To be unmarried
Where the sky went:

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 a
First draft.
Or only one of many noted by a crowd of flutists aft.
My terms are to settle down through the evening. Our proud examples
Gain longterm advantage when hell freezes
Imprisoning refinement only for the self appointed until.
43: There is your dead-of-night agreement to let me in. Iron clad. Skull with putty.
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down to earth time in dreams, darkly bright, best seen darkly directed.

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

It’s much clearer in the light. Yes. That quick. This is a speaking animal in heavy sleep, you remember regression —
all days are nights and nights bright days. All time’s up.
The last emperor had sex with multiple staffers.

He had on one of the most advanced distribution systems.

His agents were crazy for the bigger paradigm of aftermath.
An aperture opened up and a lovable perspective was achieved soon lost. He disappeared, and he had children and they disappeared.

Skepticism was blacklisted by sharpened anomalies.
E.g. there’s nothing left of an emergent zone to secure a prosthetic like lack of despair.
Ethical epitomes go against the grain. Maybe grains.. What are spurious resonators for but to attempt command of natural selection and a jillion bloodlines. 
Um.. there’s nothing but an eye blush of heat that measures desperate ‘orders’ you put in reckless hands. 
Don’t forget your silent partners ripening for future sleep-overs in green, un-despairing usage summaries... 

Brilliant. Breathing new life, we have hundreds w/ crazy coats of arms. Look at you.
I’m lying about the lies I’m telling.


The door to the exchange left ajar.

Fizzy purviews haunting what hang around winning samples from The Inferno. Fizzy as a wave beating thru my eye.. Resonant, structured improvisation vibrates thru volumes of time. I’m chatting up my repressed side to save us from scrapping our early decisions. The charge is to fail to remember the exchange.
The work-together bellows decoherent forms we assemble — Random instances from a momentary lineage we’d overlook otherwise. No proof required, especially. A range of conversations whooped into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences. 
A flaming kitchen to heat pizza.  
(more below...) 
We’re imprisoned to reach our market — 
Otherwise, normal project staff on the roof, smug in taut outfits and at the top of their game, which is synchronized, perforated by breaking news, jumping bail.
The one-act was mostly about ticket holders with initiative winning the status quo from the beginning..

After the show folded we were never serious. Toys are another good idea until they cross us. We weren’t the first to overcome what we like & hold onto it, so it would take the future to adjust how how began.
That’s a rough outline.
Preaching to altos is an art
practiced by Art Farmer.

Or you can stand by & have what you are looking for reappear
as an entire practice. Suddenly

there are no stages.
4: Unthrifty = extravagant; nothing = nothing.
To traffic in deception, record your writing. Take fast notes
.. and I’m being fra nk, beauty lent to you
will oppose given facts of previous loveliness gone unused —
a perplexed legacy taken outside why or what’s acceptable

to audit profit and thrift. I’m lending you
my saddle for your extrication from delirium ..

Love whom else? Is it largess for me or you to go free? In a coin flip, we

traffic with fog to bequest lilac-dark in the air
spending upon you and me
so great a denatured octagonal gloom
by our own natures, sum of sums, we must take our notes alone.
“Devils were seductive, motivating me to seek their darkness,
Pick up the guitar & write more songs,”
Talking Chimp squealed like a talking dog.

Lean, fluid, balanced, clipped close,
His inner daredevil is fallen into a state of confusion & loneliness
— just to feel a cloud pattern about being no one.

In my canine illusion
of minimalism
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down
& got lost and scattered trying to remember.
Feeling comfort in disruption is one point. Together, we define entire affability arcs in ironic laughter, a series of slippery zoning disputes. Two points or more (identical in all respects).

Any abstract attitudes are buried below our gestalt-like, collective strip-down (the whole of reality) to the ashen stem cells of relatively unspeaking, as tho history was a set of realities.
Body-snatching, the third point is you and I have a multi-reality to join the others, since our lives are directionless in Rose County. Good night, ensign.

Good night to expose an accident or two that don’t matter, made tactical as we circumvent a few exchange elements, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.
duh.. After lovemaking, performance: the words and rhyming systems for married or unmarried. 
Once you think about it, think it over in any narrative, to execute thought is behind the thought beside itself.


Marxist-self irony:  
I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of subjective misnomers.  Eating and breathing them too. It’s July, August.. 
And this is what it means to have a muse. No blame. 
No poet will work in a freezing apartment except when it’s far more than a place for thoughts to gather thru summer. She struggles in cold rooms for little compensation and goes beyond the joy of subverting arbiters of something loath. Something enlivened, something ripe. 
Paperwork fastened to repetitive joy, coming July, August..
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.
Being used as part of the audience seems offensive.
You pass over that and ask for a 2nd date with an audience member.
Soon after loggerheads are avoided with grit, understatement.

What do you say? Bonne balance, hey my.

You grow accustomed, so to speak, no name
gets escalated until the focus is lost.
De rien and thank goodness.

Leaving the June-July beach
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs as the wagon sways
with fellowship. Love in the future, a handshake spreads the rain,
flowers, rain, flowers. (That's it! The moat-house for the wagon
then some new wagon shirts we can walk home with. A mighty wine
origami and the wagon yard for our widows. This is spring history.)
152: Today, all my vows are oaths to your kindness, constancy, love, you bet.
Back when there was a hell, each vow seemed sufficient
and inclusive for a new occasion of faith.
It’s easy, too unenlightened, even dishonest now.

Once back in the day the fair-minded had more complex appetites,
sworn to give loving eyes to blindness they brainstormed over such innocence —
half-truths, lies never happened. But

in a larger context there was the most recidivism in fashion and lit.
Dante nibbled fast, in very mumbled tones... under a huge, ampersand-shade of grace.

There was a terrific wine list — and one knew one’s balletic twists down pat,
drinking perfusions as he had at strangers shedding their platform boots.
Sweetest of the geeks take their lessons to heart and join a special breed apart. Hoody demeanor and default dalliance breaking convention will get us to our destinations faster and more pumped. Something about / the “human couplet” / keeps me over and under. It’s a military formula, zennish almost, common enough to striving rock as well as poetry composition.

The carbon steel of every day never dimmed
Second after blasted second.
Standard touching looks terrible or descendant. 
Capacious anxiety, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... we’re done.  
You can break the law to shoulder perfection or save a life, only once. Either way is a fractional immeasurable in any context / e.r.  
Something was definitely going on.   
Lefties are feeling cornered (not to say conned) but  
it’s breathtaking administering the right wing to you.


