Variation : prototypes, scars, male processional battle 
gear, skye terriers, background media & sexual  
exercise under conditions surrounding our desire  
to adapt compliments for insurgents to go dark enough.   

That’s how you hang staring in the mirror —  
A few of these items won’t balance  
until you think a way to scan your proceeds, listening until you  
stage the best into stressed & refined inelegance.  
All informal — creepy — with eyes half closed.
Lilac is a devoted zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it. 
So a redraft prompts special inquiry, tho tentative, after all meaning of structure. Putting it in a memo, we sleep with a relationship. It’s not an investigation but inquiry. Rough seas but you’ve been on deck long enough, you know how we leverage missing you at a time when it’s least expensive. Data diving. I’m happiest procrastinating, indexing suspicion and objurgating..
48: One only care, a trifle..

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

Tho a treasure you are left prey
Of tomorrow’s falsehoods before the fun starts.
But your thirst all for it, all arms.
I feel you over my chest, my dear care, you and I playing a best-of-vulgar, thievish
Long shot in a pleasure ritual for the true prize outlasting how we come and part.
It’s snowing, nothing personal.
Further out clear descriptors peel off like spiders
descending, moaning nonentities (the Ralph Vaughn Williamses)

hustling all the time, awesome!
This is off season & with these swabs we are free to cut nothing down.
Not even a con anarchist.
Under pre-season conditions, a mad(wo)man’s or tyrant’s thoughts wash over time —
For starters: Does one test, tease, defame to extract the best from competition?

& the answer in another season whenever that is if ..
.. is it time or times?
Gardens hold what is commonly loaned.
Meeting here feels like preparing our cabin in the launch.

Bad behavior, showing anger, the beginning of learning — more easily understood as work- 
permitted off time,
she’s too many promising variations like this citrus ring where sawdust

hell tore past our pungent sentiments often for hellbent pleasure
while we’re thinking otherwise over a brunch.

Very late it began to be less cloudy.

Lamps buzz daubs of sound, almost a lotion
to countermine blocked views.

Her neck and collarbone burning
to show their softness. Her hair seems progressive and cimarron.
Meantime we’ve moved off the mainland. 
No unknown futures present newer phenomena, fenced off.  
We have no perverse incentive to take more chances as we talk thru our replacement woods.  


Language + materials referred to, dimensions variable. Dimensions variable. That’s the ceci n’est pas une pipe part. I’m one of those hoarders of history, picking out, piling stuff in the garage 
(of accessible language), keeping barbed wire and Ted Greenwald materials reconciled like chairs.
We invented the night birds.  
Had to. What we thought we understood  
they enjoy making ‘dumb-  
great’ from the top  
terminating in celebrity stalkers, gawking in peers’ backyards —  
Following orders so conditions inflect non-criminal immunity  
to sudden desire with intimacy.  
Inessential consequences of my behavior are writing.
I’ve got a pet name for my tongue. A jerk.

Surely as there’s a drumbeat in the heart of theoreticians, there are lightweight near-truths about their achieving access to felt qualities.
Jerks’re brusque. Their new job title, urgent. More house to watch ahead for sober handlers of airedales w/ no equity motives. But I’m underhanded getting to axioms we can manipulate;

no right, no wrong?

or / & like crustaceans you & I give in, to forgetfulness, according to an eclipse.

Our gabfest takes place over the fields for each of us in the multiverse
up in a weather balloon holding beef jerky.
17: We don’t want to be a second late — I’m hellbent to get you down on paper, to write the beauty of your eyes where numbers number all your graces (even as poets lie) — hidden with half the story in time to come.

Tho my paper yellows with age... by your grace you should live twice. Yet who will believe these half-true touches are living parts of you without touching proof, without your offspring stretching all the way into the night, keenly inanimate now tho alive all that time.

You say no way, I only half like it, bleh! / This poet lies
...lies, but no less truth than earthly tongues filled with living rights to an antique song...
Unfinished sculpture. 
I am is still here, the body’s heroic purring could not be put off. (One hush dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).


Language + materials referred to, dimensions variable. Dimensions variable. That’s the ceci n’est pas une pipe part. I’m one of those hoarders of history, picking out, piling stuff in the garage 
(of accessible language), keeping barbed wire and Ted Greenwald materials reconciled like chairs.
Spell it out:
Crucibles, dignity of appearances don’t mix. The dirt on this is your
personal, sustained concussion version of unintended charity... 
or untended or..
But here’s a perfect ‘out’ —
How lost on the trail? What trim?
We’ll word process away impetuous, costive, unflappably happy,
brusque — the donor’s shimmer a blazer of complacency. And so better.
Leaves us crying for the boinks in your pleasure, O
and little to pay you except wait.

And what’s the charge?
I don’t know that much about you [hi.. ] but you remind me of someone
Who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far off, quelling torture.
Half a day goes by and

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

Pull over, [hiccup] this is serious.
Soft fear and recurring despair, the flip end to formalism ...
Refrains in descending order of indefensibility...

