Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — I don’t care. 
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you how we’re doing.  
There’s a piece in karate, a fragile backspace we erase, and how 
there’s turbulence... and agony, more active, piquant. Your  
push reaches a pull point where time management is unleashed.  
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting your brow.
I do my best and worst work north of you but best or worst does is nothing if unobserved.
And I still get picked on — now in a major way.
But business proceeds — I stick in a little yoga. Then I run after you
thinking what a complete idiot. I am. My hair’s havoc, I’ll have restructured abs.

The contextual self, yourself, is fascinating, perhaps to squelch a tautology of pleasure smelling of abs.
We were used by demolition pros,
sliced, etc. Oh
You were fantastic,
an arms race in refuge.

This is the bridge.
Have you been?

Tasted great.
And after

Lilacs with mesh
without a searchlight to blemish
the vapor

Polarized as boats
keel and cover rubber planks
across their reflection.
Espionage and copy work through communal ethos-retrieval are distinctive features of the medieval era. It’s unironic digital data assembly enables our return to that ethos. Work produced now is parallel to others’ along almost innumerable dimensions (once factors or facets). And if most of that work is still authored, we can posit a flourish of production (including poetry) over a measurably short time will totalize individual product into, arguably, 2nd-tier relevance (with a few nonconceptual exceptions, of course).
28: Robbing the cradle: The big picture shows me my modest place. 
I’m technically adept dining in (or out) day by night and night by day —   
each of us the other’s reigning enemy taking umbrage from grumpy distortion,  
fractured logic (Hex 39) and our combined morbidity.  
While you — I always flatter you in my long consents —  
But daily, nightly I work on my music farther from you now,   
happy, long toil to stronger sorrows and griefs. So we both never sleep, exactly — I’m living you thru me,

exactly, and vice versa — what the cradle requests; the place rocks.
It’s a kind slide shot. Or not. We have functional emotions and this much-traveled camera with affects. 

Countenance is matter. Cold drafts are escapement and spray
forming part brightness with a pulse,
part average dare..
Enfeebled? Sleepy days of assented-to hours loosen us
from these biodata — taken to interiors,
into sussed, sonic focus.
Sonnet to looking forward:

Hoping nothing won’t happen, I cover my throat. Duly of course sounded. A few facts crowd around figures that are un-garbled when least derivative; ephemeral objective content triumphs. It’s kind of a snob racket. (C Bukowski)

We weren’t exiled or orphaned, we decided to pursue other interests. Plus, it started again, as theory, pleasure is to ethics as the roundup waiting in any landscape, waiting for mistakes (1) and (2) jounce.

Spontaneity backs up most position vectors.

Gloom is paralytic. I don’t detect a drop of broad mindedness toward any arched dynamic or versions of it — better when and how you love or even when you nibblingly slobber over a numbed one’s body of rare happiness, feeling better. Hope of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest Dionysian.
Dionysian = could pull off brocade, puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.
What does there’s still a move to go do?
It’s just a feeling, the only unmoving part.


It’s snowing, nothing personal.
Further out clear descriptors peel off like spiders
descending, moaning nonentities (the Ralph Vaughn Williamses)

hustling all the time, awesome!
A few words on equations in lit: Counterfeiting
Is luckier than regulating everything before it’s rooted in or out.

No sweat on tragic self attainment comes now, available in this reversion of Recent American English to wish you any and all the full pleasure I withheld. Damn!
It’s up to future officials to unpack Zen’s base ironies. Where are they, let’s see... I’m not picking up any .. acoustics. Where I am, they don’t hook up to supplies flowing out since they make love too much — so and because every irony wants to stay on a comfort-slope, to live well too, too well staying relaxed can lull you into a slippery tranquility. 

That’s Zen-not-Zen up to when?
Body copy! with olfactory consequences:
When he blinks there are lightning bouquets. What do I sniff? Here we are,

and his aroma is unisex, partly, chiming mad as manmade quakes mushroom.

So. Ghosts roam changing directions with panicked ants. That scent ..
34: I have a base feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in a way —
Together, you and I define arcs of ironic repentance but worked out in a series of affable disputes. Just so, we’re still cloaked in loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal but not the storm-beaten wind smudging our wounds into rotten smoke. Why?

It’s not enough I lose, I’m scared; ah, no relief as such. Not yet. I don’t travel well in new grief. I have your brave face but it’s shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.
A buffered work force manhandles indulgence
— wait, I forgot why I called.
We’re 1/2-way there.
That’s when the alien suckers evanesce.
Their loneliness and excruciating pain
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing
basin, weeping ... You try piling on debt, ok?
Voice operated judgments — 2 very different outcomes will equally square —

I could voice a tight fragrance, watching my breath. But let’s try again with no commas between the whereness of the tongue receding on the palate.
One, 2. Together, our inside voices take a few bites then punch it out waving not so perfunctorily, no toe moves, no steps at all — freaky in bed for tangled waves of standard-bearers. Waves and something else.

Zephyros, a sex addict shoots thru the property’s high impact surfaces, speeding in cones rejoined with strings of baleful, tempered banality, burning talent with a see-thru suspension over the ozone.
I can’t be  overdrawn, I still have cheques.


Taking flak, but unwilling to signal afar, this gong or that, neither hindsight advantage nor a flying object-in-time: A rubberneck develops one’s own humanism.

Here I’ll grab my fuzzy cover and scramble over to where I can further math skills, since my brain runs on my partner’s satisfaction as we groan.
Our sketch of predispositions begins.
Our position is to find breathing room, enough so we can start over.
Whom will we discover?

I’m in no hurry. A life is ..
Ten hut. What service were you in?
The government could be in trouble. 
I hate to be asked the price. A fortune.  
I’m boiling and sad, practiced together.  
— Wish it was just bad counsel all right..  
There’s word of solid drama down the road,  
a binary fission when you’re only expecting  
deepening rudeness, so we’re attentive bound for well-armed  
crazy-not-good disturbance ...
It’s a privilege to be singled out 
..once there was a C-class ..  
We stay onboard  
Suffering, complaining, 2 out of 3 observers get off, depleting the shipment.  
Surnames are ..oh forget it, huh? They’re randomly conjoined.
18: Allergic to verse? I believe a temperate art is set to make more mistakes, we say, rough comparisons to too hot a month this spring. Say, all summer you are more than nature’s change in course, growing (untrimmed) — owning the day for every moment — and knowing when to shine, to seethe.

And often seeing how hot eternal summer is, then fading all too short ah
Whew. Now we see you in fair poetry and art
from fair and far as long as men can breathe.
Wool flowers
Are harsh.

Ducks flying down
They are flattened grey
Popping on mauve.

Kennel light
fences barks

Yet impassioned so
There’s nowhere

In-tent-flap sounds.

I count 9 emergent explanations in the dark.
We are here.
A horrid plurality system turns a wall of calm over to science for good profits then greed, forgiveness and clumps of renaissance and their round robin prototypes that sell the smear to the cerebral cortex.

The plot’s motivated by small sums of justice. We’ve still not captured how justice is crammed w/ underdeveloped moral emotions and pillow talk — luxuries that bind, ushering in more non urgencies of a grueling yet quickened mind over entropy.

Info-tainments advance by themselves, lovely distractions, shooting the steepest mountains w/ slime. Thinking back, they segue w/ riveting inclinations in our self interrogation while commuting to work where we share high fives and broker a plan!
What do we know? We have functional emotions and this much-traveled vocabulary of affects.
To learn something about what you mean is to let high jinks belie despair over entropy. For a quiet start, try zero gravity. But you don’t get to keep any larvae. They’re apart. Their cloying song goes out mutely and you feel a need to ache in their baby blue blather, calmly accruing intimacy.


