You’re welcome, September (April). Plugged, tall, slim,  Aggrieving. 

We’re in public space, an elevator or the hallway. We think 
Mining data still has a more colossal future than trigonometry, many floors  To appropriate then publish recipes we began tinkering on.  Life wheels. We borrow the ephemeral Triumphs as April questions  Conventions, boundaries, and syntax. September exits. Yay.

Did you catch the interim report?   
 
Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of capitalist brokering that considers prototype approximates plunks on a keyboard in crazy-fancy contexts. At first.     
 
Moving forward we have all of an hour to take in sweetness made for infamous exposure (in costume) indoors then out.   
Lights up — we take ourselves down a stretch through the libretto where we reserve dissonance. You deserve it.   
 
Sweetness is vacillating as usual after hours on clear nights. Robbers, cops 
Though fragrant, turn opaque    
 
And poof — still fragrant..   
..new rain.

Self determination for all in distress —

Dissonant sports metaphors seem prepared for a gullible ally, hon.
Like preparing the red matter.
(There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.)
Gadgetry from the future,
How can this be put?
Hey I love you naked —
We went from one thing to another, came back.

Buds to blossoms.

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 at 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 forsworn holding skills. Simply tongue tied and tired of all this perfection, I leave my love but attend to you and yours, of course. And.

Here’s a thought. Stiles of cash stuffed inside passions, stacking up with such speed our national debt 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. Inevitability seems inauthentic in a heavy mustache sense. I am more than at war. Your holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. Realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”

An awful virus. Just an excuse.
Rhetoric as privilege dies. 
Came from outer space; was well radicalized before it got here. 

Freer speech in every direction — your known inclination 
for walking strong will accelerate, wild yet tranquil, excused —
ruthless in value, the boundless layers set in funereal trance 
tweeting under the bust of the rhetor, a civil, democratic ideal. 

But no one tweeting lives a commune of ideals. Freedom is personal 

As we go about hungry like other animals brushing up on ideas...

Music filters out thru the one crack in the bridge against the old
Sky. All the airports sink back in black and white marsh, snakes.  
Day to day sometimes in sunlight geographers breathe, “3 times furrows [..] we behold.”  
We’re going to be here as long as it takes.

I’m going to leave you in the middle of the city where you belong, you robot dog.
Sweetest of the geeks take their training to heart and join a special breed apart. Hoody dog, shoddy demeanor and default dalliance will get us to our destinations faster and more pumped. Something about / the “human couplet” / piques me all over and under. It’s a military formula, zennish almost, doggy enough striving to write as well as to rock. (It’s less lonely with an audience.)

A gridded compartment has decided most perfectionism is out of step while playing an aficionado of the vulgar to provoke both nature and disclosure. 

Those organized under its strong gesture shall triumph. The compartment frame knows this and taps our communication, a dissonance born of necessity. Our dialog reflects gritty highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence. Oo oo it’s discovered her voice.

130: If my love is rare, modesty is unimpressive.
Well, I do think my love rare — nothing like false equivalents on the ground. Nothing like the sounds growing on my head — I almost see your pleasing words spoken from your red lips, smelling them, eating and breathing them, too.

I love to hear you speak.

I speak of your hair, your breast, my master, not a god! your eyes, more delight, no such comparisons come to mind, nothing like the sun.

Nothing like perfumes of yours, as well — I love breathing in the scent off your cheeks. And yet thru modest words our love vibrates more like music than speech.

I feel socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing
The practical mean center
More than any single middle system,

A huge agnostic discipline
About anti-sys attitudes behind algebra and morals.

You know the faultline open and shut —
Take it down / or thumb thru

The balances left over. Inhabit their brim

To the point you realize
We know now — now (less than nothing)...
glimpses down a corridor of greater then greater numbers.

Obsessing over you the sky squeaks w/ common sense, folds into dreams.  
Travel lit finds it has a square shape, after all, bolted down in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for competing raiments.   
 
There is an interpretation to this nightly misfortune (all ours). A dream flight is tight. You can’t find your story in a void or crescendo: Where’s the cost?   
 
Well, all right let’s not.   
 