(a) Poetics is democracy.
Ablative evasion throughout autocratic poetics, as in general prose, foregrounds style, motive, subjects for closer attention.

(b) Friendship is a job (like comp) and, more elevated, craft (signing). To illustrate, job is to craft as field praxis to theory that kicks a singing agency when the agent is down. Don’t get me wrong I hold free speech is nominal. I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend (that’s down). What’s it? There’s no workaround to the observer influencing the observed except later, much later.
145: A fiend’s tongue taught me to greet then end each day with nothing woeful, nothing sweet —

Once I don’t hate you 
I find mercy to renew my argument and sing.

For your sake, I hate hate.
I see chidingly day follows night...  your lips’ gentle breathing, a languished state yet explosive.

But today I saw your hand in my life ... a great doomed sound altered, flown away.. I’m totally saved, from heaven to hell, flown straight to your heart, Jezebel, never to hate, “not you.”
Realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio” 
I am touched by everyone now alive,  
softest jazz, lower right, his lips moving up, down,  
talking design shit.
His father’s image contains everything he knows. How can a bantam weight =  
feigner? his dad asked in freeze frame over the mirror phone.   
(Dad’s next book is staring out the window, saved-up.)  
Amusing I suppose. With regard to static and its ovoid, stasis  
in a compulsive battle over the ultimate smiley face —  
it’s not just who grinned first (dad) that counts, but also where  
and how. This’s my tongue giving his lips (the son’s) a brush up  
realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”
What can be done to language? I register nothing. Never again? 
Boredom is poor experiment, our knobby supervisor said. And that’s what we wrote down to snap out of it — lightness, joy, eyes-open dream. And 3rd cousin to dream: Knower and known are clean osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the suitably flared reptile frontier.  
Time I guess to air-lift foolish eagerness and cover it with worn Keds and Swiss Army knives. I’ve been a floater of cynicism in relation to any concept I sever. (It’s hard for me to take credit.) “It’s always about dying,” btw, “never death.” After dying, the process is plugged to death, a ‘never,’ as in never never.

I consider head scratchers neurolinguistic balloon product managers. Once or twice removed.
Prayer behooves you, it often says. Prayer for those who talk shite no longer pray. I hope you are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one. 
That’s an outline. 


Fact: eye contact is more defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense that’s forbidden. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making patterns to and from alterations sited within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.  At the same time I’m forgiven I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)
Concision in detailing method is a catamaran of process.

This is how morning began.

Getting there we wait in long lines for Twain. The Thai are hardly speaking. I turned to a companion and asked if he was interested in how poetry’s put together.
He thought about pure things as style surrounded by syntax. All at once.
69: Kind eyes are deeds.  That’s the world’s outward view.
Other parts of you I can measure watching you bathe  
crowned in tawny daybreak synthetics.  
Others in common accents commend your beauty in seraphic white.  
We’re all right! Two more loiter, intent.  
No smiling. We’re wearing harnesses w/ panoptic properties 
extending our blood-pull orbit toward the camera.  
That’s outward praise.
This could have been a sonnet for all lit bares within
visual poetry. I never use that word now.
In better versions through algorithm, pathos =
appropriating outsourced research.

A nonempirical approach compels argument where I’ll...

I’ll try for an overweight blunt invention
of the non willed state, or what some call civil

efficacy for streamlined intake. Soak up the view.
Dispatched for 
subjects of desire in another sense, an echo  
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible  

July light  
and suddenly just theory  
awing in a wolf’s regime,   
There’s brush  
fire toward mosquitos — shot  
through the throat, asking too much 
..dropped by my boyfriend,
we all do dark things sometimes...


It began as parallel ideas. 
I was saying Harry Partch’s gadgets and impulse intersect  
An immersive ocular apparatus, thumping  
W/ the capacity to recognize infinite series  
As a glow that’s cool and regular.
Beside Panker observation tower, from which one can see in good weather the far over Baltic to Danemark, the Forestry House Hessen Stein lies.
In former times vertikal foresters got their Ausbesserungen along with sailors for a Senkrecht. From that forest messengers with sailors on Hessen Stone glow.

Today one can eat excellently and jazz friends here come also.
Sonnet 100: 

Muse. You.
We have spoils subtracting song 
— idle song converted to argument 
with little or no honor, yet sings to the ear.