Combustion and dust spores filling avenues between scrapers, your honor.
People borrow shelter in smoking ice cream convenience stores, then run off to the subway, running with asinine language (you can’t call it dialog). Ugly apartments. Life-draining clothes. New affections. Highly recommended. 
The jet gate opens to the drawing room, once a factory outdoors where snow & sunlight close their distance. The old new & new strung out on sectionals, an untapped atmosphere of oblique, puckish Swiss.. The Swiss playing the stunt of relays between workplace & dogma, everything everyone can live by w/out being sequestered or brutally charged by material objects : so by these shortcomings we softball in harmony around some helpings of sky & helpings of Swiss.
Everyone’s welcome. The emptiness that was 
one fine day... 
                    A mercury-brimmed scree 
insubstantial in unexpectedness 
to dawn, ‘disappeared’ 
into the leg o’mutton of oblivion :  
You behind the scenes evaporating..  
— we owe you nothing  
                    falling out w/ your daylight and sexual theater on the same sheer precipice..  every day becoming ordinary knowledge  
of parallel ebullience  
                    waiting to come round up ideas sprouting from half-sleep,  
holding w/in geometry to grant the horizon the whole body.
Everywhere there’s fog off your chokehold. I give up, nowhere better!  No ripped off melancholy, no lecture / rap / blues, no shelter against the curious. I’m lying.  Part of what I do here. Throw up my hands!
24: This is color: Q-tips & smoke. Good background turns. Painter can pick you up, take a day off
              from where everyone who’s still standing is drawn to your shape — your glazed shape,
your true eye for an eye, physical & prime for the stress of form melees between a rat race
             & cunning security IF
Painter’s models have your body frame & heart & everyone else’s in mind Painter can gaze on w/, w/out you.
A new problem set:
Work through naïve discourse —

Keep methods observable as everyday mayhem —
Call this ‘transactional’ force
Unlocking — on sight — your pervasive hesitation.

Make it personal then bring your breathing back up from
the deep -- smiling as an art of life.
Monotone is no longer that severe or cool. Cool isn’t cool. 
Got it, the animal brain’s a little stiff but I feel what I think.  
Words are our feel-  
Ers. The river purrs, purls — not its sound  
But ours, so I read this  
By me and not me, us.
I promised you a ham for painting bombast, yonder.

That would be deep indoors at your place and mine. I’ll have you over when life and death crack the lobes of automation... After that, there’ll be everything standing in rain to grab at.


The ideal Cupid fell out of place in a man’s body

but staying in the picture. Voice changes and all.
I’m happiest when stairwells mesh to go nowhere, our bodies gesturing, with diagrams.

We’re going to finish them. Fixed formulae v. new options. Turn here.
I question the following. 
“Gogol, Nikolay Gogol, with an M.A. in these matters, says gut feeling, sane  
behavior and noncriminal discourse teeter on the grotesque.” I still can’t turn that  
down. Can I? Could he?   
I turned and asked again.  
It felt unwise.
The contours are to look urbanely offhand and sound normal, asymmetrically curt.   
Pulling a change-up tantrum repurposed into conceptual deflation.   
Psychotropic bios are commonly diagnosed as parallel discourse twists.    
Now one concentrates on the next available thing   
Until one like me goes broke; summarily I’m screwed.   
I then center on perception (whether beauty or wit), sustaining losses out of causticity.
Mueller on investing in Trump: 

Absence of thought rules for executive authority. ‘For’ or in place of. That is a summary. Correct. Felonies are edged with intricate crosshatches over pastel word clumps, busy yet redacted, hacked into non-exculpatory fudging. True, soft or hard, pr pellets change our misimpressions a bit.

Pattern a busy, contingent thoughtlessness that’s slime,  

Next, he’s a waste of time. 
Are you threatening me?
30: Losses restored?
Often there’s a new plot for precious friends — I think on you (dear friend) — those words we had or didn’t have forego consequences. The moaning milieu bad. Bad as in woe, even cancelled woe, since we know enmeshed values summon up remembrance of things past wastes of time.

Yet I take liberties wailing now, bubble footed in dark briefs. I have a dream of fair housing: Free-range light and dark in the clerestory to our lair... Our sorrows end. Some of us are going there after work. I’ll pay as before. Would you like to come?
The if-movement (aspirations) can be thought
A saga you (any of us) can pump off & on — so on

-Coming then coming clean, another part of our closeness.
Lateer, new police!
[speak of paranoia]

You don’t understand until I do.
Dear Politico,

I promised you a ham for quilting bombast.
Now, the ham’s faction’s hatched..
Have yourself a good time. We’ll have you over when the rest of poli sci gets to better thinking, Aldous Huxley, say, augmented with a good bouquet, plus a full deck of historical raiment dealt to the underemployed in object placement, decoding automation... (so they’re subject-objects as well as objects).

After that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous, for now, good talk! we’re fine, we’re down with “no real choice.”
Since when is / are government


Sentiment can be taken out.
So a redraft prompts free-ranging inquiry tho tentative (after all) meaning of regard to structure. Putting it down in a memo, we have a relationship. It’s not an investigation but unimpaired pursuit. Rough seas yet you’ve worn down long enough to be admitted; you know how we leverage missing you at a time when it’s least expensive. Put to the test, Your are as I am happiest procrastinating, indexing suspicion and objurgating..
Later, you do dangle like squalid balances netting zero, netting
a big zero from demeaning upper ends and
capital variables w/ an October surprise.
That’s everything, a verb, noun phrase, enclosed ..
How the prose poem squeaks w/ common sense, folds into dreams.

Everyday events like planetary ellipses emerge changing programming for greater disorder in business English.
Perfect color is an egg-hatching moment, kairos, and from there we can move forward back to detect undertones that encompass our naïve expertise.  Yours and mine.  There are a few nasty hues in our nesting place. And a flywheel effect turning conversation over to science and greed. A private-public wholesaling of prototypes that mess up the visual cortex — pasting-in blind spots crammed with luxuries that bind. The flip side — color powers enduring benefits like tooth and nail radiance.
Spacetime. Slash pauses.
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /
not while evangelic angles of light are making a fracas on our way home.
Vaccinated, I have a merciless itch.. what is this collapsed satori we travel into?
Other instances of ourselves / Passing the “casting

of cities,” thinking past us. Way past.
A normal 2 years B-4 messing with U. Why wait?
35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.

A scent of acacia and soft frangipani, sweet but no trespass.

You are a triumph.

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

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

Good-bye everything.
For a recap, I color within lines. Drink? I take my latte to bed 
And set it on the stand, tagged and released. 
You wailed it, Yosemite. Morose I am.. and optimistic.
You defile my people once. Only once  
expresses all our seeds in the mail ..  
solutions to endnotes on drums.. & pity nowhere now w/  
dark engendered powers @ 1% .. Cavaradossi!  
We’ll misapply principals, w/ others,  
the higher ones [Trained staff encourages sampling.   
Any higher are not talking.  
(There’s tighter discipline   
Then repetitive motion goes too far  
and some at all levels become enclosed]  
climbing into casual ritual (putting  
their lives together) & keeping order.) 
Poetry on the style page (where it stays). 
A thought I’ll put aside: a poem is a sonic record of felling trees (for the page).


Just before Halloween this comes in. 
“Your 1st lover could not heal your mind through his skin.  
We read spume on his obscure chin.  
Then we happened to answer him at a clip, seeing him double in hot sun 
and circles midair. We see his subtle flight.  Buried for dead but still in our view:  
If you can’t hear me you’re going too fast (bicyclist to bicyclist).   
It’s a mistake in tradition but it gets one to sleepwalk with one shoe in hand.   
I will find you.”
Let’s dance. I defy you.  
Empiricists map it, we know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n randomness. 
I will be true to conventional physics and change nothing empiricists spell out  
but pure benefits accrue. Newer inconsistencies never grasp for governance of the governed! Wouldn’t you know they show up in an infinite series w/in each day’s scuttlebutt. (Or from another angle they are the series, livin’ history over, as we have heard.) As you were.  
(The Chief of Staff said.
Suspiciously correct.)
I forget ephemerality, I forget narrative. 
I’m drunk on the environment; 

I’m a working temp, a role promised Malthus that threw him over the cliff.   
Now suppose a perfect Darwin of heavenly fury,  
searing, puffy, relaxed and succinct.   
Now an angel, let’s run some #’s.  
To pass out when we wake is ample.   
I’m at your side placing puts  
on the evolutionary table, petite in wanting you (I do).  
I forget farewells.
You need to review hedonism before it’s retouched ... 
& there’s nothing wrong with my commitment. I am massively committed. In national interviews, if I have to give others the finger, even faction members, I’m committed. They get it. You’re the problem. 
Your friendship is a job (like sloganeering) and, more elevated, craft (sign). To illustrate, job is to craft as practica to theory or open animosity (a sign).  
Also review free speech. It’s cool for sure and I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend. What’s it? There’s no work-around to the observer influencing the observed except for you later — it’s much later.
Sonnet One: Ornament is content.