I’ll taper our next soirée with visually inevitable things and select for keen gameness. Today a deep-seated specialist would work with genres and approximately autonomous forms and contemplate the significance of staying interdisciplinary; I see. Um, ok, yes, ma’am. I’ve misspelled some signs. 

I have not fulfilled norms set by low probability. (Politics and the dignity of appearances don’t mix.) Judgmentally I keep on an even keel, I cry when it becomes subsequent. I credit everything on the surface without a message. But now — I say, drink up.
I’ll hold back. Not go down. 

This is in response to the commerce-vectors coursing through your brain drenched in pop concepts. Thinking like yours brings unique comfort to support our position in the food chain, which is always in dispute. 

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

I’m a novice enthusiast. And.
Art is theft all right. Tonight. Years from now. 
Then, inscrutably I’ll never break down and cry.
You or I can’t copy Creeley singing to Wieners or vice versa,
Both old masters
Who never spoke for love,
Not equipped

To weep.

Who is?

— even on a brassiere stool overlooking time is money plaza,
We could never express feelings about delimiting time. Figures of thought are tart.

That everything once alive was precious as our talk is precious and cheap.
That “Having no time to spend” comes off as counterfact in a pas
De deux falling apart
— we interns slipping on pieces of tracing paper after the ballet
To make a racket.
66: Simple truth, our work here in the desert is beginning to spin. Like the blind we’re disabled by authorities who wiretap secrets weighing nothing in, no credit, no ripped off melancholy, nothing but misplaced honor with a substitution agreement containing you and a more civil version of you in full force, pulled from inside..  and..
Can we cut to the disgraceful part?  
Relax but beware, laws of cause and effect are disabled as traffic pours in and aims straight at you. And the other you. Tired with this, the other you will perfect the business end (doctor-like). The civil you and I misplaced our joy since sleeping on it.. applying love to our own flesh alone as well as losing control of simple holding skills. Simply tongue tied and tired with all this perfection, I leave my love alone but attend you and yours, of course. And.
The drill of local news, temperature, hours of indebtedness, mayhem, a fascinating stack of known challenges — locality reduced to the economy, co-rejecting isms that are not concentric. Centricity & challenge influence perception; both engage what leftists & the right make up as sources for so noted middle ground. Nothing but themeless modules. Nothing to uphold.
No to Bat Masterson & Hamlet,
Gothic non being, lonely contexts & Goethe’s juvenilia.
No good instincts, no ephemerality, no hidden rounds
or flexible spite.

I’m not sure it’s inclusive or scrambled enough if we differentiate among them, & besides, why be preoccupied with peculiarities?

Nobody has to talk it over with me. I see what no means.
First movement:

Beginning to see the picture. Beyond some blanks
you can follow love making progress toward endlessness:
Our love (a winner .. have a look!) is a time share in calligraphy.
Joining you, me — my hand learns & flows with others’ sleight of hand — committed to your tongue tho, delivered from your brain,
nursed on your beauty’s signature.
Now we have equities;
our story has legs.


We think on our feet like animals brushing up on ideas...
Condition blue. 
Ten or so 
ululations kick it off, running 
over one ocean. 

Ripping in mean 
swimmer’s blue, 
in a competing mesne, 
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta 
more down surf, startling 
That swells 
the back light among us.
They circulate the flowers — up to now they have many words for it

but it’s fielding skepticism that’s making money harder to borrow. Clenching-tight,
abandoning death with approximate language, Yamaguchi says.
Wigs pick up, driftwood gets epigrammatic, upsides unrelated, pale, immaculate.
The sky has its style, subject for close attention. They said.

Paying attention is the field call to valuing the future. And the future notices who attends.

But it does not impinge on the field.
I have felt your voice,
followed your craft —

One touch,
one orated note.

Sleep has more ideas for here and now
where everything is a right turn;
we made contact then for a time
inspired by my taking your course.

No plan, we thought about speaking,
better than keeping you out —

Watching you spin like sentience
“refined by distance” since that was the last of

casual contact \ spectacle,
putting my life together but keeping your drift ..
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 framework of my notes 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.
Your new boyfriend gives me butterflies.

Butterflies have no meat. Not really.

I guess they’re unprincipled, drawn into narratives of low concentrate, lacking design,

squeezed across a syntactical floor with shaky particulars.

I prefer you not invite tradespeople in.

We’re in business —
Go online.
(Leave us alone.)
A parrot’s vocal cords give way to multiple hunches. You’re really that tall? There is no wrong answer. Your current salesman voice sports a mind blowing pedigree, meh, too late to make it sparse.

Even your restraint is watered down pat. You’re too qualified and thrifty to feel anything suspended — Mayday!
You and Boy Marisol, I told you both I agree. Enjoy your revisionist’s timeshare, the afterlife to the future, unobstructed, puckered in ab exercise.

petrified by merger talkathons —


After lovemaking, performance: the words and rhyming systems for pride and license.
Once you think about it, think it over in a narrative, to execute thought is itself recursive — beside the thought, working it out.
Until done,  
factor in visual plug-ins for calisthenics, just a load off a sweet smell.   
Artisanal resonance turns into reflections out of which you can finger-point to the horizon,  
magnified and now askew, flaking off. So note what happens. 
Yeah? A soar sport. 
Soar and insert your bonus and exchange — what do you know!  
Tongues, clean up to your neck — radiant  
patterns, your vocals trace phenomenal factoids that can end  
in a draw sustained by   
getting up, stretching for another solar system.
I’m having a pitch dark
obvious brainstorm
so why stop

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

O yesses encompass in advance
— crash. Al-

so let me see..
dreams get advanced —
Comatose, I'm yours.. returning the favor.
98: Smothered abstractions. Absent from you in spring, I think it’s winter still. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams drawn after you, dreams that forgive me for holding the moment for too long — for paranoia’s trapping both of us. Summer’s story, flowers’ smell sweet, lilies white, roses vermillion: The sweet spirit of youth’s hue and odor. You pattern all these figures drawn after you.
There will always be a poem

I will climb on top of it and come

In and out  of time,

Cocking my head to the side slightly,

As I finish shaking, melting then

Into its body...

— Jim Carroll
To a friend in good faith:

Pausing to look at poems, two tomes.
That’s how you toned it down.

