Reeves has a libido viewable within Buddha construction 
From a cabin for paired centrists, a flight down,  
A perimeter of memory foam and asphalt when Buddha’s metamorphoses are active.  
In plain verse we round this off in latinate stencils for amnesia’s fixed width.  
Spirals discharge. Reeves was great, shaken tame.
92: To my love in constant revolt, stealing away... 

Once again our life ends. Next, I’m happy love never stays; love is vexing weather, wrong to depend on inside scars. On manual labor. A heightened blush. Learning to fear the worst I’m happy to have had your love — I don’t know, what’s a fair question? — is there one last best state to restage or not to live in? It depends on you and me, not false humor; I belong in this humorless state without you, without dashing all our love. I find my lifetime love for you is self-assured and formally difficult and, oops... Others happy to die are on fire. 
Happy to die! — do we take their place?
No foes, no spite — 
Sing: Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment cut back! Getting 
To there uproots the photon series, exalted then stiffened into parody.. 

Reminding my love of a few contingencies we picked up from a tray 
Of bright boomerangs that tantalize in the feasible, wanting nil and showing 
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.
Let me grab a pen and clamber over here to the landmark network... you’re right, this isn’t the window for me.  Before the heat dies, if ever, I’ll try praying in all directions, improving parallel math skills for our window cleaners’ carnal satisfaction as we pivot from top panes to a ringing merger of gripping madness.
Frame: Socialist by nature, 
Not sure discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income  
Consultancy, honing the reader into two dimensions on the surface, cashing in.  
Looking around emptiness, embrace it for goodness sakes  
Yet reading the usual way subverts those expectations.  
We’re dealing particles of thought, pastiche  

To paying homage running across a subject, 
Finding how axioms move discourse far from oversight.
Violence resolutions have been approved, schematicized for good and 
remuted as gossip to evade a “mating strategy” to partner our 
heirs’ viewing planks. O Headwaiters..


Each year corrupts the interference ultra-field. The elders have rules. Stay funny and
comfortable is one.
Another is also fancy, more or less fun. Insert / handkerchief.
Shave twice a week. Does your dad look happy never to see you in the eyes of men?

What can we do without sleeping around in our active subculture?

Last, best, fair in gay love. I wanted to ask you about immaculate being, rondure and going out. /
According to slung
Allegory, it’s called Stepping Up, Giving Ourselves, Keeping Ourselves.
It’s hard to do a mock-up & care. 
That means you, banshee.  
Maybe I am foreshortened taking up prerequisites in criminal governance;  
I won’t cry to lessen the g-force of my depravity (your territory), but I hear  
squeaks. It could be me reduced in size talking to you for crissakes.  
I shouldn’t but I won’t.  
I can’t tell you I don’t care.
83: Life with Mr Juice comes up short — charm
-ing & familiar — unfair tenderness in a paper sack.
Hostess Wheel Clacker, bike spinner & fake license & plate.
A poet’s debt.
I found (or again I thought in silence)
Your eyes are nagging me for more .. admit you miss modern art & text devices.
You miss the first drag. Painting

Mr Juice imagines my wearing her new credentials
As an inner being when others would give life.. I have nothing set.
Have you read, praise & worth get ten percent of their daily

Calories from soda & smoking — sleeping to excess

Mute beauties become hereon slack
As I never slept for my sins.
Thereon I’m barren as I am dumb.
Atom of the future = the 1st head turns in which a detail is explicative in several ways at once. 

Clockwise = second head turn: 2 or more meanings re-solved into one experiment; foul results = few explanations.

Counterclockwise = third turn, in which there are 2 or more reconnected experiments.

A pulse of light of the right duration = 4th turn, alternative explanations but none good enough for clarifying experimenters’ state of confusion.

Superposition = fifth, lucky confusion: the experimenter is enamored of her idea in the eventful processes of argument and experiment. 

A row of 10 = sixth, universal yet irrelevantly ‘sweet’ shades of experiment, this time many experiments join in minting explanations, makin’em up.