The yews know how to wear theirs, desiring buds to herald greenness and increase —
much as we eat the world to save it. Together, dilating, flaming, increasing now in riper time, your own eyes contracting, bright, fresh, then green.
Ours was a taxonomic relationship. 
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax  
With a starry equity of neurons. Our lexicon strove for beta worlds  
that heat up while young at the edge yet a lost cause.  
Vicarious is not strong enough.  
And titles cost. Avalanche. A virus.  
Cherries Hamlet.
Copenhagen interpretation:
Our active models are you & a perfect sweep I can live by w/out being 
sequestered or bitterly charged for my own shortcomings 
distended in harmony around some parts of sky 

I understand as profuse clouds. Understand like take in. 
Huh? Is it fire? Up in sparks’ glow 

the moon made indispensable for smearing its light 
that travels down in a tiered border-like scrawl?


There are subtitles — I’m glad I’m jealous! — various languages. You dream
while staying awake and translate the exposed back of someone else dreaming.

Someone else’s father lying about his living.
Nothing accrues but a lifetime of waking lies. A whole life.
Sleep has some arbitrary direction over it.
In Throne of Blood — if you’ve seen it, you won’t forget — the tall growth of Cobweb Forest is sawed down to new ends, camouflage for soldiers of an avenging army on the march. The sad image is threshing fir and pine needles that shield warriors advancing to unseat a despot who is flummoxed by presentiment. 
Ontologically, a wild deed like rewriting poems is complemented by an autocracy of attitude toward the occasion; the autocrat and scribbler combine as a sawtooth. Standing by and looking on — face it, I’m prone to passive aggression — stunted, I limp off scowling to the deforested haze of profuse misses in experience and dulled lightness of touch.
Caspar continues, 

I’d rather not trouble you with my impressions of resource hoarding, so dependent on flow of daytime into night. Shades at midnight can ‘almost’ whisper faintly but I botch capturing even a fraction of their directive. My willingness to keep watch through the evening keeps up only to find your granting me permission to maintain my distance. I’ll let you go then. I knew you would understand.
After Rimbaud, Pound was nuts. When it comes to the poetry, some think thank goodness. There’s no defense, today, for calling Bollingen panel’s perceptions “objective,” & it seems reasonable to imagine a few, such as Eliot, were willing to overlook a man so “situated” — Despite Pound’s anti-Semitism as well as his insanity, he was ensconced on the “legitimate” bases of shared esthetics, the shared part left, even now, unspecified because it’s easier kept out.
125: I believe we fall to nature so ketchupy-and-pink .. an oblative canopy over beauty, wit and fashion is established outward.

I blame eternity.

I’m flipping out, whoa. Losing it all, and more! A white screen shows no art. Inform, suborn, freeze freely up, need help? Refresh screen — then, thanks, bases for eternity lower right, tho in the middle cels your lips move up and down, dwelling on design.

Changed my mind. The rent’s too high! No one can help switching me for you, bogus to true. Not now.

And it’s clear whose side you’re actually on, landlord.
So far: There is still no nastier event in poetry since top dawg Arthur Rimbaud snitched on Paul Verlaine & switched off poetry to run guns. (What about that prick? Rimbaud, I mean. Can you rap over Bourdieu & Weil’s take on renunciation of the Dionysian crafts, poetry & lovemaking, as a coherent strategy in Rimbaud’s case? The system upended — production so restricted it pro forma led to killing the craft? leaving oneself out by reference to internalized, thus rerealized, revised, social norms of cultural legitimacy & self-perfection!)
If the president is a hoax, how about your boyfriend?

Missing an idea of particularity, there’s an unbuttoned, squeegeeing pain to wrest
Your hermaphroditic itches gerrymandered in ambiguity.

Contentment rates are raised where
They go away,
released at last as what-about-isms and impartial dyscalculia —

The tide appears to notarize all of this — That and best,
we have come to our senses putting up fresher signs of interminable equivocation.

Apology to your mate.


I see it but am I seeing it? 

Were we mannerists, we’d describe this as Absence from This.  

Quick version: A wall of calm; also self-capture: The cross-hatching selfie that allowed ancestors to exchange traits for others... has just about run out of steam, my profane friend interjects, & leaves us wondering, once more what there is about our plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to. 

This version ushers in even more non-urgencies of grueling yet quickened aversion over entropy. Call it the ideas of how they work off This.
Surely this is no coincidence. I detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of thought, even when love centers on the numbed one with a body of rare happiness like popsicle rose gold from outer space — 
Space in theory.
The vulnerable and maligned muses were not held enough as children on a moonscape of beaks. Ever notice? Certainly I wasn't. Now I have to make excuses for friends of mine buried below their own livelihoods with no heirs.

They’re donning synthetics, and only half familiar, and just too intense, plundering the transport of their ambience. 

Hands up.  
There’s a beyond just passed an easy show of hands 
beyond orgasm overdue an hour ago (one mild altercation took it 
into a shade of de-constraining tease). 

A heyday of hands.
Feeling is feeling. 
It’s said repetitive motion has gone too far  
and some at all levels will be enclosed, not spoken of,  
climbing into casual spectacle, ritually putting  
some lives together & keeping nothing.  
Trained staff encourages sampling,  
sharpened, feeling a moral duty.   
That was the life of the party speaking. Highly attentive,  
morally camouflaged. A gun fired.  
So you get it now about dualism, you can make 4 walls the rendezvous, hang a roof, lounge in queue for the motorcade. The ride feels small —
44: It was nice once to have known you. If flesh were thought
A word could count remotely, calibrated by the ruckus-like paean within a large-scale dialectic —
No matter, despite the farthest limits of spacetime I could be brought before you if you think it over.

Will you think of me?
The will to quiet is the flip side of getting a lit 
-tle piece to burble, crying doubly inaudibly  
for more power when a robot loses its job after a thoroughly successful war on the homeless...  
I get scared how the losers meditate their spinning up to the new hostile  
surface, w/ no message. So there’s nothing left as surplus.
Today I threw together one or two objections about genome selection and freedom. 
The pilots that disappear on our radar had kind eyeholes,  
a measure of their gamblers’ vision, along w/ curly eyebrows  

of course, promoters of the foreground paradox of bad reasoning. Raw  
proxies responding to scale
in the background — and to sweeten arbitration (less explanatory data) —  
young bodies keep booking fights (proxies responding to scale) on what’s inheritable, determined.
High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long-
stood. Helium released. Populations drenched.
A circus repatriated.


To a lark,
Like torsion in third-level calc,
your obliqueness shows up around access
to authority. It’s far off if you can’t say why.

Your prefixed, scavenged opacity
fills with sangfroid riches of dark matter,
cloaking them with lark pedigrees.
It was incredibly compressed but defining.
Ideas of involuntary thin dots and stripes, that’s a guess.
For Christ’s sake I saw you in documentaries.
I saw your name written on walls —

Errors are no disgrace (tho at play), foam under rush-formatted steam
disappearing like figure / ground battalions,
your pretexts (w/out sound) — more
appreciable fear traveling light —

There’s product on the loose
faintly reeling into moaning

Solitary headline :
Fruitful, aggressive figures commend Christ on submissive grounds.
That time of year with smarter definition. 