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

Return! you: your fame and skill redeem our fury within what time spent, 
if not, we’ll love only vicariously, a despised waste of life in satire.
To commune sounds handsome, also calm, also a bit bendy. In the same call he reverses prerogatives — or his voice does. (I’ll table the difference. Each.) 
“Cloven, we are incorporate... ” 
His message mixed but never better aligned. Together, all across our call center (our hideout), learning the ropes, perusing scraps and parts of hope.  
No fins of infinity. Nope.   
Halloween patterns clenched exponents where attachment is rimmed.  
We have no major issues.  
No shady aftermath inter-scope.   
And to think a way out, we can blur the ground and yield authority to a bowl... really a vase. Sit and watch dogs turn smoky brown tracking vans in drizzle, tarnished from sight, playing against a stack of storm windows, within a composure for light a translator can’t reach.
A portrait should be backdrop to it. This one of you in the back. Undressed — except for slacks — up-waisted like Updike. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back — 
Not out of calculation) — I now know this will be ok conditionally 
For big amounts ashore are fudged — we can watch it come true to one side — tempted by re-mechanized perils, untested, untried.
Nothing better rubs me back within its reach. It = your grasp, my central aggregate.
Prayer behooves you, it often says. Prayer for those who talk shite no longer pray. I hope you are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one. 
That’s an outline. 


Socialist by nature, cashing in analytics, 
Not sure discourse product pertains. 
But reading or composing usually subverts expectations.  
We’re dealing particles of thought paying homage  
To finding a subject,  
Finding how nature moves discourse from oversight.
After glamour there’s revisionist power. The virus is already inside us, wo-  lfed down improv crap, we’re pre-wired or is there a fee? 
Radiance now is the lather of swing. Remember deliverance?  
“What if it doesn’t work. Then what?” Everything works. 
In any time and place of our choosing: Act gathered, nothing there.  
True love is a physician with a way of relapsing.
Anima to Anima, you couldn’t be ruder.
The door to the exchange left ajar

Fizzy purviews haunting what hang around samples from The Inferno. A wave beats my eye off.. Structured improvisation vibrates thru volumes of time. I’m chatting up my repressed side to save us from scrapping our early decisions. The charge is to fail to remember the (mission) exchange.
Sonnet 40:

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

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

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

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

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.
Not you.
Pantoum: given a key, you lose it
  — shifting your attention but staying in touch. 

I forget functioning ghost towns caked with tire tracks; 
I draw a blank on hothouse interiors and decades of Tonka trucks... 

[...there is no outside [...] only what’s already here [what we breathe] below, which is 
Immature, impulsive...] [as above] 

— I forget empirical relationships the most, the visual force of 
                                       a “mottled taxonomy,” 

Complaints and sworn declarations, 
I forget missing you. 
This is a.m. color I propose: Q-tips & smoke. I can pick you up, take a day off 
                   from everyone standing  
physical & prime for the stress of relays between a rat race  
                   & security IF  
you can trust an opposite sketch,
my 3-D models are you & everything else I can be w/ w/out you
Reach out touch base break the silence


Vacation. A violet mist. 
This is prison.   
(You have the evidence. Ugh!)   
Losers = worshippers of their detractors.  
Heaven is in our hearts with an eggdrop of credos and documents, from which large scale dull instruments get tossed.   
We drink to our loud mouths.
What’s curious style? 
Engineered simplicity holds tho 
Taken whole:  
“Give in, dig it.”  
(There’s a new policy to highlight deletions.)  
I’m waving on the wave’s behalf,  
Taken your lead. Word processing in Palatino sans 
All the time, staggering prose!  
Tomorrow I’ll  
Tap out more deletions I forgot to close —
Psychotropic bios diagnosed as bare truth- 
Stratagems. Siphon starters. Add the rank  
I confer on the next available beauty, living and perhaps dying with one  
Until he goes broke — summarily I’m screwed of what beauty was.  
I center then on perception (for another purpose), sustaining losses out of irony.
Granted on a more personal note, I maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic for one more time.
The place was firmly democratized, sir. The beginning seemed and was
interpenetration among important parallel scenery et cetera running this. Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush nimbus-wet in devotion to their next decimal of the scenery. This might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads

and let you know when.
Sonnet 93:

Better to live more as love may near
— supposing I’m in many ways a deceived husband. So?

A coterie of enablers cooperates fully. For both of us,
a love interest is altered to look calculated.

For there can be no hatred in our eyes.
Tho, facing true love, the early light seems to
Urge us to go out, rehearsetoo much and get wasted, frowning, growing moody —
Eve’s apple was Adam? One love’s face? You and I cannot know.

What have we if our heart is in another place?

Reading back: Defense owns — there seem — accents — these: 
such on put days, our 
moving & light, puzzling in place 
of morning winter smiles .. a chorus 
Emerges which on canvas .. 
noises w/ filled silence .. 


Here’s a proposition. Start over. Compelling work toasts knowledge construction — in the plainest speak — as well as finds, explains & reforms infinitesimal times-spaces. Your optimism is required (a) to keep everything open for reform; (b) to understand we are beginning the work, always. 
I added frontal motion to the story about those looks that intimidate, m’lord. 
Visual surprise comes with an infrequent snow flake or ember 
floating down to our nose level. That’s cool — creamed just for sleeping with you, blackmailed..  
wandering into the new wrong theater guild  
chopped into little squares of hypnotic drumming  
and massive parallel vistas projecting smiles and feeling 
invisible. Totally insane. Libido.
Your search had no results.
The time is split into categories of use for your work and for the sinister about-face of a system download added to our labor.
A life sentence for causing a ruckus.
Call when you’re ready.