Measure = seventh, and it’s official. Unbending full argument and testing of dogmas and contradictions, transforming ungated minds turning heads toward amplified democracy: All are counted, dirty outdoorsmen and women, kicking big toes, sailors, all on board.
To chide its beauty has to be done but it’s too one-sided. 
It seemed artificially important  
The screech then was spherical.   
A seagull.  Now 
No one’s there.     
I missed it.
Sway your head. That means dance. 
Don’t hold it in. Talk to your doctor.   
Try something cartoonish. I’m whirling around, pens and markers in hand in roughly 4 minute stints. Learning something about what I mean, high jinks soar belying despair over entropy, a quiet smoke, losing gravity! 

Privilege the not status and function.
Read this. (I did.) 
It’s half a libretto.
Achilles, what can you do or cannot do? Are you sitting in the sentence  listening ? wearing nothing but  eagerness for a motive to  hear what we were afraid to be?


Since you brought a pizza —
What about these machinations to effect scandal involving because-you-say-so and human sociopaths to raise your own slave-owner stature, fabulously?

That aside —
I’m a year late. In choosing what rubs me wrong or why I don’t want to be seen with you or apologize for one more ode; can I eat something?
I repeat.
I’m writing an ode to winter, coming on, just getting to you. As marriages go it’s not all bad. I owe my bros an apology. (Not you.) My better half too. It’s just an exchange.

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 am gone. Hey, don’t worry, my next line is not incompatible with yours, for I love you so.
The 10 polisciences exist. Do tell. So ours is a great America. Can we go for a ride?
Btw, we got here on big feet.
That’s what it feels like or sounds like, not always is.

So it’s no. Also, you know what .. we just can’t do enough. Sleeping 26 hours would be a flaw in my federalist secession. It’s a sorry concentrate: Until we went broke we were indebted.
Now an international scale opposes the light in our constitution. Analysis is scary-loud,
yet there are comic possibilities as we separatists are itching to colonize.
Why tonight?  
My day jewelry drove down surface tension and gave us enough balls to take off and run.  
No jurisdiction encumbers where we hurt — 
Show me holding the moment once.   
Once and be done.
I was pumping gas 
& going to say  
metabolically we’re all for one in suspension  
of disbelief  
... sparkling pen  

-umbrae, barnstorming on top  
tunes, dicing / re-arranging pushed to extremes,  
undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.
My cohort flock to benefits. It’s in the evolution of avarice, loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer the opportunity. Looseness keeps younger bodies moving forward. And that goes for the sun shining with its belle-lettrist metamorphosis in the street, damning grown-ups.


Foundational bias underpins the closed argument for or against not being sure.
A signature concern is the cosmos’ experience. The bigger the better. It’s peculiarly nepotistic, another point, so many writers simultaneously figure out these expectations within multiple, extra literary contexts, politics, cultural construction for personae, nonprofit and corporate performance theory and the like.
My name is Marie.

Pointless breeding:  
Almost everybody is resolved, the environment is loaded w/ 3  
seasons at a painting crossroads —   
Filming = [is] composing. 
Calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with a control group that can’t be erased. That’s what I hear. I keep fighting the urge to pack an appliance for some occipital brushfire, active against the jittery ‘human grain’ inside my fasting body.
It’s a misunderstanding of gym etiquette but it gets you ashore with one* shoe in hand, mine.
I’ll find you.

*that one shoe = 2 I stole from you.
We like newness in a way and reallocation schemes when both of us leave stroke marks. Like
how I graduated from this shame of yours and mine, this pride

in the battle between the sexes. (The rich won.)

Can you place our names? I row a canoe for the alter-ego, frequent asides and decorative indeterminacy.

With full employment, I got to anticipating mind control as disingenuous.
Sonnet 10: We lodge now (in the presence of physics-oblivion) 
a headless pedagogue hammering out Bo Diddley —  
Sap repairing top figureheads top speed. The murder option centered more per theorem.  
Panning back fast to grant your audience more of yourself, your love to bear, your beauty grew  
beloved of many but tampering w/ so many thought experiments.. you love no one? Not him.  
We think not. It’s a regulatory equation = hating him =  
hating yourself feeding on non sequiturs as concepts, only a few 
sticking to what’s un-enclosed in nominal trivia to locate fresh paradox.   
For you change your mind repeatedly enslaving romantic poetry so you can be taught  
(for shame a conspiracy loved by such an impassive number, so many..) ..
Substitute snow falls like sea foam over snow.

Read the inspection label. To continue, asymmetry solves perfection.

