10/31/19

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.
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?”
This moon diagram sports a resistant fragrance (our last fill of fish sticks).

Oh you know, almost unhappy
You and I supplemented photographs for objective matter, I recall.  
Garland fungus, students from Trinity in the foreground (by an arch to the old dyads).   
 
It’s up to pond structure to model our passivity re-learning the moon 
 
impelled by shore lists off books of birds protecting the hang of it. Everyone   
 
knew that. All the world is transformably alive. A little sick, even unwell,

yet your voice is handsome, calm, also scrappy.   
 
Further down the pillar, my kimono has been entered, explaining prehension, tongue in cheek.
140: Winter ahead, wise and cruel. Should I grow mad?
In sleep even a con anarchist gets seasonal immunity. 
Going wide, this is mad — better it were more bad news washing over time under preseason wraps. 
Snow this soon is a leading surprise.

(Slanderers are believed. I didn’t know I’m a novice enthusiast, the tongue-tied manner of my wanting pity.) 

Should I despair? Relax.
It’s snowing, nothing personal, wafting like winter foam over my awesome hamlet — 

Further out the world is blown up with descriptors peeling off like spiders hustling always. Faster.
The seasons like before are morally exigent, shivering in a synthetic valence, coming back, never.

Their thoughts praised us for our purpose —
Scribes were 1st to jot this down — who shall hanker after whom.

Like before, seasons work outdoors among diamondbacks. If you don’t believe me ask them.

In the change-up old seasons are repurposed having lost to conceptual deflation, stratagems. Add the rank

I confer on the notably next available beauty, living in the future,
because that’s how beauty works.
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.”
Just all right, try
soundboards, acoustic bass, audio chemistry turning out scribbled freshness for contraltos breaking glass over car hoods to drown out the dog track —

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

I’m sorry so sorry — Can you sing that?

10/30/19

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.
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.
Your wardrobe has experienced a resurgence. It’s beaten but you’re breathing through it like an unsettling fad preview in October of what's to come this May. Anyone can see you’re styled. You’re a crusader and victim in the crossfire. You can’t long stomach the fair use of what age plays at. Where’s the surprise in a seeming long time? The mutt of infancy regenerates here; there’s a beginning and there’s an end, don’t fix it. Try to work more. Then do better.

Walk this way. It’s remarkably ambitious, it’s just off the boards, like when water lilies kick off their ‘work’ boots and women rule. Snipers crouch, the explicit idea behind Burberry’s.
71: We don’t remember your life, your name, for I no longer mourn you. Why would I?

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.
Physicalism (product brand continuity) adapts to schemes (a speed-up in thought control).
Government, absent your liberty, is not that impregnable. As background, your charter is one colorful PROCESS shot. A lethal-to-pallid vassal group locksteps to your scent. You yourself clothed less formally, tame, save motives for eagerness.

And this is what I did not want to say.
There is product on the loose.
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.)
High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long- 
stood. Populations released. Aesthetic effects drenched.  
A circus repatriated.

10/29/19

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.
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 arranged by) atoms (holding on thru chemistry)
under quivers at the edge to sleep?
Search regimes in a slurry, plump, downy evanescing into song. The slurry rises above its affixes and dead gardenias. It’s in its notation. Argon and lithium released — thrown in reverse come fall — trees light up then darken amid writhing lice. Better to heal resentment buried in colossal Orpheus, the spontaneous physique. With his gift of sullen agency compounded and uplit within percussive isolation. A bell!

Don’t care, don’t moan, lie only about what’s vast. One can shrink to be excused. Masking one’s vanity so becomes the challenge clinging to song.
35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.


A scent of acacia and soft frangipani, sweet but not a 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 civil war — sensual to a fault —

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

Good-bye everything.
Singalong has vaulted to the top of our shared agenda. Shared or snared, just like us. Leaving oversight to environmentalists has a double meaning to off-center the filing (and filtering) systems, other singularities. We have no limits to affirm our denials and retractions. Climate change may not be temporary. We feed our reliance on dire pleasures, earnest plans and, this most generalized I guess, investor interests (Fortune herself) turning back, almost kidding about ‘patching’ some climate potholes. 
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.
Almost in vain a head transplant brings on the knowledge affect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching four seasons float in willpower.

10/28/19

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.
I see your idea. Gnarly aviation. 
 
Purity of the surface deed is recorded, perked into light  
 
                          handily.  
 
Public-private property hit on a plan wound up slugged in disguise,  
 
A ‘contract’ on big physics, ghastly on its back.  
There’s envy of political haters’ swimming synchronized,  
                          beyond prayer —   
 
(In or without ebon ink, capitalists itemize all bets.)   
 
One pleasure is borrowing sentences to raise our debits.   
 
All experience is seriously snipped off.. How to wear a summer dress.
The heart is sore as 
Whitman precedes Aimé Césaire. Drink up.  
 
Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam (a love poem (one of innumerable), one) aroma 
— Accounting disappears like functions of context (starched procedures) — 
Procedures where love not being is taught  
But fought for in reverse. Freezing one difference.   
 
Physicalism (neural drama) — here we wade slowly adapting to worldly schemes  
More fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Drink well.
Sonnet 38: 
Damn, can’t complain, when my muse  
left we had a subject..   
 
Next to nothing, also a white winged crossbill  
went berserk — you took 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 once came up with this argument  
— breathing now your voice pours into my verse!   
 
And you give invention light outliving you and me  
rehearsing, calling on you, bringing thanks to you.
Leg:
Let fish cool down before kissing.
Discover why fish have made Puntacana Resort their 2nd home.

10 unique destinies sharing an ideal spun for 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.
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 susceptible to automation?

10/27/19

Did you catch the report?

Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of industrial knowledge that considers prototype approximations in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard. At first.

Moving forward we have all of an hour now to take in sweetness made for infamous exposure (in costume) outdoors.
Lights up — we take ourselves inside the libretto where we reserve dissonance.

Sweetness is vacillating as usual after hours on clear nights. Robbers, cops
Though fragrant, turn opaque
And poof — still,
It could rain.
Just call before you go.

de Staël turmoil, a title for the ‘discursive’ surface.
Text sections like presorted omissions.
In one page we’ll set up a non-profit addendum,
the equivalent of an education cafeteria menu.