How’s that if your electricity is out and you forgot
the pre-existing theory profiled in the west, 
ferns and moss growing either side, every-  
thing about the yield blowing in its whereabouts  
news that seals up all the rest of perpetual unitary joy...  
It must expire. 
I liked getting you to this point nourished by discovery. 
Terry Eagleton’s formulations re text and production can be less daunting when edited to their central premises. 1) Production is the key. 2) Text is a production of ideology. 3) Text and performance are “analogous to the relation between grammar and speech” – a production of a production (such as a theatrical performance of a text, his example, or critical interpretation of a text, my example).

Speech is a product, not a reproduction, of grammar; grammar is the determining structure of discourse, but the character of discourse cannot be mechanically derived from it... In studying relations between text and performance, then, we study modes of determination which are precise and rigorous, not accounted for in terms of ‘reflection’ or ‘reproduction’. We are examining, in short, the conditions of production.

An empirical analyst accounts for the double performance of her enterprise.
72: When love is missing, shame is worth nothing. .
You devise virtuous lies (dear love) .. I picked that up, false, smug, cute. .
a braid of welts around your neck. .
My name may be buried where my body is. .
the body you should love... .
I’ve just noticed you haven’t recited a thing, Gabby. .
Let’s rewrite your true love untrue. Make it count. .
Tho even n this I fear sarcasm.
A flood of text molecules offers ‘relationships.’ It’s very simple.
This isn’t the time for that.

No. Let’s.
We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. There you are!
explaining entrepreneurial ignition inside a collaborative framework.. 

O adoring you as an all-in enterprise assumes a moral politics where clouds of electrons boost us into magnetic orbit.
As Isaac passes from consciousness within physics to desolated marsh,
walk along with me. / Where to?

To the battlefront. Nightly measurement skyrockets (blasé for improvising
at first, then it coils & feels there are authentic possibilities) ..

I admire your parents (ghost punks), friends, enemies’ enemies, strangers, also ..

Charitable informatics is garbled when this derivative. Avoid rejecting
criticism, keep your smart object-waves under wraps ..

(I forget hints of confrontation let these other voices barge in,
forward, back passing thru the 1st position
of the sprout.)
It’s written (odd, eh?) that was enough. O May!
All in vain a head transplant brings on the knowledge affect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching four seasons float in willpower.


Love, A cool looking Japanese acrobat slow-motioned to us to go for the moody and unexpected. 
Doesn’t it freak you when categories are givens we don’t need to work out? Nevertheless. Some of you has given in — there you go, retreating, emancipating solitude, more sound-oriented than dance.   
But that reminds me, your drawl is immediate, overwhelming, terse and of a Castilian order. A hundred strum und drang in one = you, contained at the piano. The endive bloat for George Balanchine nevertheless.
The inscription read you’re my business. This means the writing is clean, architecturally intact, mirrored in meantimes.

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

I’m just commenting.

The inscription read you’re my business.
Knowledge suffers a bit, finding things out, 
Traveling through each of our genes —  
You learn to enjoy yourself when abroad. 
Who’s sick over us and who questions any vulcanized backlash? 

No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless:  
The future would give more / no more 
Than thanks and laughably no thanks.  
I thought of you.
141: Heart to heart:

I’m dating other members while we go thru systems — I love you
thru my eyes.

Our speech acts and faux pas aside, in spite of foolish tunes, no pain, no taste, there’s always

desire.. it’s self-invited in faith. It’s inside us like sin. We’ve gone
over this. But I’m dissuaded of tender feelings by you alone.

And most of your views look great in text — I promised my five senses, your proud heart’s slave ...
Thus far — my gain — I am yours, unswayed by slaphappy-proof likenesses to-be, I love you
pleased, delighted, you only.
Lilac is a favorite zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. 
Here we are, talking about it.
I feel so socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing the center: 
More than a 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 don’t have to know anymore yoga than 
We know now — less than nothing, the inside of zest.
It’s hopeless, my life like my sweating over you, nondestructive, unextreme. I crack up when someone mentions reincarnation, but next time you’ll pick a family from a line of tenured scientists in the non-snickering future. We on the left are depressed because ours is a classless de-corporated shtetl — no need for socialists? time will tell. Tho, maybe there’s no option? 

You’d still love political verse, but with reservations because of the dirt, all the skid marks and resonance of decay, “refined by distance.” I made sure you could tell.
... the rookie is burning on the outside, his only credits were adamance /
to squelch any dramaturgy from theology, wellbeing and actionable conditions, missing how far you are beaten into their projections.


Down interiors. And nice platonics. The he /
she and schema proliferating a fable
between acts of spinning themes, code hier-
archies, text over image, or is it on empty?
Let fish cool before kissing.
Discover why fish have made Puntacana Resort their 2nd home.

10 unique destinies sharing an ideal spanning decades, elegance without pretense, embracing and enhancing fish.

A chance to remember for a moment a fish held with the lamp switched off.

A little.

Life is death if you don’t have a little fish now and then.

Like that exotic-looking new fish who showed up at class one day, Ed, a reader-responder, a bit of a dichotomy wrapped in newspaper. Ed dressed in black. Thinking it legal, he wrote once upon a fish.
Feet on the desk, smoking are no signs of genius.
If I’m right, Beethoven’s later sonatas are brighter to a significant degree. 
He had to keep up. Or 
it was simply beautiful.
46: Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions
like unforgettable elements
in our sight, touching and holding the
moment, dividing it with
illusions of taking off for the
unknown, a mortal war
spinning or spun / upset / out of control yet
just outward parts of how our eyes impanel freedom and my rights
to your appearance, to your quests and thoughts, your inward heart.
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.
Learning about how to learn can be neat (also fatuous) even if your power won’t           
                               when we go away.
We have to trust you on these matters. One apiece.


When a bolt strikes the lightning rod emits a ballet in seconds of dust and after that a solution, a chemical substance that recuses itself and returns as coloration, a hint there is a small cognitive commotion in the back of something the matter.

This set me thinking of you and me. Two or more of us are affianced to life / love in different ways, always murmuring to the lightning therefrom a la mode and beyond.
Here it is. Rod returns as a world-famous impersonator
and hypnotist, but there’s this twist, you’ve been studying
in Europe at the Josh Hartnett Institute.
I like it. Life and death issues. I’ve been abroad.

Comatose in Vienna. Just for a while. Foolproof.

It’s a continental, world weary sleep binge. You’re a
trance inducer. That’s it.

I like it.
Noir is for life. 
In America, of all places!
For all appearances nothing lurid due at signing. 
It’s filmy out there.. 
103: You’re showing up more. I got wind of it, put you in
Just to make our list. I’m from and form the periphery;

My muse makes it so. Don’t blame me.
Say I’ll be back. We’ll look into it. You never can tell.
Poverty is all right but not extreme poverty. Without you I’m barely striving

“How do I love you and have the scope,
And expect no help?”

Some things you need to whisper again, and more, much more ..
(I forget now what you sound like.)
Breakfast past midnight is smokin’ yet a lost cause. Like The Inferno and Nerves and every shined wonder since. I have nil to learn engineering the tilde of speech desire.

The whole sky is celebrated. All sorts.

Why make so much of fragmentary blue in here and there an owlet or purple jet streak?
I do my best and worst work north of you but best or worst does not exist if unobserved.
And I still get picked on — now in a major way.
Yet business proceeds — I stick in a little yoga. Then I run after you
thinking what a complete idiot. I am. My hair’s havoc, I’ll have restructured abs.

The contextual self, yourself, is fascinating, perhaps to squelch a tautology of pleasure smelling of abs.
Adaptability in circumstances is hardly effortless: I add ellipses.