Landscape — Antinomy in its own time: I should know. Something after poured out, dazzling its double structure toward filling empty assembly boxes you were bound to organize. 

Losing steamy light downstairs. And nevertheless you were rushing then pausing over more optical symmetry. An interim for you, pushing up and out. Before we got laid. There is little point now to hold back (cremate) a fixed melody tonight unless there is nowhere else. 
There emerge big panels observing basketball’s behavior.

No more can be threatened during silence at halftime (the sleep aisle). Fever, ague, intemperance, neurasthenia, the flu, the common cold, all would be otherwise more alarming.
So the panels keep watch and discover galvanizing their technologies turns overall survival into phenomenal physicality conforming to laws of odds, enhancing their final four values.
147: The float seems to learn amour’s fever is a disease  
as desire is death, unwelcome overnight: 
“The float is radiant, jammed with wares,” 
had we anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I been  
eloquent as to the radiant as well as to the sickly, the bright
— we’d need no captions.”  
Mad, a lover’s discourse throughout anticipated that base point, past cure, past care ..  
Why does reason leave me now when there’s one move to go?  
Tho vainly expressed, longing is still well fed by our appetite to please. 
I was going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension
of disbelief. There’s a flipping out dance scene like martial arts, sparkling pen-

umbrae, a pro ring barnstorming topmost
dicing / re-arranging rhythms pushed to extremes,
undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.
Here’s another centerpiece to explain how flowers are cut in plurals like progressions.
Iconoclasts count on progressions in a series, along with any allure of falling cornices
(they did).
Literally nothing was granted.
But it’s a poem.
Now months later, it’s good news
Also, since you wait to listen, not empower others.

Everything belongs hiding in plain sight, fallen unhinged, no limits. Not a one is
the point... an ornamental one; our brain / body fiber pierced 24/7, point two...

Terpsichore is still ascetic, improvisatory, sherbet hued like Erato, a voice of suspicion, hisses.
Unthrifty = extravagant; nothing = nothing. 
To traffic in deception, film your writing, take notes.


I forget ephemerality, I forget narrative. 
I’m drunk on the environment; 

I’m a working temp, a role promised Hermes that threw him over the cliff.   
A perfect station plays Schubert for a kettle of heavenly fury,  
searing, puffy, relaxed and succinct.  
Angel, let’s run some #’s.  
To pass out when we wake is ample.   
I’m at your side placing puts  
on the periodic table, a rising market in wanting you (I do).  
I forget farewells.
Japanese are fascinated by pottery. 
Any dark ceramic with asymmetrical tenets is tacit  but could be looking up at a source of light, feeling talkative..  

maintaining maximum restraint  
to engage another’s psyche.
— since we have a method for choosing paroxysms, don’t expect me after all.  
Even if we kiss later, it saddens one to inform the boss  
You’re not serious, never are.  
You were turning state’s evidence holding on to meet  
                     even newer phenomena. (The ‘stolen parts’  
To run over.) Any & all mayhem coming unannounced (achieved)  
Or root causes won’t since you & I separate thru flexible equations.  
Already saying goodbye takes us far up the jet trail! quelling fear of want-
Ing pain. You never can tell. I won’t.
28: Robbing the cradle, baby: The big picture shows me my modest place. 
I’m technically adept dining in (or out) day by night and night by day —   
(Each flatterer, the other’s reigning enemy oppressed by grumpy distortion,  
fractured logic — Hex 39 — and their debarred morbidity.)  
The while you, babe — I always flatter you in long consent —  
But daily, nightly I work on my music farther from you now,   
happy, longer toil to stronger sorrows and griefs. So we never sleep, you thru me,
exactly what the cradle requests; the place rocks.
I’m reading theses in time and opinion.  
An interpretive opera with and about hoofers. Local accents are a focus
I listen for: Ya, 
It’s a question of escalating to inhabit received logic.  
I’m retracing what I think I see, why ya, I’m 
Concentrating on a few song colors, naming touching sounds.  
Oblique preeminent sounds patrolled in symmetry like a natural body
Like yours. Pushing the most obvious among broken arts,  
Self-defiance from normal states of meagre influence. 
Ha baby.
The gist in a slurry, plump, downy evanescing took the elevator. Up buzzers rise above affixes and urgent notation. Helium released — pushed in reverse come fall — trees light up then darken amid writhing worms. Better to heal resentment buried in colossal Orpheus, the un-spontaneous summer physique. With his gift of sullen madness signing everything in burlap, compounded and oncoming in percussive isolation. The upshot. 
I like it when prose or song digs in and flails. 
That about covers it.  
( It’s that emotional core between personal and professional.)
Becoming free is a moving and intimate aria. (Like “Summertime.”) I got joy. I got sun.  