Unknown to you, I’ll be chancellor of the text and the swelling enterprise
dividing my feelings like vendettas.

ii.
We can remember when wisdom lay only on the surface where middlemen / women are loathed today. Owning our own words makes everything phenomenally personable.

(Our codicils are for 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 escape clause. Just call before you go.
In my illusion of minimalism, hammering steel,
I scored a first wormhole on schedule, a hell of time. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down. Its humble salve
spread over us both, appearing lost, scattered trying to remember.

Simply put, to divulge where wounds from speech are left
open, which sort hits or fits, kind friend .... mimesis
within nature, uppermost.
How is conveying sorrow possible, otherwise?
104: You’re fair doing this, my friend. And.
I saw both of us stop dials, and reset the pace. Danger, for one,

you or I may get burnt, turning toward seasonal
purebreds, to fresher figures, sweet times and hot pricing, unless

your turning to deception and envy sounds better.
If not, burn for me, friend. Hues balance in your greener motions, ever

since I saw shaking fear and beauty from your eyes.
I eyed your figure before you were born.

Perfumes of April so stand as axioms this June — with pride
you’ve already processed.. stolen for future use.

You turn summer into spring’s and one’s first guided
tour — such a future can never be old, never overdone.
There’s a term for attrition of affects, eyesore. 
 
And there’s a hypertonic struggle to housesit too much information, pliable and glossy. You know it exists. Human body fat is worth $100,000 a gallon.  
 
The good gold. I fall into it.  
 
A life is charged for care. I’m otherwise a coffee head! But let’s pare it down.   
 
Have we ever done anything but tamper with the weather? Oh, who knows?  
 
Oh, Ladytron. You seem so fake-ignited in the sprayed periphery, a three-dimensional muse keeping her balance inside a soft radical vapor of vastness, loosely demolished.
I’m a little I guess confused

I thought you might understand I mean

I'm surprised, do you know


what I'm saying? I guess so


not exactly.

10/26/19

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 process a text or, broader, an artifact of value — a central concern subject to critical and conceptual analysis is, how does the processed result change thinking about the process? 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 future results?
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.
I really don’t know what I’m buying.
Materiality, tho, can’t exist. No dissonance, a new status quo that’s 4 ever and sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness — unraveling our optics, dissolved into attitudes about that first time behind all the good times 4-ward.
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

we had moving into our very own subjectivities
that we can’t pinpoint or supplicate, my lord, husband...

But may I live and will 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.
1st question, true or false. Is the last part ok? Technology keeps humming to Aristotelian systems extremes. The cigar and its plantations. It’s a manageable stretch from there to when you left, even while I ruled what went between us out. You hadn’t left a name, either. And yet, I stood closer, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. To misunderstand.
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.
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.

10/25/19

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.
Achieving.
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.
I’m utterly pro a more open openness with plenty of recreation.
(Humanist discourse is indirect diversion.) 

I’m also out on the deep end in my makeup where consensus drifts in and out like influenza. (Harder to stay immune now.) There’s a leftist glow in radical argumentation like an avalanche that fucks over ideas from the machine age. 
Word of you travels, calibrated by the ruckus-like paean spoken (rather than speaking) in a large-scale outreach and dialectic — spoken because we both wrote it down to shun sickness, sick of welfare, 

licensed before comeuppance, soul dad —  

Make that a shortstop outreach where all the jazz wears off.  
We’ll sink together deliberately mismatched, true needing yet ignited around the tips by deep compatibility, a healthful state, when we purge  

sea brine and air cutting up the time outside, driving it to a crawl, into a room where we’ll talk.
106: In love, a practice of counterclockwise seems like nothing at all, only sustained focus, innovation of hand, foot, lips, of eye, of brow, nowhere expressing your beauty ...

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

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

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

exhaling descriptions
w/ eyes to wonder on the full worth of your beauty in making beauty.
Growth in visible imitation takes up time —
Work through naïve discourse —

Keeping methods observable as devilish mayhem —
Calling this ‘sacrosanct’ form for action
Unlocking — on sight — your pervasive hesitation.
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.
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...

10/24/19

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 bluegrass, humans akin to the great abstractions around the sum of good. Etc. And never far away schools of salmon go all out in jagged streams, eating air, a glorious set!
Because I’m a particle animal I can do it all day. 
Rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl  
A sparkle to figure life altogether, no vision...  
There is tho nothing like no despair.
Concision or hue in healing of method / means
can be objective and still lack
music, still veiled as aspiration.
It’s in the eyes
..a couplet of process fantasy.. this while I’m doing only one thing
at a time on a crazed errand-stream to a bachelor of arts.

Show’s over, Blinky.
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.
We message from the ones column deploying 
Pigeons to pattern heaven where detachment is cut off.   
 
Our recipients remind us of a few contingencies we picked up off trays,  
Bright boomerangs that tantalize in what’s feasible, wanting nothing and showing  
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.  
 
And some of these babes are both dead and alive. Chew on that, Hobbes.
Refrain:

This is the last time.

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

What are we thinking?

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

Another question. Smelling coffee gasses a decimal
Of where should I hurt?
Once more and be done.

10/23/19

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.
Poetry is like poetry. For
Clinging to one tradition, poetry is like nothing
Else in entertainment; it reveres collectivity,
Tiered access & flavors of spontaneity.

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

“Do we get party hats,” asked one rich in the tradition.
In another direction an ex-party manager
Advised a close reading of The American Heritage Dictionary.
The poetry label can be part of a headscarf, more than obvious:
Wild-eyed, one of the top tens, one makes a preparation response
Framed like all the others’.
Ridiculed by sycophants & inferiors, RM Rilke talked to whom?
I rank his output very high, filled in with expressionism
off the scale, 9 plus or more to exaggerate
(if I could, hmm).

Duino. No lacunae needed, Rilke’s asyntacity sets an extreme standard atop
maximally tall orders, looking down over his sprawling,
immersive, dark & smoky project-for-good, 10 or higher.

— Empress Eugenie
Sonnet 7: 

Outgoing at noon, attending on what? I’m not going out. I’m mouthing off about getting on with or without you. Just look how my sight’s 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.
You are in the settlement.
We were sitting there, and
I made a joke about it.. how it do
-esn’t dovetail: time,

one minute runs out
faster than other time ahead
it catches up to.
That way, I said,
there’s no waste.
No waste in the settlement.