There are three pleasure substitutes. 
The frayed honeymoon is first and, second, the writ against love is normative, blushing with its little chant of guts and neurons dying in a fascinating replica of functional equivalence.  
After a honeymoon deflections accrue. Third, there are mathematical laws that restore bits of you on all the planets..
Undressed — except for slacks — anonymous like Updike but I turn  up   as Camus. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back) . . 
The bear, untameable and wild 
But calm it down. There’s always a dual nature to justify finding “resentment and forgiveness” within our not being sorry we can’t erase.   
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.
Questions of motion and change belong in the verbatim over 

-supply. That is, which lexicon will be appointed most enabling.  
Ellipses point the way out & will continue — how we express and re- 
express ideas, simple or not.  

Big, multiple ideas are broken down or/and up; discrete yet continuous 

constituents, subordinated data emerge, important as big data, simple and not. 

Simpler the better. Poor poetry yes, scansion none the less. 
I’m fifteen. At that time we can do the roundtable math rather well, yet not entirely. Free-range sunlight in the clerestory of our lair... where elements of bloodthirsty aplomb are excessively off-key. Tragedy in timing carefully disguised as bright to furious pace setting, knowing the advantages to skip a beat.

Good news in bed. (But) I’m getting way ahead.
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.
A cubist staring into the mirror — staring back at her tapestry, a big girl with a pineal gland attending what’s neat in the future, and she finds me attractive!
Then the fuzzies of taking on a tapestry matter .. 
G forces gathering momentum in shade. 
Hanging on contains the universe. Imagine the hurt.


Love, A cool looking Japanese acrobat slow-motioned to us to go for the moody and unexpected. 
Doesn’t it freak you when categories are givens we don’t need to work out? Nevertheless. Some of you has given in — there you go, retreating, emancipating solitude, more sound-oriented than dance.   
But that reminds me, your drawl is immediate, overwhelming, terse and of a Castilian order. A hundred strum und drang in one = you, contained at the piano. The endive bloat for George Balanchine nevertheless.
There aren’t that many warnings. Tensions were apparent. 
Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam.  
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 happened. 
The hitch with supervised simplicity,  
You annoy others (meditations in telling).    
I don’t mean rampage in any civil sense,    
I mean surgically knocking other chanters    
Off, throwing knives, wrecking them    
From the inside, slicing up!      
I was kidding I’m not religious.
Poetry is like poetry. For
Clinging to one tradition, poetry is like nothing
Else in entertainment; it reveres collectivity,
Tiered access & flavors of spontaneity.

I’m thinking of a most awkward color.
The musky ballroom looks
Tiled back & forth mistily, immense miasma. (It seems useful.)

“Do we get party hats,” asked one rich in the tradition.
In another direction an ex-party manager
Advised a close reading of The American Heritage Dictionary.
That poetry label can be a headscarf, your sacrifice more than obvious:

Wild-eyed, on the curt side, one makes a preparation response
Framed like all the others.
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 lightly
its chemical wind thrives for a second and returns to stars —
doomed as cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.
Walking thru panes of sunlight —
how many hours are we talking?

Fog over my hair.
Big-eyed instincts?

Nothing new. A feeling continues you write until you drop ...
a feeling from in here buried below all the animation.

The half that’s not familiar but we’d like to pull off,
replacing that half with stripping down, not talking.

Speaking of you, with you, I like walking, being
charmed and not worrying about what passes through me.
You, me, of course, are an expansive subset of charm, trinkets I believe.
Nice, brushed off the immense highway.
A moth / its one rule for flight is mostly uniform.

That is mostly a bolt out of cloth.
Never defined by dressage (quantum mechanics).

Wind angles down, shaken nice.
It was nice
That changed a lot.

The questions are mostly the same,
Em, I’ve misplaced em.
When blood types were fresh no one faced blame. Now I am bleeding to see or set up the 1st position, be shown the dissolved needle and my as it were haystack with no frontiers, knocking the moment down with glances, nods, inspiring small talk.. yet keep it under wraps.

Deep-rooted. Soft-voiced. How now, my anapest.


A note on aging.  
Smacked down by a coordinate from outer space,  
Keanu Reeves isn’t reckless, iniquitous or anatomically complex, 
though monotone to the gills like a slower yet more self-subtracted Rod Serling.  
We reach elements within erotic catalysts where touch management is unleashed. But Keanu is suddenly beyond diagram while the crew calm down. There’s a dual nature to visual depth that makes thought disappear, a bright pulling apart at the summitry of escape. 
What’s semiology? unless we un-gnarl affects to figure it out?  
(I don’t remember whose or how.)
I cannot stress enough 
we’re suspicious of wormholes, tho  
I put off our resonance to give us joy.  
The boat’s cortex held out. Altogether.  
For what party in sleep?
58: Deserting the beach — god forbid 
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways  
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your call, a handshake  
spreads the rain,  
flowers, rain,  
(That’s it! Do what you want.  
The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we  
can walk on with. Good. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our  
This is spring history.)
This is a formlet of pathology — 
I’m doing ok 
standing in waves stinking of pleasure — 
a dream of immense peering through  
as if I were an action that couldn’t meet with your approval   

yet whose estheticism enlarges. 

Diagnosis is a mystery. For you.
We can remember when wisdom lay on the ‘rhetorical’ surface where middlemen / women are loathed today. Owning our own words makes everything phenomenally on our own.

(Our addendum is in the mouth.)

The French Suites in the mean get lighter, immune to desire & intimacy in the grips of mistaken identity. I’ll lead you to the border. Just call before you go.
‘Electing’ a demagogue feels like brain cancer.


At speech therapy you wear wet marks under your shirt — there you go — sent, 
Slotted for long scream divisions raising heads and  
.. bright debate  
Drawing boundaries along dark areas of youthful propaganda. And ..  
Our dual-cosmos line of argument self-inflates as a weather injector, fouling the atmosphere into Beirut colors, pebble and pale lucent grays.  
At this point, colors burn up, each measurement raging over acres of matrices, giving more access to haystacks you call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.
Cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower.
Their work multiplied by pre-adapted prejudicial vapor. 
You think transparent rhetoric all-purpose, all calm, never resolved, 
Because you’re only one sailor, one swab 

In a climate of drumming opinions and best practices.
Your bacchanalia talked up while slotted in. 

Sailor tattooed with an addiction to visceral consequence — swab 
Reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, sailor.
80: ...cross-pollination of English and psychology wracks up a revitalizing soundless deep. I’ll assume you suspect I faint when I write this. Situationists use the shallowest fare and map it into the literature. When I write of you, I’m in worthless sympathy, humbled, worse, tongue tied while I try a couple of poses —ha — there are great, pure benefits spent by proud, broad-minded sailors afloat, grasping for governance, ocean wide! Wouldn’t you know they are an infinite series within the history of fame and gossip. (Or from another angle they are a series of the grasping but goodly proud, wracked by history.) You who.
Another time, we meet in this version north of the town offices 

shaking tidal vapor thru no wait, no  

fewer than ten seconds off the slopes 


meaning above the steps coincided with the light  

clipped to the powder base patching this thaw  

— spirals discharged, wind heats the ground and trees open.
Dear foundationalist,

You’re expelled for a month, next week.. experimenting with yourself..
leaving a sneezing grid with non-rectangular doors opening to violent sprinkles & irresolution...

In passing, I would like to see or set up dozens of availabilities to pick up the dissolved thread to ‘our systems metaphysics’ and to pick up that needle of yours & your as it were point.

From here, we drive thru parched hills of desert flowers seen in films.

Another hay fever phase of experiment.
What makes chosen words dressed in black?
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority.
Most rainbows taste like batshit, but we keep licking.


As ‘you learn to draw, remind yourself...’ the brain is said to resemble Chuck Norris. Interesting esthetic, Nordic but not fatal — Chuck or a funny bone will go for the reckless. Really his movies remind me of marigold & allegiance to the ice ants swarming the ozone so I look away — The earth is not the hearthrob earth, but it has strength and balance and Duma unanimity. Each winter corrupts the exterior.... poplars attaining their ultra field and stream, doing a job shunned by most, showered with tips.
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.
My cohort flock to travel 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.