Where are domestic metaphors anyway? our rooms have even less to say..  
Tho, when I’m feeling it, going out and doing things metaphysically .. 
.. I get where I was.

Eurozone class struggle is more and more slippery. Or peach-dreamy. I’m not sure
discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income distribution,
honing you / shaving one into two dimensions on the surface.

I’m socialist by nature, maintaining perspective (the tatemae policy), I pray
while cashing in analytics but I’m alive
(lifting one datum off) to mine parallelisms (partisan gold), no one strain.


Atheism is otherwise the main event at the Hague. Secrets of satire float
free to find an informatics of doors opening (bassoon music) and structured
multiplicities (and an ear for sex).

Sonnet 135:

To commune sounds spacious, un-calm, bent to boot. In the same call you vex prerogatives, that is, your voice does. (I’ll table the large difference.) 
“The sea.. all water” 

— Your message is mixed but never better aligned for an abundant way or a will of mine. We’re rich together in our acceptance of death — death will be our hideout, learning the ropes, perusing scraps and hopes of coping. 

The unoccupied mind long overdue. The you 

I still reference in primary season. With your suitcase. 

I’ll pack for the gracious aftershock of your going ahead, reading, lifting, adding and reflective or reflecting? you in the foreground, all water. 

The Inuit, among others, are fascinated with pottery. 
 
Any dark ceramic with asymmetrical tenets is tacit  
but could be looking up at its light source, feeling talkative..  
maintaining maximum restraint to engage another psyche.

Irritating city.. reminds me, Eros is immediate, overwhelming, terse & of a Castilian order. A hundred décors in one & one metal rubbed by hand. Piano hands.

Bellwethers, fey bloodhounds are sub-jazz. If ripples reflect the instant barter handing off potential thru another, then you... ..this would be how vertebrates flatten lips, usually wet, blue and silver white

becoming day after night. O no thanks or so we have another Eros in common.

Cough, cough.

Tomorrow we leave, a sunset over anthropogenic clouds.

                  Far as we got any night they enter,
they appear as though they are with us..
it’s amazing how “they simply pass”
coming from the history of laughter, radicalized before they got here
                  proceeding within under a bust of John Wieners..

With each rallentando I feel cleaner, more nondenominational.  
I look up at elm crocuses flinging their odor, climbing their trunk.  
  Their air apparent. Also, I feel cleaner with you. Clearer of ignoble gases and flux. I do.  
Love is hell. Hell’s molecules will sue  
 
you — they’ll sue us both for our goals and coral glow —  
What a snit! Apart from our love I am ashamed now  
Breaking up with you feels like the flu ...  
You and I in radon decay — we hope — slow
approximations of my knuckling under you.

Not a koan
(how could

it
be un-impaled?)

— Religious type, agnostic,
both listened to reason while a temple friend sliced
off a nipple. It was the middle way,
enlightenment so simplified, you can spell it out.
Lightning over fog. Over ravines. Knower and the known, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

A sweet industrial morsel went for all 3 doors assuming no threshold ahead where materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no interruption.

These could be so

as Buddha and Buddhists are only disparities.

The no-fantasies plan, weeks running backwards
After the announcer’s ecstasy — there are no water edges or dikes
Yet / or even a rush of civilized dichotomy.
Music filters out hearsay against the sky.
All the airports sink back in black and white fjords.
Day to day sometimes the sun’s light goes for more,
Going to be here as long as it takes.

55: Nor aside, a period sonnet doubts purity, softness but addresses enmity  
for a living record. Nor against death can we outlive our doom advancing slowly. 
Neither marble nor rhyme so move. Yet the fun workout once was of a soul, a soul a tone berserk.  
So why am I dwelling on the ending like a warrior groom?  
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than all that, still brighter than all the wealth coming to me thru this poem...  
 
You and I find our own contents, oblivious to all posterity, uninvited — statues overturned, and we brought guests — death and memory. I...   
 
Even closer now to death... I burn with quick fire for wearing out memory’s sluttish velocity — I’ll not speak nor ask (or shall I ask?) more, should I?   
 
War wastes time, a powerful judgment at rest once at work.

In this lunar diagram one fragrance was my last ounce of politic hope.
Oh you know, I’m unhappy. 