To come back to
the settlement at hand,
looking like you are 1/2-
turned around, barely moist, reading me.
Did you catch the report?

Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of industrial knowledge that considers prototype approximations in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard. At first.

Moving forward we have all of an hour now to take in sweetness made for infamous exposure (in costume) outdoors.
Lights up — we take ourselves inside the libretto where we reserve dissonance.

Sweetness is vacillating as usual after hours on clear nights. Robbers, cops
Though fragrant, turn opaque
And poof — still,
It could rain.
I don’t know that much about you, but you remind me of someone
relaxed as meringue shaking this neap vapor. The imbued billiance recalls profound formality taking shape not that far away or far off,
quelling fear. Half a day goes by and still you resurface,
rustling rain from within. Splashing, you are unattainable.
You are hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.

10/22/19

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.
Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam, 
Accounting disappears like functions of context (procedures) —   
 
Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to amoral schemes, quieted  
But more fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — I never mention you outside of therapy.
Can you place our names? I, for one, have a single conceit for the alter-ego, his asides and decorative indeterminacy. In three parts: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating public domains in fair use, and there’s the age old hand hath put disgrace we dreamed up or could dream up for the face (anyone’s) beauty slandered.

#2: Once inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying, keeping faith, mining the richest character veins, designing solid speech that triggers satisfaction dusk thru midday, they think:

So #3: Many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs; they flare into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer! Blocks we’ve been party to after we couldn’t wait. 
Hitherto ethos susses southpaw disproportionality, so young loves per lifetime meet all their others halfway, borrowing a face again and again, slanting a blurred promise we had or we forgot we had after a few hours, letting it die down.
108: Admit you miss smoking, drinking boy.


You miss that first drag. Have you heard,

Taking other lovers you become multilingual.

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

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

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

What now to register?
Stop waving that grape drink.
Dutch people go Dutch. I go along. 

I’ve moved to the Delft coast, Rijswijkse Waterweg, dunes of Irontown, because my ideal climax is at the salt edge, just across from Spread Eagle where I’ve bagged the dainty, ultra built new guy who lives at the priest’s house, along with the priest’s teenage sons.    

[Very few sons of priests hereabouts.]
It’s a classic knife-in-sui-generis. 
 
Parts of recovered history come to streets whooshed by impurities of state.  
The furbished carport reflected in this broad point perched high above molecular attitudes of state, grammars of people using data for material, like us.  
 
There’s an end note for those out of state sweating liens on older attitudes.  
 
That’s why everyone polishes the text and hands it in.
My area is interpretive search.
You’re always not talking.
I get your point (approbation without the tedium of argument).

10/21/19

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.
After glamour there’s power. The virus is already inside us, easy spaghetti wo- 
lfed down improv crap, we’re pre-wired or is there a fee? 
Radiance now is the lather of swing. Remember deliverance?  
 
“What if it doesn’t work. Then what?” Prune fizz. 
Anytime and place of our choosing: Act gathered.
A true celebrity shows us the assassin is uninvolved on every emotional level — even the one one holds and acts on by serving others, one one’s bosses & ‘ritual’ overvalue.
Sonnet 150:

Power to the powerful. A truism like this reminds me of a simple turn of the ignition, no big deal.. A journey over scrubland back at that bind when you and many were read into data beyond evolutionary limits. All in an identical manner, everyone getting one message while sugar consumption skyrocketed and the news advanced in choppy ‘prose.’
Would you like to ask questions or can the news diagram its strength of skill?
Just cause not raised here directly deducing another head scene to make me love you like the first time. That’s given me warrant (in my mind) ever since love’s regimen bulked up, competing more for powerful excess, more powerful a perspective in every word mentioned or about to be, with all syllables performing as one compass spin for us and others trained in our elite language, giving no cause to hate. True love, O who or what strength gave the lie to sway me as more worthy now to love you more?
Nice beachfront but there are so many fewer nouns
and fewer bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little) —
it seems immaterial — immaterial, 1 of those 2-headed enigmas :

nothing much and — hey! — another ghosty noun phrase —
giving away to how far the modern quill doth come too short,
an eerie surfeiting metamorphosis.
Next, different morning 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 .. ..
Lilac is a devoted zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it. 
*

10/20/19

I see your idea. Gnarly aviation. 
 
Purity of the surface deed is recorded, perked into light  
 
                          handily.  
 
Public-private property hit on a plan wound up slugged in disguise,  
 
A ‘contract’ on big physics, ghastly on its back.  
There’s envy of political haters’ swimming synchronized,  
                          beyond prayer —   
 
(In or without ebon ink, capitalists itemize all bets.)   
 
One pleasure is borrowing sentences to raise our debits.   
 
All experience is seriously snipped off.. How to wear a summer dress.
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.  
 
CLEARS THROAT. LAUGHTER. Suave slaughter.
Creature masks are prerequisites, in reprieve at the School of Nobody 
Teaching can’t be taught. You live within practice 

To engage another’s psyche. 
 You’re always wrong to prolong your appeal. 
Sonnet 105: We express idolatry as science. Fair, kind, true. 

Amazing to meet you as well as science, two, all in one. Sum of sums!



Amazing to touch your penumbra, feel influenced by funky themes, o many songs.  Idolatry


Defines pleasure you communicate thru love to last a lifetime. 
Take care, and take your time; 
likewise, inspire small talk between you 

while keeping your sum under surveillance. You
look good together.
I can see your voice, binary to binary autosuggestion.
When it gets dark it happens fast.

We wanted to go to
This point, stabilizing the office — over the ocean
W/out ‘water- or personal-contact.’
1 enclosure without a pulpit, no dogma...
outdoor passages to enter then exit sponsorship
spreading out in self-willful overloads of idiomatic design —

Skilled chattel, 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.
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. Spend more, save more.
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. 

10/19/19

Fungibly discerning not wishing to die holds a semantic randomness, otherwise empty space.