Rationed compliments ensue secretly, 
Honest accounting disappears like functions of context (text frame procedures) — 
Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to amoral schemes 

— Travel well.
Sonnet 93:

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

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

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

What have we if our heart is in another place?
Hoping nothing won’t happen again, I cover my throat. Duly of course sounded. A few facts crowd around figures that are un-garbled when least derivative; ephemeral objective content triumphs. It’s kind of a snob racket. (C Bukowski) 

We weren’t exiled or orphaned, we decided to pursue other interests. Plus, it started again, as theory, pleasure is to ethics as the roundup waiting in any landscape, waiting for mistakes (1) and (2) jounce. 

Spontaneity backs up position vectors (thinking and acting). 

Woe is paralytic. I don’t detect a drop of broad mindedness toward any arched dynamic or versions of it — far better when and how you love or even when you nibblingly slobber over a numbed one’s body of rare happiness, feeling better. Hope of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest Dionysian. 
Dionysian = could pull off brocade, puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.
This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
is a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over its mad body.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.
Parallels to our own variables show us the assassin self is uninvolved on every emotional level — even on the level one holds to show and act on others, the one bosses & ‘ritual’ overvalue.


I don’t get what you want, teacher
— our lives are directionless without a group, a clan?  
The telling problem with engineered simplicity,  
You annoy others (doctored meditations.. I’m telling..).  
I don’t mean rampage in a civil sense,  
I mean surgically knocking other chanters  
Off, throwing knives, wrecking them  
From the inside, slicing up!  
I was kidding I’m not religious.
I’m going on all nerves stolen from you.
It’s impossible to separate my understatement from your achievement; both are adolescent in a good sense, pitch. So that’s how cave and landscape can be performed. Next, a cool minimal database advances to burn out our swing — try (again?) living on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent. 

The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity or trance. What matters to me is finding and / or emplacing each close to noble attempt to be you.
Your immaculate body becomes numbers and detached frequencies.  
“Pronounce” it —  
That’s good.  
Now draw the strings. OK.  
— what do you know!  
Mayhem  goes off softly  
So hard to shovel, soft to fall  
White, rose, pale red —  
A roving shadow feeling like  
A thermometer — legends says,   
Crossing fingers blood standing’s  
More feeler than hand,   
It shakes the nombril ray,  
A maneuver crest high just dimming the drowned thumb,  
A sculpture with a cup.
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, worse, 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.
For a recap, I color within lines. Drink? I take my latte to bed 
And set it on the stand, tagged and released. 
You wailed it, Yosemite. Morose I am.. and optimistic.
Love, A cool looking Japanese acrobat slow-motioned to us to go for the moody and unexpected. 
Doesn’t it freak you when categories are givens we don’t need to work out? Nevertheless. Some of you has given in — there you go, retreating, emancipating solitude, more sound-oriented than dance.   
But that reminds me, your drawl is immediate, overwhelming, terse and of a Castilian order. A hundred strum und drang in one = you, contained at the piano. The endive bloat for George Balanchine nevertheless.
When blood types were fresh no one faced blame. Now I am bleeding to see or set up the 1st position, be shown the dissolved needle and my as it were haystack with no frontiers, knocking the moment down with glances, nods, inspiring small talk.. yet keep it under wraps.

Deep-rooted. Soft-voiced. How now, my anapest.


Cloistered, possessive habits flatten into praxis
— tho it’s instinctive to watch who’s singing
I get no points jumping in or off.

It’s just synecdoche leaving not sharing to chance.
Undressed — except for slacks — anonymous like Updike but I turn  up   as Camus. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back) . . 
The bear, untameable and wild 
But calm it down. There’s always a dual nature to justify finding “resentment and forgiveness” within our not being sorry we can’t erase.   
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.
A man in drag wearing a gown I tie.
Your cool red bones,

A cold star, partly the wind,
Your superb gall
And me, I’m feelings which move in time
While this lowest button erases..

There they go
When you say

Well stay well
Where they rang.
One does one’s best and worst tautologies and still gets picked on — now in a major way. 
Business proceeds on spec — you stick in a little yoga. Then one runs after you  
thinking what a complete idiot. One is. One’s hair’s havoc, you’ll have it restructured.   
The contextual self, oneself, is fascinating, perhaps to squelch the nonpleasure of symmetry-breaking terms.
110: What are resonators for but to effect command of offenses we’re uncertain of or we sold cheap. There’s nothing but our affection left, my best of love. Love’s confinement a desperate measure, and it’s true in reckless hands, yet for silent partners there’s depth to surface and mostly un-despairing perceptions (grinding teeth, looking on truth) of what won’t be contained between us. All of the above.
Of all the varied and fabulous pieces by new composers I wager many are bursting with personae — because of what they rock to, also because many exuding confidence have gotten past graduate school, one’s corporation, a ballooning investment. 
One of the donor’s places resembles a Marine outpost with sweeps of property edging a subdued headquarters.  
Here technology’s refined flux appears noncontroversial.  
At sundown a leftist French brain speaks up, confined to a balloon:  
“If you’re anamorphic, within measures of comprehension, flux members too often adopt overheated lingo or low-to-overheated if you like.”  
Other balloonists, also French, shrugged to themselves in red embers; not really, they said.
Focused. Demented.
No shortcuts. Nope.
It’s regrettable, they say —
Twin Peaks doesn’t add up
under binge watch...

Not entirely, but it seems unforced holding to an ideally liberal weirdness.
David L thru Kyle M is an observer with an uncapped fortune,
reflecting what adolescents do when their backbones ice up,
raising all boats, all social levels.
Destroy and smooth nothing.
Mind control is a full canoe of alter-egos, disingenuous.


Onto what?

We’re a special team. We’re circumspect.
Our sharing mechanism (pretext) gives no voice
to repeated wandering motifs over a long silence
we back off from. Nightly

we face 10-to-life thickets of cloud & southerly winds
taking it to other investors who might stay offended,

the next step in the training.
We sometimes need fresh lexicon to wangle a way to reset the mind-body problem, irruptive words to determine their own behavior, items like primality and cuboidal glints of music, human interaction in heaven, akin to the great abstractions around ambiguities. Never far away strove the steady salmon in jagged streams, eating air, a glorious set!
Ode to the dead (maybe not yet).
A beautiful meal is a life sentence:
Everyone’s in place. One’s in place.
Food also knows where it belongs.

The stage brightens.
Is it dark matter was inhibiting our endowment?

Knowing the ropes to scale now
clearing the dinner club of lame comforts,

Stern, all the food pecked over, even down
to our own place, last place, last row.
What comes of the heart’s marquetry?
A clay-toned physique returns to land 
Shedding light tints in reverse of rotating surf.
25: No dying here, let those in favor never be removed. Prost!
A few words travel, ‘unlooked for,’ calibrated by our ruckus / doing-the-honors spoken (rather than speaking) in a larger-scale dialectic —

a painful war and public invite as outreach where all the jazz wears off. It’s triumph!

After, for a frown, a thousand victories once buried pride / the sun’s eye.

We’re happy we can boast of love in favor of love fresh from the book,

love whose fortune spread joy we honor most.
Now she’s spilling bourbon over my a-line, all thumbs to keep our game up & running. Likewise I’ll write about it. As poet-jewel-thief wearing a dress, you might think it profitable to string her sentences together like paste rubies & artificial pearls deliberately mismatched, like John Waters’ suburbs, inexpensive & adroitly passé. Each sentence shines in gloom as ends won’t match up with beginnings, not quite, each sparkle dulled into an afterthought containing falsehoods but cinched by faintly plausible, recognizable style — sparkle doubled down, my other dress draped over bowls of Chesapeake crabs & crab traps, a near accident or an accident-in-the-making.
It went from cinches & dresses to pants & belt from there.
No variation. 
It had to be known to you v. you know.
Already short of truth, analysis suggests shorthand abstractions,  
buckeye elements surround international topics, street names 
more indirect than searches show.  
It had to be known to you going blind.
Minor formalism otherwise holds the screen for the overweening moments, 
winning or won in an upset, out of control yet  
surrounding our aggression with our touch.  
We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.