Got to run, prose.


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

Pine assembled.
Don’t care, don’t moan, lie only about what’s really
colossal — masking your vanity becomes the tortured challenge clinging to verse. And.

To vanity, tyranny’s conditional surrenderer, 
I was thinking of god’s shoplift energy .. 
Hold on, I was handed this bag of sentences. 

And this is what I did not want to say.
— never forward your resume or IQ to a date.
Crime: The noun to which much is given. 
Can you spot the q and a between shorelines?  
While in the time and motion garden, a parallel door banged thru the night.  
I hugged rugged trees in the upstart foreground, our encampment after  
Ridiculous, I guess.. juxtaposed, dative..  
Anglophone atonal fuzzy. It’s so. We know it when we hear it,  
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 back, etc. 
I’m new to housecleaning compared to you.
That’s how we have 2 arrays for work time & harmony
when we’re doing it.

The ass comment — I meant juniper
within a philosophy (of moving spatial dimensions)
a few miles per hour forward;

heated inference, compressed form, a ‘crown’ of contradictions
veer dimensional rhetoric to here with you.
Our capital is redeemable, since our must-haves change directions and they’ll barely pertain, and why should they? What’s on our minds will be low on the must list, even lower than that. Off list.
We marry. There are mantras on rustic tolerance and manners but no one has more than the allotted answers for the stumper final (newer solutions are what we have in mind!) : The last step brand.
Did I mention Wittgenstein helped set our algebraic terms? This is a dynamic factor everywhere the living supersede water towers and physicality itself, where there is no algebra, no privacy. The brand started before Béla Tarr’s close ups, his editing, his ‘border violations’ and the runtime of his films that transcended precise location and presence, running forward and back.
You read that for some at sea sex is immediate, overwhelming, terse and decisive — A thousand and one friends back in the city in a boil .. polka boats bob as tho dots, you said.  This is a loose translation, drawing on elements of your life. You planted yourself here. 
You. You. How was it to record soundtracks for an unscripted sailing promo? Was it like writing from a retrieval search with data trees leading to nebulous, chaotic deculturalization?


Let me grab a pen and clamber over here to the landmark network... you’re right, this isn’t the window for you or me. Before the heat dies, if ever, we’ll try praying in all directions and improve our math skills for our window cleaners’ sexual satisfaction as they pivot from top panes to a ringing mountain of attention-grabbing hysteria.
[adverb here] I can’t face facts. I invented the elbow railing
thru intimation, insinuation, innuendo. 
It was something I ate but stronger in overlap.
Never believe quite a theory, never say it’s conjecture.
It costs a constellation or a bundle of heart, faint of. 
Does feminism call for tricksters?)
To paraphrase ... you can’t predict 
How or even what you’ll be taking from your background experience;  there are too many of you.  
Favorite singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to having sex.
Learned consensus becomes early performance; both puerile in the present tense,
the deep pitch shows up invisibly,
unspeakably, as libido constitutes foreknowledge, glistening aimlessly.

Bruise will stop by later. 
57: I watch the clock. Being a slave, what can I do? 
I wasn’t just orphaned, I pursued other interests  
all at once. Time’s precious, 
save I feel and still show absence of movement from the inside,  
absence upon hours — a sour dare to diffuse, to expend ...  
to question my jealousy — 
So it’s taken this long to read the gospel of wealth and service.  
I dare not think of my desire at any cost to render your mouth
a world-without-end, a sobbing, precious mess.  
On the outside how happy you are ... are you? Tho this may be amiss, I
think no ill. Adieu.
I am is still here, the body’s purring could not be put off. (One dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary). 
Wrong. Constantly wrong was correct once. (Seriously? But what’s with identity.)
[can’t stop it...through 
language [going in] [out...] cheesy time lapses in which [animating backward] speech & narrative continuity become incrementally  
transformed into deep structure affixing Old Norse phonemes to nonobserving verbs.   
Now my head is cleared.   
Still if we had grounds I’d subside higher up having you weed out caution.   
I call this you leaving me. 
(abstinence aside...
We’re fidgeting, minding our semiotic manners, 
lit by mid-lunch clarity, sporting and Datonian —  
we’re within an enclosure with no pulpit, without dogma...   
breezeways to enter then exit formlets   
spreading out in willful overloads of language design —    
Skilled decor, then, de-simplified or notional mime  
in contretemps between science and who knew?   
ironic technologies with no precedent —   
a corporate hold across a matrix of manners and adaptations, restrained praxis   
and hermetic syntax.    
Nice front. Amuse our ears and eyes: why so few   
and fewer bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little)   
— it seems an absurd referent and then less   
about off-rhyme. 
core harmonic structure: call back when you want


“I don’t like it, and I’m sorry I ever had anything to do with it.”
I tend to have to agree with you.
A hobby becomes the color of dreams, silent addiction, abundance in the heart.
Does it hold the same seasonal affect looking for recompense?
I know what I need, blindfolded.

