multiplying ententes of what we were doing before the procedural took hold. 
Then we are off, clouds keeping our eyes not far off the ground.
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.
It dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for generic consensus over these flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions made of paradoxical tissue.
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole sector before repro-ed onward.

Purely offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.
Can we straddle the divide among convention, unattenuated sense-making & sorting through out-of-brainier skyscraper experiment?
Every Harvey Keitel film substantiates you may have a gun, you could be reaching for a gun, or you could just be, in essence, fronting.
I’m drunk on history, empathy, bounce. Or plans change.
Kitty was homesick, having lived off nice things. Not now, it’s daybreak —

Conditions look staggered, off-ivory — wanting K (I do), a profane absurd Rubik,
not out of calculation, yet how far & vast connivance
liberates K to oppose purring put aside thought and its scent.


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.
The full amount is not enclosed: So this is not the other day. And I don’t envy fair days or foul — it’s interminably raw.

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

Between waiting, not wanting, untrimmed desires crowd out an undercover, captive thought pattern shaped through long derangement oiling up baby..

at the eye’s edge of clemency.
Social progress is in a pickle, a big abnormal mess, a product of our time. It wins all the half-eaten take-out on the table. 40% of obdurate hardly-ever voters like you and me. And how long can you live folding up conversation, shadows unused, perpetually minimalist verging on filth and circumstance? Who isn’t in one?
66: Simple truth miscalled simplicity; our work out here begins to spin. Like the blind we are disabled by authorities who wiretap secrets weighing nothing in, no credit, no ripped off melancholy, nothing but misplaced honor with a substitution agreement containing you and the other you in force, pulled from inside..  and..
Can we cut to the scary part?  
Relax, beware, the law of cause and effect can be obscured as traffic aims straight at you and the other. That other you is and... We misplaced joy since sleeping on it applies love to our flesh alone. And controls our skills. Tongue tied. And I still rudely disgrace your perfection, of course. And.
I’m shading my eyes with my right hand.
I step to the water’s edge.
What’s wrong with me.

The you I 
tableau-sponged I’m now waving to with my other hand.

After all, the water spackled remotely, 
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva. Anything 
to stay pure, immersed. Swimming 
synchronized with the bellicose you. I’m slinking back. 
I’ll leave you out.
Protecting your dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that. 

I bet we have no major issues.. Not at present.

We could buy one or two now or try living on, holding toddler ropes of feeling, piling them up in the garage, tying them up with tarnished piano wire, shoddy mineral samples — stacked together like a beach chairs — stacked like old Jane Mansfield — if she sat there Jane would certainly let the sunset pitch its foam as both purchases are burning up.
Pleasure is to ethics as unknowing is to epistemology —


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.
A spider running down inside you is in response to production-vectors coursing throughout the enthusiasm industry. Continuous profits bring story-telling comfort to support well-thought-out positions, which are always in dispute, in the food chain.   
Art captive to narrative? Maybe much of it. I adhere to the same late-filing rules as you.  
Thereto art is theft by all means. All right. I’m almost a novice enthusiast. It may be years from now we’ll return to favor. 
Until then, inscrutably I shall be free of the food chain and ask for nothing.
71: We don’t remember your life, your name, for I no longer mourn you.

Like a surly, vile freeloader / poet, I overhear captions in robot clauses... giving warnings. It’s vile — compounded when I think you read this line into my thoughts. I’m the hand that writ ...and I negotiate cash for rapprochement after I’m gone. Hey, don’t worry, my next line is not incompatible with yours, for I love you so.
To break this down, I’m always explaining the place where I work.
Gateau what’s his name is done (i.e., delivered) in a tangle of foxglove as you and I de-meadow.

A company like ours takes it into the astrophysics facility.
We’re in the flat present tense, account outlines in simultaneous perceptions —
Reciting new slang exponents as we have no major gay issues,
Making wave sounds we scout flyweights in a recursive landscape.
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.
Right away we’re nimbus-wet. Dark edges must be why
Two very different outcomes equally square
What you hear w/ the you you wear & what you are.

I stake your reputation, touting
You & kiss & lap up the air in your 1st mustache sense.


I owe a debt to Christmas. 
Blindfolded angels thinking in the past — 
All mute waving back,  

Protecting us from our unknown predicates,   

Taking on more substantial roadwork, taking more onboard, putting them   

In mind of the New Year, at last.
Weight loss by design. Classification = evolutionary collisions =
Their work multiplied by adapted preferences in a prejudicial sort of structure.
You think transparent rhetoric all-purpose, all calm, but never resolved
by addiction to visceral consequence. Utopians had been right —
reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, sailors.
A note on aging.

Smacked down by a coordinate from outer space,
Keanu Reeves is not reckless, iniquitous, or anatomically complex,
though monotone to the gills like a slower yet more self-subtracted Rod Serling.
Sonnet 131:
Meeting slander again: 
A delivery system processes our facial powers —  they have many words for yours — doting, precious

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

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

Although I swear to myself alone, my heart,
our love constitutes long shots
in a thousand groans to outlast madness
and slander. And in good faith — how fair and fairer that will be.
Methods for substitution include straightforward word shifts within text that is otherwise not disruptive — intra-textual cuts and pastes, say — as well as extra-textual processing of found passages, more often now digital copy and hybrid processing from search algorithms, remixed with other types of found or authored material.

