A young politician, claimant of the photogenic vitamin to stop the bleeding,
is not much of a sentence, lacking meaning, more useful settling in mere syntax
as warm-to-medium as a visual partnership queued up imitating /
replicating Dionysius for the evening drive, before severing the vines.
Flashbacks pertain.
Large reflecting pools in the future, it’s just a thought.
If I introduce vagueness as a more devout
machine therapy, we can escape

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

You were good to give us storylines, battle scars, vanity, thrills, sky 
to laugh down compliments from insurgents binding heartache.
The sparrow’s wardrobe above, beaten but he’s breathing. He’s on our land, 
his way to degrade-ultimately-destroy capital. 
Otherwise, there’s only perpetration and fortune to hide. 
After homesickness, there’s profound inebriation 
running a tab, also a little suffering moving in with your 
parents (a sunroom) because they like me... 

I just don’t worry.. your eyes breaking into immense mist clots .. hard 
to reformulate .. (It’s up in the air.)
The property goes on while.
127: C.V.: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating raven yawns in fair use praxis, and there’s some age old false connection to an eyesore we dreamed up or could dream up, borrowing a face beauty slanders. There, inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying nameless, profane, counting inventory, keeping faith from their esteemed orientation, mining their richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday, they think: So many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs up they flare into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer! Blocks we’ve been party to after a late lunch. 
Hitherto ethos susses southpaw disproportionality, so lovers per lifetime meet their lucky doubles halfway, borrowing a face here, slanting a blurred promise we had there or we don’t know we had, in shame letting it die down. 
A problem with language is..
Does it matter a few minutes ago I learnt to write, if not learnt well —
To tap on the keys and wander out above my welcome is retrospective..

Again there’s no title because nowhere
Are my thoughts so hidden in use. Like a voltmeter,

Gentle numbers, time, a contraption raised to problem. But that’s good.
Sobriety, not mine, makes the case for / against boredom in composition, that is, in the poem-making venture. Boredom? Blame it on relatives, the empire-prone who ride escalators up and down the Radisson nearest you.

Sociologists are stepping up and nodding off
Under the influence of futon cramps at home and similar vehicles
Transporting pouti debs and elephant men,
Dostoevsky wrote.
Next, different daybreak odors, coffee, other pots, taste sets, sweet to complex, some devolving into brawling incidents.. ..can’t make it out, call it leftovers, a Caramel Apple Ranch Cobbler fabricked in aromas of surfboard varieties .. ..


Meantime we’ve moved off the mainland. 
No unknown futures present newer phenomena, fenced off. 
It can’t be easy. Dig 
around for numerals and replacements.
We have no perverse incentive to take any more chances as we talk thru our replacement words.  
The light (you’re sensing) 
failed every midterm before —
too on edge over invisible proofs. 

Income bulking from your dad’s 
condo? You move 
to become walled-in there ..

Check out the view — baby flights 
of gleamed birds in the rough .. 
Enough is not idiomatic enough in condo years. 
Too much room freshener for today’s estimating: 
still, seeming seasonable as subterfuge supplants higher
dimensional hindsight, requiring autonomy to hold off. Dig in ..

Edens of chiastic inquiry .. into no word yet  —
how yet no such word impedes coincidence in love.
Your movements go by a few names, still coordinated but hidden in.. hardly underwear.

Not dreadful but low, classic, easy, unforgettable elements surrounding a presence (for now) then taking them off — your panties — quiet and respectful in everyday nudity.

For nudity, it’s always a swing dance in practice, a whole new side of narrowing expense and becoming hallowed thru the center, handing over your hard currency and coins.

A lot of Dutch people go Dutch.
Sonnet 100: 

Muse. You.
We have despised spoils subtracting our song 
— an idle song converted to argument 
with little or no honor, still it ‘sings’ to the ear.

Worthless to speak of any darkening power, but these surveys add up. 
In numbers and verse I surveil fame everywhere.
You return time and again, lending my base subjects more light
— you’re faster than time. 

Rise then: your esteem and skill suspend my fears 
we love only vicariously — redeem my waste of life in satire.
“We played with her cat until it fell asleep.” 
Like crustaceans we cats cave to forgetfulness.  
Blinds drawn, our scavenged opacity overflows as we are alley cats from the deep state, you might say, screening off our comic breeding.  
Before that, looking far ahead was fantastic, a civilizing process added to diurnal space filling our eyes with unharnessed withdrawal.
Frame: A diminished mood will surrender, scattering photos and books, many unread. Cast more atextual sources as fodder for your new faculties in text engineering, new excuses for bringing up composition sophistry to measure the temp and humidity in law and order, as well as subprocesses harder to isolate and observe as they flood into short term memory. Keep feeds in order and fixed for two (or three seconds, as many as you like). Liberal arts breaks further from esthetic scholasticism, inventing new suppositions for species martyrdom and intimacy. After government, wiry empirical jolts, semblances but enmeshments all the same in a readymade mood and control structure parallel to vocational ed for poetics. 1st defense, an old appliance: a metronome.
Midnight dining, rambling
like deer in bed, shiny
children of smoke, you know how —
No jitters, the heart rapped
anytime by sounds in flame of passive groans
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches —
opera and shush.


Prayer: All nature repairs to a cryonics lab that’s been reopened. Just for a second.
I reconnect to highlights and the mimicking hidden force of gravity. You guys go ahead.
I’m going to roll on, Volvo-like, like Gilbert; that’s the best stunt.
Gilbert Ryle asks, “might not every action or reaction be a piece of shamming?”
Anyway, I retract my falsehoods. & for the same sutra
I condemn & mourn meritocracy. For / & all men
are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geo-metry
to inspect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland
                     for nothing.)
It’s nice finally to put a face to the humiliating nickname.
My muse wants subjects to invent ..
It’s our advantage being excommunicated. 
Being British, it’s not our nature to boast. Fortunately, because of her we don’t have to. 

We’re British.
Your looks, my cooking ..

An imperfect actor converts expectations.

Stage fright shows perfection is error.

To misappropriate is to provoke rage in absentia, unoriginal, merely sly

while the ephemeral triumphs wearing socioeco white gloves.
8: Music to hear? Truth is we’re sad and feathery.  
Shorthand abstractions where unions married  
like this mutual ordering to our touching and holdinlg the moment, 
surrounding it with speechless songs of taking off for the unknown, spinning, spun,  
upset, out of control yet  
that’s how we fasten music we hear to move around objects. 
100% our touch.
Well, our early faith promised us immortal lives, backup roles that made us teen idols, central forces in an improvisation we lost track of.

I gradually began to buy things in no order, branched out a little finding a passion for saluting a nation that apprehends my experience like no one else.
It’s come to our attention a proposition digs into science or it does not.
It was amazing to meet you and your idea. Anyway

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

I was astonished to communicate with inky musculature evoking nighttime.

Oceans then deserts.

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

That’s what it seemed.
Since when is / are government


I love needing what tv does, colonizing until the wheels fall off. 
Nearly sunset viewed thru coconut milk. Skinny ‘eventude’ brings on waves of fluttering, populist rage, some dishonest dogs. (Boob dogs taught to come, fetch, force it down.) All in favor held under pressure.  
Channel surfing here in the cranberry state I see immigrants mix well w/ bohemians, capitalists, folky folk surging in subjectivity w/ certain rights for a life entrenched by exigency — it feels very large here. We’re on tv.
I flash to the new real place. And I’ve never been more uplifted, more unnerved by a speaker’s desire somberly floated in a fun orrery, only display except for the impossible, now audible signs of history, of intention, preparing us for a fixed response with renewed power. 

Unless there is nowhere new.
50: A hip cast of super angels strumming harps, an encore of Zeus Arrhenothelus

Bringing up larger journeys for the stretch and preen in vigilance onward —
So far the miles to me are measured from my friends left behind.
I fall back tired, breathe while new cast members get on —
They are casually let go as they finish groaning for us.