There’s señor that needs you. He has no interest in real physics... I wonder if that’s true — Our thoughts knitted together like mica piling up, shouts ricocheting through voice tracks from the underbrush holding our breath, bounced, kicked and gloved by catalysts.
Falsehood is an actuarial stat, a subjective state and quality of the frieze in progress, not an elevation or height. 
 
This is a true/false dance question. Fibber Perseus v ‘radium’ Danae (his mom). Which are ya?  
For one draft you as Perseus can place big futures and puts as taller mouthpieces enter the salon rolled ‘into’ B flat major, ‘into’ spools of more of her opposites — Danae’s tendencious pedestrians, 1st- or 2nd-years, sweating lead colors.   
 
Danae can’t help smothering her loved ones. In her wake birds assume instantaneous velocity.
Top of one o’clock — I saw your approaching motion  
my once satellite du monde in demi vacuum.  
Now you’re smiling, shhhhh — more observant, with a more observant love. 
Still flush — yes, feels.. not useless. No matter. 
It feels like impossible.  
 
Likely, shhhhh becomes welcoming  
hands that boss, get it done legally — 
 
parliament  
maneuvers. Explanation intact.
83: Life with Mr Juice came up short — charm
-ing & familiar — unfair tenderness in a paper sack.
Hostess bike spinners & fake license & plate.
A poet’s debt.
I found (or again I thought within silence)
Your eyes are nagging me for more .. admit you miss modern art & text devices.
You miss the first drag. You miss painting

Mr Juice wearing new credentials
as your inner being when others would give life.. as you, like me, have nothing set.
Have you read, poets’ praise & worth get ten percent of their daily
Calories from soda & smoking — sleeping to excess.

Mute poets become hereon slack.
Thereon, as Juice imputes to me, I’m barren as I am dumb.
Anyone can wish for ‘portal trans specificity,’ Me? I replace all the 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 dispossessed cynicism...
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.

10/18/19

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.
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.) 
Strategists at the barricades have been taking icky notes as the weather cooperates,     
  
Where reputations precede character, seeds of apprehension remain.       
  
Who will advocate for peace to empower heavy sleep & exchange?     
For example.   
{most- 
Ly random swagger for the catch —   
Qualified} crew enforce sampling  
Coerced by the life of the owner’s party speaking.
Sonnet 3: 
 
Now is the time.  
Image &  posterity aren’t everything. But they call you back. Same for dying. Let’s stop Pisces & disdain. Face to face, mark self   
-love as no fond option. Unearned. Yet thru clear windows 
April will renew another golden time taking form, 
Beguiling as light flows. “Could you be more specific, my 
Episteme?” April in its prime calls you, repairing you,  
Your ears, your face, fresh forms of golden times remembered.
Cupid is a hired gun who goes anywhere. Cupid’s id? It’s a violent,
explosive culture so we need straight talk.

It’s a gay culture so we need that. We’ve been up
for two centuries fighting overseas.
Head-on war is a mistake (Diane di Prima).
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.
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.

10/17/19

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.
Defense owns — there seem — accents — these:
reticence such on put days, our
moving and light, puzzling in place
of morning winter smiles .. a chorus

Emerges which on canvas ..
noises w/ filled-in-already silence ..
Sonnet 10: We lodge now (in the presence of physics-oblivion) 
a headless pedagogue hammering out Bo Diddley —  
Sap repairing top figureheads top speed. The murder option centered more per theorem.  
 
Panning back fast to grant your audience more of yourself, your love to bear, your beauty grew  
beloved of many but tampering w/ our own thought experiments.. you love no one? Not him?  
We think not. It’s a regulatory equation = hating him =  
hating yourself feeding on non sequiturs as concepts, only a few 
sticking to what’s un-enclosed in nominal trivia to locate fresh paradox.   
 
For you change your mind repeatedly enslaving English poetry so you can be taught  
(for shame a conspiracy loved by such an impassive number, all of us.. so many..) ..
Photons rebuild the world, leaping out of windows 
Moving in our direction with startling humility and alacrity..  
 
Here I am as genealogies of sophists file off.  

Rebuilding our democracy requires transitive honor tied to esthetics that numb.   
 
I am the underdog here, emotionally maligned, an amalgam “I” and “am”..
My own revels and syntheses meet me halfway in assault value.
Is this a document or did I make it up? 
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.
“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.

10/16/19

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.”

Not
anymore.

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. 
Commune-wide, Kung-Fu’s math disappears like factions of perplexity —

Defining angst beats up indulgence. 
You knew the side effects — 

Internal ‘gears’ regulate caution, pushing in nauseous effects, which are natural for you, to your wordsmithy advantage,

No substitutes for new meanings have been approved. Staring into the candle you start to think, 
This is warm beeswax, hardly a domain for definitions. 
133: My strategy is sweet sleep until we wake.

Who’s calling?
Your friend is coming. Must I abandon myself? then my next self? both appear wounded players, both slaves, both to slavery?

Who can say? Twice or say thrice double crossed and, again, — it’s not enough to torture me alone —
Engrossed, I can hear my friend’s heart groan as if in jail, double crossed — pent up cruelty that’s iterative, baroque:

As if out of time Couperin sprawled with the naked around Antoinette.

But let’s be rigorous now and agree while we’re in prison I am in you. I am yours by force.

And I keep you in my heart on guard of you and for all that is in me.
A new problem set: 
Work through naïve discourse —  
 
Keep methods observable in one act of mayhem —  
Call this ‘transactional’ waking action  
Unlocking — on sight of you — my feeling from the start, the only unmoving part.
Shopping sprees are migratory patterns. 

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

10/15/19

We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing 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 the framework. What’s matter..

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

(returning to duty)..
What is known is types of metonymy. 
Outside branches of instrumental research,   
 
poetry, a subset of epistemology, entails voicing new speech from old — 

Knowitall.  
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.
A nonreligion of eternal cold, a High Service
Sung along both coasts:
Our people are what makes us / great.
Love and heritage go down together.

The last nonpoem eases down the dress code, a bolo tie display on 2 thru 8
For a race of giants (giants are made up pieces of one another in other names).

Love came up short for a few and drove them to forgery. Then shatters.
The taking of whatever works to swat the hand that feeds them,

Sharpening endurance,
Risking focus.
76: In flight, the framework is told on telling. 
How can varsity spend their tribute? How spent? Why?    
 