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

Panicked, we stood and talked it over until, with Trump-ish aplomb, his stand-in lifted his hand and pulled at the tarp and showed it to us.
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.)
Waking hay feverish, bona fide stuffed up 

— Standing across Jimmy Lotuswept, 

You’re just altering my whole outlook! 


Info-tainments advance by themselves, lovely distractions, shooting the steepest mountains w/ slime. Thinking back, they segue to riveting motions in our self interrogation — commuting to work where we share high fives & broker a plan!

The cross-hatching allowing ancestors to exchange a few xenogenetic traits for others, has just about run out of steam. We’re left wondering, once more what there is about this plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to.
Should we have
a message?
We’re talking to what must be figurative breakpoints with fate & fate’s consignments. Example.

Just kidding
Empty messages remember nothing of detached
sensory esotericists. Acreage &

Vault-loads of cash tho grant fame & no literal disapproval.
We have a message.
A politic paranoia recommended for staying cool & stable in an
emotional tri-level.
Tv interview:
I still write poetry. Yet I have no regrets.
I subsist in attrition finding and picking up purviews —
The enigmatic verse syllogism under one rule is eaten alive by song layouts,
that’s the power of bounce over provisos.
Levitation thru words was modulated. They wanted it. Modulation is like coming out to play, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact beats and multiplying ententes of what we were doing before the procedural took hold. 
Then we are off, clouds keeping our eyes not far off the ground.
46: Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions
like unforgettable elements
in our sight, touching and holding the
moment, dividing it with
illusions of taking off for the
unknown, a mortal war
spinning or spun / upset / out of control yet
just outward parts of how our eyes impanel freedom and my rights
to your fair appearance, to your quests and thoughts, your inward heart.
On mortality,  
I’m a big baby. That’s b for clarified as black-and gold pelage, married and vulnerable, exploring reiterations of my own duality. Yes, I’m a dyad.
I’m alive feeling the swansdown of DNA. Soon I’ll be comically dead — that’s married to a triplicate database — sinking into forest behavior, giving up meat, fish, emotionally shot ..  devoted to seamless disproportionality.
Down interiors. And nice platonics. The he /
she schema proliferating a fable
between acts of spinning themes, code hier-
archies, text over image, or is it susceptible to automation?
Political direction gets cluttered in secrecy with a corolla of shock. 
Sometimes my thought wanders from the epicurean, no?  
No, hear this family man out, the value of terror is epic. How about blood in the waves? 
Joint damage. Same thing. 
Then fishing for pain I drove off the roof and am planning to escape now on foot.
Peace, justice, ecology, all uplifting.  
That’s not to say there’ll be any food. 

But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently.. just recipes for dogmatism...


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.
High sensitivity equals high urgency. I felt something.

The hollow inside is mixed up, the survey said 

overlapping symbols’re happening way out in the ocean. 

Your ocean. Your breathlessness. My Weimaraner

tilted sideways and holy as he is he destroys
our bed, bad faith and whittles the consequences.
Here’s another invidious comparison. Confucian poetics, unlike most of ours, deliberately chooses lexical anchors that can be readily translated to other languages (and cultures). This appears limiting since the deliberation is a constraint, for most of us. Nonetheless, the strategy presumes no professionally trained or hip readership needed to follow the broadly universal epistemology. (Historically the in-the-know or hip presumption gives meaning to specific tropes that are nonetheless encapsulated by the universal — hipness segregated within the hegemonic radius over the long run, clocking in with a short (2, 1, close to minus and counting) shelf life for tropes and their reception over time. The surface warrant to the comparison, perhaps: Overspecification evolves into ‘period’ samplers, quaint accents.
High middle of the road church service.
Bring on Alan Simpson.
104: You’re fair to do this, my friend. Etc.
I saw both of us stop actual dials, reset the pace. Danger, for one,

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 sounds better.
If not, burn for me, friend. Hues balance in your greener motions,

since.. I have seen shaking fear and beauty from your eyes.
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.
Post-cogency, you still doing that? That’s what’s long about sadness,
the real overhead. Lost time, money. A sky of ice cubes for what party in sleep?
When I leave, I’ll take no
memory for a drive. And just the sardines.
The cat owner in me is unknown to me,
permeates me. Consequences...

Lost time is sawed off from a vast range of gravity.
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.
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.


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!
Don’t take it.
That ordered a way of not answering the phone.. poof.. ..
A command now nearly lost.
I’m bipolar from the past. Sell it. You know. What hat? What?

Just like putting the call off ..
We can make a poem go mute.
If it doesn’t speak, we don’t have to pay it as much.
A world-less deaf-mute.
That’s how unclear the past becomes.
Back in the day when the fair-minded had complex appetites,
when pragma-morphism brainstormed about innocence

— in the larger context there was no recidivism except in fashion.
A song about innocence was a meta proposition.
Song: Blushing breaking news..
One time I was inconsonant. Or..