In faith I’m divided / confused. I signed 
up. The acoustics can’t be imitated much,
without prior disclosure. Fielding skepticism
makes your fame hard to brush
off. Also a drumbeat for every dataset — top finds, semantic frames
& bons mots, good & loud so the workspace hears them 
& feels them in phases throughout your paschal hush.


There are a few tongue twisters. Episode interiors silhouetted in un-analytical projection, coming-of-age views that screen an official episode [how will I leave you] : However I believe we’re past the middle, nearing the accordion fold of 1 — loving time; not an accident the outlines say there’s a double interior where scribbling adjusts to long division, complex facticity, which scribbling-2 — hate time — tears open and picks at — to pay 1 off in near disappointment — Both scribbling and scribbling-2 climb uphill, texting odd incidents still, and both slide back down just before turning 17, fortune’s bastards biting hard, gritting their teeth, a lot older now. 
Cruelty goes by a few metaphors. Not loving you down the road.. going against myself.. getting soaked in a Mars invasion.

Heavenly and new, classic and easy, unforgettable facts that are fiction to our surrounding revenge for taking off, fawning over / upon you, buttoned up and respectful in everyday nudity. For nudity is earned, commanded by your eyes. It’s always a swing reunion in the etiquette of cosmic expanse, a whole new side of staying special and hollow at center, a vacuum in motion as on wheels.
By caution as usual one could also mean caution around the Koch Bros.
Hence the political surface is blood sport and games, what some call discourse as action. Caution is exercised to preserve the constructs protecting access to the oligarchic core. The equation reduces to politicians = mascots.
139: A poem fires up photoshop. Excuse me.

A poem is a picture as love well knows.

That your cunning lays upon my heart...

That drowns me out, my kitten, dear heart, but don’t wound me, not

this time, and never call me back to justify what’s wrong.
Your good looks attract my enemies — It’s your eyes
yet glances aside — with your unkind tongue you overpower me,

kill me outright, never through any art. So I’m defenseless.

Also I’ve saved all your robocalls to prove it.

I’m not kidding. No more calls, no pictures, please.
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a stream of gasses embossing conjoined tattoos. Outside the feel of an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brightened ways w/ brays.

All our neighbors are mirror bees. Are we not ones?
The work-together-bellows forms (like monad personalities) that we assemble — fluky events from a momentary lineage we’d overlook otherwise. No proof required, especially. A range of conversations whooped into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences. 
A jailer’s kitchen to heat the Sanka.  
(more below...) 
We’re imprisoned to reach our market — 
Otherwise, normal project staff on the roof, smug in taut outfits and at the top of their caffeine game, which is synchronized, perforated by breaking news, jumping bail.
Self-barter, a potential volt in a then-this-is-now domain...
Just praying.


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

& the answer in another season whenever that is if ..
.. is it time or times?
Spinoza acts against his own young interests.
Adoration has a poetic scent, nascent pastels.

Reputations preceded character, an act of apprehension remains
deferentially. Who will advocate toward peace, the tranquil
to empower the cliffside —
quiet in the nick of it.
A heedless apparatchik, I came to my senses later to strum the alert.
Modulating the self raises the stakes
according to types of daring.

Don’t be offended, demonstrate
a simple skill.

Self mastery begins thus,
With pencil marks across gessoed

Pearls — trance police
— I’m not sure anyone can
deal with them... turning into a

Spectacle — They’re taking dictation
put into thinking doing the math.

Space parlance & more intuition —
rhymed with situations beneath disappearing

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?
Teen to older person,
cornered (not to say conned).

Hold to your decoder status that’s forever sparkled quo vadis,
meandering within ordered appearances unraveling optics —

I mean to say high birth, career orbit
mean very little to vocal fervor.

Either way is a fractional
infinite in the context / e.r.

OK I mean
I’m done.
What if we put the male talking chimp away for five seconds.
“Let’s not do that, let’s not make hurting each other impossible to resist,” the real talking chimp enjoined, unable to stop herself.
Unexpectedly, she took me home to meet her family.
Language + materials referred to, dimensions variable. Dimensions variable. That’s the ceci n’est pas une pipe part. I’m one of those hoarders of history, picking out, piling stuff in the garage 
(of accessible language), keeping barbed wire and Ted Greenwald materials reconciled like chairs.


Unfinished sculpture. 
I am is still here, the body’s heroic purring could not be put off. (One hush dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).
Inessential consequences of my behavior are writing.
I’ve got a pet name for my tongue. Jerk A.

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

no right, no wrong?

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

Our gabfest takes place over the fields for each of us in the multiverse
up in a weather balloon holding beef jerky.
For a recap, artificial Intelligence continues to take up ‘busy work’ leaving humans to important dreams.

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.
18: Allergic to verse? I believe a temperate art is set to make more mistakes, say, rough comparisons to too hot a month this spring or one that’s past. 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, coming then fading all too short ah..
Whew. We see you in fair poetry and art
as fair as far and long as men can breathe.
After glamour there’s revisionist power, a legacy inside us. Wo- 
lfed down improv crap — we’re pre-wired or is there a fee? 
Radiance now is in a lather. Remember deliverance?  
“What if it doesn’t work. Then what?” Everything works. 
In any time and place of our choosing: Act gathered, something there?  
True love brings on a physician practiced in the arts of relapse.
Meantime we’ve moved off the mainland. 
No unknown futures present newer phenomena, fenced off.  
We have no perverse incentive to take more chances as we talk thru our replacement woods.  


What can be done to language? I register nothing. Never again? 
Boredom is poor experiment, our knobby supervisor said. And that’s what we wrote down to snap out of it — lightness, joy, eyes-open dream. And 3rd cousin to dream: Knower and known are clean osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the suitably flared reptile frontier.  
Time I guess to air-lift foolish eagerness and cover it with worn Keds and Swiss Army knives. I’ve been a floater of cynicism in relation to any concept I sever. (It’s hard for me to take credit.) “It’s always about dying,” btw, “never death.” After dying, the process is plugged to death, a ‘never,’ as in never never.

I consider head scratchers neurolinguistic balloon product managers. Once or twice removed.
Fact: eye contact is more defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense that’s forbidden. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making patterns to and from alterations sited within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.  At the same time I’m forgiven I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)
Pound. Confused or colorful, often gaudy, a mazed creature, vagabond within a Dutch bordello (condottiere inflated), involved in deliberately ambiguous strains of professorial fat (think of Cathay). A motley mayor to his inlet, his weeded self, a speck of a noun beat against cymbals, a puzzler over a paronomasia offered by anti-popes and holy fools who wore down the degringolades and moving tyros at the head of modernity —

In the forefront of wooden tones, EP served his victims the mystery dead hand, uncertainty occulted and shiny. We borrow from EP, tracing him down now to throw him into erumpent, latticed breakthroughs he first walked into, then over. A discolored specialist for a mendacious tomorrow, a tomorrow indefinitely remote, not new, rantipole yet superfine.

