Nolo contendere, so it must be spring, just one daffodil stands, 
Gothically lonely contexts & forsythia’s juvenilia, pancake brown.   
No acid red, no sulfuric brown, no browns in hidden rounds  
or soft stems.   
I’m not sure it’s inclusive or scrambled enough if we differentiate among drams  
& besides, why be preoccupied with elastic peculiarities?   
Nobody has to talk to me about me.
I see what no means. This island, 
the water rosy cast.   
Poll these opinions. No contest.
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

untrusted and abstract, a heavy rain

snapping into randomness.


Without counsel, full consent is a slog mating a slow burn. 
You trust yourself by age 600, satisfied  
Euclidean space holds the blueprints to make your home slog efficient.   
That was before you were reborn or uninvented.  
Recursions set in. You had no modesty issues.  
You have none now, none detected  
and fewer and fewer policy goals (unlike chemistry in its infancy).   
You changed your shirt, put your weight over and into a sketch (a study)  of one on one in galvanized torture that escalates, utter   
formalities documented in our eyes, so fine counter-stretched, kept on balance / in suspense —
There are procedures for mourning. There are a slew of them. 
I can’t say these things. These same things. Page one, no one, page 101. 

I may go on to continue. To be pressed on cardboard. 
It almost makes me say all aboard. Then it “goes.” 

for Ted Greenwald
I unholster my arms & dance across water.
Not crushed yet, the narrator loses color,
since the jug's unlocked & to no product hewn.

I’m still not finished, he says, like a whining bitch. We
telepath only in the mothher tongue, careful with swearwords.
The jug we’re addressing is not sentient, hard of hearing.

The jug’s just a backstory anyway, mordant or
morbidly overstressed around the speakers’ bureau.
The bureau deploys Aristotelian systems going forward, systems extremes
that cannot be overcome by or within synonyms.
96: This is weird. A focus group from the groom’s side picked us both, agreeing w/ newer media that features young candidates, lower right, with your lips, center frame, moving up and down, sport documentation, more or less:

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

Here’s the stumper.

Whatever base or ism, the urge to love is put down to error and class 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.
Wanton anthropology won.
I know this, at least I know I see what I mean. Why drive to a new place where they’re cooking something imbecilic? Why waste time at what could be our last lunch, pouring coke over a glass table.. because you won’t live to feel the buzz, watching the clock seeking immortality..
Any ineptitude from continuing motivates our family plan, a ceremonial prank, an outright lie living on others’ good graces: A.I. living in sin. 

A.I. re babies under these circumstances brings up future drug dependence, except not yours of course.  

I note one’s pale eyestripe of looking and pleading. Down curved and black edged, camouflage for being unread. Frankly, one’s not that much into whom? When the father was asked, he hesitated and then offered, “Certainly not me.”
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.


Knower and the known in physics, all branches, all matter —
Is that a document in your pocket or did you make it up?
If you agree I’m happiest procrastinating.
Up with proportionality, southpaw.
Geometry respects the brain.. 
operands like to piggyback... 
Preliminary findings we said,  
knowing it’s going to grow   
— I just drove all the way  
from Hawaii.  That proves it 
genius-like, it was  
lighting up my senses   
like just before you’re shaven. I’m  
noting how your chin juts into mirror form —   
Your neck’s more formal than that — really  
a splendid animal halo front to back.
Giving in to temptation, she reinvented herself. In sum, she’s erotic with no social conscience. Lantern jaw. Not a jaw, but a chin that extends a fuzzy glow like a lantern that shines onto flab, a short neckline. Right. She’s got a weak chin. No jaw. A double chin.

No character but a gray, cerebral mutt.
She designed herself colorful, simply drawn, doglike. So she did have character, despite her fanciful, perfidious mien and no jaw.

Switching face dyes, she sat in the dark waiting for all the colors to fold in. The occasion seemed sado-obvious and frustrated her pursuit of prophecy, a number of them.
81: I forget so much memory is empowered by mistakes = my gentle verse.
Verse versus my taking umbrage feeds distortion = breathing from a common grave

Fond pleas fracture time... your & my memories, all our deaths & morbidity — all survive.

For in men’s mouths death lives in thoughts of dying,

Thoughts still read aloud by tongues also re-rehearsing life with the dead. Haven’t I

Lived to breathe your epitaph? Or do I lie?
Yum-suffused shortbread has some regions, ancestry
In brogues. So it’s really something and nothing

And we have developed responses
.. untruthful automated Now Pro voices ..“that acquiesce on a positive note..”
This can’t be real, one doesn’t have to seem interesting. “No clouds, hi contrast,
Of little depth.” But that doesn’t sound bad. There’s a slimmer chance

I’m captioning the fixed width to Now Pro today
Evolving in massive overuse. Hmm?

Last words on process: Counterfeiting
Is luckier than reading everything before it’s rooted in or out.

No sweat on heavy attainment comes up next, avail. in this rough version of Recently Used
English to wish you any and all the full pleasure I withheld. Damn!
Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads. 
The contours.


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.
Singing into one’s hat is like shooting for triumph.
Otherwise, sung language has a light vegan sexuality.

Whew! I’ve been chewing to 1 side, noted by 3rd parties (dentists)..

Hanging out in unusual white corridors...
Suggesting we’re still trembling, owing to

The chew off, creating new intelligence for making sense,
Most often pulling some predictable rabbit out of a hat —

A Pythagorean hat for which there is a beginning,
There is an end, don’t fix it.
Writers freely consume their own slapstick
when there’s a conceptual contingency to max, along
with requisite ethical structure to examine anyone’s taste level.

Now you know what to expect.

You can’t put limits on free-lancers’ exuberant leisure
within a theoretical commune of vengeance..
Smart money on the solo stiff up against her writing board.
The staff on ethics sit this out, blood-soaked, shaking.
68: Flowers shorn off bowers, what beauty was —
I’m losing my head over you
as if I’ll inhabit my death head before you go or even around you now..
‘Without all ornament,’ I stay abreast, knowing whether nature’s
bastard signs are still vital, not recreational, charting a map of nature’s full store.
As if before golden tresses Arvo Pärt appears chafing: making no summer of green, of flowers, reborn from no second
life — oblique as the antique you ‘of yore’— now I myself, truly in attrition, missing both Pärt and you, composing tho still around you.

Your beauty stays alive and new to me.. a second life, new as roses, as ‘a second head..’
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. Are you sitting in the sentence while listening there? wearing nothing but a motive, eager to do what we were afraid to be?
What does it mean to work? I don’t know that either. What I know is how to belong, stake out territory and bust heads, maintaining an atmosphere of trust.
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.


Land use. That’s what the new world is about. Are we breeding steer or picking pansies? 
Just two modalities. Sorry, I have no other apolitical associations I can share. I ran through a dude ranch then tried raw energy.