Our joy restored at a slight remove from sharp pain and darkness in grief, putting this in mind,
Since we answer to manifold waves weighing in:

Unprovoked, a heavy vacuum still.. you are away while I am on the way at my travel’s end.
Poetry can’t be blamed even tho it’s part of civil discourse engineered by dogma. Politics & the dignity of appearances don’t mix. (The pacs industry is just kidding.) Nothing personal, here’s your speeding ticket, Mr Trump. Trump is the sustained concussion version of national charity... I also give a lily for what’s not available, a big cabin in the launch, etc. 

Government is economics, an engine without a message, with no news about identical instances in two universes.
Down: side streets drop into hourly weather; the power grid 
razed; rain’s over, its light flow slick on oil.   
Spills thru night rain and rain’s surrogacy the more serious and newer down.   
More angst driving over to a panel on reasoning and not writing anything first, a paunch turning experience   
in its emptied refraction on a taillight for syntactical beings (in a sentence) on a muddy drive.
Pull over, this is serious.
Quiet desperation, the flip side of formalism ...


Anyone can wish for ‘portal trans specificity,’ Me? I replace all my markers to get inside a face. Your face. Your brow sports a few layers of sleep relief, accruing intimacy. Meanwhile we form a new team on portal strategy, yielding larger holds on identical diversities...
What’s a bleb? It sounds small.
Jumping ahead. A decade from now no one’s big and famous. 
We’re forgetting nothing moves the needle. This argues for problematics.


Should we have 
a message?  
Possessive self-possession. Without a bleb or title.
Self-barter, a potential volt in a then-this-is-now domain... 
Just praying. 
Who dealt this mess?   
Lunar cycles are not analysis. The Sunbathing Council is countertherapy.  
Love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing their ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering consensus and political allegiance. We’re all redistributionists, symbolically living on to go on. Politics is outrage, useless bruising rhetoric. And capital is conceptually gross, always. 
We cross the road tonight.. Join the revolution of the ex-well-off (at least ex-feeling it) slicing icons up for our very first media slumber & shower free for the asking for those visual enough to tell us about their recent postal experience.
79: How it may happen
On a highway, gentle police lights 
— Luxury vans flow in aid. Further uphill 
Hauling “rays of virtue” — stolen beauty, yours.
He can afford it.

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

Then thank him —
Pay him what I owe.
We’re cruising at altitudes of theorem. Quack probabilities dim until we restructure our credit history, nail it to live data. Where does the political economy have us put it? His-her terrain — also yours and mine, since we’re all for one as subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy.. 
Let her go, let him do want he was elected to do..  
Sorry, not tonight...
The School of Nobody takes 8 lives. 
Nobody wins in a debate over no- and not- distinctions: 
for incorrigible voice matter is always interesting  
& moving to work for meaning in two instances  
of no stages. 
Like no premium withholding option holders, we Americans can relax, go cloud up other ideas!


RNA itemizes facts.
Do you like spiral dares?
Or to be bubble-footed in dark briefs!
None of the above!

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

Distribution adjustment @ sports.com has those to spare..
tasked down from behaviorist beliefs. Hi, they say.
No future sparks chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there’s no threshold. Matter persists, no dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual and sparkled amid meanderings that are ordered appearances gone dormant nearly or running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in more unboundedness. Opinions unravelled in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.
Not to arouse undue hearsay, your wellbeing was my concern. I can’t forget. 
Not even a tenth of a millionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second.
And that does it for this rehearsal. Proud exclamations have postponed even the smallest changes, advancing a prouder viewpoint, the world as it is, pressing ideas with multiples, parallels. Many observers.
Sonnet 86:

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

Once our brains ripen, we concede to neither calm of victory nor fear — at night I lack a precious affable character beyond my mortal self.. both that and a familiar’s ghost-morality strike me as too precious, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling this line.


My winning lottery prelims.

The carbon steel of all day dimmed
Second after blasted second.
If you don’t look directly my way, into my face —
I can’t give it to you.
If we hand Athens back — it’s about letting you go bold,
taking cannibalism out of context,
giving you your Sprite.

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

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

Classicists do tho, placing wagers on the original and copies,
claymation teeth marks v. gorgeous intent.
When we single ourselves out, we get closer to feeling guilty formulating de novo concepts of exclusion.  
Ya, you are important to me. You had a free hand, still there are holes in our discourse.   
Our language hits inference-blasting denominational registers, theological as Lyotard would have it, but our argument is plainly empirical — A concept is “not ‘innovative’... but something unheard of”  — Tony Brinkley
68: Flowers shorn off bowers, wholly living signs —
I’m losing my head over yours
as if I’m inhabiting death seconds before you, around you..
We’re zealous about knowing when nature’s
bastard signs are vital, not recreational, a map of nature’s store.
Before the vital golden tresses Arvo Pärt chafes: makes no summer of flowers, no second
life — oblique as you — now I’m subsiding in attrition, missing you, composing around you.

Your beauty is still new.. new as roses, as a second head..
Poetry, jettisoned and as you wish, there / not-there let go, sky,  
river will go, let people behave all the sharp, sudden ways Ute    
speak to, looking around, starting to rethink we’re  
using our 1st language! Short iterations carry  
such signs. Dreaming in bed deploys influences — image, mind or frame — far output...  
You can exit this field or not, burning one muted  
end then add features to nodules like in finer arts of epistemology.  
Meanwhile, your eyes fill with unmeasured disassociation.  
Your hair’s on the brink.
Dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflects gritty, blind optimism and violence. 
Are you healthy enough for this perfection?   

A little off, ok — speaking the usual way subverts expectations.  
Stencils of our doctrine line up behind others 
As good critique pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.
Hooray.. There’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. Here’s the last place you look. Stay with me.
This is the islet I was going to take you to; cool reason lifts, lukewarm, tender. Splash, preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.


All experience is seriously correct.. 
But what is?    
How can it if I tell you what I’m?    
A blind accident, 
I’m in no hurry. A life was charged   
now curled up on the menu.     
(Have to go.)     
Here I was, preaching to your eyebrows.   
(Cave safely.) 
Kites: pinky juicy crisp
Space parlance —

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

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

Pearls — trance police, a hex video
On top various under-invented heights.
A burst of daft tone substitutes timeframes. 
Wait. There’s nothing. A blank referral. 
No tone, no daftness.    
And rightly so o I know  
I lower the volume to closest approximate parity   
and we have the yard puffing, bearing poetry sounds..   
.. I see your potential; don’t wait, time is temporary; eternity  
Later... it’s not much.  
Get your share,  
knocking any love-moment down with small talk, unscripted, unpredictable:  
Some standards.  
Shined asides.   
We pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,  
Really a vase,  
Set it, let sunlight pitch in its foam. Infer  
Poetry goes thru many drafts.
Criticism “must take a wider horizon of use.” But my notes are lost, colonized with off-rhymes; my lexicon of rhetorical “skirts” wrapped around a few “legs.” 
Between a minimum and maximum, 
Buddha retires in expired turmoil. His daybed is in the new office alcove with murals of doves dropping out of their minds. His critique has no name; it’s all about listening.
77: Society is like building blocks. When you’re on my mind I see cubism and social media touched or at minimum felt as progress toward eternity. Vacant. Minutes wasted, all overrated, I whisper to myself, falling for your acquaintance.
BF Skinner watches a boy develop — to spy on process when he can’t dream.. 
parking spaces have words with him. Children are the future —  
keep them distracted.  
And  in media res, when you lock your room you can’t find them anywhere. Ask Caligari. Bright blues in a white nothing to them, a looming sluice through the discomfort zone. Here we go. 