Concept this.
Your seeing life is the intervals it contains minus your presence.
Angst roughens up indulgence. 
You knew the side effects —  samples twisting. 
We’re 1/2-
there. That’s when the aliens evanesce.  
Their excruciating loneliness
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing  
basin, weeping .. piling on debt ..
We innovate through suppression.
Blushing is 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 long ago. Cunning
Thing is everybody had it goes without saying a probability before 
The news 

And all of us now are blown up by
Errors of replication.
130: If my love is rare, modesty is unimpressive.
Yet I do think my love rare — nothing like false equivalents on the ground. Nothing like the sounds growing in my head — I almost see the words from your coral red lips, smelling them, eating and breathing them, too.

I love to hear you speak.

I speak of your hair, your breast, my master, not a god! your eyes, more delight, no such comparisons come to mind, ergo, nothing like the sun.

Nothing like perfumes of yours, either — I love breathing your scent off your cheeks. And yet thru modest words our love vibrates more like music more than speech.
Poésie still kneads morals.
Authors, old timers, freely consume their own slapstick
when there’s a conceptual contingency to max, along
with requisite ethical structure to examine one’s taste level.

Now you know what to expect.

You can’t put limits on free-lance exuberant leisure
within a theoretical commune of vengeance..
Smart money on the one stiff up against the writing board.
The staff on ethics sit this out, blood-soaked inside, shaking.

O sure.
I swear while we teeter and travel further  
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts 
All our props are just to get in.  
Or I was wondering about invention of the smoking planets, sympathizing  
With a numbers crafter also the director — one of them that never fought to smoke.  
Often that’s a normal baritone and determinative section to sing:  
Spencerian, bodily stranded leaving warfare to the professionals.
Hours of frizzle.
I’m a fashion historian.


An open question. What criteria do you  
adopt in choosing poems and books of poems to read? 
Give me a textual praxis as if in and around a mansion gone wild.  
Admittedly, wild is a black hole.
The normal exec in a large academic corporation by the highway will grow up, in a flash forward, and work for Strategy Foundation, a company that parses guilty pleasures around the world. She or he doesn’t dream now — 
not any more. One’s become an energy therapist, and keeps heirloom rabbits. You see doctors learn how to say what no pet defender wants to hear. “You sure of that? You sure those were your rabbits?”
What now?
[I’m sorry]
You stuck or
Often a partner in comp can be deliberately passive-aggressive like any Pilgrim. I’m kidding for scatter.

In this one my partner is disguised as a scatterer that spies on me and others. There he goes —
stomping across borders. That is his

moonlight with the look of lard. It’s indispensable smearing a glow

down over Earth changing into flummoxed packets of energy, wearing maroon cords.
106: In love, a practice of counterclockwise is nothing at all, only sustained focus, innovation of hand, foot, lips, of eye, of brow, nowhere expressing your fairest beauty ...

all right, I lose. I’ll open in complete command of nothing, no skill to praise you.
From the outside the sky hints of hinges, bolted prophesies that you’ll master now —

I can’t waste time — we’re tethered here.

For love we’ll ingest all of you, prefiguring our present day,
inflating while we data dive, I guess

exhaling descriptions
w/ eyes to wonder on the full worth of your beauty in making beauty.
Our place: A diminished mood will be buoyed by scatterings of photos and books, many unread. More atextual sources as fodder for your new faculties for text, new ontological components for bringing up humidity composing, as well as subprocesses harder to isolate and observe as they flood into short term memory. Keep the feed in balance for two (or three or as many as you like). Liberal arts breaks further from esthetic scholasticism, inventing new suppositions for research and intimacy. After new government, wiry empirical jolts, ambiences that comprise enmeshments within a readymade mood and control structure parallel to voc ed in poetics; appliance hint: bring a metronome. 
Progress / regress: China funds high speed railroads in Africa.
Americans for Prosperity funds and wins campaigns banning high speed rail and busses in TN, AR, AZ, MI.


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

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

It was great being with you.
Or was it just me?
Like manners of ambiguity?
To buy her lipstick.


You seem spacey in snow

When you make angels.

Hiding for two hours snowing

Against the snow you’re really spaced out ...
137: Love is a blind fool among the true and false. You never see what they see. You’re wide awake thinking this through until a subfocus gets lost. You can’t see, you grow accustomed, so to speak, directly oblique : but pointedly there’s no one name escalated or united w/ the width of what beauty is! And where it lies!

Bon équilibre, someone else won’t choke (and in a common language at that), one a 2nd person, your “someone else,” comprehends. What do you say? Why of falsehood, tell me, speak to the wide world where several are over-partial to my judgment. Why should my heart do anything?

Yet I give up my weak words thinking they seem right, hack at reasons to try for more with the grit of fairer and fouler understatement, neither the worst or best.

And you know, that’s what’s wrong then. Over-partial over you I too can’t see what the world sees..
Is that how you see yourself?