This café, I think, is going to answer that & help the weather from getting lost.   
I know the frame craves attention, that’s why I always write of you.   
Why I finish a stretch and new and old lines get confused, showing their new birth.
 
Fuse the way they
Continue. My argument.
More breaking news, I was 
unfriended by an intellectual 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.
Mere research reports what’s on our minds. 
Why not reflect it in text?  
Your data show one lie can never be replaced by another  
It contains.

10/14/19

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.
Variations: High cognition animating your new bankcard 
Observing very little ethical cohesion. For oomph  
The gloves come off ..   
 
Modifiers in chips note each commitment of yours on a riddle gauge, new units mutate oozing w/ data until you stop.  
 

Finish a stretch and the state gets confused.   
 
Citing a theory of state w/ universal grammar,  
Your card de-activated.
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 process a text or, broader, an artifact of value — a central concern subject to critical and conceptual analysis is, how does the processed result change thinking about the process? 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 future results?
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.) 
I like it when pros of song dig in and flail. 
That about covers it.  
( It’s that emotional core between personal and pro.)
Becoming free is a moving and intimate aria. (Like “Summertime.”) I got joy. I got sun.  


Gotta run, pros.
Often my partner sits in a fortress, deliberately passive-aggressive like any fool.
I’m kidding. Even alone.  

In our farewell, as I see it, our descendants build a museum to spy
on
us & others. They look great — stomping out corner fires. That’s their

moonlight, indispensable today for smearing glows


down walls that follow a trajectory
aimed at each atom of both of us in maroon cords.
Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises.
Never enough zest or sprouts. Propose a dozen synonyms.

10/13/19

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. Instead of my goals, I found so much of what you say unique, but our data are adulterated. Both sexes. Barns and shrubs. You’re driving me nuts. 
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. Were 
I to center on perception (whether beauty or wit), I’d sustain losses only out of
irony.
This tune’s one constant is 
 

a laptop lies naked on my chest.  
Dibs on the effect of my discourse, clammy & pink  

on the brink of aspects vanished in air.  
 

Ideas rather than ‘aspects’ conquer errors 
of the moment lost 
 

more to transports of desire — an ill that’s not  
 
an ill — a gaze upon the sun that leads precisely to a dare, 

not a death sentence.
13: Son, father, if we were ourselves
we’d bear up against cold instincts..  So
                              hard  
to put back in the valise, bare love. We pirated the code.   
 
I can’t say we do it willingly (dueling storm gusts). In honor? None! 
 
No fuller determination, love, you are no longer than your life in full.
Others like you, mere semblances, hold to a lease.  
Who lets it out says so. 
 
While you give me sweet forms of love against the fall,  
against coming death and barren winter, my love. O you
 
You know we ‘should prepare’ 
For none but ourselves eternally in love.  
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.
We sometimes need fresh lexicon set for the mind-body problem, words to determine their own behavior, items like primality and cuboidal, glints of Jackson blues, a glorious set.

10/12/19

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.”
’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.
Anchored in the bay I need to remind myself 
Larry Kearney rhymed all with skull, internally. P Inman’s  
Echelon hairnet shifted putty, thumb-nailed into  
An agreement to let us in. Skull with putty.  
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down to earth.  
 
The more you put your fingers in it, on it, on earth, you know retouches, colorations return as audible signs of evidence-based reproof to make fitter (more adhesive) decisions for correct behavior.
Sonnet 119: Software permeates adolescent philosophy. This madder hell points to asphalt perimeters, why error messages commit to wretched structures (applying fears to hopes)
:
:
building up un-manacled distraction so amor in the head is amazing, far greater, madder fever!
:
:
Some ways syzygy rounds this off in latinate — evil still made better — for amnesia’s fixed width, blessed never, rebuked to our heart’s content!
:
:
And ruined we kept losing, true, losing you .. spent, shaken tame.
Attention.

As you advance, there are four surveillance cultures from which to plagiarize a response, while materials become more complex, building on what’s been put on the record.

Is that all you’re having for dinner?

One will need a clearer message for individual agency. There’s no humor in discretion. Winin your hair makes us sick.
We can provide hacks for frenetic formality. And when you come to a three-syllable term you don’t know, you can just reference your dad’s manual to nab the one-syllable crib.
violet mist. This is a prison theme bar. 
There is evidence.  
 
Losers = worshippers of their detractors.  
 
We drink to your mistakes.
Early nesting process stuff. Ketchupy
The coast is never clear, fat boy...   
 
A whole new side to nuts & lightening bolts, narrow & hollow in the center,  
along with holding on 100% — inflatable as you lay back in a blank whisper,  
clearly in the nick of it, spoiling for everyone.

10/11/19

Flynne drops his device. He looks into the Escalade that will take him beyond and on. By now keeping close to Flynne is challenging but I have practiced warrior politics a bit. That’s a fact, just as crews of outlaws and as we hoped heroes are arbitrarily broken up by the parking arcade and doorways where a floating government like ours gets re-formed.
The gist took a slurry, plump, downy evanescing, then it 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. 
— since we polished the text, handed it in, don’t expect me after all.

Even if we kiss later, it saddens me to inform the boss
You’re not serious, never are.

As you we’re turning state’s evidence we held on to meet
                          even newer phenomena (‘stolen parts’
To run over) — any & all mayhem coming unannounced (achieved).
Or some of us won’t since we separate thru equal flexibilities,

Already saying goodbye takes us far up the jet trail! quelling fear of want-
Ing pain. You never can'tell. I won’t.
48: One only care, a trifle..

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

Tho a treasure you are left for prey
Of tomorrow’s falsehoods before the stealing 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
Outlasts grief over how we come and part.
I’m losing a fortune in the arts... 
While I keep my mouth shut & listen,   
Escalating with all my sharpened implements to inhabit received logic.   
I’m retracing what I think you see. I’m   
Mastering every vegetable color, finding new names,    
 
Pushing the most oblivious among broken arts,   
Tai-chi of self-watch. There. And these    
 
Steps entangle bosons of mine, yours and everyone else  
Rushing us on to long careers in revision & redefinition...
I channel my absence from you. 
It reminds me of you in harm’s way.   
 