I don’t deserve friends like you.
Making love is war. It’s not just money: 
I’m afraid it’s a Little  
Dipper: Emma, You’re handsome!  
Hold on?  
..membranes are functional! It’s an open   
Darwinian algorithm to bring back more  
nano-proposals, say, walking in, “hey..” 
No excuses, now 
make this a rite and glistening of the wild...
What’s semiology? unless we’re in life to gnarl sparkle to figure it out? laboring for invention?
No futures present new phenomena — what older worlds once could say —
I have a tiny soft view of holding to their path, a core harmony of former days, purring yet put aside. (One chord after another.)


A rhetoric gone terribly right, and so
We draw together

If we’re to make a life together.
The dead never see us or
All that pulls us apart.

When it’s just the two of us, paired, oh
Clearly the thing to do is follow policy
Filling speech balloons like Supermen ..
O Jesus. 
A severe honey glow  
crowning his shoulders — groomed  
disgust in his walk, his mystic theater practice 
perhaps already addressing ‘all’ of us. The radiant  
pull at his mom’s sleeve  
emptied of the given moment.
Politics is the gene expression omnibus.   
Each of us is one viral video from partisan fame.    
Vanity is promotion. In vain.  
Amen to white boats opposing innocence.
59: Sonnets are ok, nothing new — going backwards here — 
Let’s vote Labour —  
an ostentatious luncheon in ‘old world’ pensiveness,  
self-admiring praise.  
I might say more, fool my brain mended by you and your composed image but your fly is open. Stay in character.  
O sure you’re freaked by what antique words over 500 years
still dig up and how re-inventions get composed, but we have to keep our wits — show better words, beguiling brainwork — 
looking back under whose  
thumb? And am I yours?
I follow the rules about Nordic weekends along with a more palatable wardrobe. That’s if hit by what you feel in the a.m. 
I believe in you. Evening you’re different.  
You give me a big temperature, a fine spray of message marvels.  
What are we fixing up? I’ve discovered squeezing you around your hips brings up more meta-activity as superstitions based on fact —  
A cult of dance per se sharpening endurance, risking focus..  
Hermes masks, a precondition as two satyrid mayflies pop up, heaths, ringlets who advocate for peace. Their reputations recede but their early apprehension has held sway even before guns were worn.

A berserk outline that humbles us
edging our blond manes that distract scoutmasters.

Future discoveries will have to wait awhile, boo,
you’re impersonating a folk guitarist I outgrew.

So now you want to spend what you know while you can,
floating to eke out an ornate living
in a snow-globe, thankful for one small chest-hair.
And there I’ll leave it on top of your scout manual..
I’m too ugly to be molested. It’s true. 
But I like meeting new people and having life changing sex.  
That would be the interior window to no progress. And 

No UFOs.


Doomsday Door A or B? Let’s start with an idea that makes us think differently about its components. If you or I have an idea to produce a text or, broader, any artifact of value — a central concern, subject to critical and meta analysis is, how does the product influence ways of thinking about the invention or the writing? In other words, does the artifact generate inquiry into both (a) the who, how, when, why it came about and (b) the utility of its replication or adaptation into the final year(s)?
A foolish few of us keep fighting for independence. But bosses are out there. Sure savages, quick with their own designs. Yet I keep running from the bosses above — psycho-analogs, nonverbal monitors of sensory and motor operations standing up to view the repaired wall unit, hearing you read fibrous new copy, pacing in warrior suspense, smelling something burning, watering potted moss, falling asleep. When you listen closely the analogs are meddling, nudging nearer to a verbal core, editing prose, keeping everything tidy; above that, less of a presence, there’s one or more crisis managers descended from a family of ethicists, whom Freudians describe as facets of the superego mostly whizzing by shaking a ‘finger’ up in the brain and mumbling something half-received, half-worked-out for the moment — be tiny, be warned — there are tribal icons above superego facets, and their points of view are even more fleeting, harder to perceive as they’re fossils — given up to us like paste gems and gluey blobs, deliberately dulled into falsehood with real results! 

I wear them indoors.
I’m talking in American.
Not going to lie, I watched us concoct a new economics affecting the radius of birthday cake, like the present indicative, destabilizing everyone’s temperament.

Looking into the camera makes this a document.
Which you are you?

The survey said I made it to the 2nd challenge, now
a winning session in crude instrumentation.

Looters, rhombus-gatherers doing well, respectively; great work, cuts straight thru the tea act, baking more cake to abandon.

The indicative becomes a popular racetrack, in effect. Feels like about time, epic sums, new slender totems, new business in one rotating ruse whose subtexts you know.

More federal $$ for new walkways and more lethal instruments..
The gestalt is to look and act urbanely offhand, sound normal, asymmetrically curt. 

In the change-up scenario everything is repurposed for conceptual deflation.  
Psychotropic bios in a pair are commonly diagnosed as parallel discourse stratagems.  
One concentrates on the next available genes that spread widely, 
Until one goes broke; summarily I am screwed. Weren’t 
I to center on perception (whether beauty or wit), I’ll sustain losses only out of
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.
Secrets in satire have to fly free
finding an informatics of doors opening (bassoon étude) & structured
lasers (& more reeds for all-holds sex). Are you healthy enough for consummation in an airborne environment?
A stencil of our dialog brings up others while, over time, beauty’s struggle gets more slippery.
Or peach-dreamy, subverting history and waxing satirical, as the poster read, ‘time’ encircled on beauty’s behalf.

For a time those impressed w/ strong gestures agree. A pilot is also a passenger.
The local is inside you, Pete Seeger and Bob Creeley sang.
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,
So much as ‘the way things were’ stay the same that one day.
Well, I knew m’lord was a prevaricating, bloodlust child — the writs of Rolfe d’Hampole had warned — unceasing sycophant, his incarnadine shadow spilt down dim stairwells to redden more, divagating before olive branches in nightfall, exhorter of few changes, hardly any.


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

Then he had an idea. O
there were reproofs he keeps inside him just the same. 
I notice the lion hadn’t said even half  
a word before he took off.
Kites: pinky juicy crisp
Space parlance —

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

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

Pearls — trance police, a hex video
On top various under-invented heights.
The catch, a fading ailment: 
Ten or so gulls’ kick it off, startling  
over brown trout.  
Tearing in mean  
swimmer’s blue,  
in a supernumerary mense,  
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta  
more down surf, slaughtering  
partisan swaps  
that swell  
the color skit among removed attributes.
I write for money and music. Money 1st. It’s in the blood. 

What’s wrong with a billion for two  

circulating in a branch of Chase Manhattan 

with no memory how it got there?
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! Up there we rehearse how you and I write together, and then how I believe I’m truly with you, in love.
Start writing. 
It’s easy going out and doing things you don’t know. No repeat parts.  
The charge is here, thrill in peeling back from nothing as well as failing to  
remember the (mission) exchange. Or extra charge. 
Virtue for now is farfetched. / Let’s consider what might outrank Zen. / Your  
dialogs sound libertine laced w/ Frankfurt School brio, some science  
— all right, let’s start in the open air in complete command of nothing.  
Wearing a wigless wig is 1 method and standard model.  
Measure = unbending contradiction, full, official division in one’s mind and 1  
other, you!
There’s a benign debate — where brightness bore in, grateful prenuptials stampede out, 

Drawing bonds along dark zones of propaganda.  
And owing to your interest... this won’t constitute a holy day, merely an apostolic sacrament.  
Or only one of many noted by a crowd of flutists aft. 
My terms are to settle down through the evening as our proud examples 
Gain longterm advantage spreading the launch.

Our ceremony for being creaturely unmarried and staying that way.
“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.