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

                                waiting to come up
half in sleep,
steadfast in geometry to grant the horizon horizons, the whole body.
We chew to 1 side, noted by 3rd parties 
Superego abstractions hanging out in their unusual white corridors   

Suggesting we’re still trembling from the  

Physical act of mowing. And now  
It’s sprinkling, a brilliant backdrop adding up cruxes  
With a so called mother glossary, 2nd- 
Order noncommercial gists pitted together as cognates  
Still coming to seed and adornment,  
Half-audible ricochets hitting us as if we’re a lawn.
What’s he got to talk about beside his sack of parrots?

He’s snooty and sells antiques?


We reach back to no self and no others.
Our thoughts at this point raise magnitudes of meandering graphics, 
having left a lavish record of the male hush-from-hand-to-toes-to-mouth.  
I enjoyed it when our innocence sawed into us,  
even though sheeted in asterisks. 
Sonnet 65: 
Cultural boundlessness in impulsive concealment.. it could be a physics meditation held outdoors since last summer. Battering all night flower action evolves stronger, steelier pretexts, jewels, many out of hand.. petals and stems sway over an impregnable riddle. 
In time we hold our own, stumbling upon a miracle sonnet holding out for continuity as it were — trademarks of both natural and technical production, mortal yet like summer honey in value or a variable of beauty either way.
You’re kissing me into the future, leaving 
Circle-K muzak, oblivious to your battered carapace.. well..  
Really, we get down to heaven  
In that bucket? I can’t see the bridge,   
Only the genetic outline that subdues us  
As we see through how we feel.
As adhesive behavior, speech haha is streaked w/ extra 
sensory blather, a polite form of the hole-  
in-the-universe. Blather ornot  
                    that hole is a sometime power brimming w/ blobs trying again.   
Storylines, battle scars, vanity, 
gesso & sloppy intercourse under un-quaint and drunken conditions that surround ourdesire — counting the days  

to laugh down compliments from insurgents binding future heartbreak.
I wrote this 15 minutes ago. 
That hasn’t stopped me from modeling.


Attraction ignites thru deep compatibility,
a nonaristocratic game played for low stakes.

I’m not a prose-poet, this is reportage
and what I think I believe. A good guess is a hypothetical reach.

A good education leads to the Grand Hotel
above the empty lot cleared by Balthus.
— 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. 
110: What are resonators for but to effect command of offenses we’re uncertain of or we sold cheap. There’s nothing but our affection left, my best of love. Love’s confinement a desperate measure, and it’s true in reckless hands, yet for silent partners there’s depth to surface and mostly un-despairing perceptions (grinding teeth, looking on truth) of what won’t be contained between us. All of the above.
My position is rebirth rough-rides over what we were saying. It’s not safe to lounge at home without saying oh, wait this is done ..

I refuse if I don’t want to ...

Another matter is to structure new designs for physical combat.

I’m robust in my motives while the open field fills with sumo shapes fighting an analogous fight to operate on one another.
The sun is gray. Divided, confused. A hairpin curve.
The system is not perfect. It’s everybody’s  
fulfillment welcomed with unlocked pleasure.  A manual ok.
We set the controls; active ingredients are  
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.  
To a nudist,
It’s contradictory to insist on any spoils from letting ourselves go ... over that money issue. I had a piece in there as well. My prose seemed resonant with your “rainwear fetish,” which I almost forgot I shared. (But not with you.)


1st question, true or false. Is the last part ok? Technology keeps humming to Aristotelian systems extremes. The cigar and its plantations. It’s a manageable stretch from there to when you left, even while I ruled what went between us out. You hadn’t left a name, either. And yet, I stood closer, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. To misunderstand.
148: Denoting esthetic correspondence! it can whip you up, call you back to cunning ..  
No marvel then how love is falsehood? love’s eye can’t be true? — 
I mistake fault in my sight and fair similes for love you put in my head.  
How can the world say it’s not so,  
how can it? No ..  
I’m mistaken in my view :  blinded watching you thru tears —   
the sun itself vexing until skies clear  
— O me! You!
I’d like to thank the Academy  
and ignore X to reinforce ignorance.   
IT warned me of overrefined emblems and their sweeping reproach. Can I have a parochial amen? I’m not religious. Nor are you. But I took note of what you like from the beginning. I had a few ideas in mind divorcing you.  
Oh, tech services, tell us a little more about your miserable ontology affecting checks, balances, and mantra logjams — How did worldviews crumble into unlimited environs and potential instrumentality to pantomime the common numerator undercutting American literacy?
When you got up your voice was 
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling  
Flat into dust in many dimensional motes.   
I don’t know how motes, much less how many dimensions, rush   
And flounder into mountains. I only hear   
Vibrating = Sturm und Drang.  
The nerve of eroticism controls anger / how severely narrowed minds are wed.
There is no absolute diva in me. 
Just Power Events, long buried within 
stewardship & deity symbols 
until all of us (The What-If Losers) get to take up 
residence at the commercial registry for happiness,
slaves of commerce.