Don’t know why the ranch stands there still in no summation after the transaction but before I turn away, circumscribed, all hat, no cattle.
In my illusion of minimalist guts, hammering steel, ale, 
a full branch. I scored a first wormhole on schedule, a hell of time. A frayed entity, o   
nuh, I should say the accretion settled down, humble salve   
soon spread over us, losing our touch, scattered
trying to..       
Simply put, to remember where early wounds from speech are   
mispronounced, which wait inside, which sorts hit or fit our doing....  
doing mimesis within nature,   
How is sorrow possible, otherwise?
The Globes

A scent of snow and sunlight, of loss — but what sinks in conclusion underlies the twisted and grouped maximum sciences.

Hyper-manly references (sailors, bunks, ballet) are scooped up from one segment of the sensate scale, motivated by an ambivert male persona more than all sex or proclivity. Joe Ceravolo is presented to The Golden Globes as he insists one comply with his reasoning (Supply it flowing out). That insistence enforced by repetition at the end, “in this rice Spring.” Let’s try slides of warm(ed over) rice piled up in a good grief of regrets, long regrets. What slushes to the surface is Ceravolo’s compression of physical acts, audacious desire (Supply me), and inconceivable, hoped-for spectacle (because there is in this rice Spring).

Spectacle, desire, necessities at The Globes. When I find them in another, I know we’re getting close.
Sonnet One: Ornament is content.

The yews know how to wear theirs, desiring buds to herald greenness and increase —
much as we eat the world to save it. Together, dilating, flaming, increasing now in riper time, your own eyes contracting, bright, fresh, then green.
There are statements of facts
And those of law. Their truth
Levels go down or soar — depending on
Outer linear order and your age.

Each generation gets torched through the pass, those that would,

Externalizing struggle beyond their years. (Like in the renaissance.)

In today’s federalism we’re feeling besieged and called out
within the meaning of no revolution now.
How did Auden begin? Green song of ourselves...
The dumbfounded rush in when he’s around. It’s not their fault.

He has that look-for-it itch. Garish tulip brocaded w/ physics.
One presumes Auden’s elements are strung together out of capital’s desperation and a deeply ingrained will to dominate the unknown, much as technology takes on all comers...

From Iraq, Africa, coming from Brazil to Hiroshima, Syria, graphic measures of tragic-comedic obliteration.

All this time the dumb and dumbfounded are different.

How did Auden begin? Green song of ourselves...
As in Where the 舞踏 were you?


Flashbacks pertain.  
Large reflecting pools of the future, it’s just a thought. 
If I introduce vagueness to mitigate error as a more devout  machine therapy, we can escape  
thought-train derailment, bringing on threat streams in graphemic parole,  
a narrow rescue from disillusion. 
RNA itemizes facts. 
Do you name your dares?  
Or stay bubble-footed in the dark,  
Fat, never satisfied?  
We come from creatures far back, slowly calmed  
By fear we were of a kind they were to others, lacking  
Redoubled patrimony and their finding-it-out tools.   
Distribution adjustment has those to spare..  
Now tasked down from behaviorist briefs. 
My leaving office is double edged as I’m prone to off-center my traveling light and affirming any retraction. I’m tapping down a reliance on hard work, pleasures, plans, and this most generalized — one shoulder hitched higher. I’m ready, set to name names but allegorizing ‘companions’ — it happens.

It’s nothing personal. Hands up.

On the corner of statue and cape, there’s
a play friend who just passed an easy show of hands
beyond orgasm overdue an hour ago (one mild altercation took it
into shades of de-constraining tease).

A heyday of hands.
56: Lament —

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

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

To go along continue needing more riches, sharper appetites as it were.
Rare thanks for the view.
After vowing hate I bear you love.
& what of it?
I’m like everyone else who grew up refusing novels, a nutshell of a wonk glaring, boasting bragging rights over inexact outcomes, crayon-ing over lucky, boundless love non-judgmentally!
& of course I did time w/ “live people...”
Feeling is feeling. It’s official.
Then it’s repetitive, suggesting emotion has gone too far 
& some at all levels will be disclosed, then not spoken of, 
climbing into casual spectacle, ritually putting 
our lives together & whittling wry self management into grift. 
National treasure: Crocheted titanium with a clown’s face.


(The lord’s will tilting my ribs reflected aphids gathering on a wall, also unanswerably, in 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.)
I’m a floater of cynicism when it comes to treatable influences.

Early on our folks taught us to celebrate country music!
Burp through the microphone, Earl, and stare ahead.
It’s early on — it’s a joke — I hadn’t spoken to you I imagined
about a construction zone perforated by echoes, swindles,
procedural lunges toward extra gags. But I see I had.
Guess what, a vibrating rattle in hand
rings all night tumbling out of mind, leaving this hole
open to irresolution,
figures suspended, door ajar.

Once you really had us. I was choked up by your running in and out, nearly in a sidle. I told you we agreed a little but not a lot. The plotting — lackluster — I hope you’re coming back for things you need to follow up, us.
72: When love is missing, shame is worth nothing. .
You devise virtuous lies (dear love) .. I picked that up, false, smug, cute. .
a braid of welts around your neck. .
My name may be buried where my body is. .
the body I pray you love.. ..
I’ve just noticed you haven’t recited a thing, Gabby. .
Let’s rewrite your true love untrue. Make it count. .
Tho even in this I fear sarcasm.
I’m having an up-
pitch dark brainstorm so obvious 
why stop  

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

O yesses encompass in advance  
— crash. Al-    

So let me see..  
dreams get drawn on a map  

of all maps...
Ode: I’m sleep. An only hill 
I’ve been researching  
Awake most nights:  
A clean face in the morning — caped  
W/ sounds. Sounds caped w/ light that’s the best.  
Dogs and woods by the ocean, other 
Kludges and hacks harder to implement.   
Can you dig the stillness? Can you keep an eye out, the ocean over.   
Repeat this until approved.
The workout once was of a soul...


Stutterers stutter trying not to
looking to feints in thorny circumstance,
unable to help us play a single practical
joke — I hadn’t spoken to you for months
about your adaptability thru mirrors, swindles..
distending procedural lunges toward more feints.

It’s hard for me to take credit for all you’ve done
yet I can see these things happening without you;
furthermore, I give up on any topic I redact.
Peace, justice, ecology, all uplifting. 
That’s not to say there’ll be no food.   

But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently  
— 4 plastic badges for now and pa-   

Per sacks. Imitation spinner features,  
striving for positive letterform   
Abstracts, speed processed  
but that alone is wearying. Bitch bitch.   
You can’t do this job alone — it’s intuition.  
Nor can I maintain perspicacity. It’s 

Like all great conflicts,
synecdoche left not sharing to chance.
Dark stamina turns out a soulful lab mix of you and me. The further we go on

Descriptors peel away, earning extra penumbrae with trace synonyms.
What a night. No problem
Expunging the storied narrative and

Ordinary one-in-a-million stuff that appears normal, believable.