Snow lists a mood replaced as the driveway met you. (You’ll always be dad’s inside, animals looking at you.)

You don’t get to snooze.
Snow is a collective meme that takes its singular form learning to drive.
Snow is a collective meme that takes its singular form learning to drive.
Are you healthy enough for perfection in a gridded environment? This new thing?
A stencil of our dialog frames many others while class struggle gets more and more slippery. 

Or peach-dreamy, subverting history, waking up today waxing satirical in a trance, as the poster said, ‘democracy’ encircled. 

Those pressed under convey a stronger gesture for triumph.
Fire, ready, aim.
My product is a li’l soggy.


Check list. 
Check the bill. Check it out. Don’t expect much.  
Chew a bund loaf.  
Map out how to rough house.
Colder rain or snow has had a profile that can only be screwed up during dry spells.
Either form is widely construed as partially audible, plundering suspicion within either’s asymmetry.

Rain or snow, the great work cuts straight through restructure, mistreating more remakes and models to abandon.

Either or they all do. Precipitation becomes a shadow soundtrack beyond logic. Tattooing condensation midair — epic sums up the thruway and instrumentation when you have glimpses of it.
My best friend is my most erotic partner. It’s a corporation
...nothing to do w/ simplicity.
His music brokerage remains in aerospace
W/in no sound
Where there is none
Other than this last one.
No other devices for half a year.

The more I say this the closer it gets.
108: Admit you miss smoking, drinking boy.

You miss that first drag. Have you heard,

Taking other lovers you become multilingual.

The smoke tows you in its stride, in its spirit
Among the underemployed in hyper décor —

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

Counting no old thing old,
Stay informal in no time,
Stay new so to speak..
I’m yours, I merit you’re mine —

What now to register?
Stop waving that grape drink.
I feel socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing
The practical center
More than any single system,

A huge agnostic discipline
About attitudes behind morals.

You know this open and shut —
Take it down / or thumb thru

The balance left over. Inhabit the brim

To the point you realize
We know now – now less than nothing, which exists practically.
Since you brought a pizza —
What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us and sociopaths to raise your own slave-owner stature, fabulously?

That aside —
I can talk to your teachers. I can debate them.
I can’t reason with you. I can’t even talk to you. Why?
Should we have 
a message?  
We’re talking to what must  
be figurative breakpoints listed under fate and fate’s consignments. Example.   
Just kidding. Since the launch of modernist housing  
empty messages remember nothing of detached  
sensory esotericists.  
Vault-loads of cash tho grant fame and no literal disapproval.  
Granted, we have  
a message strategy.  
A politic paranoia recommended for laying back, cool and stable in an emotional tri-level.
Nor one’d presume elements are strung together out of desperation and a deeply ingrained exposition to de-mark the unknown. Much as technology funds science, randomness attaches to most regularities.


No variation. 
No truth, research suggests shorthand abstractions,  
buckeye elements around indirect objects, street names 
more indirect than research shows.  
Minor formalism holds the moment free for a moment 
winning or won, upset, out of control yet  
surrounding aggression while keeping in touch.  
100% no truth.
It once read, architecturally, you’re my business. 
“I heard talent & beauty & money come with their own flickering light; by your putting them to rest they take ‘full effect’ with no attachment to bad diets or addictive capital.” Leaving you gasp.  
Is this documentary or did I make it up? — “when you remember wit and austerity read each other from the start, after wit — seems mathematical tho programmers have a fiercely vandal like impression of appraisal under uncertainty.” They ‘elevate’ diet potholes. 
So this is an edit (to hide highway hunger). “That’s as close as no personality has to keen, endless pulse.”   
..bicycling no-hands feels like what the sign reads in the dark underpass. To put it together, anonymity makes what’s excess pain disappear along with too much poverty and sugar.
My area is interpretive search with a no-go theorem to tackle the Alabama paradox.