Politics is the gene expression omnibus.   
Each of us is one viral video from partisan fame.    
Vanity is promotion. In vain.  
Amen to white boats opposing innocence.
Erasing the new narrative,
Baseline coherence had been a standard, believably denying

Abstraction through sleights of cohesion. Then that,

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

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

To keep from you forever
Nothing, not a thing.
Dispatched for

subjects of desire in another sense, an echo
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible
light (initially fungible)
and suddenly just theory

awing in a wolf’s regime,
There’s brush
fire toward mosquitos — shot
through the throat, asking too much..
Sex has nothing to do with sex. Breakfast never eaten.
It’s a joy problem, love called out on a technicality. 
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch 

Per bantam partisans in gauged caution 
Toweling off for the next bracket. 
Boxing’s always hospitable. We’re not that stupid.
Sonnet 6:

We radicalize to what we know best.
Beauty is a 10 and like usury always a gamble.
My tongue in your ear refiguring 2 pair,
distillation, defacement. A fair hand, a treasure 10 to one.
Happy to pay or loan you the rest, and glad
you’re a willing fan, departing before

the winter leaves by the yard .. you’re much too fair
And brush your hair? Brush it back down.
You, behind the evaporation 
— we owe you nothing  
falling out w/  
your idea of daylight and sexual theater w/in the same sheer exposure..  
every day becoming ordinary knowledge  
in parallel ebullience  
waiting to come to round us up half asleep, 
steadfast along w/ geometry we assign the horizon horizon, our whole body. 
A masked man is glowing 
& filing back & forth mistily 
Across immense miasma 
Adorned along varietal circumstance. 
One once kissed a cat. Once
One made an inappropriate shoe choice. 

Identity theft occurred when the sky was an idea 
Of seeming permanent as a child 
Utterly absorbed by stars.
I’ll say it again, there’s a method to share but it’s overrated.
I’m high-fived as I whisper to myself, falling for the tautology.


Start writing.
It’s easy going out and doing things you don’t know. No repeat parts.
The charge is here, thrill in peeling back from nothing as well as failing to remember the (mission) exchange. Or extra charge.
De rigueur for now is farfetched. / Let’s consider what might outrank Zen. / Your dialogs sound libertine laced w/ Frankfurt School brio, some science fiction

— all right, let’s start the open air in complete command of nothing.
Wearing a wigless wig is 1 method and standard model.
Measure = unbending contradiction, full, official division in one’s mind and 1 other, you!
Something came up. 
Little.. no, nothing. There’s so small  
an exchange to transact, no tangibles, only  
exhibitionist’s subtopics, within a power den (conscience),   
proving repeated effort is self plagiarism.
Another time.
Sonnet 65: 
Cultural boundlessness in impulsive concealment.. it could be a physics meditation held outdoors last summer. 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 bright in value or a variable of beauty either way.
I am a visual person. Always have as I see you admired you. Liked you. 
A month ago I took no umbrage, bloated out of proportion, 
any umbrage hurled as a term in frustration. But now. 
Non being in an octave, lonely as un-filmed pretexts & Goethe’s juvenilia. 
Good instincts aside, no ephemerality, no hidden rounds 
Or inflexible spite. I see what no means.
We met at a fashion tea, Homeric possibilities to extremes.
A couple of days reveling in delirium, haunting grimness. Breaking the ice. Then it dawned on me.

That driveway could be a prime beachhead steaming for a pair, along with amalgamated events that are summarized best, perhaps, in this question, what do we mean, constantly infinite?
Your every utterance is on the jet trail — quelling fear of pain —
That’s how being with you seems in sleep and still you are unattainable —
Say you’ll be back. You never can tell.
Poverty is all right, but fuck extreme poverty.


Can we straddle the divide between convention & sorting through unattenuated sense-making?
Every Harvey Keitel film substantiates you may have a gun, you could be reaching to get a gun, or you could just be, in essence, fronting.
There’s nothing linear going on. Everyone infers that.
Unless you want to.

Been reading about accelerating destruction in the Amazon. A chunk the size of Rhode Island burnt down each year. This buckaroo practice unearths rich soil for farming that’s productive for about four or five years. After that, the soil turns into sand and sand dust.
Carports for the farmers, then, are an interim step. Dust when it rains converts to haze and the stain of moist bubble-like illusions.
I’ll be doing today tomorrow — 
I’m individual no. 1. “An idiot,” handlers whisper.   
I’ll read my email soon  
because my fans deserve it. 
The power brokers’ search had no results.  
Their time is split into categories of use for my work and for the sinister about-face of a system download added to my labor.  
A life sentence for causing a ruckus.  
Call me when you’re ready.
What is known is types of metonymy. 
Outside branches of instrumental research,   
poetry, a subset of epistemology, entails voicing new speech from old — 

Even blindfolded, we see paradox smirching curvatures in space, observed in continuous motion: Air puffs dart away, streamlined and compressed, aiming fast — but never landing — 
I’m scared. Good night to catch up on a poem or two that don’t matter, unfinished odes to Zeno as we circumvent Euclidian voice commands, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, only having to know.
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.
Think of our courts and cunning missing bail. 
Everything you expect waiting now in wistful   
landscapes, hum-vacuumed.  
What’s the worst that can happen?  
Um, ok, yes, I bet. Open the curtains.  
And de-peopled points trip up our not speaking for months  
(critical moments you thought),  
  finding my direction as I thought of you —  
So it never happened.
Showing my cards I leave some change,
while my lover & swim lieutenant leads me to a postmodern workshop,
a sure bet ad infinitum.
He smiles with a mutuality that never doubts my bluffing knowhow & innocence
... I keep raising him for starters at the oceanfront, a replenisher, bringing it all back.
My boss sucks.
That’s because she has to. Some job titles are, as the expression goes, anathemas. Disquiet raising the roof. Boss, leader, principal, chair, honcho, prexy, director, officer in charge, master chef, head of the shift, muse. What does it take to earn and maintain a caption like these? Ideology.

Casting spells. Constantly interviewing everyone, including me as I do with every other co-worker, employee, affiliate, colleague, member, collaborator, associate sans souci. Muse first!


What is the difference between imminent and threatening? How do you pronounce annunciation? As atheist or decision theorist?

Act gathered. 

There’s personal glamor that can only end in a draw sustained by two getting up, stretching for an hour.    

After action and glamor there’s power. The virus is already inside us, theorist.
A mind occupied, just so. Am I in an experimental state of forgery? No, I live in a red state. Prithee, how do I maintain balance sheets & my resolute informality? It’s one other day of no hope. Yet different, jokes turn into sleep. & dreams forgive paranoia’s belated redemption, trapping me inside ambitions to put out the house fire (in my head) all by myself. New to physics, I talk in a low to medium braggadocio. My grin sports a few layers of sleep relief, aching in baby, calmly accruing intimacy to belie despair over entropy.
64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced, 
increasing its store through loss in time, grief and tv language. 
I hope you can let this go.. 

Time will come to take our love away leaving me breathing with no form;
no fear but structurally I’m consumed by so lofty a hypothetical force — 
I can’t go on without an interchange — an episode within your telegenics: 
When we walk together, it makes no language difference what we believe,
what the soul is. 

I’m just commenting having you, having no fear losing you. 
The soul’s inscription reads you’re my business.
Our sonneteer writes: We have to know about the nose and its utility in poetry. One question, does the nose intuit (hold) more lyric than the eye, know more than the throat, or even our ears? The nose makes the mid-alphabet pronounceable in English — M and/or N. And if the nose makes it pronounceable, it’s hummable, too, and that could just be the sloping tip of the nose’s lyric purpose. Hard to hum what the heart may be ‘saying’ — we can’t tell without sizing up other body functions, humming from the nose.
To wield a conceptual brush is to terrorize, even if your motivating injunctions steer clear of violence or unregulated emotion. Terror here is poetry’s swift, certain, nontrivial insertion through a crucial hole and/or through self-negation versus certitude and flatulent controversy, such as with Basho’s proving human sound able to transform animal to mineral, or with Duchamp’s counter-ploy to the rule, toilets are never foreground.