Had Pound retroactively polluted intake of the high modernist toxins that aesthetic portends? Poetry released of all responsibilities regrouped, rooted in political indifference, self-abnegation, self-defense. Poetry no longer invoked to try history.
145: A fiend’s tongue taught me to greet then end each day with nothing woeful, nothing sweet —

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

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

But today I saw your hand in my life ... a great doomed sound altered, flown away.. I’m totally saved, to heaven from hell, flown straight to your heart, Jezebel, never to hate, “not you.”
The crisis to now: Form is not
object but double identity, an explosive
funneling a non-hegemonic pulse — and due to substitution
off rhyme gathers in the moment

You look fabulous, a strong monster
under scrutiny from your upcoming voiceover!

Some will have heard everything.
But that’s when we fundamentally begin to wander
Like adjunct pleasure twins once in a trance, just this once.
‘Electing’ a demagogue feels like brain cancer.
Realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio” 
I am touched by everyone now alive,  
softest jazz, lower right, his lips moving up, down,  
talking design shit.
His father’s image contains everything he knows. How can a bantam weight =  
feigner? his dad asked in freeze frame over the mirror phone.   
(Dad’s next book is staring out the window, saved-up.)  
Amusing I suppose. With regard to static and its ovoid, stasis  
in a compulsive battle over the ultimate smiley face —  
it’s not just who grinned first (dad) that counts, but also where  
and how. This’s my tongue giving his lips (the son’s) a brush up  
realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”
Prayer behooves you, it often says. Prayer for those who talk shite no longer pray. I hope you are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one. 
That’s an outline. 


Concision in detailing method is a catamaran of process.

This is how morning began.

Getting there we wait in long lines for Twain. The Thai are hardly speaking. I turned to a companion and asked if he was interested in how poetry’s put together.
He thought about pure things as style surrounded by syntax. All in one at once.
This could have been a sonnet lit from within
visual poetry. I never use that word now.
In better versions, cunning and pathos =
appropriating outsourced flattery.

No such matter to dispute where I’ll...

I’ll try for an overweight, imitative invention
from the horror state, what some call civil

disservice for un-streamlined intake. Soak up the view.
To continue —

orphans make 1) bad syllable breaks — there should be no syllable breaks! 2) bad line breaks — just 1 or 2 short words on next line; 3) bad page breaks — just 3 or 4 lines on 2nd page. . BAD.

You’re a world-famous trance inducer. That’s it.
Montana homeland defense initiatives; ever higher heels; shallow buyers pool; bankrolled genocide; hideous poems...

Missing italics.
69: Kind eyes are deeds,  
a part 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.
Dispatched for 
subjects of desire in another sense, an echo  
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible  

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


Beside Panker observation tower, from which one can see in good weather the far over Baltic to Danemark, the Forestry House Hessen Stein lies.
In former times vertikal foresters got their Ausbesserungen along with sailors for a Senkrecht. From that forest messengers with sailors on Hessen Stone glow.

Today one can eat excellently and jazz friends here come also.
Core harmonic structure: call back when you want

— The world becoming flat and falling across

The telling (of)

(Instances of)

Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic

Streaks and — weird! — high wails of titanic fog, sifting down from

Rain ceilings (of)

The snow. The snowing. The across (falling),

It is (falling) across
Morton Feldman.
Sir Fric and Frac. Remember them?

Fric just called, said “We were swimming naked, a word I often use to characterize my falsehoods. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed another human. I felt something strange but familiar.
To me, bringing this up this late in the afternoon is totemic.”
I fell silent and wrote it all down.


The love-it-’til it-bellows medium I write thru is about momentary truth-telling and lying, especially. A range of conversation impressed into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences.

Proportioned asides.

A kitchen to heat pizza.
Wake up and work.
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 merchandised sense. You are more than a song of sex. You’re holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. This.
We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.
Brass tacks, no essays.
The odd delay repeated.
Evasion foregrounds style, motives — the harsh gets exaggerated.
It’s been a driftwood century so far, valuing hoax.
To commune sounds handsome, also calm, also a bit bendy. In the same call he reverses prerogatives — or his voice does. (I’ll table the difference. Each.) 
“Cloven, we are incorporate... ” 
His message mixed but never better aligned. Together, all across the call center (our hideout), learning the ropes, perusing scraps and parts of hope.  
No fins of infinity. Nope.   
Halloween patterns clenching exponents where attachment is rimmed.  
We have no major issues.  
No shady aftermath inter-scope.   
And to think a way out, we can blur the ground and yield authority to a bowl... really a vase. Sit and watch dogs turn smoky brown tracking vans in drizzle, tarnished from sight, playing against a stack of storm windows, within a composure for light a translator can’t reach.
Anima to Anima, you couldn’t be ruder.


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

Losing steamy light downstairs. At any rate you were rushing then pausing over more optical symmetry. An interim for you, pushing up and out. Before we got laid. There is little point now to hold back (cremate) a fixed melody tonight unless there is nowhere else. 
Granted on a more personal note, I maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic for one more time.
The place was firmly democratized, sir. The beginning seemed and was
interpenetration among important parallel scenery et cetera running this. Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush nimbus-wet in devotion to their next decimal of the scenery. This might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads

and let you know when.
Acts to living comprise the intervals it contains minus select channels —
life like deep blurs formally at odds, one segment, new episodes how.
Life in split seconds joining a bigger movement in time w/ no data.
The last dialogs are libertine laced w/ Frankfurt School brio & science fiction.

Your writing here
you’re reading at another
time coming at you later yet now.
46: Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions
like unforgettable elements
within 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 fair appearance, to your quests and thoughts, my inward heart.

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


Here’s a proposition. Start over. Compelling work toasts knowledge construction — in the plainest speak — as well as finds, explains & reforms infinitesimal times-spaces. Your optimism is required (a) to keep everything open for reform; (b) to understand we are beginning the work, always. 
Unthrifty = extravagant; nothing = nothing. 
To traffic in deception, film your writing, take notes.