It’s been a while, Sophocles wrote. 
I’ll assume you suspect I know you know it’s in the literature.  Written or not, nothing is forgotten.
The effect is real. Real enough 
to be defined consistently. 
Errant is not mistaken for arbitrary. Form follows structure. 
In a way nothing’s for keeps. 
2 spiral arrays for time & harmony within a philosophy (moving spatial dimensions) several hours forward.  
Nothing’s inference, compressed form:
a ‘crown’ of contradictions veer dimensional rhetoric —  
Can waving time like a moony branch  
supersede nature,  
a piece of research asks. It’s asking a lot. Why open  
atoms under quivers at the edge to sleep?
90: Hate me now.
It’s up to pond structure to model strains of passivity and its onset by the rear shore. 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.
The air is sawed off, wishy and doing better. We were dangerous, once.
Smooth rhetoric is purely blur. It’s too late to make it sparse. Now we’re appalled. Even our restraint is wishy for its own sake.
We could see from a solid distance, your rakish note to yourself, you mixed mediums .. no shit. None of mine.

As I understand it the exact second you insert the first-person, rotary forces of moral freedom will drill 5 feet down underground, a strafed, ethical spectacle falling into proverbial and natural coherence like mumps, something you never saw and you never will, you gestalt freak.
Creature masks are prerequisites, in reprieve at the School of Nobody;  
Teaching can’t be taught. You live within practice  
To engage another’s psyche.  
You’re always wrong to prolong your appeal. 
Since giving up on poetry, singalong has vaulted to the top of our shared agenda. Shared or snared, just like them, say. Leaving office to wolves has a double meaning to off-center the filing (and filtering) system and other singularities I’ve kept back under my appendix for years. We have no limits to affirm any retractions, feeding our reliance on illumined work, dire pleasures, majestic plans and, this most generalized I guess, fortune (Fortune) itself burningly turning back to watch the wax dim.
We’re all buckeye strong. Very disturbing.


Jumping ahead. A decade from now no one’s famous. 
We’re forgetting nothing moves the needle.
I usually renegotiate after a bonfire of love, & like glowing sparks, not a note of cynicism vis à vis whom I adopt. 
It’s better after I begin to wake I’ve landed. A roundhouse in green leaves is great. I merge at the top, half asleep.. 
Moreover, we’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun.. the left knee just there then took a variant position in a sequence of arm scratches — 

an honest hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity until it goes away, released at last into newly impartial states, witless after a while, undead.
There’s a term for attrition of affects, eyesore.

And there’s a hypertonic struggle to housesit too much information. You know it exists. Bad antecedents. Human body fat jumps, worth $100,000 a gallon.
This is the good gold.

A life is charged for care. I’m otherwise a coffee head! But no more, let’s pare it down.

Have we ever done anything but tamper with the weather? Oh, who knows? Oh, Ladytron. You seem so fake-excited in the sprayed periphery, staying in balance inside a soft radical vapor of bigness that’s quashed.
When shopping from your texts I find solid proof 
Showing stunning results for innuendo: You’re good. Doing this, I offered. Just 
Report to duration centers for the rich for best pricing, unless  
Outright theft looks better. Go. Fees balanced. Eject.  
Then you told me repetitive purloining motion went much further —  
Making money w/out reason is mass   
-ive. After.. surely if that’s the mood, there are vector  
Utilities for expressing wealth after dark..   
Sleep has no idea of here and now when ordering everything is the right answer
.. all on your check!
56: Lament:

Prose enters a poem. It has a work permit, a blunter edge. That’s why
The place has been wiped clean of unforced errors. A sad interim:

The poem essay invests in spontaneity gleaned from what icons blur;
Hey, there are no middle class essayists. Yet, we can rubber any room —
My advice for exploring ideas, renew your force, stick to the sentence.
Come daily to the return of love tomorrow today.

To go along continue needing riches, sharper appetites as it were.
Rare thanks for the view.
You may have noticed I write over your first-born face, a kind of praise, 
fuzzy & lovely fragrance of rose nosing you out but choosing you 
of many then forwarding you as backdrop for a dear heart who’s new.
This is my first chance in three dimensions.
Others seem to throw theirs away.
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. Keep trying — there’ll be a pop-up quiz.
Testimony, transit to.

To float in Buddhist undercurrents from work by a mature avantist is not much of a surprise. We know Leslie Scalapino and others as bona fide avantists, demeanors of a calming, enlightened refusal that likely rubbed off during their intake of an illusory simultaneity in the social imagination. Or don’t know. (Also refusal.)
Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled. 
Thus, Chickee is a guy.


Your mellowness operates transferrable accounts.