Then that

Rolling out of bed far off across

You and yours, just dreaming it up

putting you in mind of an imminent photo realism.
59: Sonnets are ok, nothing new — going backwards here — 
Let’s vote Labour —  
an ostentatious luncheon in ‘old world’ pensiveness,  
beguiling brainwork, self-admiring praise.  
I might say more, fool my brain mended by you and your composed image but
I stay in character.  
O sure — we’re easily freaked by what antique words 
still dig up and how re-inventions get composed, but we have to keep our wits —
looking back under whose  
thumb? And am I yours?
The once conservative invention of worship is over. 
A wall of calm thus put up. There are no facts in the future.
For now, love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing adult ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering political parroting and consensus. It’s not known why parroting caught on. We’re mostly redistributionists for sure, youth symbolically living to do it over but scale calm up. Everyday politics is practiced by young and old in anger, useless bruising rhetoric, forcibly asserted. 

Cultural obligations shape who youth are, a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance with our future attributes.
We’re a special team. We’re circumspect. 
Our sharing mechanism (uber text) gives no voice 
to repeated wandering motifs over long hours 
we back off from. Nightly 

we face living with memes & east winds 
taking it to other investors who might stay offended, 

the next step in the training. 
How could we let this happen? 

Broken, giddy up, dead. 
Today I face thunder — how to pay homage... 
Bouncy.. apocalypse.. 
My instinct when asked is to inch back 
To the moody raw nation jettisoning any 
Civil use of half-soothing words 
On top various uninvented heights, 
The same heights outward 
Of looking into what we broke.


Why thru sprinkles? stepping over water balloons floating 
in a once swimming pool.. spurts of views down  
hallways, stairs set apart and fronted  
with music waking in dimming brightness  
with no memory how you got there. That you? 
Didn’t they tell you  
slim tones and soft muscularity prove   
our brains are stolen. Later   

we wander off the promontory back home muttering “TV,   
TV,” a mildly eccentric suburbia     

waiting for payday in awe-inspiring taxation.   
Hazards all sides.  
There you are.
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.
Can we reconstruct weather formations circling bright light credited to seven chimeras in a purified labyrinth?

Yes, I think we can. Those seven, now under the forecast quiver to sleep, resemble one another trembling in patterns.

Pierre Bourdieu throws a projectile — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of
capital distribution are stopgaps like reassembling heterodoxlogy while
subdominant esthetic fields balloon into baggier ideas.”

Bourdieu gets home to his Cajun kitchen, much later, and hears whether
it’s a voice in his head. “We gain as much knowledge from our shortcomings
as insights.” Well, ah! Our shortcomings have their own weather stats to share here
while checks and balances are nasally inspissated thru fear.
87: Sodajerks. Their stock was luminous. Adding

that noun phrase furthered ambition (we’re sure it was theirs), amusing
vim shaken out from the inside. Each had a skeleton curse, after all; the lot growing
fewer over time. (Youth — not occupation, great riches, nor better judgment — remains the determinate object of love.) An emotional matter
language models for 3 dimensional firewalls from waking you
then not knowing.
High sensitivity equals high urgency.

I felt something.

The hollow inside is mixed up, the survey said;

overlapping symbols’re happening way out in the ocean. 

Your ocean. Your breathlessness. My Weimaraner

tilting sideways and holding his whisky, destroying
our bed, our bad faith and consequences.
Time runs out. 
Your poetry has a political bent.  
Stays in position, authentic / inauthentic;   

I model your bifurcated attitude  

everything I do is sin. One after another piles up if  
or when —  
Today is when —  
The nuclear self, writing you & me, lingers for more... Huh? Now you know I did it.  
I wish I hadn’t / I wish I didn’t.  
Go-fund-me off that.
It’s impolitic to separate the performance from stage direction; both are deadpan. Have you thought of writing?


Back I said, my piece of non-advice. 
Innocence revealed concerns ethics, not intent. Spinoza spent against his own young interests.  
Adoration once had a poetic scent. Still has.  
Reputations get worse hinging on character, that’s why apprehension remains, deferentially. Creature masks are conditions in unreasoning reprieve.  
Who will advocate peace for the tranquil  
to empower mergers & exchange?
Struggling with no vulnerability to vie for solitude, I pursued insight by your ‘grant’; for how do I hold you? That’s one for liberal arts. Secure oases cannot be considered in terms other than liberal; with great laughter impelling knowing, not knowing, comfortable indeterminacy.       
A given. Someday.  
Now no song of punishment without a reward, sorrow over death. 
Only your own half meets you halfway, how morning can blur promises   
while letting your adages cool.  
Is this a document or did you and I make it up?  
Frozen water on Mars is our smoking gun.   
Another question  
Of how should I hurt?  
Once and be done.
Trust an old memory,

Corporate design is a sable coat, still.

You have nothing else to wear.
Ounce by carbon resin ounce native fluency may be floatable within, once regarded in this wholeness w/ contours beeped forward, smart enough tho meaner beyond these whereabouts.

The native whereabouts on loud speaker as it were, the workspace, the top percents of it, can hear,
feel its sweet succinct stages striking noon after dark.
92: To my love in constant revolt, stealing away... 

Once again our life seems to be coming to an end. Next, I’m happy love never sticks around; love is wrong to depend on inside scars. Manual labor. A heightened blush. Staying power to fear the worst, for I was happy to have had your love — now, I don’t know, what’s a fair question? — is there one last assured state to restage or live in? It depends on you and me, not false humor, since I remain in this humorless state without you, without dashing all our love. I find my lifetime love for you is formally difficult and, o oops... Others happy to die are on fire. 
Happy to die! — do we take their place?
I can’t take vicissitudes. We’re staying in.
Appointment by haircuts.
This was a no-no but we always will.
New wilderness outdoors traces
a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed,
cuddling escalations in body movement, ledgers of faces.
Lucky you and I live on, fudging abasement
in clean confinement serving a purpose within
supernumerary states of being (confined). Nevertheless
gastronomy is to breaking the ice as ‘fucking / sponginess’ is
to bacchanals.
Surely as there’s a corporate hold across manners and adaptations,
there’ll be curricula restraining praxis
and workbooks in hermetic syntax.

Nice beachfront but there are fewer
bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little) —
it seems immaterial — immaterial, 1 of those 2-headed enigmas :

nothing much and — hey! — metaphysical.
An eerie self-eating mutation.
A life is charged by voodoo graphics. Once you sleep, you take up the ‘thereabouts’ pattern: still, it’s not overrated, I whisper to you, falling for reincarnation roughing it ..oh, wait, déja vu..