I was going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension
of disbelief. There’s a flipping out dance scene like martial arts, sparkling pen-

umbrae, a pro ring barnstorming topmost
dicing / re-arranging rhythms pushed to extremes,
undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.
Psychotropic bios diagnosed as bare truth- 
Stratagems. Siphon starters. Add the rank  
I confer on the next available one who is consonant and balanced, living and perhaps dying with one  
Until he goes broke — summarily I’m screwed of what beauty was.  
I center then on perception (for another purpose), sustaining losses out of irony.
Pull over, this is serious.

Muted desperation, the flip side of formalism, the in-your-face improvisers hold our attention. [‘We’ = a match in perseverance.] Hannah Weiner is perhaps our most performative, non algebraic example. The young John Wieners (and I’d stress the elder as much or more). There are texts and opuses that look unplanned and freely improvised. Can algorithms be improvised? According to code, of course. The human names are familiar. O’Hara, Ceravolo, stretches of Notley, Mayer. Sometimes Spicer, sometimes not. The wildness of not knowing where each is taking us would be a common satisfaction. Today’s practice comprises the layering of plans and improvisation; post-Coleman we speak freely of fake jazz and listen for positive results. Similarly, the fake improv of atomized procedures — to point to a solid phenomenon — allows for a number of false questions — Can algorithms be improvised? — along the way to sketching a counter addendum (nachträglich) between plan, no plan, a bicameral entry to inquiry about where writer and the writing are going away.
96: This is weird. A focus group from the groom’s side picked us both, agreeing w/ newer media featuring youth candidates, lower right, with your lips moving up and down, sport documentation, more or less:

The groom was in the vicinity of being led away...

Here’s the stumper.

Whatever base or ism, the urge to love is put down to error and wanton anthropology.

We open our front door and see what the state’s strength translates to. The shortest path ignited by havoc, honest and exhausted gazers. Geezers. From it’s-not-the-same-now all the way to a nanoscience of celebrating honest betrayal. Sort of addictive.
Anthropology won.
This is a.m. color I propose: Q-tips & smoke. I can pick you up, take a day off 
                   from everyone standing  
physical & prime for the stress of relays between a rat race  
                   & security IF  
you can trust an opposite sketch,
my 3-D models are you & everything else I can be w/ w/out you
Your search had no results.
The time is split into categories of use for your work and for the sinister about-face of a system download added to our labor.
A life sentence for causing a ruckus.
Call when you’re ready.


After glamour there’s revisionist power. The virus is already inside us, wo-  lfed down improv crap, we’re pre-wired or is there a fee? 
Radiance now is the lather of swing. Remember deliverance?  
“What if it doesn’t work. Then what?” Everything works. 
In any time and place of our choosing: Act gathered, nothing there.  
True love is a physician with a way of relapsing.
What’s curious style? 
Engineered simplicity holds tho 
Taken whole:  
“Give in, dig it.”  
(There’s a new policy to highlight deletions.)  
I’m waving on the wave’s behalf,  
Taken your lead. Word processing in Palatino sans 
All the time, staggering prose!  
Tomorrow I’ll  
Tap out more deletions I forgot to close —
Sway your head. That means dance.

Don’t hold it in. Talk to your doctor.

Read this. I do.

It’s half in libretto.

Try something cartoonish. I’m whirling around, pens and markers in hand in roughly 4 minute stints. Learning something about what I mean, high jinks soar belying despair over entropy, a quiet smoke, losing gravity!
One presumes elements are strung together out of desperation and a deeply ingrained exposition to demark the unknown, much as technology funds science.
147: The float seems to learn amour’s fever is a disease  
as desire is death, unwelcome overnight: 
“The float is radiant, jammed with wares,” 
had we anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I been  
eloquent as to the radiant as well as to the sickly, the bright
— we’d need no captions.”  
Mad, a lover’s discourse throughout anticipated that base point, past cure, past care ..  
Why does reason leave me now when there’s one move to go?  
Tho vainly expressed, longing is still well fed by our appetite to please. 
Pantoum: given a key, you lose it
  — shifting your attention but staying in touch. 

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

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

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

Complaints and sworn declarations, 
I forget missing you. 
Reach out touch base break the silence


Japanese are fascinated by pottery. 
Any dark ceramic with asymmetrical tenets is tacit  but could be looking up at a source of light, feeling talkative..  

maintaining maximum restraint  
to engage another’s psyche.
Acts to living comprise the intervals it contains minus select channels —
life like deep blurs formally at odds, one segment, 2 new episodes.
Life in split seconds joining a bigger movement in time w/ no data.
The last dialogs are libertine laced w/ Frankfurt School brio & science fiction.

Your writing here
you’re reading at another
time coming at you later yet now.
A beautiful writer is stunning, front and center. When
distracted, s/he hears “Continue − to enter the contest area − Continue.”

Some say, not going to lie, both of us botched a radius of this, destabilizing
‘oppositional’ temperament. On our side, we’re doing well, considering.

            To consider the green wooded radius is greater work, cuts straight
through any restructure, throwing out hyper-nonliteral depth w/ gutsy, landscapist abandon.
The budget cuts (last line) are background to double-rhymed ambient scores.
Entire sectors feel it’s the end of capital, epic sums expended in slender career arcs.

            The floodgates and instrumentation get redone for full
combat. We wonder about other churning bits of our lifeline.

It might be some freedoms are on probation ...
according to decision theory now. / Not only for continuing,
the problem has been how.
22: Inside you

the mirror shows a raiment of my heart — therefore
so long as your beauty & youth cover me

— praise & the opposite grow acrostic, seemly rife, stirred by your love
for days. I tender my pen to write down what you bear in your true heart
(washes of shadows, unrehearsed, at your will)
— how can I be dated, the elder of us two —your breast lives in mine and mine in you,
fixed in air, we stay in love, nursing love. Expiators.
Don’t care, don’t moan, lie only about what’s really
colossal — masking your vanity becomes the tortured challenge clinging to verse. And.

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

And this is what I did not want to say.
I like it when prose or song digs in and flails. 
That about covers it.  
( It’s that emotional core between personal and professional.)
Becoming free is a moving and intimate aria. (Like “Summertime.”) I got joy. I got sun.  

Got to run, prose.