As it were. Yet it’s shameful to work for the state. 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 ... but I’ll just hold...”
14: In my judgment
what I know is in your eyes.
Good luck can never bite. Except not at night. Newer urgencies
where prognosticators feel rained on, pointing to each other
so exposed they feign ignorance, aimlessly...

And yet bad luck too when a lightning rod derives its flash while ever so lightly
its chemical wind thrives for a second and returns to stars —
doomed as cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.
We are free — still — to say what some think — but their recipes, or ours, are perfused with a given theory. Trees in place, defiantly miscellaneous, thanks to a compliant Leitkultur, treeways on a berm, backdrop to civil democratic union with ideal permissions built on headwinds — dormant crescents, lowered apostrophes 
with as it were or without lyric buzzers. Good buzz can scar others, you see, yet you see nothing but these facts were slaughtered by pushing somebody else remotely.
Free in summary.
The jungle is quiet... too quiet. (Theseus)


Angst roughens up indulgence. 
You knew the side effects —  samples twisting.
We’re 1/2-way  
there. That’s when the aliens evanesce.  
Their loneliness and excruciating pain  
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing  
basin, weeping .. piling on debt ..
Despairing of dead ended self regard, “the self-valuable word” embedded in instrumental discourse, Bob Perlman maps, among other things, Quintilian’s rhetoric, noting key components, meaning, clarity and tasteful adornment or decoration (“Words Detached from the Old Song and Dance”).

Meaning and clarity are fair game for Rob Fitterman: “weeds we may not always / have emptied this meaning for / a top-growth peel-back of another.”

When it comes to weeding and adornment in poetry, which involve making sense of / sense in any alteration of literal expression (via figures, other prosodic devices), Fitterman is an advanced horticulturalist. With 1-800-Flowers, Fitterman smartly “updates” sources for Louis Zukofsky’s last completed poem, 80 Flowers, a construct that “takes to new extremes of density Zukofsky’s methods of composition by quotation, transliteration, and compression” (Mark Scroggins, Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge).

Fitterman replenishes the grounds with inventory of similarly conflated devices, writing in two sections “About” and “Through” Zukofsky’s work. Fitterman frames Zukofsky’s as “constrictive verse” that indeed gets “driven” by inventory, while Fitterman’s own lyric comprises mixed inventories within a discourse hybrid, an essay in verse, substantiation of his exemplary reading, that is, his generatively engaging Zukofsky (refer: ronsillman.blogspot.com [7/11/05]). More splendid, Fitterman fulfills the half audible invitation within Zukofsky’s poetry and poetics, joining Zukofsky & Son Inc whose décor ethos is “precise information... thinking with the things as they exist” inside a recontextualized (if not continuous) present in which Fitterman fixes “new meanings of word against word” (Prepositions).

Monkish antinomy dawns on me once 
Before blasted onward; discourse & chaos go hand in hand, utterly psychic as we are  
— having seen it, married it earlier.  
& I don’t mind if I look worn or beaten up. I’m wearing  
My love as a fever costume, stretched black poplin, black as hell in a trance.
Heavy-lidded, an escort’s sensibility (as if I know any —
53: A substance note:
Suspend suspension of all illusion — 

All kinds of nebulae. Curved and hollowed. 

You have some part shadow
as long as a 
-utomatism maintains a
counterfeit value evolving spring and summer shades a
-mounting to zero autumn after your beauty, a 
constant show and a 
variable now. You always have some part.

You appear in every august shape we know.
Any rule violates sovereignty. This speech pattern has been expanding without genetic engineering.
The polls are now tightening.

Your proof is the topic sunpoisoning you can take indoors to vote for anyone with no experience. Try.
Give it a chance until late afternoon. Even interrupted our conversation never ends — for
You. You’ll be taken up on your offer.
In this moon diagram a resistant fragrance was my last fill of fish sticks. Oh you know, unhappy

we supplemented photographs for subject matter, I recall.  
Garland fungus, students in foreground (by an arch to the abandoned parks).   
It’s up to pond structure to model our passivity learning the moon’s mother tongue, long vowels   
impelled by shore conditions, birds in flight. Protecting the hang of dignity threatens it. Everyone   
knows that. Everyone alive. A little sick, even unwell, yet one man’s voice is handsome, calm, also scrappy.   
Further down the pillar, a kimono has been entered, explaining prehension tongue in cheek.
Exquisitely handcrafted 
meditation retributions..