We supplemented photographs for topi, I recall, 
topi of garland fungus, students foreground (by an arch to emptied parks). 
It’s up to pond structure to model passivity’s
mother tongue, marked by stray vowels discharged by shore conditions
and savage birds in flight.

Protecting the hang of dignity threatens it.
Everyone can swallow a threat or two. Everyone alive. A little sick, even unwell,
a man’s voice is still extremely handsome, calm, howbeit scrappy. 

Further down, a kimono is entered, explaining prehension
without perfecting anyone’s tongue in cheek.

Once your public is mounted on tiptoes you can
add your own awesome content! 

Your first lover, dull, expressionless.  Tho

he could heal you thru ballast. 
Then forces of narrative came
seething, your breath unfixed 

from the floor as it circles midair as if it had a right to. 
Large blossoms are about to push
Also we see their ETA. 
We won’t be a second late — your ex boyfriends 
understand we can all meet taking on a form of you. 

That’s the gist.

Squandering the opportunity —
I didn’t have to what the hell?
Living requires
alternative means for the puzzled trot,
the smell of being in a raw shoot from every progressive angle.

I'm winding into a reliance on hardworking pleasures, broccoli, incense
and venue rumbles, open plans, open slots
just turning up.

I am citizen physicist to an inner antecedent for shorthand deadpan. How drowsiness may be my great escape or I may walk it off, forgetting I’m oblivious.

Your face, the trains I ride, it’s all good. And staying casual definitely has legs.

Come midnight Frog had a big smile. Anytime I teased him or cuddled him, his four appendages went as wiggly as a frog, silly, a smile across his whole face, black button eyes on top of his head because the night is not over — all smile and eyes in front, green in the back. When I held him he was a jumble of cuddles and inertia. His legs flopped around until I stopped.

That way.

It once read, in criminal matters, you’re my business.

“I heard talent & beauty, money come with their own harsh light; by your putting them to rest they take ‘full effect’ with no attachment to addictive capital, arresting.” Leaving you. Gasp.
Is this documentary or did I make it up? —“when you remember wit & austerity read each other perfectly from the start — seems mathematical to think about transmissions of all kinds favorably.” Tho programmers have a fiercely vandal-like approach to appraisal under uncertainty.

So this is an edit, keeping watch. “That’s as close as no personality has to keen, restless pulse.”

91: Who owns property, names, anything under formalism? Boasting of birth,
of skill. We grew up 20th century, 100 years before joy in wealth
felt better in one general way, as adjuncts measure it.

Some glory now of hawks or hounds, of all men’s pride. Your love tho is of more delight than dreams of pleasures


that don’t exist — here we go — your love appreciates in value.

Love’s body force is better, richer, prouder, always tops —
the best is having you, finding this joy above the rest.

It’s about time for the moody and unexpected.  We mosey back to right about where we want clarity about motives.  We’re in no hurry.  Snow and sun? We’re expecting something.  Ice or melt go missing but not lost.  The reader note went on, One afternoon while relaxing one poured over a confusional book. It reads we are at the dawn of epistemology raising consciousness we can’t get from career studies alone. It continued, the mood wobbles. It does. It vibrates. But nothing’s lost that’s unexpected. It’s about time.

Someday
I will think in porn titles.

For Tu Fu could I state my own fact as fact?
We’re nimbus-wet, I had it. The dark edges must be why
We float in clouded white-out without a seam,

Two very different outcomes equally square
What we meant.

Tons of special forces in silhouette .. polished in water .. on day one we’d .. imagine them in caress finals.

We’ll correct everything near the top grade filling in with capacitance-assistants. They’re converted

Theorists of a visually astute world culture (secure camaraderie). They propose and maintain bestiaries wholly populated with tests and variations. Details outside. After dark trails. Tons.

I promised you a ham 4 quilting bombast.

You live within politics & practice warfare
to engage another’s psyche, smiling, you blow yourself up
& you’re always wrong to prolong your appeal.
A headboard with no utility other than book nooks.
Can we cut to the scary part?

Materiality can’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 optics in dissolved attitudes behind all the good times 4-ward.