Controversy, like injunction, comes to us commonly or frequently as back-formation, a provisional ethos after the conceptual stroke. We were constrained by the profound assumption, for example, that a play requires a tone and the stage set in more than five words. We were tacitly sure of this, marginalized more from other minimalist affects until we read Beckett’s new direction: A country road. A tree.
Hanging on contains the universe. Imagine the hurt.


Wearing new ear buds, I’m unnerved by this chamber piece somberly flashing in forwardness, now audible jokes of mute resignation, of intention preparing us for a fixed melody with renewed authority. Not hearing more fosters coercion of what evolutionary legs-up were before running through all options.  Unless there is nowhere else.
Half of the unknown universes have astrophysicists.
Our prospect ices. Breaking appointments,

Time lapses are at acute angles each winter, no lie.
One improbable is the climate’s finite performance before it veers away.
Switching phones, I look up to the crazy dental intern waiting to take me out.
No contusion of the spheres,

dyscalculia, no, no hindsight bias,
Fra Angelico, sun up,
you’re a mess.
I’m going to grab you.
I am a visual person. Always have as I see you admired you. Liked you. 
A month ago I took no umbrage, bloated out of proportion, 
any umbrage hurled as a term in frustration. But now. 
Non being in an octave, lonely as un-filmed pretexts & Goethe’s juvenilia. 
Good instincts aside, no ephemerality, no hidden rounds 
Or inflexible spite. I see what no means.
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. 
45: Sir, libido and swift words send and return messages — coming back as first thoughts even when quicker elements, air, my fire are both with you (wherever I am).

When I don’t hear back — I’m no longer glad
or assured, merely present-absent, oppressed by melancholy.
As it were,
by this account I’ve sent my desire back, far away from me.
In this bronze age of cliché

Men and women can act like spangled genetic machines. 

We know that. 

Taking chances put our genetic lines in a lissome interpretive state (birth).
Function varies widely.

So our group utterances are for sale. I’m intensely delighted, taut-
But-relaxed, I’m exposed, unspooled. Thus I think this is not a test.
I could see up to their clavicles, I think, Marines and their police
Were wild one lane over, so I was arrested.
Falsehood is an actuarial stat, a subjective quality of the frieze in progress, not an elevation or height. 
This is a true/false dance question. Fibber Perseus v ‘radium’ Dana (his mom). Which are ya?  
In one draft Perseus can place big futures and puts as taller mouthpieces enter the salon rolled ‘into’ spools of her opposites — Dana’s tendencious pedestrians (1st- or 2nd-years} sweating lead colors.   
Dana can’t help smothering her loved ones, the dying. The very birds are instantaneous velocity.
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 ...


Very good, Jack. We were going over some numbers, audience shares, I mean maxims, and...
I would like to voice concern about poetry / critique spiraling out of control...

Look, I’m filling out forms by the nightstand.
The point is I’m not writing anything “garbage-y.”


Don’t be silly, Jack. You are daytime poetry.
That’s cruel, Rabbi, very cruel.
Media is clogged with a reductive, neo-fascist message... 
Trump just has to look presidential for a few minutes to emerge [..presidential]. 
Fascism stays underground for as long as it takes. Now here it is — it’s about to play nice. 

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

The time seems backward. There is the example from frog species. Frogs lost teeth in the lower jaw at least 200 million years ago, but whoooa.. lower teeth reappeared in a marsupial tree frog species about 20 million years ago. 
Big guns Fric and Frac. Remember them?   
Fric just called, admitted “We were swimming naked, a word I often use to characterize our government and binding. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed Frac by the throat, moved in. I felt something strange but familiar. And I gained social capital, among others.” 
To bring this up this late in the morning is fiduciary. 
(I fell silent and wrote it all down.) 
To reverse Frac and Fric would switch from intractable to insoluble.  
The split couplet, a principle that cannot be considered in words 
like suspension of liberties and financial slaughter.
A poem fires up photoshop. 

It’s often said a poem is a picture — I read madras pea 
Coats — albino kittens hitting crescendos annoying cringing robots. 
Drown me out, speed bags. 
Drown and kiss the cleft, sanguinary as dissolvents — 
Love makes lock up toxic. 

Photoshop that. 
Not a problem.
134: Dirge: Knocked up by sure bets and unusable vote counts. It sounds like usurer intrigue, equipage of the self-illumined or half-taught —

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

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

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

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

Similar theories, large discontinuities. Dirge:
I don’t worry or pierce my ears further.
All meanings are the full meaning.

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

I’m sorry so sorry : Can you sing that? from a reveler on a roll, keeps forgetting

What she’s rocking on about.

Then a new problem set: 
A work through naïve discourse —     
Keep methods observable as mayhem —   
Call this ‘transactional’ waking action   
Unlocking — on seeing you — my meaning from the start, the only unmoving part.
I’m listening to Sonny Rollins’ Blue 7. Choosing a next word, like deciding music, is a significant event entailing parallel yet soon defunct experiences unmeasured but hypothesized in a quantum construct. 
Choosing words or choosing most anything — an extraction process merges quanta, happenstance survivors plucked from a number of now-dead parallel event objects or topics. “When a word is selected as a ‘vivid detail,’” Wm. Empson insists, “a reader may suspect alternative reasons why it[’s] selected.” You’d think a given detail had been spinning either as two or many more meanings finally resolved (finished up) as confusion collapses, and one number or topical mood pops up and out, anecdotally at random. The rest are put to rest by now.
Shopping sprees are migratory patterns. 

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


You can exit the room at any point, burning, or add features to nodes, as in rote ed like foundational philosophy.
We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. Miss you. Miss you.. There you are! What’s the matter?

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

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

(returning to duty)..
With good optics petroleum and related interests ripple with joy.  
Slippery bosons exhale thru rainy nightfall. I reason their surrogate likenesses  
(x) are more reset than struck down. Razed once rain’s over,
prancing on the lawn, rain in light draining oil.
Sing (wryly): 

I’d like to thank the Academy. 
Try to ignore X to reinforce ignorance. 

I.T. warned me of overrefined emblems and their sweeping reproach. Can I have an amen? I’m not religious. Nor are you. I took note of what you like from the beginning. I had a few ideas in mind divorcing you. 

Oh, tech services, tell us more about your miserable ontology affecting checks, balances, and mantra logjams — How did worldviews crumble into poli-environmentality to pantomime the common numerator undercutting American literacy?
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.
The Civilian Conservation Corps formed and disbanded long ago (1933-42) but we see their handiwork in a few large cities. Parkways, esplanades, gardens.

Public works. One’s rather excited. One leaves it at that.
The places were beautifully democratized.
Justice, liberty, rule of shadowy lures...
Also, it’s easier for, suddenly, one has more greens to soften interruptions, using soft consonants down in one’s throat.. one’s holding firm. How many parallels do vowels take?

There’s no contest as every path dug from the ground by the Corps expresses a city telling jokes.
Bands break up.

I lost the point of that vast line.
To define natural tears...

Payback’s hardly nice
...coming clean is a neat precipice in myth that won’t stand for practice —
not while the restive recover from plumb numbness —

we see beneath their flighty dignity...
blistered motion common as flicker tails (tails’ angles) in light made identically hot and cold,

restive, made of the same emotional thinness going home. That’s the super-definition :

Especially on the hunt.
Mere research reports what’s on your mind. 
Why not reflect it in text?  
You’re showing one lie can never be replaced by another  
It contains.