Writers are still proletarian at the start; each a lone entity in a world dominated by luxury and power groups. 

Conflicted about big money, I’ll pick up anything. There’s been a request I read corporate art management aiming to commandeer the pipeline, production to sales. It’s fairly obvious when you look at other art industries, video production, digital media, music — marketing small press poetics, like the book industry writ large, integrates with managerial acumen, a chunk of aesthetic / academic taste and decision making falling under the control of entrepreneurial influence: NEA, Poetry, Poetry Foundation, down to narrative and expository copy.
Morphology covers all bets. Scars are luxury goods. 
Drapery, French, Italian, English varieties, completes these sentiments. Yet never over stays.  
What’s next? I am a crescent metal, easy to pick up, feed and embrace after climate changes. Before that,  
to find Fra Angelico innocuous you’re as blind and innocent as any promise keeper.   
A stupid promise keeper that housebreaks within almost any sentence ..  
.. that’s a bad idea of particularity. Unlike unemployment among household heads, subsequent foreclosures = the largest causes of forcing children into poverty. Which is a true sentence that feels incomplete.
The Times suggests holding a grudge to process your pettiness.
Or poetry is like poetry. For
Clinging to one tradition, poetry is like nothing
Else in entertainment; it reveres collectivity,
Tiered access & flavors of spontaneity.

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

“Do we get party hats,” asked one rich in the tradition.
In another direction an ex-party manager
Advised a close reading of The American Heritage Dictionary.
The poetry label can be part of a headscarf, more than obvious:
Wild-eyed, one of the top tens, one makes a preparation response
Framed like all the others’.
129: That slap in the face harder to explain now,
laid to make the taker mad — a waste..
Traffic jammed under the apartments — tropic reaction — 
A cruel lemon sliver caught in my savage nose, past reason,  
Romeo and Eurydice. A joy proposed behind a dream. Just a wedge. 
The inscription read you’re my business. This means the writing is clean, architecturally intact, mirrored in meantimes. 

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

I’m just commenting. 

The inscription read you’re my business.
Some standards. (The norm is share and share.)
Shined asides.  
We pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,  
Really a vase,  
Set it, let sunset pitch in its foam, declare  
Poetry goes thru many drafts.
Our thoughts at this point raise magnitudes of meandering graphics, 
having left a lavish record of the male hush-from-hand-to-toes-to-mouth.  
I enjoyed it when our innocence sawed into us,  
even though sheeted in asterisks. 


A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a stream of gasses embossing conjoined tattoos. Outside the again-feel of an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brightened ways from air conditioning.

You, all our neighbors are mirror bees. Music up. Am I not one?
The local is inside you, sang Pete Seeger, Bob Creeley  
when I tossed my head and rode 
two feet, pawing the ground before a stride.  
As for my consultant, he shook  
the bed, broke a baby toe, stubbing it  
So much as ‘the way things were’ stay the same that day. 
We repeat there are rules to doing morning: 
Sleep in without a rehearsal,  
Coax a situation back.  
You're only human, Fu dog.

How can you care modernism, a despoiled inheritance for architecture, beguiled, diverted, is flatly unlike poetry’s pocketknife connections to the past. Apparently tomorrow is more appealing even if we know where architecture takes us. Poetry?
138: I admit I’m old. 
I knew what I needed, feeling flattered you think me young!  
I knew which falsehood is made of truth,  
how pre-December persists in others, even you..  
It’s known you lie, not to mention your suppressed subtleties, marketing  
pizzaz up and running —  
“love’s best...in seeming trust”  
— even in the new year you follow love’s good habits 
sweetly, obviously culled..  
(away... our days are past the best...meh... )  
Invitation only.
I see it but am I seeing it?   
Were we mannerists, we’d describe this as Absence from This.   
Quick version: A wall of calm; also self-capture: The cross-hatching selfie that allowed ancestors to exchange traits for others... has just about run out of steam, my profane friend interjects. & this leaves us wondering, once more what there is about our plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to.   
This version ushers in more non-urgencies of grueling yet quickened aversion over entropy. Call it a loaner idea of how they work out of This.
Beyond us, them, 4% atoms, tiny
wriggling strings; hidden, 22% of the tug —

dark and unknown prostrations
fixed on voices, a first luscious, noiseless bond.

Not running after, walking rapidly, I cross
the hall where the heat transfers ....

Transfers. We can call it that
adding up the lead and trapdoor time, eyes

open, moving, waiting, transferring
but hardly blasphemy. Not that I care.

An irrational lyric? You and I can’t transfer that,
touching on our dual roles as we reradiate consensus.
Follow instructions.

We got in surrendering our fingerprints

humming to each other. Our hums made a windfall. We

toast anyone else entering first grade

w/in one’s center, letting an adult night slide.