97: Before apologizing, winter is fantastic, like pre-summer for wanton beginners, a civilizing pleasure messing up eternal categories, removed by you. Your absence offers waiting rooms (decoherence), libations & it supports how I feel from within. & speaking of the pure land, it’s freezing. Barely recognize the place.

A blue feeling about a teen heart is breaking over the lazy and dead. I’m still not awake, a bad idea. An idea with particularity, again. A feeling for the bread before it rises stuffed with controversy that blasts in space, our fond way in,
praising doom on our own dime.

I’m that slaphappy-proof to diffuse your eyes from posterity. Where your eyes go is the whole body muddled cool from so many substitutes for meditation we can’t breathe.

Didn’t they tell you  

thinner tones & soft muscularity are proof     
  
— our brains are stolen; after that ordeal 
  

we wander back home muttering “TV,  
  

TV,” a mildly eccentric suburbia  
  

waiting for a payday of awe-inspiring relaxation.  

Talk? You hoped we might &?

A la Depeche Mode, We’re trained in several logos and media  
theologies; 
 
Hey it’s obvious as that mobile device you’re still holding.  
Hands down. We live on the ground, off the land.   
 
The culture caught up to our light sprinkles of sexuality.  

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

Suggesting we’re still trembling from the  
 


Physical chew off, just a short chopper ride  
 

From the first bank and trade. It’s sprinkling, adding up feelings  
With a so tallied mother glossary, 1st-  
Order noncommercial phenomena pitted together as cognates  
 
Still coming to seed and adornment,  
Half-audible ricochets, feeding us like a lawn.

A fop sur la route is a Parisian invention, an essentialist’s incarnation.

Steer clearly. Highway safety — bow, I love what we do better


Like switching work bags, mixing it up then. We should be mortified but impressed.
(This siegecraft apparently works.
For my driving, I’ve hired a fop strategist.)
We call that yeah
Parentheses to explore..

Since you brought the pizza —

What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us both along with sociopaths to raise your stature, fabulously?

That aside —

My sexual preferences now are for art business and cosmic history.
I really don’t know what I’ve bought.

I was sideswiping beside you, beside maples and different offshoots, no contrivance or Schubertesque opposition. It felt like what heats up under prehistoric pressure; our roles were to fill this in, lengthening ancestral menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus language, thought, attrition.

So I have put back late drafts of infectious provisos and integers-to-be, no rocky shores to fix. Schubert had blond hair, you know, and rimless spectacles, no concupiscence and no comeuppance.

Credo: You’re good doing this.
Just
Report to command centers for the new pricing, lest
Misery looks a better way. Go. Fees balanced. Get out!
After.. there are instrument
Channels (word flares) for expressing enzymes with love.
We never saw you before.

Burn,
Suffering coincidence.. you’re leaning into wailer muscle, undressed
To hit the meaning of just whose future is come..

One to admire oneself, one’s distinction.
And there are a lot more ones ahead.

Sonnet 86:

The future reaches full sail bound for higher intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to surprise ourselves 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 dreams work around a crowd of familiars whom we teach to write.

Once our brains ripen, we won’t 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.

Full employment. Fully refrained.
We like new taps on the shoulder in a way when they leave imprints. Like how I graduated from this shame, this ceaseless pride

in the going battle between the sexes? (The rich won.)

Can you place our names? Or I’ll trade you. I have a canoe for an alter-ego, asides and decorative indeterminacy. With various hats, I reached out to anticipating mind control as disingenuous.

Hate altered. 
 
So we’ll carry on. We can’t do better. 
 
True physicality fills our minds on other matters even as  
Our faith hangs down to the ground in a sensibly mixed fellowship. You can’t throw self consciousness out. It helps, after, there’s a mating dance to appreciate what we are stalking — working on it.   
 
There’s animal hustle, along with cargo rips in funnels of spacetime where uppermost thoughts burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth... yours, I think, accompanied by our addiction to uncertainty.   
 
Come here often?

Dante nibbled, in mumbled tones... under a huge, ampersand-shade of grace.
There was a terrific wine list — and that made for light
cocktail perfusions. He had at strangers shedding their catwalk ambiguity.

And we’re moving back to then, minus grace, wearing raiment emotions, passing drinks around —
The current is pre-baroque, making up the news with — and about — excess freedoms of democracy.