Neither so-called dead or alive, the windmill in your imagination has a request, 
“to express things ... as they are when you see them without remembering having looked at them.”  
It’s an infinite standard for reading new vocabulary bracing for normal heart spasms until climax, numbed in shade.
76: In flight, our work is told on telling. 
How can varsity spend their tribute? How spent? Why?    
This café, I think, is going to answer that & help the weather from getting lost. I meant 
I know the framework craves attention, that’s why I always write of you.   
Why I finish a stretch and new and old lines get confused, showing their new, common birth.  
Lines fuse a way  
Continue. My argument.
What’s this eyebrow to?  Eyebrows pile up like the snow of socks after a sit-down inside the capitol.
Roadkill would be the most empirical debacle turning abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into epic death by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain his lack of manners or historicity
was a flaw like smearing a heartthrob, a Lebowski.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the weather surface in lithe shorthand coupled with a last
puffiness and black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.
Gastronomy is to breaking the ice as ‘fucking / sponginess’ is to bacchanals.


Tons of special forces in silhouette .. polished from water .. on day one we’ll .. imagine caress trails.

We’ll correct everything near the top of the grade filling in ahead with capacitance-assistants, eventually 

Theorists of a visual world culture (camaraderie) wholly populated by good, socially secure posturing. After dark trials.
Just imagine what you can do
with the Flex Seal family..
I am confused, 
claimant of the photogenic vitamin to stop bleeding  
is not a complete thought, lacking resolution, useless but still settling in  
meaning in a way — a rain then raincoats of moods shifting, one’s thank you for pastimes as warm-bodied as visually queuing up for everything.   
It ran in families.  
So you get it now, assigning completion to our species becoming cathartic  
is no-yes, always vending graft over dualism  
with hand and finger gestures where we get caught chipping away at how we can stop.
33: I may not be deep enough; loose alliteration masks that, only maybe
— maybe I’ve got a thought altering ‘mentalist’ landscape up my sleeve.

My love is the sun in the morning .. You have a roundish face, green eyes and a slender yet blunt nose that hardens your otherwise sad, unrecognizable features and sovereign eyes.

When I read about alchemy and ‘splendor’ I keep wiping tears from my neck, but I never read the sun in the morning as love before I met you.
A white lie calibrated by the ruckus-like paean spoken (rather than speaking) in a large-scale dialectic —

battery powered to sow more male seduction / technology / outreach where all the jazz wears off.
We came herein with falsehoods we picked up earlier, and we sank together deliberately mismatched, yet we were ignited around the finger tips by deep compatibility. Vibrating skin, excitement for the best fibbers to the youngest, abstracted as figures of speech, savants, godsends.
Clark Coolidge’s The Circus reviewed, along with Poet, by J. P. Dunagan at Rain Taxi.

The Circus available here.
Secure oases cannot be considered in terms other than liberal;  with great laughter impelling knowing, not knowing, comfortable indeterminacy.  A given. Someday.
“I’ve got to get back to the city.” Why  bother, Buddha imitator? Reeves is guileless, a pious, ethereal hulk in a collapsing bug life. He sneaked his junk across the border just to release his frustration, verbally sneering at no place to go in a natural voice.


We need a balance for everything foundered in obsession. Come in. Please step inside where the balance should be.

A dog actually ran in here just now shaking his tail, what deception.. In the sentence before — it wasn’t determined what sort of dog he is, but now I know — bad dog.

I'll make him disappear.

And away with these shirtless demagogues from the previous slave-owners episode. 

We got them to crack their fever but today I want you.
Having a visible cocktail with yo... Take-down quotation-décor really scares me. Take-down as the day zooms, it seems anathematic enough but to specify a wipe-out draping fiber ...and still the hue comes back to bone-desperate substance. Bone hued, relaxed and free of contradictions in desire.
Our small party turning into Lost Colony as the fete evanesces into a seminar on comparisons, fact-rechecks, back formations, replenishings.

That was all I felt.

Discuss the cut-off points where ideas can meet and turn into commodious habits that muddle thru and onward. Talk about process. Curtains then drapes.
What’s this eyebrow to?  Eyebrows pile up like the snow of socks after a sit-down inside the capitol.
On a highway, gentle police lights
— Luxury vans flow in aid. Further uphill
Hauling “rays of light that seethe patently” — Stolen beauty ...and he gives!
(He can afford it.)