When I am feeling discordant, deathly, misled, 
we come back to getting it all wrong.  
We’re both off but off is negative time over space,  
only a fleeting year more or 
less or more spasmodically, our time restored removed.
Cliché inflects necklines. But I like your flask.

10/10/19

Aw, come on, try an exercise in subject-mood agreement.
Then Alexander (...great knowledgeable Alexander) moved over, blabbing to his dark lady, oh, ’I’ll bet a thou, maybe 2 we can blow up the empire again in modern English.’

I’m happy in English I’m not Alexander. I can’t sob much. The ache of early summer is palpable, and night drops as snorts of derision dampen my naïve representation of democracy.
At a new level of storytelling that hang-in-there ideal is on your side, time sick. 
 
It goes with a backhand irony like pigeon guided missiles or extra guards at the gate.  
A free coupon! No, the front gate won’t front  
As there are centers of wishing beyond your closed doors.   
 
All batteries are charged (that’s the feeling). I’m pouring  
Molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with microfiber  
— I’m about to walk the spiral and more!  
While chestnuts stand around in verbal hoards  
Coupons expire.
(The lord’s will tilting my ribs reflected aphids
gathering along a wall, also unanswerably,
along the hand. Whose hand? Those were
my sentiments. The last ones.
I’m pretty sure.
If I weren’t sure I’d take it back.)
31: You remind me of lovers gone. A morning crew, weathermen
Waving arms over their hidden forecasts in endearing naked patterns —
This was their 1st stab at tantrics, due many now.
They merited love trophies — now yours alone, all yours.
You have all of mine,

My tears buried in view of you. They’re inside you,
Removed, disguised as glare hung from all-in loving you.
Dawn. I thought I wouldn’t get back to sleep

I was going to call it “Draped Profile”
When held from both sides.
Distinguish the feel. “Pronounce it.”
That’s good.
Now draw the strings. Ok
— what do you know!

It goes off the air base,
Hard to shovel, soft to fall
When white, blue, rank
— lavish as to give us each pause..

When the no-pause button is whoosh
In your face all shiny.
We can demolish only one artificiality. 
Last night on Severance Ave. 
It’s no toy. It’s an example of us we can’t have.  
It didn’t love you or me. Like an oblong of moonlight it looked over what we do.  
That’s why we live here.
The robot was a learner, dedicated but fading. We intervened only once  
As the sunset roared into place. 
Our place. It’s ours,
Remember; all our troubles disappear. 
Death, I still haven’t figured out why I’m restricted to a life without suffering
That can’t exist.
From here it all seems a miracle;

It’s good we are now separated.

10/9/19

Yes or no in tokens, symbols and their prototypes. Yes or no signs. Yes or no to feuds, grim ball-bearings. Forget but never forget the asseverator’s vulnerability. And yes or no rodent names. No yet also yes to poems scoping life as a masterpiece, addressing a doormat standing an inch off the casing, fourth-up past the itch out of somewhere but nothing like every itch up your sleeve. Yes or no tempo of glyphic turmoil grounded into dotage and torpid incision in not one vowel or all 80 of them — 800 tones, yes or no prophase for pensive description. Morphology covers all bets. Scars are as good as drapery over stays. 
There was a boom in robots once.
It all came about back in 1st or 2nd grade.
And if you invest now, daylight garners one
several that breathe, toting examples of published cook
-ing ontologies, whatever they got alleged. Memory has it we
don’t have the brains to enumerate an open enough peace
next to sleeping people staring through the ice.

Is this bluff for real? one asked with good reason
before the ice scissored out the upper grades.
63: Hours..drain..blood. And something came up.

As I am now, Max Planck fellows are running off with radical research incentives for a frontier in vanishing unboundedness: Cramming organized treasures in a small package, tethered particle immolation. The dignity of boson appearances, confounding cruelty and love, alike, fed from memory. Never cut. With little or no motive, the sky foregrounds the process styles of mere appearances, stealing only ‘just anarchic joys,’ all of them, always.
I don’t know that much about you, but you remind me of someone
Who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far off, quelling fear.
Half a day goes by &
You are already unattainable —
Hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.

Pull over, this is serious:
Poetics process stuff. Ketchupy
The coast is never clear, fat boy... 

A whole new side to nuts & tightening bolts, narrow & hollow in the center — inflatable as you lay back in a blank whisper, clearly in the nick of it.
Louisiana, East of Eden: That time of year with smarter definition. 
How’s that if your electricity is out and your phones won’t work?  
We needed smarter drywall too, to excite the twilight in the bayou,  
ferns and moss growing other side after sunset, every-   
thing about the yield blowing in its news  
of recurring unitary joy...   
 
that must expire.  
 
I liked getting you to this point, nourished by you. 
What’s missing is, why is there feeling?  
It’s a state of mind according to Hoyle doo wop;  
Global warming jazzes a decimal of our pablum.  
Where should I hurt?  
Once or more. A few more.  
There’s no projected torture unless it causes organ failure.  
 

Baby steps fix the climate really fast indoors.  
 
For we feel tall  
and inflatable as we cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

10/8/19

Repeat this until approved, 
“I don’t know about you O astronomy”  
But in a tone that’s affirmative  
Like the jeweler’s tone words for whale  
-bone / measured blues − while  
 
This stretch, like all happy comebacks, tells a story of the future dropping hints of a larger, full-mouthed I-don’t-know − was it something to do w/ a heap of focus to one side, therefore blocking another? Do we lead a life another sings w/ you?
95: Hidden pretext has taken over. A story of dispraise and ill report but in a kind of praise per the report.
What would be less fantastic? A lovely enclosure of stainless vice. A full shelf of great privilege with lascivious plans.

Naming your name tells the story. How sweet — you’re every blot and sin, widely preached against, seldom commented on against hard odds, for shame. One spots your pieces of sporting nonsense, beauty’s manly tongue losing its edge, verbs rounded off randomly, veiled, knifing my love out..
My area is interpretive search.
You’re always not talking.
I get your point (approbation without the tedium of argument).
Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted appetites,
Accounting disappears like functions of context (procedures) —

Physicalism (neural perception) adapts to amoral schemes
More fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Travel well.
“...all men suffer:”
& what of? 
I’m like everyone else who grew up refusing novels, a nutshell of a wonk
glaring, boasting bragging rights over inexact outcomes, crayon-ing onto smiley,
boundless love non-judgmentally! Silently indicative! 
& of course I too did time w/ “live people...”
You were good to give us storylines, battle scars, vanity, thrills, sky 
dogs, paint & sloppy intercourse under conditions that surround our desire 
calming down time for loving you.