A politician, claimant of the photogenic vitamin to stop the bleeding,
is not much of a sentence, lacking meaning, more useful settling in mere syntax
as warm-to-medium as a visual partnership queued up imitating /
replicating Dionysius for the evening drive, before severing the vines.
What of misprison in these shoot to kill syntactic schemes? 
Shoot to kill. In my semen so few dead. 
Wait. This Uncle Thing and the will. I find it confusing.  
The man was your uncle. He died.  
He didn’t leave you diddly. You’re upset.  
Full stop.  
What about your writing poetry together? Was there always animosity?  
Yes! Ever since I ran over his schnauzer, in my villanelle, to be precise.  
The “my” you reference reminds me repressively of what it sounds of, Sibelius
& forsythia —  he said. 
The forsythia is trying to warm up.
Beaten hulks pour vodka that swirls in an action film clip with multiple data fields and a crew of deft extras in malaise. Their theorems about pain are supported by one or another grabbing a rope, showing pain.

I’m told you’d prefer not to watch. It’s better using your own voice to ask a friend or two to make you hurt, pretending they are you, falling mute.
146: I’m talking to you in American. 
The Savior is missing. No more dying then? Not going to lie, I watched us dream economics weeding and painting over a radius, destabilizing temperaments like worms eating up the itty soul. A body loss. Looters and rhombus-gatherers, all doing well respectively — great work for rebel power, cuts straight through the soul’s restructure creating more chopping patterns to abandon as dross.   
The chips mounted as background to soundtracks muting key words. The large cost’s about time, so short a lease, epic sums on slender, empty glosses. The 21st century walkway and humane instrumentation are redone for open combat. (It might be feminists like us are on genome probation.)     
Is this that world’s decision theory now? Don’t know. Not going to lie. (Ideologues often get stuck on the last line.) 
Socialist by nature, 
Not sure discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income consultancy, honing readers, cashing in.    
Looking around gradually vanishing, embrace it for goodness sakes  
Yet reading the usual way subverts low expectations.   
We’re dealing particles of thought, pastiche      
To paying homage running across intransitive subjects,   
Finding how axioms move discourse far from innocent oversight.
Longhand example:

Anguish over a panel about reasoning and not writing anything down, angst in its emptied refraction dancing on a taillight for syntactical beings (in a sentence) on a muddy sidewalk.
So that’s one.
Shopping sprees are migratory patterns. 

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


A new problem set: 
Work through naïve discourse —  
Keep methods observable as mayhem —  
Call this ‘transactional’ waking action  
Unlocking — on sight of you — my feeling from the start, the only unmoving part.
1 enclosure without a pulpit, no dogma...
outdoor passages to enter then exit self sponsorship
spreading out in willful overloads of language design —

Skilled decor, de-simplified, or notional contracts
between science and who knew?
Ironic technologies without precedent —
A corporate hold across manners and adaptations, restrained praxis
and hermetic syntax, all noun phrases.
I first forgot the fan
of his breath we lost.

Lost resolution in people mimicked from
the wrong places, a milky foundation
for ephemeral representation.

Thought I acknowledged commodities
with assigned values, in long letters.
Letters to you whose name
I forgot while some partners lost their
spell checkers and casters
independent of forgetting. They’re

raising their heads now, front and center.
And owing to your interest...

How could I hate neck muscle warming
tomtom heartbeats, bright debate

drawn to fresh boundaries hand
to hand in 4 arms?
There were chances.
Then none.
I don’t believe this.

Rain fading under a bough of heavenly bodies 
Like stars in fog on top of steam  
Adjusting to bright, vermilion bushes of mist.  
They have names ...  
Tow trucks!
Sonnet 94:

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

festering into our very own subjectivities,
which we can’t pinpoint or supplicate, my lord, husband...

But may I live and die if fair ever turns sour
in these our summer to summer’s pitched provisos
and integers-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none.
Poetic license: so often called. Here’s my side, since you never asked. 
The moon at this phase could be the crudest debacle to date −  
merely an anagram of abstract treasonous appraisals coalescing, a typecast   
notarized in the spry travelogue almost as if we wrote the subject 
headers from experience. And the leaked soundtrack was not only plain    
ugly but to everyone’s taste!  
As a guest or resident adjudicator I admit   
“Progressive politics is imaginary if...” Those very words support denial of healthcare, unless there’s a risk. I feed off donors, important messages, prior clearance and everything factual.   
Everything if.
A beautiful writer, standing in the sun, front and center. When
distracted, one heard “Continue − to enter the contest area − Continue.”

Not going to lie to you, I watched both of us — affecting a radius, destabilizing ‘oppositional’ temperament. On our side, all going well, considering;

                    — to consider is the great work, cuts straight through restructure, throwing out hyper-nonliteral churning depth w/ gutsy abandon.
* The budget cuts (last line) are background to double-rhymed soundtracks. Entire funding sectors feel it’s the end of capital, epic sums expended in slender career arcs for you. Bitcoin walkways and instrumentation

are redone for full combat. I pictured us in another life or

I’m wondering about our lifetime, what could be. Male feminists are on genome probation,

according to decision theory. / Only for you...
The mind just calculates sitting there. It wants to be best friends. It’s saved us a burger. An idea of glimmers, of aroma: The apparatus out back, grills in place, waiting —


Psalm: make me sorry with the music. 
Nothing is unimportant. Neither the bray of birds nor their sweet after play. Send for Fr Pierre.  
He lives in harm’s way. Sit on his face. “A pure transit of showdowns.”
Here’s another centerpiece to explain how flowers are cut in plurals of progression. 
Iconoclasts count on progressions in a series, along with any allure of falling fortunes  
(they did).  
From the center literally nothing is granted, good as your word.   

Good as a poem.   
Now, fine timing   
Since you waited to listen, not empower others.    
Every misconception is in the open, living unhinged, no limits. A fact, also  a point... an ornamental one; our brain / body fiber pierced day, night, point b...   
Terpsichore stays ascetic, improvisatory, a voice sherbet hued like Erato’s toppling the series, voices of suspicion, hisses.
Poison antidotes are a way of life. He had meant anecdotes, composer in this case, not narrator.
Both go off. They just seem wound up in the same horology. One terribly in the study of, it appears, the other, in and of the art.

He comes back to deposit invariable utterances for superseded structures getting back to poison.

There now. We can drive.
12: This is a fugue in your full name,
talk bristly talk..

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

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

abhorring a vacuum when it doesn’t matter —
vibrato and sunlight close their distance.
Any waste of time subject to change,
since sweets and beauties always change —
Never saw them coming, old and new to lofty ends
but not here — We brave questioning you in your summer beauty, telling the future..
A private-public distinction, extension 8, 
no longer limits outcomes for a buffered work force.    
Besides giving you empathy-like babble  
I rewrite over your agenda,    
A vapidly growing handcraft   
once I launch it —   
We got married without knowing side effects   
— wait, I forgot why I called.
Noh way. That’s us w/ big hanging wolf eyes. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to breathe when we meet, somersaulting in / 
What goes around then comes gasping; the more irregular verbs  
induct us to your other habits ..  
Gleaming steam drags down sculptures of felled helium..  
A little like nerves done over by spinning in warm breath.  
Noh stuff.
You can tell it's not prose when you fiddle with it for more than 10 days, fiddle with it all the way down.


Skepticism is boosted by metonyms. 

Ever since, one’s intellect seeks damages. Time to boost actual ideas.

There’s not one left from an emergent zone for lack of despair. 
Nothing.. even huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy from institutional fictive icons. 