Talk to me,
they said.

Avoiding refined flux appears noncontroversial.
At sundown my history is fundamentally confined to a change agency:
“If you’re anamorphic, the flux (within measure) too often adopts overheated lingo or low-to-overheated if you like.”

The remaining agents shrugged to themselves in the embers; not really, they said.
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 v. intent.
The soul is a hypothesis, a sweet flying
iota of consciousness surfing terrestrial states,
this both to find and destroy itself.

We begged it to go faster and keep at it,
stick with a sublime subject or object, rally
for more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can buff it up perhaps you should.
Spacetime. Slash pauses.
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /
not while evangelic angles of light are making a fracas on our way home.
Vaccinated, I have a merciless itch.. what is this collapsed satori we travel into?
Other instances of ourselves / Passing the “casting

of cities,” thinking past us. Way past.
A normal 2 years B-4 messing with U. Why wait?
48: One only care, a trifle..

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

Tho a treasure you are left the prey of
Tomorrow’s falsehoods before the fun starts.
But you thirst for it all, all arms.
I feel you in my breast, my dear care — you and I play a
Thievish long shot in comfort for the true prize, our pleasure
Outlasting grief over how we come and part.
Blame for mocking Plato — he thought a musician would deeply apprehend radiant, interactive forms (and defects, among a few variants), soberly, liberally studying floss of beauty in breadth, alert to surface details, part of the work week. It’s all hideously exciting if you’re fair, unstained and the sweetest. 

Justice for all as the crow flies only looks calculated, Plato said. Liberty with caution, minuscule, exciting.. again. 
We come to the marketplace in ease, partial self enhancement.
When we wake up I’ve moved to your city. Dah!
I owe you so far for not murdering me O hand,

I’ll calm down, we’re almost rich and supposed to destroy ideas ..
I will have to underestimate furthering research,
Solving the perfection problem, but not remorse.


Because I’m a particle animal I can do it all day.
Rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl
A sparkle to live autonomously altogether, no vision...
There is tho nothing like no despair.
Errant is not mistaken for arbitrary.
In a way our two universes just feel like games..
2 side by side arrays for time & harmony within a philosophy (moving spatial dimensions)
a few hours forward.

Our universal inference, compressed form, a ‘crown’ of contradictions
veer toward approximal rhetoric —

Can waving time like a moony branch
supersede nature,

a piece of research asks. Why open
(structures are arranged by) atoms (holding on thru chemistry)
under quivers at the edge to sleep?
We got a grip on. 
Times are an outrage. Good times, bad, treason’s treason.  
We’re tracking themes thru anxiety —  
for prejudice damn well plays w/ a formalist bias,  
a tradition of selfishness I’m loosely not interested in.   
Tax breaks for the wealthiest keep it humming.  
Due process is to look, also   
(we note now at the end to factual conservation)  
to be seen.
Things started to leak last week.
I can’t disagree.
Call it one ocean if you want.
101: It gave me hiccups when our best senses cooled down — praising silence long truant, still overdue. Beauty needs no pencil.

Both our senses I reference, truth and beauty, in primary season.

And I’m back intermixing, fixing and lifting text, you in the foreground with answered memories. (“Make answer, Muse..” take everything.. need nothing.)

We grabbed the narrator (we couldn’t rule him out), staying blithe in the twin column.
You & he wonder about summer’s eternal
possessions, the buds, shade & one day
staying chaste .. It’s on the house. 
It feels great out ahead until there’s a threshold. 

By the same rule there’s too hot
a reliance on eye pleasure, a threshold as well as disaster 
Optimizing the center where death lives.

Which path did the photon take?
The answer takes more than studied ambiguity
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still.
No orgasm. On second thought, call me. 
I want to remarry in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?  
Marriage makes me horror-struck either way —  
Aghast in wake of our previous melancholy.
Pleasure is to ethics as unknowing is to epistemology —


A shrine of axioms supposes its completion, honing everyone to the surface.

Late afternoon to another.
Sing: I love it when prose or song digs in and flails.
That about covers it.
(One’s destiny is that emotional core between personal and professional.)
The larynx becoming free is a moving and intimate narrative.

Got to run, prose.
You are now failed. Don’t call before you go on. 
de Staël turmoil, under pressure for the ‘rhetorical’ surface,
experiment and critique to improve and integrate the soul. 

In one text, we’ll set up a bighearted appendix   
like a safety school cafeteria menu.   
Unknown to you, I’ll be chancellor of the swelling enterprise   
dividing my feelings into vendettas.
Beaten gulps, pouring vodka that swirls in an action clip with multiple data fields and a crew of deft extras in malaise. Their theorems about pain are supported by one or another grabbing ropes, showing pain.

I’m told you’d prefer not to watch. It’s better using your own voice to ask a friend or two, pretending they are you, falling mute.
87: Sodajerks. Their stock was luminous. Adding

that noun phrase furthered ambition (we’re sure it was theirs), amusing
vim shaken from the inside. Each had a skeleton curse; the sparse lot growing
fewer. (Youth, after all, is the determined object of love.) An emotional matter
language models for 3 dimensional farewells in waking you
then not knowing.
First question, true or false. It’s the one I ask myself. Technology keeps humming to a manageable stretch to when you left, even ruling you out. Out on the sidewalk you hadn’t left a name, either. And yet I stood close to you, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. To understand.   
Fricative efforts add a bunch of O’s   
— language & body mania, aqua ions show their molecules in bulk, imitating an obsessive personality. The rapid strength of bonds between metal & water molecules is their primary dissolution.   
What can I declaim? Repeating prose clips may transit through a few (of those) loopholes to confront loopholes’ necessities, maybe.
Pierre Bourdieu threw a projectile that applies today while top donor ‘families’ are in control — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of capital distribution are streamlines like assembled heterodoxology vis à vis subdominant esthetic fields ballooning, caught up in baggier ideas.” 
Speaking of higher consciousness, Bourdieu came home to his Cajun kitchen then added, “We gain as much knowledge from our shortcomings as insights.” 

The shortcoming between having things to say about ‘tastes’ back then, only a few years like hours ago — and now — Republicans circling the wagons while checks and balances are nasally inspissated through fear.
I don’t know that much about you, but you remind me of someone
who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far away or far off, quelling fear.
Half a day goes by and still you resurface.
You are unattainable.
You are hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.


We have 9 pm poems and 4 am. Noticed?
I’m keeping with it like a Javanese statistician.
When information is relevant to collegial policy, communication goes private, decisions could be galvanized within a single metaphor for hot caffeine.

We want to remarry in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?
Marriage makes me horror-struck either way —
Aghast in wake of our previous melancholy.
The gear managers inserted a bonus to exchange and it’s not so bad — 
an innate physical act of fondness that ends in a draw sustained one  
by one getting up, stretching for an hour.   
Whilst I’m driven to de-humanize sweet totems that “look pretty close” with my eyes  
now closed, with you, I’ll possess our language with no lexicon,   
without conforming to a belief system to insert a hyphen and assert our memory.
I’ve been on a nihilism binge; this is while I’m doing only one thing at one time on a crazed errand-stream to a structuralist’s degree. 
I won’t cry when it becomes everything without a message.   
Greyhound hurling on seesaw but feels fine,  
Any footage balances when pushed, so it’s  
Not so entertaining or serene. A maelstrom lights  
Up the foreground, no questions asked.  
Pit Bull sits tangled in tree w/leash & kites.  
Corgi spinning in washing machine, a hairy fox. 
I’ll trade you all the noise in my hands, still shaking — scared of leaving you among the spoils..  
There’s a tradeoff, my trade. In the din hostility shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing for stopping messengers’ tears as the door from nihilism leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.
Never disagree
with inferiors. Never.
Never field questions
about meaning what is not said
or saying what is not meant.
Sonnet 7: 

Outgoing at noon, attending on what? I’m not going out. I’m mouthing off about new-appearing sights with or without you. Just look how my eyes are scripted by high pitched infantile alienation, falling over you. Again. It’s not too late! New optimism apparently pays serving your burning head. Another way we’re both blackmailed over there is nothing low, nothing sacred.
Failures in love are heinous, antique, never in 2 places enough needing permission, shuttered, untainted & bleak, drear & just dumb. 
Translations = ‘live serious & young’ ;
‘articles have been written on...’ = ‘long-lived, still this croaks’ ; 
‘snow falling backwards’ = up & up / course untainted ; 
‘the world of secrets has its own’ = patterns to succeeding circumstance. 

