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.
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.
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.
The back office is an eyesore, assembly required. It makes itself think...lets itself think... (It’s a coin flip.) I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems. Thanks for the memories. You ruined everything.
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.
There’s a cool 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.
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 escaping 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.
That slap in the face harder to explain now — a waste of energy on a streetcar..  
Traffic jammed under the apartments — tropic action — wallops 
W/ a cruel lemon sliver caught in my nose, pairing up past reason,   
Romeo and Eurydice. Just a wedge. 
73: One will die; one will see all sunsets fade to ashes of black. 
But I’m leaving the night choir behind. Awake making love with you at day’s end where yellow leaves still shake blowing past bare boughs and dusk, glowing, seeming content, consumed, consuming to expire.   
Death is a nominal fallacy like twilight now: To love you as if that’s true... and stronger — that’s my late take away. I don’t understand cold fire this time of year even in the west, where the sweet birds sing, by and by sang, etc. 
Keep an order to begin —
Is it the level approach you’ve taken

Erasing most of marketing, any

Specificity that appears normal?

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


Wok breakfast, man, a broad-armed chef
Standing off across my

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

Until I know you from a prior flossing.

Hot sun, cool air, and no clothes.

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

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

Yep. I’m not picky. I’m trashing blushing shame / anthropological-foam-bearing puffiness, that’s all. There. Chucked.
Space time. Whole minutes, days. Slash pauses.  
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /  
not while angles of light are brawling over taking us home.  
Vaccinated, a merciless itch, what is this collapsed satori we travel into?   
Passing though with amazement the X+1 “casting  
of cities,” thinking past us, pressing against me.
We’re enormously self-disciplined torpedoing expenses when it’s cutthroat & officially sanctioned.
Getting a pulse, fixed pupils, dilated. Don’t try this without the others ...