It’s open mic. Didn’t I tell you? 
Squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one off color equation 
of a deceptive simplicity  in love as well as pride, duplicity.  
Creationism = a lone boyfriend keeps faith  
better than 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.
Step Five (ok, I hardly get to do this): I nod off while admiring clearly invisible gamma material at a teeny axis point of existence. One is strong and stupid with an emphasis on novelty. I can imagine a spontaneous disintegration of pragmatics and rarefied syntax until I find myself in the same place here, only in a ‘half-life’ where — 3 decades later! — speech still matters.
Achilles, what can you do or not do? Are you sitting on the floor 
listening ? wearing nothing but  
eagerness for a motive to  
hear what we were afraid to be?
Foundational bias underpins Achilles’s argument for or against not being sure.
A signature concern throughout the night is deformed experience. The bigger the better. Peculiarly, one other point — so many writers simultaneously figure out the brute’s forefoot and heel, studying nature and truth in the misprision of writing within supposition and guesswork. Achilles becomes enamored of composers turning toward stage experiment and utopic closure.

For then no separation point emerges. Harsh.
Sonnet 86:

The future reaches full sail bound for intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to surprise and grow, that is, write estimates of verse.
I thought of you giving us cohorts sweet aid, other fair gifts.. Astonished, we see our pride flies away along with others. Out of control our dreams work around a crowd of familiars whom we teach to write.

Once our brains ripen, we concede neither to calm of victory nor to fear — at night, tho, I lack a precious affable character beyond my mortal self.. both that and a familiar’s ghost-morality strike me as too precious then, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling this line.
Living in an urban sandwich, 
tomorrow or the day after you take out what’s here,  
where you live and dream, even where you work. 
It’s in the doing log, down toward the bottom. Even if you see  
spoilage as natural you might sense a hidden hand (vengeance)  
every time those who argue grow untimely. 
Yet this is space and time — Sense better. 
Whew — you think of puppy paws  
as your head fills up with the stickiest,  
most adorable pup gifs filled out  
in dissonance for street lights hum  
and flicker  
and ......  
make a daisy-chain of my 3 emotions,  
which the urban sandwich aims to lay claim to and  
project as its own.
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.


An organizing force under command matures into familiar splashes of anesthesia: Takes my place being places (an event in tropes) — Meantime, ping. We’re here for discovery via inflection in lap pools of condensed matter from excursions to aquatic worlds. The named oceans are dated, right, left Pouting, getting better! When they come to — there will be perorations re- framing rainwater within fairer scents rimming sunlight in suspension, ripped, Amputated chutes! Grape vines burst out, lackluster. Though I love grime, the force’s guilt- making — carryies me thru, unphased: Guilt does this to deplete me of hope. 1st choice for a sonnet is to solve for x. Be funny and coalesce. Dear multiple choices from eternity: Send a message I can wolf down. Convey a sense of urgency when superfluous. Then put off all force.
103: You’re showing up more. I got wind of it, put you in
Just to make our list. I’m from and form the periphery;

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

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

Some things you need to whisper again, and more, much more ..
(I forget now how you sound...)
Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping neutrality (plain v harder) w/in the present gloom of purgatorio as good possibilities blow town, including the best halo effects and feelings. They’ll come back like sight for the blind in the dark. 

It’s nice finally to shake the physical world’s geometric hand covering our breathing. Geometry is of nature and sightless throughout. Today, every day open censorship is tangential to being here, right over here, filtered, unfiltered as long as it takes.
My counselor affidavit registers a deficiency of thought and evolving stuff. All the same, this is the second point.

Again the others’ doesn’t count. (I’ve always been competing with another self.)

Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for smoking a joint within the social paradox of treason. Rules commit us. Voters went for the bumble head cheat. Yet this is the latest case.

Everything I note here is integrated. These databases center on surplus insertions while someone super and sober on the ground keeps looking up. We like our democratic ideals to get by on appearances.
It’s written that was enough. O May!
Ours was a taxonomic correction for error. 
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax.


Can we reconstruct weather formations circling bright light credited to seven chimeras in a purified labyrinth?

Yes, I think we can. Those seven, now under the forecast quiver to sleep, resemble one another trembling in patterns.

. *
Pierre Bourdieu throws a projectile — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of
capital distribution are stopgaps like reassembling heterodoxlogy while
subdominant esthetic fields balloon into baggier ideas.”

Bourdieu gets home to his Cajun kitchen, much later, and hears whether
it’s a voice in his head. “We gain as much knowledge from our shortcomings
as insights.” Well, ah! Our shortcomings have their own weather stats to share here
while checks and balances are nasally inspissated thru fear.
The other day I walked into a bar, the old place, saw endless tunnels, gadgets and immoral lighting that interconnected w/ music underfoot. My fingers boarded the apologetic apparatus, some of it; there it was thudding thru walls... Every eye rolled, doors slammed. After worship, there’s nothing but taut necks guided by star beats. Yesterday was that bright as is today. 
En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse w/in; pushing up deeply.  Our lot’s in a hurry. Natant decapods could add vowels.     
No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there is no threshold. Yet another one. Matter persists, w/o dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual and vital amid meanderings that are ordered appearances gone dormant, nearly kaput, or snap, running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in more ubiquity. Optics unravel in dissolving attitudes then, behind all the good times forward.
113: I chose a rogue anime — you with failing vision in my mind
watching birds, creatures.. even mountaineers.

True, since I left you I’ve gone partly blind, yet I tell my mind I see you day and night.
All untrue.

My point is awfully slight — incapable of more, out and about, unkind
~ For leaving you, to me, seems effectually rude ~
Replete with you, even dove-forms and sea-crows pay you homage in my eye, as tho shaped by your outdoor manners.

A few, even the crudest, impart some of your features
and get noticed — but deliver no sweet part of you, true mind.
So the others’ don’t doesn’t count...
“I again not so nicely
Staked out your street cred...” or..
A dress code made perfect in just one’s won’t...

Anchor the wall with fun words, fun you’ve had personally, say.
That’s an order, captain.
All your words over the entire wall.
Publicity is the soul of justice. 
That’s a great question.


It’s impossible to separate understatement from performance; both are adolescent in tilt & pitch. So that’s how cave & landscape can be felt. Next, a cool minimal database is advanced to burn out your swing — try living on meeting death medium-hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent. 

The underground = stick abstractions & collisions within a dominant tribal identity or trance. The upshot, to meet & / or emplace each close to noble attempt being you.
By future standards don’t-I-wish 
is disgusting.  
How so? we failures inquire. Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory, you howl. “Mm,”the anthropic analyst howls back. He’s staring at my clogs, wondering how they’re embossed.  
When struck a lightning rod emits dust, after that a solution, a chemical substance that squiggles down to my feet. That’s how.
Psalm, make me sorry.

Nothing is unimportant. Neither the bray of birds nor their sweet afterplay. Send for Fr Pierre.
He lives in harm’s way. “A transit of showdowns.”
After Pierre, a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.
Wait. There’s nothing left.