10/7/19

Role switch. I’m editing you a poem.
I’m not unversed in universal postcard theory. I hear it’s packed with shrill ideology, multivalent intelligence, ultra-experimental conversation. But postcards, man, they feel good as marginal surprises.

I’m writing where the living talk to the dead, like the hushed ones in mysticism boasting of their willingness to reach compromise.
Rough framework, a giddy notation to a story.
Visuals like tenured blurs formally at odds,
split seconds in a bigger, frank understanding with no data.
A bog of cloudburst capsizes, disabused of clouds,

blending in, no longer exterior to land
still 
untrusted and abstract, a heavy rain

snapping into randomness.
Hail, love, I was in hell with you
Having seen again all the mud we throw.

We’re not living there now; it’s too far to drive, leaving us out drenched to the waist, hanging down on the sidewalk looking a little ‘filmed over.’
The now is? I don’t know where it went or was. I wonder if we’ll show up there.
These questions are battered about.
45: Sir, libido and swift words send and return messages — coming back as first thoughts even when quicker elements like 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.
Yes, I’ve recently incorporated; the firm makes me feel yes! you are more melted into tomorrow’s borrowing high, mighty simplicity. Like when a spelling bee hints at a pattern to teach reform, pushing a path open. 
 
Pull it together, a life that’s sustainable you can just make up. (You are under a firm obligation.) This is a real company. We call her Cathy.  
Or this has nothing to do with  
walking away earning a higher degree,  
‘mountains feel empty’ / they’re  
rude — here is where the cards you squirt help.   
 
And there you go, retreating to that panoptic middle deck where you discover almost the same variations. You’ll have to choose the Non-Group taking part in the landing, staying cool to outlast time. When this is tomorrow.
The hollow inside is mixed up, the survey said

overlapping symbols’re happening way out in the ocean.

Your ocean. Your flamenco in transition.
Our faith and consequences.

10/6/19

I forget what really and concretely meant to nature. 
My post values are really skewed, I forget William Blake.   
I forget historicism.  
I forget the Kennedys and the Dead Kennedys.  
It’s the same with my wearing bangs.
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.
Hands are everything. 
That was past conjecture; and bringing it all back  
The evidence upsurges when language goes away.  
His eyes & yours fill with labor pools.   
Your brain stores all of pleasure. & his the same. 
 
A genome led you to him..   
He smiles with no doubts about your bluffing kowtow & innocence   
  — nothing to discredit &   
...no hell to pay! ... light showers keep raising rules of thumb, bringing it all back.
85: It takes substance and breadth; the going price of rank desire

(a rare cigarette case, may I?) looked after in polished forms and
No thanks. Just piano and voice. Piano and your voice. Words come hindmost. Let’s
Practice being still. (The high meal.) Inductions to other habits; hearing your breath

I think high thoughts speaking, in effect, externalizing dumb ideas.

The golden haze drags down floppy sculptures of wool

Like light praise warmed over by spinning in well refined wind. “Amen”

— I cannot phrase the scent of snow and sunlight and your utter loss

— my tongue tied crying, folding you in my thoughts.
I used to have an ersatz power dependency that’s reasonable to regret. Even today. 
Now we think it’s polite to say ‘power,’ not ‘ostentatious pensiveness.’
In robotic culture there’s an i.d. crisis 
as when who knows we’re taking these steps   
 
for whose agenda? Eat and lose some weight?   
 
How may we help?
It’s open mic. Didn’t I show 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 others, 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.
Aren’t we supposed to feed the acrobatic dogs? Yes but summer, winter? Minutes after the work is filed, dozens stand in line for a treat, free rein over the sentence.

10/5/19

The service managers said these are extraordinary times. Exciting now. Where are we un, um.. if that’s everything, we’ll switch to administrative cadence. Our slogan: production charges the new world until only a beat prevails. The right hand shadows what generations of fear rarely mine in heavier hypotheticals; the heroic code on the other hand never misses. 

Minutes after our extra work is filed, dozens below management are called to line up for a free run of the orchard, company-owned. “This is a very nice benefit,” a leisure pursuit like playing shipwrecked, held for ransom. Those were the funniest jokes, too. I don’t remember laughing so much. Ever. Or I can’t recall.
I’m bad at knowing when justice along 
with passion is vital, not recreational.  
I’m passive but I don’t believe in spooks. Here’s the outline.  
A few strings were pulled to get me in this factual place I would never have chosen.
Survival here is strung with progress.
No yet also yes to scoping life as a masterpiece, addressing a defeat as is or exposing every itch up your sleeve. Yes or no tempo of glyphic turmoil grounded into coinage and torpid incision in not one vowel or all 80 of them — 800, yes or no prophase for pensive description. No to yes there’s all right or all wrong, both disposed to insatiable shine.
Sonnet 61:
Simple enough picking up a pen . . . land and those living on it have data functions; similarly I see you.

I watch your synthetic imagery through writing, the vigil and force applied putting your youth

into a piece, since the grown man does not come by himself, regardless of your beauty — the river bank plied by far off

metaphors and substitutes, one at a time — less formal, too near home it’s like taking your dictation, taking after your love of my love of you.
This is our ur-season & with these search tips I am free to cut nothing off.
Not even a con anarchist.
Under pre-season conditions, your questions washed over time —
For starters: Did I test, lease, defame to get the best?

& the answers in a day wherever that is if ...
Is it time or times?
Personally, I maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic one more time.
The colony is firmly democratized, sir. You sir.

Other voices from the porch to violent finches in the sky,
The season seemed & was interpenetrations of parallel scenery
Et al in all of this.
We are the last generations who have short lifetimes.

Later, you dangle squalid transfer balances netting zero, netting 
a big zero on the demeaning upper ends and 
capital variables w/ an October surprise. 

That’s every transitive with successive membership enclosed .. 
How the prose poem squeals w/ common sense, folds into dreams. 