A ray’s lip, your biting lip, curls in his record performance /
Your opinion or position counts, a worthy argument
Made easier — you take the wheel,
Officer. I’ll hand it to you & have your way —

Then thank him —
There’s due process replicating our facial
Comfort in raw push-pulls ..

Touching on other behavior in a wily, rough
Translation .. (desultorily sexual) while you read on, reread
Brutality extending just to your cheek by jowl for the last call;
More intuition — “rhymed” with your near-virginity beneath your bodily

Disappearing into
87: Sodajerks. Their stock was luminous. Adding

that noun phrase furthered ambition (we’re sure it was theirs), amusing
vim shaken out from the inside. Each had a skeleton curse, after all; the lot growing
fewer over time. (Youth — not occupation, great riches, nor better judgment — remains the determinate object of love.) An emotional matter
language models for 3 dimensional farewells in waking you
then not knowing.
Love, A cool looking problem solver, a Japanese statistician, slow-motioned to me to go for the moody and unexpected.
Doesn’t it freak you when categories are givens you don’t need to work out on your own? Some of you has given in to optimism— there you go, retreating to emancipating intimacy, more and more sound-oriented than bent on millennial dance.

And that reminds me, great sex is immediate, overwhelming, terse and of a Castilian order. A hundred influences contained in one = you at the piano as the dive floats with Balanchine stand-ins.
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 standards, 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 an around the clock series —
Bullied into autocracy. 
Hell is too big to fail.  
Fire the lilies in the field.   
This is a democracy. Hysteria as a rallying cry brings a revolution in ignorance and vanity.  
The ousted president drops to his knees.


If that clothesline were untitled, to get started,
this is what then? The surface is bloody 
colossal — fun games, what they call trick arts. 

It occurs to you or me 

a trick has already been devised wholly 
before it’s hastened online or cancelled

— it’s not utterly offhand.. rather: 

a trick is called a change of pollen in the heart. 

Began how far ahead 
we liberate ourselves to oppose either 

The heart is sore as 
Whitman precedes Aimé Césaire. Drink up.  
Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam — 
(a love poem) one aroma 
— Accounting disappears like functions of context (starched procedures) — 
Love not being is taught  
But fought for in reverse. Freezing one difference.   
Physicalism (neural meditation) — here we wade slowly adapting to amoral schemes  
More fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Meow well.
After the decline of the 2(X)th century,
The state held sway on the 2nd floor near an ancestral cloaking device.
Eminent domain: Paranoia was passed out. Young & ugly you & I were next. Behavioristic info dumped into drinks
Not to arouse the unknown or undue, our well-being was of concern.
There are a few invitations we won’t forget.
& that does it for this hour. Meta-esthetics have postponed further equity for you & me together w/out & because of you, Señor Nasty = & no end to all observers laughing thru-out.
60: Sing: On a human ~ ant landscape, god feeds on us ants.
It’s unparalleled to the end.

Sing: this changing place, this pebbled
shore is in the repair shop because
it is the repair shop — as miles streak by...

We’ll do what we can — crawling to maturity
set on the rarity of natural youth and beauty.
Slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless in times w/ no hope
Yet guardians who follow grow tired of interruptions and self-
reflective outreach; wherewith the corporation is late
and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.

When? as soon as today.
Sunshine feels like a slap in the face. 
Milling around is jammed.  
Engines manage to hover. Pie charts and monthly market data are no guarantee of future thrum and rumble, hey and whoa — how awful, how much are we exercising to circumvent compulsory salutes and arm flapping? 

Beginning to see the picture. Beyond some blanks
you can follow our penmanship advancing to endlessness:
Our love (a winner ... have a look!) is a time share in calligraphy.
Joining you, me — my hand learns & flows with others’ stealth — committed to your living tongue tho, delivered from your brain,
nursed on your beauty’s signature.
If animals could talk they’d say, we pick our clothing style by the rules. We can’t get you out of our thoughts? Handle it? Come closer, you’re scary. 