I lower my voice to closest saturnal parity
plucked out of adversative brutality ..

Finalists like you quit general practice — off to privacy
with little or no honor left, one laughed. And yet not you, your honor...

Summer’s actuaries record having a good time as vicarious, no
moving figure. (Vicarious isn’t strong enough.)
Inner, outer merge in our honor system, no shadows, o praise the light flow drawn
in odor and hue! After you.
114: I say.

I say drink up.

We or most of us have a destiny in flattery and aftermaths.
My eyes drink in thanks for there’s so much turning lesser sin to perfect gusto. So many substitutes. So many fat chances —

But now it’s after all that.

O I say it’s late to vocalize what my mind has sunk to, finding you only in resemblances.
Idiot sparrows, terns suffering rain, finding new things to lose,
Unleashing each other —

They enjoy themselves when abroad.
Who’s sick over us and who questions any vulcanized backlash?
A last payment received.

No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless:

The future would give more / so close
Than thanks, laughably... no thanks.

I still thought of you.
Experience is impulsive, according to unrigorous physics out-evolving pretexts for concealment with no plausibility in the future of the past. 
No such work experience predictable for a pay grade gaining access only to weather bombs in a manifold vacuum. Algorithms   
Would be taking you on and over and winning without willing to substantiate or junk your work stuff.   
Algorithms could be vicarious. We thought no way, no ultimatums to rephrase, no immoral aspirations — nothing but work slathered with work!
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.


Here’s a thought. Stiles of cash stuffed inside passions, stacking up with such speed our global historiography reflects the world as it is, advancing toward convenience stops and arbitrary stretches we don’t care about. 

Well, most of these “pieces” are literal, based on trying to sit down and sing [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still wearing your headset.”  
An air of inevitability around advanced codes has been shattered. It seems inauthentic in your last mustache sense. I am more than at war. Your holding me, the middle of the throat..   
I kiss the air. This.
I’ll do what I can. It wears on me.
Smothered abstractions take time. Another day, slim odds. Almost hopeless, yet different jokes toss in sleep, dreams that forgive you for killing the moment. For paranoia’s belated audition entraps you if you don’t relax your authority.

Evasion tho foregrounds more advanced style, state-of-the-art motives — harsh comes across, exaggerated. Another day to recover your loss mid-grin.
I work here but not much any more.
Cascading circumstances.
My travel limits are pointing to a chimera with no destination.
Striking bells, lightening round.. 
Take a test. Brightness gushes out, but colliding transmissions are roughened by the screaming. Screaming ballet is euphoria — turbulent-urges and compromises. But do you understand the point of my test?

It’s anonymous either way. 

Tho before the diagramming mist rolled in I felt your grace, holding on with two hands.
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.
’Recursive perception‘ —
For my birthday (bleak as yours) I came straight from the agency. This text’s agility welded to my regular dirty space. This is where I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception and Action,” which seemed most everything I wanted to think of, ambiguously, in light-toned subduction.

It was everything.
Mind control is a big order of alter-egos, disingenuous.
Can you place our names? The point?
Destroy and smooth nothing.
Imitate killing seeing
the system.
Make my mind avoid our bohemia.

Let’s knock off a masterplan for truth value, wider scope.
I once had an idea today was over. I forgot, man.  With less & less destruction of our marriage, we constitute the locus of self worth taking part in a co-ritual to outlast time.  Over & over. Today again.


There is no name then. Later it’s absence and torment. It’s his skin and bad language. His life built around sane choices w/ a sense of a person, even though in a few seconds, he’s in memory * of that person to come. Haw. 
That a fact?    
Some don’t hear clearly when his or her own “voice” joins others’ to deepen ultimately anonymous expressions of desire. * The memory part is without forests or it’s bound by forests of normal language with no memory, mostly vice versa.
Missing him, there’s an itch from ambiguity, where
The sore goes away, released into red states —
The tide appears to notarize that; that &
We came here to our senses in subjective certainty.

Apology to my mate.

Before apologizing, advanced yoga is always for sharers,
A civilizing process to eternal categories, entered into by hand.
I’m not kidding, your certainty offers mores from within & supports you if
You have none. Too soon you can swim in them.
Cloistered, possessive habits flatten into an axis
— tho it’s instinctive to watch who else is singing
I get no points jumping in or off.

It’s just synecdoche leaving not sharing to chance.
Calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with top notes we won’t inure, some jittery appliance in occipital brushfire, active against the ‘human grain’ under our governing bodies.
101: It gave me hiccups when our best senses cooled down — praising silence long truant, still overdue. No amends. Beauty needs no pen or pencil.

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

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

We grabbed the narrator (we couldn’t rule him out), staying blithe in twin columns.
Stan the man, a legend;
it’s “OK” Stan explains,
we’re all Buddha’s fault.
He isn’t kidding.

More than a god, a three-in-one pet, a god’s pup
fills in quantum entities on a not-
fully-occupied terrain, terrain, I repeat, “on
pause.” This is spacetime —
Whew — you think of puppy paws
as your head fills up with the stickiest
most adorable pup gifs piling on
celestial dissonance as street lights hum

and flicker

as ……

well as

Stan aims to lay claim to and
defend as his own.
Soon. Or later than that. At once.
Dawn. I thought I wouldn’t get back to sleep.

I was going to call you “Draped Profile.”
Held from both sides.
Distinguished in 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
White, blue, pale
— lavish as

Intoxicating creatures but
Uncertain how they unite us in separation
No matter how we change in love.
Don’t pick on anyone else...


We need a fix for everything founded in potentialities and obsession. Come in. Please step inside where the fix could be. 

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

We'll make him expire.  

And away with these shirtless fanatics from history.  

 We can get them to crack but I want you.
Riddle: Struggling between rarely and (purely) descriptive vulnerability to vie for solitude, taking your hand to suspend my paradigm... I killed for you. Why(’d you bother)?
A pulse of light of precise duration = head turns, alternative explanations but none good enough for clarifying experimenters’ state of confusion.

Confusion is rendered official. Firm argument and beta testing of dogma and contradictions, transforming un-gated minds turning toward amplified democracy. Sultry outdoors folks, sailors, all on deck.  