These icons I believe can’t predict what we’ll face when they take over — hard winds! and there aren’t enough white flags going around to

blanket utterances filling our balloons. 
Channel my absence from you. 
While my paranoia reminds me of you 
when I am feeling discordant, scared of death 
from which we come back as braggarts getting it all wrong.  
Or mostly. We both goofed but it’s negative minutia,  
only a fleeting year — extemporaneous, rectified,  
less or more spasmodically through time restored removed.
This cloaking device forestalls detection. Slanting, lost, an hour later we’re beginning to ride over borders. Borders are still porous, just look at this phonemic adventure! I need some top wipe. 
You’re turning me on.  
Reading pulp, there’s an interlude between devices where I wish you’d taken up singing of thingness. 
The thing is ethical epitomes go against the grain. Maybe a grain or 2.. anything too graceful. What are faux resonators for but to attempt command of natural selection and all bloodlines.  Um.. one thing more, there’s nothing but an eye blush of heat that measures desperate ‘votes’ we put in reckless hands — 
The one state is jaw dropping. Suddenly government turns away from independent public scrutiny. 

The argument, from a Darwinian datum, eye contact reinforces civility that lowers game energy. Good dog.
Argument is a figure of speech, shrunk to bullet points v. heavier armor just before the death of death.
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’ve put in my head.  
How can the world say it’s not so,  
how can it say it is? No ..  
I’m mistaken in my view :  blinded watching you thru tears —   
the sun itself vexing until skies clear  
— O me! You!
This is all I know, this poem. 
It’s so pathetic. 
I also know not to throw the right brain out with the  
a) baby  
b) broth  
c) plywood boards
Criticism “must take a wider horizon of use.” But my notes are lost, colonized with off-rhymes; my lexicon of rhetorical “skirts” wrapped around a few “legs.” 
Between a minimum and maximum, 
Buddha retires in expired turmoil. His daybed is in the new office alcove with murals of doves dropping out. His critique has no name; it’s all about listening.
So I put my name in. Just one. Am I fit for the scenario? The next one. Are you and I? I ran out of balls rating you.


Remember to slam the parentheses behind you 
) bang and ) bang and ) ) double bang 
(to be on the safe side). 
— James Schuyler
We need a clearer message. There is nothing swift
in discretion. Neap tides in grasses previously made us sick.

Their flowers’ name is hooded.

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

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

Timespace, s’up?
Conformity is a serious consequence and urban hazard 
And it’s well to recall that feeling inside you and me, too,  
How prominently your spritz of attention became the asking price.  
(End of asking)  
Solidly opposed to one further illusion of minimalism in networking — as in prostitution there is no time for fascination.
I prefer a clean hotel. 
I’m calling time-out dull  
outside regular hours.  
Looking around we need smarter drywall to excite ferns and moss growing  
Up, shiny, imperfect, not held in place —  
your nose looks finished as the stopper.   
Breakfast at Starb’s and we’re off wandering  
headed for B terminal,  
a legacy installation in profane solace. 
117: What’s virtue? J’accuse thus: I have to repay all bonds as punishment, my willfulness and errors.
Whereto I recommend free time with ex-writers, video vignette makers, engineers and others unknown, indistinguishable from applied scientists.

For now, after work we non-haters should accumulate human illuminated octane wearing Ray Bans and tees.

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

All inner bonds still tie me day by day to your dear love:

Solitude, confidences accumulate as we’ll give in to willfulness then errors and the desert constants farthest from your sight.
Dance: I was with two others outside on the steps, buzzed, dressed in a navy polo and beard. You came and asked for a drag, which I gave up right away. You had me light it for you. You stood around with us. 

No, I didn’t cut out anything.  

You were staggering outside the club, mate. Drunk-ish. Alone.  

By the time of the fourth revision the poem was lost. That’s what I want, not what the poem wants.
It could be that lunatic yarn to move your higher thought around  
modulating what the self comprises, one’s prime membership,  
renewable only once according to replicas. While ..  
I’m neutral re: riding recklessly, driven in short sequences w/out words —  
push material for daring and highway defensiveness w/ outreach.  
They say grad school if you ever go is mostly played out.  
That means you partake in indecision (ever cool).  
And there were digital fees while traveling that way, breaking bread in wooden enclosures —
teaching, playing hard on the computers, keeping at it —
Donor class curricular adjustments. We apologize for the inconvenience. 
A ton of special forces in silhouette .. er ..  
Near the top filling in with capacitance-assistants, the managerial sweepers,  
Theorists of a visual world culture wholly populated by good posture.


The happiness of one red lounge, a banquette with table in one corner washes up on islands serving as hideouts. We’ll need a new camping saw and hood scoop. I’ll invade your space then just leave.
Ghosts? Zombies? No. That market is unregulated & inefficient. 
I put a new skylight in instead...   
My apartment, top floor of the building, a small  
Bedroom, kitchenette, barely a sitting room with parts of a sectional.  
One wall cloud patterns, washed grassland, blue wood, lemurs on paper.   
I don’t mind if I look worn or beaten up. I’m wearing  
The national costume,  
swaggering in poplin, in a trance.  
I must guard against glib enthusiasm.
The Conservatory’s always nothing much minus common sense. 

Come out and practice, play, sample finding out 
the masked hostility and indecisiveness of music and its cultures  
backed up by multiple inexact choices
of staying faithful to no faith, crooning accents  
from what we were taking before [give me a sec..] took hold,  
instantly endorsed as craft identity. 

[Retrieve the above.]

Retrieve identity and hardened m.o.’s from silences and retakes 
and feral feelings immersed in a prolonged cello lesson. 
88: Patriarchy expands fraternal allegiance. You & I so belong.
We’re well acquainted with our own double weakness. Well, I really enjoy it. 9 out of 10.
What do you look like now? It’s right to ask? With all my loving thoughts I can set down our story, twisting, bending my weaknesses.

We both gain an advantage (all wrong) to prove you virtuous.
Writers like me consume their own slapstick 
when there’s a conceptual contingency to max, along  
with requisite ethical structure to examine taste levels.  
Now you know what to expect.  
You can’t put limits on free-lancers’ exuberant leisure  
within a theoretical commune of vengeance..  
Smart money on the solo stiff up against the writing board.  
The ethics staff sat this out, sweat-soaked, shaken.
’Recursive perception‘ — 
For your birthday (bleak as mine, too, fixing drinks) I came straight from the agency, this text’s agility welded to the dirty platform on which I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception and Inaction,” which seemed all I wanted to think of, nonambiguously. 

It was everything. All pre-happened and post-decided.
                        ...speech is streaked w/ extra
sensory blather —


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 believe in fact. 
There’re ways we recover from riches and most happiness: as litigants in the field henceforth —  
With context as the right field only once  
We stay on board out in left ..  
It’s about letting go and taking you out of context — 
(Below context, a free agnosticism. Easy sway. You’ll be taken up on your offers.)
We’re entirely for artifice, stock in trade. When J Schuyler remembers J Brainard and F O’Hara, what’s biographically accurate beyond artifice is the entirety of the kinship, the tubby, transfixing emotional sustenance that comes with love and ebullience among friends. T Towle dreaming of O’Hara seems credible as both artifice and credible proposition on similar if more platonic grounds. R Creeley evoked J Wieners alive and, to more tragic effect, vice versa. Friendship and love are components of the vetting process the onlooker or reader-writer follows to decide for herself whether a writer, beyond artifice, walks among the ardent ghosts, the likes of Wieners or a budding O’Hara.
Yes or no in tokens, symbols and their prototypes. Yes or no signs. Yes or no to feuds, grim bearings, the asseveration’s vulnerability. And no yet also yes to poems scoping life as a masterpiece, to a doormat hanging an inch above the casing, and to new itches up your sleeve. Yes or no tempo of glyphic turmoil grounded into torpid incision in not one vowel or all 80 of them — 800 tones, yes or no prophase for pensive description. No to yes there’s insatiable shine.
43: There is your dead-of-night agreement to let me in. Iron clad. Skull with putty.
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down to earth time in dreams, darkly bright, best seen darkly directed.