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

We’re not living there now; it’s too far to drive, leaving us out drenched to the waist, hanging down on the sidewalk looking a little ‘filmed over.’
The now is? I don’t know where it went or was. I wonder if we’ll show up there.
These questions are battered about.

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.

We defied the polls and voted against our interests.
Later we’re taught the integral self can level with all the others
While sadness is a public health scourge.
So protesters are hired to raise contentment ratings.
To deconflict our strategy from human loss
In no time we put six 27-to-46 under water
Then we ate cupcakes. Impression seems

Today one can eat excellently here and tempered bluegrass friends visit.
They are real actors, not people.

128: How often the ear stands tacit partner confounded with sweet concord. To be in concord .. (I know jacks about this ..) 
To be in concord, how often envy falls off — as tho entr’acte — wiry but fluid motions, a nimble boldness to harvest for a saucy change:

Blushing to be tickled I kiss your tender, inner palms that sway in and out, 

Either side of my lips, poor lips, more than nimble, blessed, tickled! so dancing for your fingers to kiss and your lips.

The focal point of early versions is the entity with many comforts and drills. Isn’t that a calling?
*
It was at the rational start. I know that. Taking chances put us in a lissome interpretive state (lissome as a turbine at birth). Function varies widely. Scent of lilac is the geyser of zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.

We went nowhere. Propositions became a poor promise.

At first random, as noted last century, there’s a rustic perp to experiential style and muddled cool.
2 million years a species, dream on, we know the $ is good, sexual liberty never expires, but the cool gauge has to be slipping

while I’m not going anywhere; Spartans hate to travel.

Do you write while you edit? There’s a term for attrition of affects, eyesore.

Here we go. I got you.
Here we are.
I got you.

Your back!
I got you. It’s okay.

You sure that’s why you’re here?

The status quo models verse as living matter re-involved with impulsive energy coursing around flecks of appropriated ideas, especially when it comes to appearances, tones and language use itself. I might call this artful transmutation of intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t a history of folk enslaved to procedure.

Rightist verse, M.R.I:

It’s meta-conscious. On the surface it projects text as selfie, “poking” materials, assemblies, audience. Selfies however adhere to reticent schedules.

Pedagogic systems administer exams of dominant samples. Absorbing their data is high achievement if it’s duplicable.

Conservative epistemology’s key reinforcements:

It’s all about people acting in a way.
Maintaining a skillsets bias.
Honoring calculable hierarchies

Rhetoric like this often dies off.
Came from outer space; was well radicalized before it got here.

Freer speech in every direction — your known inclination
for walking strong will accelerate, wild and tranquil,
ruthless in a sense, boundless layers set in funereal trance
tweeting under the bust of the rhetor, a civil, democratic ideal.

No tweeter wants to get ‘under..an ideal.’ Freedom is personal.

And we think it could be worse.

25: No dying here, let those in favor never be erased. Prost!
A few words will travel, ‘unlooked for,’ calibrated by unlooked for 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.

During the break we reached an agreement,
so the ham’s anger has hatched.. while no choice
enables the passing tourney among tense Fu dudes
to nuance 3-in-1 innocents to proceed.

Staring you in the eyes 
In my illusion of minimalism  
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,  
I should say the accretion settled down  
Inside us, lost and scattered trying to remember.  
 
After all that, it’s a misunderstanding of gym etiquette that gets you ashore with one* shoe in hand, mine.

I’ll find you.

*that one shoe = two I stole from you.

Misshapen drops of fog storms — major rain —


affable and fresh earthworks must

carry the air out in fat, thick layers (thick in spades, hearts racing).
We can see our excess atmosphere conning our right brains,
because we share weather it has importance —

... here’s where I freeze. (Every-


one does.) You now me.

Clouds yellow, experimental at night



— flakes wash themselves now in dissemblance like kittens in lust.

Classics are for romantics like the Raveonettes.

I digress: y+z (1-x) is a blind patch of petit point. Kissing is sick. It’s bad for you but wasn’t as destructive as the filching of imitation.
Anyway, kissing where you are is so blatantly filled with what it spreads everywhere completely negating its purpose.

So why does it get processed in your eyes through history?
Maybe I’m a critic who’s decided to blab about all the wealth we have coming.