To get back to the cosmos, our taxonomies stand tiptoe atop a few hustlers with ascendant ideas, forgetting those battered below, lined up on broken mosaics, raw necks pounding from overtime    

like ex-czars.
85: It takes substance and breadth; the going price of unlettered, 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 rich thoughts speaking, in effect, projecting 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, sunlight and your utter loss

— my tongue tied crying, folding you into my thoughts.
G forces gather momentum in shale.  
Midnight dining, rambling like deer in bed, shiny  
in smoke, how  
Without jitters our wills vacillate.  
Every pause in passive groans  
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches —  
opera and shush..
I’ve crossed out lines. 
Relax, beware. Certain branches of law aim straight at us.
Avalanche, a pronoun, embodies unnamed subjects, overwrought.  
A starry equity or neurons? Words are beta fields  
Heating up while fertile at the edge yet a lost cause.  
And titles cost. Avalanche.. Virus.  
Cherries Hamlet.  
Broken final thoughts, giddy up, dead. Gone 
Today I face thunder — how to pay homage...  
My instinct when asked is to inch back  
To the moody raw reflex jettisoning any  
Civil use of half-soothing words  
On top various legal points,  
On looking into what we broke.
The coding is simple, your Fearsome.
Your voice is full of loot, “walking Genet
on a diamond leash.”


I am a smoker, sativa of course : 
I blow black smoke in your eyes when you have a choice.  
“Tear up this paper,”  
Everything is trauma (“I exist”). Whoa...  
The way you move talking to me tonight is a fair shake at fame.  
When you put your money down ..  
We can start over in the middle but it’s just the beginning.  
Fame shows up in either one long consequence or buckets of sequence.
Your bromide is familiar. You’re gaining attention for the wrong infinite reasons, Jungfrau.
Stay where you are. Exploit the familiar, even an inkling. Glow lost, fast.

The cosmos is unwilling to plow far ahead, now or later, this way or that — what we inhabit is neither a stoner planet nor merely some plywood-dream-and-particulates object flown in time (w/ fewer and fewer true intrigues).

There’s much history.

Shadow sensory awareness, one chosen medium.

Flowers are em-poisoned by design, grateful astrochemists oozin’ adrenaline

for their audience, saboteurs of the heart.
50: A hip cast of super angels strumming harps, an encore of Zeus Arrhenothelus

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

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

Unprovoked, a heavy vacuum still.. you are away while I am on my way at my travel’s end.
It’s impossible to separate understatement from performance; both are adolescent in pitch. So that’s how cave and landscape can be felt. Next, a cool minimal database is advanced to burn out your swing — try living on meeting death medium-hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent. 

The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity or trance. The upshot, to meet and / or emplace each close to noble attempt being you.
Thudding airlines: The prosecution collapsed 
But we hand over our sack of warrants.   
In the end the evaluations are in. Jumbo on   

Justice, liberty, rule of law...   
Time to concentrate on that killer c.v.   
It’s about warrants for words, Might (Mate). Future thickets.     
It’s so much satori — Enablers will cooperate fully.   
For you, a love interest can get —    
Back to work, first it’s   
Urgent we go out and get wasted. 
The mood then passes from desolating satire to 
Constant put-downs you parrot like executive control 
— Holding firm in the wilds where fireworks will be slowly ignited   
“In slumbering gaze” parallel kill and be killed, united obliteration. 


If we were mannerists, I would describe our ‘age’ (for quality assurance and training purposes) as the one just before the death of death, approaching New Venice. So far, the ‘reports’ reserve commentary, remembering our breasts. Lovely butt.

Anyway, I retract my falsehoods. At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to inspect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.) It’s nice finally to put a face to the humiliating nickname.
Avoidance with a message sounds personable, calm, also passably awkward. In the same robot call he reverses prerogatives, tha is, the voice does. I’ll table the difference — a mixed result but with swift powers two kinds of physics have never been better aligned. I’m altogether devoted to the happiness of the robot and then all our tech people in the call center. The firm gives me focus, serves as my hideout, while I search for a motive, working the ropes.
I aver pollen eclipses stain both moon and sun with borrowed-spores.
Again, I don’t know much re: pollen,
I’m playing with borrowed-writing.
Any point of contention is biting now but my spores speed ahead 85 to 100;
that’s slow in a gusty chill. I won’t do much more, not even for track officials powered with centrifugal disclosure, facebooked by their past. So forget

Any legal plaudits, forget public jubilee — I should add my power gamut goes faster. My pollen instrument serves haves and abandons have-nots holding guitars spinning all ways in gelid hilly winds.
52: I’m in lock-up because of you.

Therefore you and I are both scorekeepers. Ours.

I keep you among my other jewels,
Blasted yet blessed moods in ‘key’ to configure unfolding pleasure,
So I am rich, I hope, blunting your deceit for years...
The long time it takes, seldom coming in one fine day —
Over time special instants so rare —

Until then, being had by you was worth it as it were

Like euphoria, proof of doubt uncovering finer points.
And speaking of solemn upper-lower class triumph and treasure,
We find others like us also keep to the survey, chest to chest, mine to yours.
Fair haired singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to interminable sex. 
Learned consensus becomes early performance; both nonpareil
in a persistent sense, the deep pitch shows up invisibly,  
unspeakably, as libido constitutes a knowledge base, glistening aimlessly.   
Candy later.
I weigh your music.
Bang you’re dead:

Average self-doubt along with bland lucky
tones, a problem. No gist, a tone too popular.
So relax thine form here,

Everything dark-accented inflates 3
dimensions into an immense drizzle of forms A.

The formless, unequal in luck float already.
I hope you’re at peace.


When shopping from your texts I find solid proof 
Showing stunning results for innuendo: You’re good. Doing this, I offered. Just 
Report to duration centers for the rich for best pricing, unless  
Outright theft looks better. Go. Fees balanced. Eject.  
Then you told me repetitive purloining motion could go further —  
Making money w/out reason is mass   
-ive. After.. surely if that’s the mood, there are vector  
Utilities for expressing amassed wealth after dark..   
Sleep has no idea of here and now when re-ordering everything is the right answer
.. all on your check!
So you get it now about dualism, you make 4 walls the rendezvous, hang a roof, lounge in queue for the motorcade. Your ride is brief —

A ruse, tho, can be your generic, long-living object that looks transparent, emerging as sleep. 
So you’re still in danger within the same maize-y wait time. 

— How do bricks 
hang through the duration? (Waiting is the easy-hard part.) 
Ruses ride themselves.
We’re a special team. We’re circumspect.
Our sharing mechanism (absent pretext) gives no voice
to repeated wandering motifs over a prolonged 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,

Yet “a solid base” cited in the last run of artifice foaming dissent —

It’ll be there where I leave it — under an emblem for downward spikes in bonhomie —
35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.

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

You are triumph.

Don’t sweat over past comparisons. Done. Good-bye.
I’ll muddy up your love of skiing once and your playing chess against yourself, may I?
It makes sense at that, loving you is a civil war — sensual to a fault —

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

Good-bye everything.
What’s missing is why is there feeling?
It’s a state of mind according to my heartburn.
Global warming heated a decimal of my pablum.
Where should I hurt?
Once or more. A few more.
There’s no 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.
Dawn. I thought I wouldn’t get back to sleep.

I was going to call you “Draped Profile.”
Held from both sides.
Distinguished in 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
White, blue, pale
— lavish as

An intoxicating creature but
Not certain how to unite in separation
No matter how we change in love.