The more you put on earth, you know shadows, shades, colorations are evidence of imperfect (un)seeing, but blessed (made more adhesive) and happy when looking on you.

It’s much clearer in the light. Yes. That quick. This is a speaking animal in heavy sleep, you remember regression —
all days are nights and nights bright days. Time’s up.
I might happily have thrived at another crossroads
Painting in oils in neoplatonic archness. A white zinc
To follow a flightpath out /

A green thumb trying to paint and cover

A big space with dabs of marine titanium that dilate
Blurring the root truth of good-faith setbacks for an hour —

A genocidal collage of screens, diversions
Rocking to agitated waves, reproached, converged
In drumming opinions and science-y, practices — How the world is!

Climbing off the board with no fears —
Holy Albert Hirschman!
Just because I feel nothing, Pessoa,

You’re leaking results before ‘thinking it over’;
IF I have no idea that holds you,
THEN how does an idea
Of idea an
-ticpate stipulating proofs for missing the ‘and,’ ‘or’ and ‘not’ of binary practice?
Let’s start then w/ an idea
Of making out
Up a big tree in Zion where detachment is trimmed back —
Just because I still feel nothing doesn’t mean
I can’t or won’t come up w/ representational songs of a strange loop, w/ jaded stretches.. Literally externalize my comfort. Externalize discomfort, too.

You’d lose a lot of the dude and preachy man... yeh.
True, false, is it a gaze or maleness?
Yes. It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and
Time’s up.


Dedicated robots embrace the free market, she announced in a penetrating tone of Aleut, 
a blanched mist of drifting nothing. Blameless, free of anguish for an all nighter:  
She picked that up early, from them..  
..wolves running through snow melting into wolves..
I had this idea out of nowhere of no ethnicity. 
Not like gogo boots or a crucifix ...  
no longer eyelashes to bring your pupils out.   
We might have a cigarette for the beach.  
What do you think of smoking?   
No, I don’t think I’ve done anything this way before.  
That’s why I slept so poorly last night.   
For if I tell you, you’ll say  
I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Right,  
you know I’m two-faced. What? Nothing. All right...   
We can make the poem mute. If it doesn’t  
speak, we don’t have to pay it as much.   
A wordless deaf-mute. What could  
be more what you are?
Never dine — a term of 
Meantime I’m a member of the takeaway school.  
Mean something, take it away...  
how my twin psyche writes more conscientiously  
touching on raw parts in this endearing translation.   
Symbolism weighs in  
as a shortcut: Some future of the past thinking & writing as if. 
As if I stress  
we’re suspicious of wormholes, tho  
I never use tone shifting while throwing a cookout together.  
For what party in sleep?
I’m having a pitch dark
obvious brainstorm
so why stop

Only, let’s call it
O baby
all the way unnhh..

O yesses encompass in advance
— crash. Al-

So let me see..
dreams get advanced
returning the favor.
29: I am deaf, “bootless” you say, never hearing I’ve been scorned, despised, all alone for desiring you...

Yet I make a fortune wishing, thinking of you when? when disgraced

Remembering hymns for love rich in hope, wealth, art, a human scope.
How all men’s eyes rise at dawn from birth, this outcast state without you, when..
Almost enjoined as to the sullen, least contented, almost cursed —

Looking for, singing from earth, thinking of you through daybreak.
Microscopic honesty — we used to say — is the sanest practice for complete thumb control and body fitness. 
Let’s go thru it again, generations of ample volunteering and worship set these scruples up. They come back. Soon you relax your balance, honest equipoise for a good writer is common enough, even now. 
We went over our defensive appearances, for instance. Keep to schedule. Key is your keeping a regimen for hours at a time before it can wear off: So never let it. Curvatures in spacetime affix to our high expectations. If they pass muster they’ll slant any promise you have, had or you don’t know in the aftermath of your hiatus (hesitation), revving up.
Modulating the self comprises an apotheosis
according to types of daring.

Don’t smolder, show us.


Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of the knowledge industry that can consider anonymous approximations in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard. 

Moving forward I have all of an hour to believe in sweetness made into infamous exposure (in costume).

At music’s end if I voice a question mark when I say I’m feeling genreless, it becomes a pick-up line for the calmative afterlife.

The ‘universal’ that’s so uncontained and biomorphic and obvious in Joan Miró is less so

here — here in 21st century America. (I’m just making excuses.)

Our emblem today is design resolution to be decorative

— unless you already live there, take shore roads in bad translation
blues, stock blacks pitched toward numbers-to-be, numbers found in a conceptual style atlas, contradicting formal transport to an ageless place we had in mind.
A film maker, one poet (out of two)! is turning to performance crafts, sits and lets you alternate looking at this other sleepy person and thinking, has the floor moved? To sing of thingness = wild mist, without much shine and whose staying put is more to the point — dull mist, not deep enough. 

A good film maker works in-out-of mists. Thanks for his or her almost dry touches and for you with weak calligraphy — placing personality before nature and dreaming. Literally. 

You’re standing up, looking ok despite your sleeping sickness as a work-around to perfection. I’m by your side. On your side. 
Mist trickles down rewriting chain letters you refuse to answer. Good for you.
Good for you!
I’m new to the housewarming.
— To start, there’s no natural retrospective.
Slow poetry ‘students’ make “‘circumstances’” up.

The seats of power are filled with their ‘students.’
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.
I stay physics-free for someone nice. 
A sunny, boyish grin.  
Winning the beginning, now smoldering.   
“The float is radiant, jammed with radiant things.”  
Back I said, a piece of advice.   
Reputations precede character, tact of apprehension remains  
deferentially. Creature masks are a precondition in reprieve. 
In bar lighting, one’s eyes drift as if  
undressing underwater. I see why snails  
build a house. They stand around, slowly tank,  
coltish to the end. Jacobeans.
No appointments today. Triumph** is that creepy*. And counter-intuitive.

*Creepy widely construed as deafening tendencies toward plundered contexts for altering the body’s asymmetrical neuropsychology.

**Triumph, group or personal, can be unscrewed from abstraction during critical Q & A’s. How does triumph threaten a referent? when going straight to the point of quasi-autonomy. Was ist das? 

I’m asking out loud for one reason only, so the receiver will sound an alarm (an autonomous light).

Merely of course sounded.
Good I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of misnomers. Eating and breathing them too. 

Ghosts roam with the panicked. (All of us.) It’s like a last dance in respect to what you guys were doing — working off a 20-year watch list.   
There’s hustle to market, along with rips in the divino cargo of space/time whose overnight vessels burgeon on blobby warmth, piped in like Berlioz, accompanied by addictions to ennobling risk. Come here often?


Bad news, I was 
struck by the French property owner. You know,  
plagiarism done in loose quotes.  
It’s cold indirection (sangfroid),  
but my metabolism really took off, along  
with emotions from a huge songbook  
I’m freezing,  
‘quote’ watching text spin like sentience  
refined by distance; since  
it’s none of the above ‘end quote.’ This could be for you now.
A private-public distinction, extension 8, 
no longer limits outcomes for a buffered work force.    
Besides giving you empathy-like babble  
I rewrite over your agenda,    
A vapidly growing handcraft   
once I launch it —   
We got married without knowing side effects   
— wait, I forgot why I called.
Hate loss by design. Classification, evolutionary collisions =
One’s work multiplied by adapted preferences, opposite Proustian project boards.
One’s design.
16: It’s hard to do a mock-up & care. One idea for you, keep still giving yourself away.

You have no better, no sweeter skill than to fortify my grasp and rhyme with me.
Girls, boyfriends, gardens, “outward fair,”
Nothing less! No less and still another idea for you standing happier than the rest. Only a wish.

To make you live in the eyes of all living now .. only an idea, yet unset.

I can’t tell you I don’t care.