Prognosis: It’s just getting started, more video, the century with 2 decades that cannot be easily designated. As a citizen among millennials, it’s yucky, gross I live to blow off my masterpiece, suddenly building a new narrator under my notarized certificate of vulnerability — Euros tumble. The sensual spy novel is amusing and telegenic for killing time until 2020 through the 20s and 30s that follow, so let’s narrate that. And about that. We were always lovers. The meta-tick-tock due now and pronto — calling in Cupid — the greatest emcee and dues collector of any new century, sullen, endearing..
True, false, is it a gaze or rolling maleness? 
Yes. It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and  
Time’s up.
Ethical epitomes go against the grain. Maybe wholegrains.. What are spurious resonators for but to attempt command of natural selection and a jillion bloodlines. 
Um.. there’s nothing but an eye blush of heat that measures desperate ‘orders’ you put in reckless hands. 

Don’t forget your silent partners ripening for future sleep-overs in green, un-despairing usage summaries... 

Brilliant. Breathing new life, we have hundreds w/ crazy coats of arms. Look at you.
Piano strings! precise and going no- 


floating up nervous laughter  
.. an octopus taken more than once a day.  

Minutes after your work can be filed ..  
if there’s ‘work’ to ‘file.’  
Or will we be going anywhere?   
It seems like anywhere unless you know where you are .. 
just praying ..
20: Like voices & solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.) — amazing particles of some genius sleep it off in traffic, affecting hues up to the bridge lattice. You
& by you, inside nature’s face you’ll find warm things. All hues, charged, painted brilliant to the eye. Passion that’s stuffed, not needing love, except when it comes altogether:

the work is controlled, less false & the life, almost like master-&-mistress gazing on as it flew.
Publicity is the soul of justice. 
That’s a great question.
Matins: I can be your face standing there ‘on’ the phone, ‘dialing’ a number. 
A growing explosion takes up time — like cheating in hearts —  
the accident, not the facticity, of ceiling caresses while  
switching impetus (rapidities of prosperity).  
Faith deals in future opinions on redeeming enterprises and, that’s if I’ll 
put on your global eyewear.
Modesty is unimpressive in itself.  
There’s an either / or for attrition of affects, concision or eyesore.   
And there’s a struggle to housesit too much information.


It would be a challenge to simplify winning as in a new car or suffering injury, 
Starving how?  
You’re at the door  
As I thought of you.  
Now an urgent delay for  
There aren’t any warnings. 
That said, the minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never
I can’t tell you I don’t care, on the inside.  
Midway, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague change, like a plebiscite, better to pump out to voices’ grasp. Outside, a normal life with submerged artifacts accrues Pascal highlights.
Social progress is in a pickle.  I meant
it goes for cheap and too far in other directions. It’s al  
-most curtains for the prom fitting, a horrible hot mess.  
The shortest path from here ignited by havoc, overworked 
and exhausted tailors.  

Thin dancers are the perpetual winners I guess.  
I wager we scarf the half-eaten take-out on the table. Slashed 40%!
21: This is a loose translation, hemmed in on earth, drawing on sea, heaven’s air and your love. So it’s not about me but my verse muse. You planted yourself here coupled with sun and moon.

I’m composing with you, stirred by huge purpose and your incomparable beauty —

writing truly from love of April’s first-born flowers, gems, and richer, rarer hearsay — our search skyward with gold-dipped candles fixed in air! There we are rehearsing how you and I write together, and then how I believe I’m truly with you, in love.
Beginning I was angry buying my first diary-balance-ledger. (Moleskin.) But I learned a lesson.
There was no progress in the interim.
Party management was unleashed. Specialties got molded. Molded like sister drummers and saxophonists playing to masked hostility & indecisiveness backing up inexactitude from what they voiced before the beat took hold.

And there’s no party.
A private-public distinction, extension 8,
No longer limits outcomes for a buffered work force. 

Keeping my writing up
Besides giving empathy, suffering distress,
I write on my agenda, 

A vapidly growing ‘fortune’ 
Once I launch it — 

I got married however without knowing the side effects 
— wait, I forgot why I called.
Enthusiastic about scalloped attitudes.
Socialist by nature, cashing in analytics (private scenery), we’re 
Not sure discourse product pertains. Sacred axioms certify wealth and income  
Consultancy, honing descendants into two dimensions on the surface 
For a change before they’re emptied again, a perfection of themselves as children
Ad hoc, at least.