I was found holding a grand lodge of doing-splits glossary.
— why

Does a face arrest?
You had on your fabulous eyeliner from a while ago. Cunning
Thing is everybody had it goes without saying a probability before
The news

And all of us now are blown away
Getting wind of the Red Wings.
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
..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 the cure?
When you got up your voice was 
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling  
Flat into a dust-up of 4 dimensional motes.   
I don’t know how motes, much less how 4 dimensions rush   
And flounder into mountains. I only heard   
Vibrating = Sturm und Drang,  
Dust controls anger / how severely narrowed minds are wed.
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...
There was a boom in robots once.
Then Alexa came along.


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.
Cocktails, 4:00 pm. 

Dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflecting gritty, highly-trafficked back alleys of jinx, beaming seduction and violence.   
Are you healthy enough for this perfection?   
One is a little off, ok — speaking the usual way subverts expectations.  
A stencil of our dialog frames many others  
As a thought pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.
Obsessing over you the sky squeaks w/ common sense, folds into dreams.  
Comic lit finds it has a square shape, after all, bolted down in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for competing raiments.   
There is an interpretation to this nightly misfortune (all ours). Dream flights are tight. You can’t find your story in a void or crescendo: And the cost?   
Well, all right let’s not.   
Where are domestic metaphors anyway? our rooms have even less to say..  
Tho, when I’m feeling it, going out and doing text metaphysically .. 
.. I get where I was.
Sonnet 38: 
Damn, can’t complain, when my muse  
left we had a subject..   
Next to nothing, also a white winged crossbill  
went berserk — notes on wet bubbles — of curious worth.  
To invent takes in here and now  
— who’s so dumb when everything is the right answer —   
You yourself once came up with this argument  
— breathing now you pour into my verse!   
And you give invention light outliving you and me  
rehearsing, calling on you, bringing thanks to you.
There’s no one way to degrade-ultimately-destroy capital. 
Try feeling polyphonic with an uncapped fortune, reflecting what you did when your adolescent backbone iced up, raising all boats, all social levels.  
Our greatest fear is going deeper—  
That would kill our real parents.  
They’re dead already.  
Hence the family corporation is casually hidden  
and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.  
Solitude, confidences, you’ll earn times in the day,
the plays and jungle, many in a series —
The local is inside you, sang P Seeger and B Creeley.  
First heard this when I tossed my head and rode  
two feet, pawing the ground before a gallop.  
As for my consultant that day, he shook  
the bed, broke his baby toe, 
That much as ‘the way things were’ stay the same that one day.

Auto-electrocuted. But calmed down. No more tv, sore thumbs. There’s a dual nature of justice going around in “resentment and forgiveness” with high notes we won’t deflate. A muggy, fantastic soprano, jittery, active against the grain. She reaches a point at which the point director is traceable.
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.


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’d heard a heart beats faster waiting at ease. Wait time takes ‘full effect’ without attachment to addictive capital, party hacks. Time to get off.

Fear, clarity.. This is an edit. That’s as close as I have to lush, less certain, too-ennobling a pulse.

First rain. It’s what’s put back.
Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping net neutrality w/in regulatory gloom of purgatorio as perceptions of different possibilities bolt out of town along w/ the best halo effects and feelings. They’ll come back. 

It’s nice finally to put a class of face to the humiliating covered breathing. 
Today, every day, open censorship is going to be there, 
filtered, unfiltered as long as it takes.
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.
We enjoy our squatter’s rights. 

We never forget and we do not forgive. Even tho we’re too fat to have insurance, our moms have always been supportive. Viruses are like that. The wind too. Shivers of a sigh, seeming to glisten in black ice, I made messes all over the nestling ground to suit a creative purpose, balancing running around everywhere and getting lost and then explaining the gorilla mask as a prior condition.
My friend ran away with his silent partner 
who stole my identity, whirling flecks. I’m trying 
to look at it from your point of view on your way to my lawyer’s office.
The current balance resumes its burly teachings. 
Candles out, pie for the asking,
no funk about clauses over boats. Still uneasy with beer. 

It is possible to get homesick crafting with macaroni. Of course.
Heavy-lidded, an escort’s sensibility, “everyday” reality (as if I know any — )


How far? Rub it in.
Think or don’t think of it as conspiracy of/in the sun

in/of an exponential committee afternoon.
Your mellowness operates transferrable accounts.  
As it were. Yet it’s shameful to work for the state, wearing kilts no doubt. How did Paulo Freire alone stand, pause and brush back his hair? others like him looking up like flight risks? To keep going we find little or no compromise.  
The music seems headstrong but we’ll give you a call. 

“Great ... I’ll just hold...”
A few minutes ago there were brighter shadows.
They’re on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part scribble / disassociation.
I can hear a voiceover operating malware prophesies humanely.
Another voice stacks pessimistic ideas like alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.