Everyday events like planetary ellipses emerge that change programming (for greater disorder) in fluent business English.
All my teachers are dead.
I’m still looking.

10/4/19

Sitting down delivers the good news, stateliness while steering already had its faint say. Now we can text and ‘drive’ over time and zeta functions mowing down hedgerows like highway dividers along an infinite axis.
Music filters out thru the one crack in the bridge against the old
Sky. All the airports sink back in black and white marsh, snakes.  
Day to day sometimes in sunlight geographers breathe, “3 times furrows [..] we behold.”  
We’re going to be here as long as it takes.
What happened there?
“..you have to paint the walls under the pictures.”
Narrow rails, sheer curtains..
Step out of that church.
I hear a boat. I hope it’s the mailboat.
Never confess.
Windy, and the waves all running sideways.
Straighten your teeth, vampire.
88: Patriarchy expands fraternal allegiance. You & I so belong.
We’re well acquainted with our own double weakness. We’re both right and wrong. 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, bending my weaknesses against myself.

We both gain an advantage (all wrong) to prove you virtuous.
Repeat this until approved, 
“I don’t know about you O astronomy”  
But in a tone that’s affirmative  
Like the jeweler’s tone words for whale  
-bone / measured blues − while  
 
This stretch, like all happy comebacks, tells a story of the future dropping hints of a larger, full-mouthed I-don’t-know − was it something to do w/ a heap of focus to one side, therefore blocking another? Do we lead a life another sings w/ you?
Irrational tarantulas (of steel) squeeze under the door, isolated by
an obsession with coming on, coming right in. There we go, holist.
Theory-and-forth..
Theory is the tickle place you and I may detect the language driver, a feeling you’ve won, untidy and young, accomplished and loathed despite a foundational rule of no feeling without permission.

Our tarantulas grow mute subconsciously, in dim light over and over —
burbling with a kill-agenda that’s swayed into decisions, aching to blather.
Here’s my favorite. 
 
Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection and uprising. Here, the audience rises.  
 
(That is, artisans among the audience rise, impetuous (hex 46, top line), some from costive stock, unflappably happy, even brusque.)  

Somewhere I float in. I’m late for the prom fitting, weeping inside. Funny place  
for a dance, Mr Baker.

10/3/19

Is that how you see yourself?

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

                                waiting to come up
half in sleep,
steadfast in geometry to grant the horizon horizons, the whole body.
Our retention rates are what makes us /great.
Love and heritage go down together.

The last nonpoem eases the dress code, a bolo tie display on 8
For a race of giants (giants are made up pieces of one another in other names).

Love came up short for a few and drove them to forgery. And shatters.
The taking of whatever works to swat the hand that feeds them,

Sharpening endurance,
Risking focus.
If you ingest grief parody is aqua foam and orange foam and broken glass. Now I’ve said everything I know about the nostalgia evoked by kissing your hand. 
No meditation spanning surfaces of the woods, no 
massage. No flavor of bullet points and none of cedar or balsa. So
there’s nothing to bifurcate to render your stinking utter degeneracy. 

May you come down with writer’s block in your rotten messianic parole.
102: You’re the matter at hand merchandized within isomorphic rotations from green hues perpetual to earth.

You’re asking a lot.

Still our love was new.
Well, most of these “notes” are literal, based on trying to sit down [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still the matter.”

The access air of inevitability around more advanced codes shattered. I hold my tongue. Shattered seemed inauthentic in the a merchandised sense. You are more than a song of sex. You’re holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. This.
I hate being made fun of.
In the interim I’ve written hate jokes,
All natural as parfait clouds beginning to part — over 1000 —
The aerodrome softly moans .. it could be roars of laughter falling into introspection

slotted for long silent scream divisions with fearful levels of id emergence
— And owing to your interest... this won’t constitute a date.

*

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

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

Reciprocating.
What a night! No problem
I slurp eating what’s reflected in your mind.    
Milk white saucers containing light — ergo
The dreamboat approach never grows stale.
You just don’t patent it.
Since you brought pizza — 
What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us and sociopaths to raise your experimental stature, fabulously?  

That aside —

10/2/19

How in the ---- could we let this happen?  
  
Today I face thunder — how to pay for this...   
Bouncy.. apocalypse..   
My instinct when asked is to tilt back   
To the moody crayons junking a   
Civil spell check of half-soothing words   
On top uninvented heights,   
The same heights outward   
Of looking into what we stoke.
One thinks one loves you all-purpose, all calm, never resolved, 
Because you’re only one resource, one swab   
 
In a climate of drumming opinions and best practices —  
Then driving rain and surging seas, over heinous Persia  
 
Long overdue, you said, any day. A refreshing reminder.  
My sympathies.
I’ve got to hold back. Not go down.

This is in response to the commerce-vector coursing through pop concepts, bringing unique comfort to support our cushy position in the food chain, which is in dispute.

I adhere to the same late-filing rule as you. We are keepers of years at night.

Love is moaning all right. I’m almost a novice enthusiast.. years from now.
Then, inscrutably I shall break down and sob.
82: Sing:

I swear..

...I’ll say it again, there’s a dedicated method to overlook, a high-five as you whisper this is a second emphasis, both natural and gross.

Adorno says strained rhetoric is a precious jewel, manmade but even true words have always been devised.
And therefore there’s no escape beneath the social parasail of rhetorical infighting. Plain speech commits us, forces us.

And do so, love. You are as fair in speech and knowledge as in hue.

Devised in love, that’s the plain worst case, and here we are — let me give you a hand.
Gong, gong goes all posterity.
Inside it’s gray. Divided & confused, I signed
up. The acoustics are here, also
a container for every dataset on loud
so the bright love space will hear it
& feel it in stages taller, striking overnight.

Research-bent, my posterity does take its leisure.
It feels like a great new unofficial building
while I’m always gonged to delay my appeal.
I say you sign off on others’ labor — A newspaper edition, documentary remnants, penetrable databases — We occupy this clever, conceptual nook, curling up, thinking up ... At times siding with the powerful (administrators) seems deliberate as well as passive-aggressive, love’s public effect, blots of respect for undue labor. 
I’m kidding. I’m staying sarcastic — unironically. Anxious pleasures bearing pleasurable anxiety, repeating ...