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

Pine assembling.
I am is still here, the body’s purring could not be put off. (One dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary). 
Wrong. Constantly wrong was once correct. (Seriously? But what’s with identity. What about it?)
[can’t stop it...through 
language [going in] [out...] cheesy time lapses in which [animating backward] speech & narrative continuity become incrementally  
transformed into deep structure affixing Old Norse phonemes to nonobserving verbs.   
Now my head is cleared.   
Still if we had grounds I’d subside higher up having you weed out caution.   
I call all this you leaving me. 
Thru drizzle stepping over water balloons floating
In a once swimming pool.. spurts of views down
Walkways and stairs set apart and fronted
With balmy music waking in dimming brightness
Without memory of how I got there, you.
Like dozens of others spin
-ning opaque data sets, it’s probable
I’ll never make chicken
or any designated soup for you — I never make
chicken soup but if you ached for me to
I would.
You come before vegetarian salvation.
I’ll never make
that either.
51: In motion, no excuses — war is unjust when there is only one side to wage it.
Gleaned from what war is, my desire keeps pace.

I’ll be an angel investor in spontaneity, no need but love, for love.
This is strictly, deliriously our business, self-realized adventure
losing daily battles, no excuses.

What time do you get off work in poetry? Should I know?
Speeding up when swift extremity can seem but slow

I hastened to run toward you
as though mounted on the wind before even starting ..
To paraphrase ... you can’t predict 
How or even what you’ll be taking from your background experience; 
there are too many of you.  
Favorite singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to having sex.
Learned consensus becomes early performance; both puerile in the present tense,
the deep pitch shows up invisibly,
unspeakably, as libido constitutes foreknowledge, glistening aimlessly.

Bruise will stop by later. 
Let me grab a pen and clamber over here to the landmark network... you’re right, this isn’t the window for you or me. Before the heat dies, if ever, we’ll try praying in all directions and improve our math skills for our window cleaners’ sexual satisfaction as they pivot from top panes to a ringing mountain of attention-grabbing hysteria.


[adverb here] I can’t face facts. I invented the elbow railing
thru intimation, insinuation, innuendo. 
It was something I ate but stronger in [noun phrase].
Never believe quite a theory, never say it’s conjecture.
It costs a constellation or a bundle of heart, faint of. 
Don’t care, don’t moan, lie only about what’s really
colossal — masking your vanity becomes the tortured challenge clinging to verse. And.

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

And this is what I did not want to say.
Planet Earth is Maoist hell — ringed with grassy estates where a blind woman can tiptoe or fall further.

A blinded poetry executrix kind of dumps on me. (It’s a leftover from Buddha’s show-and tell, a truly exaggerated enterprise.)

I never dump back. I hope her loss (me) helps her become a better entrepreneur and public intellectual. Or I wish her savvier gurus.
73: One will die; one will see all sunsets fade to ashes then black. 
But I’m leaving the night choir behind. Awake making love with you at day’s end where yellow leaves still shake blowing past bare boughs and dusk, glowing, seeming content, consumed, consuming to expire.   
Death is a nominal fallacy like twilight now: To love you as if that’s true... and stronger — that’s my late take away. I don’t understand cold fire this time of year even in the west, where the sweet birds sing, by and by sang. 
Here’s another centerpiece to explain how flowers are cut in plurals like progressions.
Iconoclasts count on progressions in a series, along with any allure of falling cornices
(they did).
Literally nothing was granted.
But it’s a poem.
Now months later, it’s good news
Also, since you wait to listen, not empower others.

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

Terpsichore is still ascetic, improvisatory, sherbet hued like Erato, a voice of suspicion, hisses.
You read that for some at sea sex is immediate, overwhelming, terse and decisive — A thousand and one friends back in the city in a boil .. polka boats bob as tho dots, you said.  This is a loose translation, drawing on elements of your life. You planted yourself here. 
You. You. How was it to record soundtracks for an unscripted sailing promo? Was it like writing from a retrieval search with data trees leading to nebulous, chaotic deculturalization?


A hobby becomes the color of dreams, silent addiction, abundance in the heart.
Does it hold the same seasonal affect looking for recompense?
I know what I need, blindfolded.

Concept this.
Your seeing life is the intervals it contains minus your presence.
The grounds for guesswork know what the regulation is. 
If we’re lucky, Euro notes rule our larger theory of commitments.  
Like pounds they bear full imagery, shiny 16th- and 18th-century ideals.   
Debts improve wasted sunshine through labor. 
(I don’t mean that as deeply before we hand them over 
by your leave.)   
Don’t plan on further development.

Finish a stretch and clouds get confused. Confused as   
A rusted barge dries in the sun orange. Or   

Danzig is the Wallace Stevens of evil urban clusters.. 
Ok, these grounds are not Danzig. Proven  
True or isn’t.
But theory is something else.
Shortcuts. Step Five (ok, I hardly ever do this): One is strong and stupid with an emphasis on novelty. I can imagine a spontaneous disintegration of one’s pragmatics and rare syntax until one finds oneself in the same place here, only in a ‘half-life’ where — 3 decades later! — speech still matters.

Step Six (idealized, could never do this): One models language as emergent matter re-involved with impulses coursing around butchered ideas, using appearances and language exchange itself, varying registers. One might call this mutation of lyric intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t a folk history of enslavement to procedure.
134: Dirge: Knocked up by sure bets and unusable vote counts. It sounds like usurer intrigue, equipage of the self-illumined or half-taught —

An inured slice of childhood domains — all to attain another, future time.
But back in time. 
So now and then I may have liked primary grades more. I later picked up romantic couplets —
Lost in bromance, wearing nothing but motives for aching to keep doing what I feared, overlooking our lives in love? So he’s yours? 

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

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

Similar theories, large discontinuities. Dirge:
I don’t worry or pierce my ears further.
We innovate through suppression.
Blushing is breaking news. 
One time I was inconsonant. Or.. 