Back I said, a piece of non-advice.

Innocence wrongly revealed concerns ethics, no intent. Spinoza in my young mind moves against his own interests.

Adoration had a poetic scent then. Still has.

Reputations get worse preceding disgrace, even when apprehension remains deferentially. Creature masks are conditions in unreasoning reprieve.
Who will advocate toward peace, for the tranquil
to empower mergers & exchange?
64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced.
It increases store with loss, done in by time’s fell hand,
the proud cost of grief and expressing it thru American English.
I hope we can let this go..

Time will come to take our love away, leaving me breathing, no form —
Structurally I seem sustained only by a lofty hypothetical force —
But I can’t go on without some
interchange — a new episode within your telegenics. And
as we walk together, it will make no language difference what we believe, what the soul is.

I’m just ruminating on having you. Always a slave to you, I fear losing you.
My soul’s inscription reads you’re my state in the eternal state, my business.
Trading down, can you place our names? You miss the point.
We’ve adopted a decorative indeterminacy wearing our terminal degrees, while anticipating how equivocal we are about Bedlam.
Unlike the head in a head, a bad faith supreme court is traded from and through the top. Time to find fortune underground, in roundish coiffures north of here. As noted last century, there’s the rustic perp for a modern style and muddled cool.

“Could you be a little more specific, doctor?”
I’m slaphappy-proof to diffuse my sounding implausible. What I say is 
thought of transactionally.. 
it’s simple enough. I think I said this, and made it a quote: a dream   
of immense sadness peering exclusively through me
 promising not to point.  
Of course there’s a way or two out.   
Say we are spanking new birds in flight.
I promised you a ham for quilting bombast. 
Hammy man of arms.  
You live within politics and practice warfare  
to engage another’s psyche, smiling; you blow yourself up  
& you’re always wrong to prolong your appeal. Ham.


Targeting methods 
To appear transparent  
After a button is pushed  
— I’ve heard that scream.
To wield a conceptual brush is to terrorize, even if your motivating injunctions steer clear of violence or unregulated emotion. Terror here is poetry’s swift, certain, nontrivial insertion through a hole and/or through self-negation in certitude and flatulent controversy, such as with Basho’s disproving human sound unable to transform animal to mineral, or with Duchamp’s counter-ploy to the rule, men’s room accoutrements are never foreground. 

Controversy, like injunction, comes to us commonly or frequently as back-formation, a provisional ethos after the conceptual stroke. We were constrained by the profound assumption, for example, that a play requires the tone and stage be set in more than five words. We were tacitly sure of this, marginalized more from different affects until we read Beckett’s stage direction: A country road. A tree.
Non-linear process (formerly progress, of a kind), implicit co-branding of public domain utterance, hysterical strings (upon strings) of surprise, skilled narrative downgraded to parish bulletins, text-snatching and re-assembly lead on. In “Was That a Real Poem or Did You Just Make It Up Yourself?” Robert Creeley observes, “As a poet, at this moment [1974]...I am angered, contemptuous, impatient, and possibly even cynical concerning the situation of our lives in this ‘national’ place. Language has, publicly, become such an instrument of coercion, persuasion, and deceit.” Sure, though keep in mind that sentiment, along with this very sentence, is a set of ad hoc thematic pointers.

In the process something like an orange cloud enters the locker room of the essay. This is the middle section where Gustave Flaubert is transported to the essay’s ‘character’ to do the interfacing, theme propositions in your own words. Mis-formed as script.

Flaubert did not have a script, much less digital media, and the word ‘hysteria’ does not occur in the text of Madame Bovary. For his time, how informed he seems in connection with emerging appropriations by psychopathology. It’s an early manifest of a viral cloud in our terms. By now every sentence in MB can be re-assembled into a poem, waiting to speak out.
47: Good turns, one after another, I turn to your good looks I file between heart and bitch comedy. 
Either way you could have set the remote for a clearer picture — 
So let’s share it. Your saved clips and my worship of your face have nearly expired.. except your looks still drive me nuts.. I’m in love.. famished at the banquet of love (where we fall sleep). 

Awake, I can’t move further than my present thoughts picturing you.. while pressing reset buttons.. but I have my sight set on you. God damn this remote, I can’t change it myself, my eyes are awake, my heart’s .. 

Here, you take it.
Most cavemen taste of sitcom overblown for Broadway. 
They never make it, go back where they come from,  
corroded with physical self-disgust, chained, still, to their desks.
A headboard with no utility other than book nooks. 
Can we cut to the scary part?  
Materiality won’t exist. No dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo that’s 4 ever sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness, unraveling humane optics in dissolved questions behind the good times 4-ward.


This is my first try in three dimensions.
Others seem to throw theirs away.
There were more debris balls thrown so we ordered an atemporal zone of grace
— w/ the emancipatory norm of curiosity —
Set it to limitless, w/ its winners & losers. Keep trying — there’s a pop-up quiz.
sleep where I work. A company like ours takes it into several physics facilities. 
We’re in the flat present tense, multiple account outlines in concurrent perception 

Reciting new slang exponents to snag and support 
Two syllables of love while we scout flyweights in the recursive landscape.


Prayer behooves you, it often says. Prayer for those who talk shite no longer pray. I hope all are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one. 
That’s an outline. 
Received pronunciation foregrounds style but
We’re both bat shit over historical fantasy, received. Well, I enjoyed it.
Bowie’s on Netflix. What does he look like? It’s ok to impart?

I admire his marked snaps of skepticism, obsequious, sharpened anomalies.

An etude-like celebrity.


Boo hoo.
My friend ran away with his silent partner
who stole my identity. I'm trying
to look at it from another point of view.
The current balance resumes its teachings. Can-
dles out, pie for the asking, grace
to be white boats opposing payment due.

Destroy and smooth nothing.
Mind control paddles a canoe of alter-egos, disingenuous.
32: You’re reserved outdoors, for your love adds layers
And exempts us from showing up to enchain, knife, subdue.. 
That’s once reaching heights of happier men but none like you.
Satie plays, giving away what we’re better at 
— gosh! I read a generation in tears warms up today’s loving style. 
Poor from love, a class struggles thinking it’s for real. 

The struggle, not the tears. 
What happened in there?
Narrow rail, sheer curtains..

Step out of that church.

Never confess.

Close to our sources I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Resentment buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous, beating through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is without a theory of purpose, no gift of agency to promote his case. Masking vanity becomes his sidekick’s challenge. Outside

fizzy yet salient talking points soak toward a nudist beach hanging in as your escape hatch (always the last place you look!)
The quartet could be on a formal mission; higher  
up, the mission’s part doodle / part disassociation  
as a voiceover to operate humanely,  
stacking ideas like alembic tubes that mate  
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.  
Prayer in all directions.
Since you brought pizza — 
What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us and sociopaths to raise your experimental stature, fabulously?  