This is the last time.

No punishment without a reward, reverend.
Only your own revels meet you halfway, morning blurring promises in
Aftermaths of the hiatus, letting your adages cool.

What are we thinking?

Is this a document or did I make it up?
Frozen water on Mars is the smoking gun.

Another question. Smelling coffee gasses a decimal
Of where should I hurt?
Once more and be done.
Clouds are in slacks by the fridge.


The president and his wife are a couple while we’re cruising at altitudes of theorem.

Quack probabilities dim until you restructure our credit history, nail it in clear plastic. Where does the political economy have us bury it? His and her turf — 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..

But not tonight...
Prayer: I can steel myself to make something up and call it mine... 
Seems asinine, puzzling. Renascent:  
I might add, seems textually modest as respectable Eurocentrics undress for survival, avoiding careers, soaking up the city among savages of their own design.  
May a zealous counterculture dart sweetly to life! May it help us solve you and me for X! when we let them.  

Own a bolo.
Midmorning dining, rambling
like deer in bed, shiny
children faultless in smoke, we know how —
No jitters, the heart wrapped
in flames from passive groans
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches ..
opera .. and shush.
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.
I usually snooze after a bonfire of love, not one note of cynicism vis à vis whom I adopt. It’s better after I begin to wake I’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun is great. I merge at the top, asleep... Moreover, I landed. A roundhouse in the sun... I said. The left knee just there when it took a variant position with scratches — an honest hermaphroditic itch countermanded in ambiguity until it goes away — released at last into newly impartial states, witless after a while still asleep. But not dead.
The once conservative invention of worship is over.
A wall thus of calm is put up.
Love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing adult ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering consensus and political distance. We’re redistributionists, youth symbolically living to do it over but scale it off. Everyday politics practiced by young and old in anger, useless bruising rhetoric, forcibly asserted.

Cultural obligations shape who youth are, you know, a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance with our future attributes.
We’re in business —
go online.
(Leave us alone.)


Right away we’re nimbus-wet. Dark edges must be why
Two very different outcomes equally square
What you hear w/ the you you wear & what you are.

I stake your reputation, touting
you & kiss & lap up the air in your 1st mustache sense.
When one came in I shied away from giving out the room temperature. What the median implies, I pledged you in abstracts for a hidden idiom of stagings and renderings, creamy highlighting of passages and lucid systems out-of-focus, a lovely coffee table-sized read.

Any cracks should be bridged with living fiber.

“Absolutely,” Theatrical Physics Adjunct concurred.
It’s open mic. Didn’t I tell you? 
Squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one off color equation 
of a deceptive simplicity  in love as well as pride, duplicity.  
Creationism = a lone boyfriend keeps faith  
better than one or another, believing neither.   
Separated from a source of meditation (let’s call it) you’d be sad too.  
The source is not sad. One separated from the source is.   
Or it’s obvious.  
Sadness is beside itself.
’Recursive perception‘ — 
For your birthday (bleak as mine, too) I came straight from the agency. My best wishes welded to the dirty space in which I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception,” which seemed all I wanted to think of, equivocal, in crayola.

Angst was everything.
69: Kind eyes are deeds,  
parts of you the world sees  
and views with a backup group of souls watching you now 
crowned in tawny daybreak synthetic light,  
measured accents on seraphic white.  
Both our hearts will mend, thus we loiter intently.  
We smile, neither laugh. We’re extending our
praise looking into bare truth farther than the eye shows  
And finding our love in the outward beauty of your mind.
Affordable Noh. That’s both of us w/ big ways of explanation. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to spook w/ pedagogy when we meet, somersaulting in /

What went around then came gasping, the more irregular the verb:

At fight camp all you bring are wet marks over your shirt — there you go — cadet-ed!

Inductions to your other habits —
The flying haze drags down sculptures of felted helium
A little like nerves of drones spinning in warm wind.

Noh stuff.
Unable to help you play a single practical joke, we hadn’t spoken for months, having found direction and refinement backstage of a human ‘construction zone’ perforated by mirrors, swindles, procedural lunges toward more pranks. I said I had had it. 
And Eve had. And something else.. 
The 10,000 mistakes by that boy who won’t correlate the enormity of it all as evolutionists run back to delve into causality —  
Yet the context’s unlocked, to no ideology hewn. I am 
Eve, a family planner ahead of my time. 
I’m still not finished, Adam says.  
We can spot them both as atheoretical elaborators, since they spoke first.
It’s pie for you now to set yourself free through what you don’t know — that takes a kind of unfinished aplomb, needing practice and achieved overviews. The verbatim relishes living among a slew of lucky design ideas orphaned to an alien ethnicity, busted out of place, in the wrong skin and age. 

(Welcome home.)
Manners or ambiguity?
To buy her lipstick.


Yes or no, certainly. & all right  
All attempts to throw your voice were patently dumb & of a special force,  
Interventions & addictions too disproportionate  
To the unknown risks. As one infringer you fail to mushroom,  
Ignored. But our positions are hellbent when three or more  
Discover wisdom on unaligned terms. So we need oversight.
Adam made 10,000 mistakes — and won’t correlate the enormity of it, since evolutionists even now are running back to his bedside to hear more about causality —

Yet the context’s unlocked, to no ideology hewn. I’m

Eve, off Adam’s rib, a financial planner ahead of my time.
I’m still not finished, she says.
We can spot them both as atheoretical elaborators, since they spoke first.
Sonnet 26: My life is charged by your sweet respect. A merit so great
I can’t sleep, given immunity, I hope.
My thought is tottered, all naked but fair. 

Dear you,

Finer aspects are lacking for a good generalist’s conceit. I’m wanting words to show you I am barely half a wit, words addressed deliberately to look made up, to look as if we need a hand skipping dinner, combing through jabs and moving high and low pressure points peeled back from getting our tenuous, jutting fingers into and under the interstate that brings you and me home.

I don’t think driving in my mind can be boasted of by moving points but it’s so fast I don’t worry it gets easier.

Un-reproved, I love you till then.
Showing results for lives in disgrace: You’re profane. Doing this, I offered. Just 
Report to duration centers for the rich for best pricing, unless  
Breaking in looks better. Go. Fees balanced. Good.   
Then you told me borrowed methods will go further —   
Making money w/out reason is mass   
-ive. After.. surely if that’s the way we feel, there are vector   
Utilities for expressing uncritical value   
— national perfume! spritzed to scale over your credit checks.
Are they saying the same thing? Chögyam Trungpa teaches First thought best thought; George Balanchine, Don’t think do. Both mean and don’t mean it. Put extremely, the meaning / meaningless exotica buries itself in application: a first thought in Trungpa’s belief is already broken in two; thinking (or not thinking), even (or especially) when it’s “first,” impedes being (and incidents not attached to being); while Balanchine wants physical movement to write over and above mental representation, yet one thinks on the way forward to execution. Both statements — first thought, don’t think — are similar examples of intuitive layers in which meaning deploys no meaning, slaying the butterfly native to these parts, reflection on and of opposite outcomes.
I come unannounced because I am socially awkward.
A line in a poem.

J parades toward emptiness in subrogation, embraces it to bring us back into space.
J is Kerouac.


Once your public is mounted you can add your own awesome content!
Your first lover.

He could heal you thru.
Then the forces of narrative happen, seeing breath fixed

on the floor as it circles midair,
and we see your ETA.
We won’t be a second late — your exes
understand we can all meet seeing you.

That’s the gist.