I was found holding a grand lodge of doing-splits glossary.
— why 

Does a face arrest? 
You had on your fabulous eyeliner from long ago. Cunning
Thing is everybody had it goes without saying a probability before 
The news 

And all of us now are blown up by
Errors of replication.
What now?
[I’m sorry]
You stuck or


I swear while we continue and travel further
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts
All our props are dextrose contingent.
Or I was wondering about invention of the planets, sympathizing
With a numbers guru also the director — one of them that never knew velour as liberty.
Often that’s a normal baritone and determinative section to sing:
Spencerian, bodily stranded leaving war to the professionals.
Our place: A diminished mood will be buoyed by scatterings of photos and books, many unread. More atextual sources as fodder for your new faculties for text, new ontological components for bringing up humidity composing, as well as subprocesses harder to isolate and observe as they flood into short term memory. Keep the feed in balance for two (or three or as many as you like). Liberal arts breaks further from esthetic scholasticism, inventing new suppositions for research and intimacy. After new government, wiry empirical jolts, ambiences that comprise enmeshments within a readymade mood and control structure parallel to voc ed in poetics; appliance hint: bring a metronome. 
Brexit notwithstanding. Non-Anglo-Saxon Europe is widely vilified. Anglo-Saxon christians demoted half the Netherlands and Belgium for their cultural lag. Or perhaps we could say these border zones were treated as toys, their cities negated, their verbs rounded off randomly. Thereby rain over there was so blatantly filled with nonsense that it spewed east and southward, completely negating sustained conversation or further purpose — moist tongues both nasal and guttural on the verge of interpretation, competing, dancing at the edge of the Flemish world, like depleting rain, a departure from what is affirmed by the original experience of the kingdom in being.
109: Mind and body worship seem vicarious, false of heart before conforming to a belief system to qualify. As for my soul, I’m with you, my rose.
But I like meeting new people and having you — that would be the intro to progress, the sum of good times — not with the time exchange of only the preposterously good but also frail kinds of blood, yet the sum of all, life changing love of you. Hoarse for weeks.
The normal exec in a large academic corporation by the highway will grow up, in a flash forward, and work for Strategy Foundation, a company that parses guilty pleasures around the world. She or he doesn’t dream now — 
not any more. One’s become an energy therapist, and keeps heirloom rabbits. You see doctors learn how to say what no pet defender wants to hear. “You sure of that? You sure those were your rabbits?”
Progress / regress: China funds high speed railroads in Africa.
Americans for Prosperity funds and wins campaigns banning high speed rail and busses in TN, AR, AZ, MI.


We chew to 1 side, noted by 3rd parties 
Superego abstractions hanging out in their unusual white corridors   

Suggesting we’re still trembling from the  

Physical act of mowing. And now  
It’s sprinkling, a brilliant backdrop adding up cruxes  
With a so called mother glossary, 2nd- 
Order noncommercial gists pitted together as cognates  
Still coming to seed and adornment,  
Half-audible ricochets hitting us as if we’re part of the lawn.
Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled. 
Thus, Chickee is my guy.
116: One’s {most-
Ly random swagger looks on marriage as a catch that alters one’s worth unknown to
Those equipped} naysayers: They encourage sampling —
Never coerced by an alteration of stars or human forms, fixed on this mark: Love is not love;

No one, nothing concentrates like love following its rosy doom. That’s if I’m not hit by what I feel in the a.m. Then, if only this, I believe you, I’m a fool no man ever loved...

But let me take our love’s temperature — wanderings of your true mind bear it out —

What are we fixing up? hitting a few heights in a few weeks, brief hours as others find softer, more musical alterations.

Love is no fool. Love goes off the boards as if water lilies kick off their boots and women come to rule. Snipers crouch, removing

The edge to their lips and cheeks.
Can I call you privately into the moment —
Hadn’t surfeit and raised eyebrows happened a few months ago?

An incandescent unsettling,
Just look;

We have no rich uncles,
No pills or angst, no
Noble feats — Much of what counts

Is reckless footage
That seizes our space —
The beak of the finch

Hops and then the whole finch hops to
Where it plants itself.. no
Public sentience in nature.. some disgust (from competing particles) —
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.


Any higher, they never snicker.
(There’s tighter discipline.
Then it’s said repetitive indiscretion goes too far
& some at mixed levels are more disposed
climbing into casual ritual, putting
their lives together getting & keeping down.)
For all my exes
may a zealous counterculture dart sweetly to life!
Often a partner in comp can be deliberately passive-aggressive like any Pilgrim. I’m kidding for scatter.

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

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

down over Earth changing it into flummoxed packets of energy, wearing maroon cords.
Hoyle in her green dress leaned
In a hetero-inclusive manner
Against a far wall,
Perhaps not far enough, as
She was distracted —
Her distraction bringing pressure
To my 4 fingers, right hand
Fidgeting with her necklace
Which at that moment I coveted more than — sing it, babe
.. are you trying to interfere ..
& she was staring in the mirror — looking
Not at me but past me, into a space
— a slot of a zone
That might be filled by someone nice,
A successful televangelist no doubt
Yet to arrive there, on an invisible journey...
(journey, my roughshod term for predation & warfare
Which could lead directly to calmer views in the mirror..)
This was years ago, according to Hoyle.

& seeing you now in your green dress stare past me —
An instrument of obscurantism, shifting
Into a place I could only imagine
Grabbing a microphone as you fled, alluvial
— each second there’s a pang
Bursting eardrums.. the yakking
As if you & I were stepping out
— eternal blasts of facsimiles in song
From a mirror where Spotify still
Rocks into an arid white room; breathless & eager
We show up for another whisky
Only to discover this late
Hey, we can do this!
Rationed compliments ensue secretly,
Honest accounting disappears like dysfunctions of context (text frame procedures) —
Physicalism adapts to amoral schemes.

I forget hints of confrontation let these other voices barge in, forward, back passing thru my early meditation.

As Isaac moves from consonance to desolated marsh,
walk along with me. / Where to?

To the battlefront where nightly fingerprinting skyrockets — blasé for improvising at first, then it recoils to meet deadlines.
137: Love is a blind fool among the true and false. You never see what others see. You’re wide awake thinking this through until a subfocus gets lost. You can’t see, you grow accustomed, so to speak, directly oblique : but pointedly there’s no one name escalated or united w/ the width of what beauty is! And where it lies!

Bon équilibre, someone else won’t choke (and in a common language at that), one a 2nd other, your “someone else,” comprehends. What do you say? No falsehood, tell me, speak to the world where several are over-partial to your judgment. Why should my heart do anything?

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

And you know, that’s what’s wrong. Over-partial over you I too can’t see what the world sees..
How can I neck with you warming
up tomtom heartbeats, migrating
to youthful boundaries, hand
to hand in a laughing manner?

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

What’s he got to talk about beside his sack of parrots?

He’s snooty and sells antiques?


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 thickets of cloud & southerly winds
taking it to other investors who might stay offended,

the next step in the training.

Onto what?
The sun is gray. Divided, confused. A hairpin curve.
The system is not perfect. It’s everybody’s  
fulfillment welcomed with unlocked pleasure.  A manual ok.
We set the controls; active ingredients are  
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.  
It was a sober intro
A branch could be a sentence generally. There’s urgency in ideas o et cetera.
I live in a debt growing compound and now

A level over! The et cetera of murder and hate

not enough? — are you suggesting I send for some?
I put my finger back: Not really, she said out

ahead of how I was supposed to know.