That aside —


I’m quick to postulate I’m an 
evergreen seed  
-ling aboard a slow poke feline brawler, heading to work — worker and sprouting career all aboard molecules snared in
a semantic thicket —  
I’m sorry for such shoddy physics and undergrowth. Sorry pieces 

of grey, blue and pale orange foam and Plexiglas  

were pasted together.. ugh, it registers.. The model with seed 

hastily assembled last night, turning in bed. Such and such sorrow hours 

earlier — we got orders for radical simplifications  

upcoming for the puss’s hind legs and self worth (word from headquarters). Sorry my most important 
role is undoing ugly things. Sorry there wasn’t a second more to polish my address on
our expanding broadband of host kitties (aspirants).
Without our cloaks, can you place our names? You’ll miss the point.
We’ve adopted a decorative indeterminacy wearing our terminal degrees, while anticipating how equivocal we are about Bedlam.

Unlike a head in the head, a bad faith supreme court is traded from and through the top. Time to find fortune underground, in smokey ransom north of here. As noted last century, there’s the rustic perp, a leading indicator for a doorpost modernism and muddled cool.

25: No dying here, let those in favor never be erased. Prost!
A few words will travel, ‘unlooked for,’ calibrated by our ruckus / doing-the-honors spoken (rather than boasting) within a larger-scale dialectic —

a painful victory and public outreach in your glory. A triumph!

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

One of them. We’re happy we are in favor of your love fresh from the book, also

one for the books I read and love, whose fortune spreads your joy we honor most.
Sex has nothing to do with sex.

I thought you knew that.
It’s a joy problem, love let go on a technicality,
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch

— bantams and partisans close together in calculated terror
Toweling off ready for their next bracket.
Boxing’s hospitable. No one’s that stupid.
I feel socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing 
The center.  The middle 
Holds more future than any single system —   
Huge agnostic disciplines  
About attitudes behind morals,   
Say. You know this open and shut —  
Take it down / or thumb thru.   
The balance is left over inhabiting the brim   
To the point you don’t have to know anymore yoga than  
We know now — less than nothing, which spurs practically nothing.
Shopping sprees are migratory patterns. 

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


“Stages of violence yearn for a neck of the woods.  
Conditions look dispersed — beeping you (did I?),  
not out of calculation; it began how far vast  
signals liberate you to oppose facts,” we sing.  
Or writing et al. give  
in. A 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 one’s consciousness.  
Another is coming up with filaments like attrition of affects = sore moods.  
Third, after a honeymoon deflections accrue.
Male muses —

— the vulnerable and most maligned muses were not held enough as children on a moonscape of beaks. Ever notice? Certainly I wasn't. Now I have to make excuses for friends of mine buried below their own animation with no heirs.
They’re donning synthetics, seeming only half familiar, and just too intense, plundering the transport of their ambience. 

And I was musing, simple stuff picking up a pen.
Time runs out.

Your banter has a political bent.
I stay in position, authentic / inauthentic;

 as of yet I model your bifurcated attitude

everything I do is sin. One after another piles up if
or when —

This is when.

The nuclear self, writing you, lingers for a moment or more... Huh? Now you know I did it.

I wish I hadn’t / I wish I didn’t.
Go-fund-me off that.
89: In relation to conflicts over scale, Habermas and I want to inspect what you and others say.
Truly offensive. Like so many others, I’m fixated on war, warcraft, loss of democratic principles and governance procedures —

Procedures again, only this time writ extremely large. The writ carries a stark reference to the last liberal prime number among us, John Rawls, but how wrong, inarticulate and superficial to use him this way. I’ll disgrace myself if you don’t tell me to change.

And speaking of inarticulate, I’m conflicted about criteria for justice, I have questions how these may apply to our acquaintance and your stranglehold now ...
Coat of arms:
There’s something to mining homilies and off-color
copy, imitating / replicating narrative in tandem for the evening drive and later.

We’ve now passed the second-cousin stage of wretchedness. You’re
good to take it up with authorities before severing qualms
whose ambiguity is settled by mere syntax
as warm-to-medium as a visual partnership queued up for sleepy play.
Open mic. Didn’t I tell you? Off 
squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one vulgarity  
Of a deceptive simplicity  
in love as well as pride, duplicity.   
Thing is one boyfriend keeps faith  
better than others, believing neither.   
Separated from a source of meditation, let’s call it, you’d be sad.  
The source is not sad. One separated from the source is.  
Or it’s that obvious.  
Sadness is not itself.
I like art. I know nothing about it.


Allowing no pleasure from coercion, crossing heights
Pleasure was called because of rain; I’m sorry it spat.
(I'm sorry it was heavy rain for you back then.)
Yes. And your voice tends towards stridency.
Good point, epistemically empty. I’m sorry thru this text,
Allowing no preclusion of experience for
Grouping words to strong-arm
Syntactical beings (in a sentence).
Sulking with a hygienic view forward,
The small of his back sends you packing.

I thought about not sharing my place, I might leave a negative impression —
— on an Old Testament, I pledged a wholly hidden idiom of renderings, spotlighting what’s
The cracks should be bridged with the soft scape outside, pears and Fuji oak,
Null passages in fog, moos of approval.

I then bring us over to the rubber towels, leaving everything else to chance.
Voices in funnels, a trickle down of their futurity,
Dropping my sights — now they’re rising
— the fastest way to earn points. And yet
We’re surrounded by a new opening line:
We write poems for children, progeny.
Forward, a debit resonance favors our successors —

We’re nothing but their voices that bell without words now.

Make a difference, make us an offer
As Baby Wateau vanishes
& the cake sale fails — vanished out of memory & sight as I am now.
17: I won’t be a second late — hellbent to get you down on paper, to write the beauty of your eyes, using whole numbers to count your graces —

Tho my paper will yellow with age... by your grace you will live twice. Yet who can believe these verses are living parts of you. This poet rages. Who will believe without touching you and yours for proof, without your offspring stretching far into evening, keenly inanimate now tho alive all that time.

You say no way, I only half-like it, bleh! / This poet lies

...lies, but no more than all scorned tongues filled with living rights to earthly meter from an antique song...
The plot leaves the door to irresolution ajar —

Guess what, your departure was jolted down in segments like a lax rattler
spinning in slo mo. It adds an all night ring to our narrative, id est,
the needle is breathing hard, leaving the mouth hole
open to hesitancy
and availabilities for picking up the dissolved thread.
Why make so much of semen here and there a tear-down or one butterfly?  

Or stains, residue on the wall, again, about to be torn down. Or blown up? In fact the loft section downstairs has already been stripped of its carnal fixtures for the sixth time! Sounds philosophical.
What is first cause?
Without speech sex is peroration.
That’s a normal reduction or formula for my song,
So few words on process.