I’m addicted to ideas.

This was my first time.
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, to speak the truth) of what won’t be contained between us. All of the above.
Attraction ignites thru deep compatibility,
a nonaristocratic game played for low stakes.

I’m not a prose-poet, this is reportage
and what I think I believe. A good guess is a hypothetical reach.
A good education leads to the Grand Hotel
above the empty lot swept clean by Balthus.
To a nudist,
It’s contradictory to insist on any spoils from letting ourselves go ... over that money issue. I had a piece in there as well. My prose seemed resonant with your “rainwear fetish,” which I almost forgot I shared. (But not with you.)


Doing composition et al. change
While our frayed honeymoon was a pleasure, felt normative.
Pleasure gets exaggerated but there are three pleasure substitutes. Here’s one, an itch to borrow sentences to raise your consciousness.

Another is coming up with filaments like attrition of affects (watching your watch).

Third, after a honeymoon deflections accrue.
I picked up in a flier... my soul is a hypothesis. A fish out of water surfing coastal states to destroy his wiggly self, a gerund seeking to join cause and effect.

Since we live in new enterprises and within intuitive ecologies, we begged him to learn to swim further and stick with a nearly sublime topic, to rally for more than this textual ceramic holding a spray of the straight and narrow.
Changed my mind.. Nobody can help us shorten the learning curve.
You’re always not talking. I get your point (noncommittal without the tedium of argument).
So I turn blue when I cool. I blast up by myself when you leave. And when you come back I produce a mental readout of how long it takes you to set the temperature, lighting and so on.

I can’t snicker, I’m elegant and round with a mirror finish.
The American Songbook has mirrors, motors for luscious hills, gleaming grains.
Apparatchik Bukowski’s fall is a warning, hissable, gone monochrome in uglified loveliness besieged by entertainment.
148: Denoting esthetic correspondence! it can whip you up, call you back to cunning ..  
No marvel then how love is falsehood? love’s eye can’t be true? — 
I mistake fault in my sight and fair similes for love you put in my head.  
How can the world say it’s not so,  
how can it? No ..  
I’m mistaken in my view :  blinded watching you thru tears —   
the sun itself vexing until skies clear  
— O me! You!
Doing composition et al. changes
While our frayed honeymoon was a pleasure, felt normative.
Pleasure gets exaggerated but there are three pleasure substitutes. Here’s one, an itch to borrow sentences to raise your consciousness.

Another is coming up with filaments like attrition of affects (watching your watch).

Third, after a honeymoon deflections accrue.
I’d like to thank the Academy  
and ignore X to reinforce ignorance.   
IT warned me of overrefined emblems and their sweeping reproach. Can I have a parochial amen? I’m not religious. Nor are you. But I took note of what you like from the beginning. I had a few ideas in mind divorcing you.  
Oh, tech services, tell us a little more about your miserable ontology affecting checks, balances, and mantra logjams — How did worldviews crumble into unlimited environs and potential instrumentality to pantomime the common numerator undercutting American literacy?
There is no absolute diva in me. 
Just Power Events, long buried within 
stewardship & deity symbols 
until all of us (The What-If Losers) get to take up 
residence at the commercial registry for happiness,
slaves of commerce.


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

Conflicted about big money, I’ll pick up anything. There’s been a request I read corporate art management aiming to commandeer the pipeline, production to sales. It’s fairly obvious when you look at other art industries, video production, digital media, music — marketing small press poetics, like the book industry writ large, integrates with managerial acumen, a chunk of aesthetic / academic taste and decision making falling under the control of entrepreneurial influence: NEA, Poetry, Poetry Foundation, down to narrative and expository copy.
Beyond us, them, 4% atoms, tiny
wriggling strings; hidden, 22% of the tug —

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

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

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

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

An irrational lyric? You and I can’t transfer that,
touching on our dual roles as we reradiate consensus.
2 quests.. Just who are we to say we should attend to what I am doing? It’s love like ours that pitches English to prioritized claims.

In modern tongues, a truly socialist government is not that hot.
Wearing nothing but pilates for motives, eager too,

Mixing shy and rabbity, squeaking in biblical
French — it’s just plain meaner. And we negotiate euros (cash) for rapprochement.
138: I admit I’m old. 
But I knew what I needed, feeling flattered you think me young!  
I knew which falsehoods were made of truth,  
how pre-December persists in others, even you..  
It’s known you lie, not to mention your suppressed subtleties, marketing  
pizzaz up and running —  

“love’s best...in seeming trust”  
— even in the new year you follow love’s good, false habits 
sweetly, obviously culled..  
(away... my days are past the best...meh... )  
Invitation only.
O 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’.
Follow instructions.

We got in surrendering our fingerprints

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

toast anyone else entering first grade

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


Some standards. (The norm is share and share.)
Shined asides.  
We pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,  
Really a vase,  
Set it, let sunset pitch in its foam, declare  
Poetry goes thru many drafts.
O 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’.
A sparrow close-range, a dedicated follower,
packing a double voice range, gets into love trouble,
last blinded by the sea only tonight, this evening of the seals.

Two old seals suddenly lift in a renown wave, the same
in each. Humming back, large as the beach
staring away at the first light.

When the light goes there are too many weighted ways around.

It goes for gladness reasons. No
one you know, seals go too, mourning their orchard rounds.
127: C.V.: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating raven yawns in fair use praxis, and there’s some age old false connection to an eyesore we dreamed up or could dream up, borrowing any face beauty slanders. There, inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying nameless, profane, counting inventory, keeping faith from their esteemed orientation, mining their richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday, they think: So many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs up they flare into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer! Blocks we’ve been party to after a late lunch. 
Hitherto ethos susses southpaw disproportionality, so lovers per lifetime meet their lucky doubles halfway, borrowing a face here, slanting a blurred promise we had there or we don’t know we had, in shame letting it die down. 
The inscription read you’re my business. This means the writing is clean, architecturally intact, mirrored in meantimes. 

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

I’m just commenting. 

The inscription read you’re my business.
Our thoughts at this point raise magnitudes of meandering graphics, 
having left a lavish record of the male hush-from-hand-to-toes-to-mouth.  
I enjoyed it when our innocence sawed into us,  
even though sheeted in asterisks.