Each year corrupts the interference ultra-field. The elders have rules. Stay funny and
comfortable is one.
Another is also fancy, more or less fun. Insert / handkerchief.
Shave twice a week. Does your dad look happy never to see you thru the eyes of men?

What can we do without sleeping around in our active subculture?

Last, best, fair in determined love. I wanted to ask you about immaculate being, rondure
and going out. / According to slung
Allegory, it’s called Stepping Up, Giving Ourselves, Keeping Ourselves.

Rhapsodic justice is made to look cautionary. It’s easier to have a set of spring-summer rants ready to throat than break our rules and brag too much, too enormous a bliss.

By caution as usual we mean caution to the core.
Discourse in a hammock, wanting to be nearer. Caution preserves protective access
to the core. The equation can be reduced to healing power = unhealthy options = smoking, on fire.

95: Hidden pretext takes over. A story of dispraise, an ill report but in a kind of praise per the report.

What would be less fantastic? An enclosure of stainless vice. A full shelf of great privileged, lascivious plans.
Naming your name tells the story. How sweet — you’re every blot and sin in one, widely preached against, seldom commented on against ill odds, for shame. One spots your pieces of sporting nonsense, beauty’s manly tongue negated, verbs rounded off randomly, veiled, knifing my love out..

Breathtaking.

Auto-electrocuted. But calmed down. No more tv, sore thumbs. There’s a dual nature of justice going around in “resentment and forgiveness” with high notes we won’t erase. A muggy, fantastic soprano, jittery, active against the grain. She reaches a point at which touch management is unleashed.
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.

Can we straddle the divide between convention & sorting through unattenuated sense-making? 
Between waiting, not wanting, untrimmed desires crowd out an undercover, captive thought pattern shaped through long derangement oiling up baby..

at the eye’s edge of clemency.

When you got up your voice was 
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling  
Flat into dust in 4 motes.   
 
I don’t know how motes, much less how 4 rush   
 
And flounder into mountains. I only heard   
 
Vibrating = Sturm und Drang,  
Dust controls anger / how severely narrowed minds are wed.

I like art. I know nothing about it.
It’s made for the cold.
Cold body talk has a profile that can only be less screwy beyond logic in drier spells.

Rain or cold, either is felt through the mandible, plundering suspicion within either’s asymmetry.

Add sleet or hail, great s and m cuts straight through restructure, mistreating prior drizzle we’ve abandoned.

Either or we. Precipitation becomes a shadow racket. Like tattooing in air — epic sums up the walkway and through the instrumentation if you have any.

Spatter — rain on others’ happiness that neutrinos can’t stand scattering. Next the sun we say shines, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of our meaning it and not tempted. It’s still my life, we say. 
Some of you and me is here, right here, and more ‘you’ve been away,’ retreating to emancipating solitude, keeping / adding up wait time, sporting by degrees the related changes you seem to see and are.

Despairing of applied animal movements within self regard, “the self-valuable word” is embedded in instrumental discourse. Bob Perlman maps, among other things, Quintilian’s rhetoric, noting key components, meaning, clarity and tasteful adornment or decoration (“Words Detached from the Old Song and Dance”).

Meaning and clarity are fair game for Rob Fitterman: “weeds we may not always / have emptied this meaning for / a top-growth peel-back of another.”


When it comes to weeding and adornment in poetry, which involve making sense of / sense in any alteration of literal expression (via figures, other prosodic devices), Fitterman is an advanced horticulturalist. With 1-800-Flowers, Fitterman smartly “updates” sources for Louis Zukofsky’s last completed poem, 80 Flowers, a construct that “takes to new extremes of density Zukofsky’s methods of composition by quotation, transliteration, and compression” (Mark Scroggins, Louis Zukofsky and the Poetry of Knowledge).

Fitterman replenishes the grounds with inventory of similarly conflated devices, writing in two sections “About” and “Through” Zukofsky’s work. Fitterman frames Zukofsky’s as “constrictive verse” that indeed gets “driven” by inventory, while Fitterman’s own lyric comprises mixed inventories within a discourse hybrid, an essay in verse, substantiation of his exemplary reading, that is, his generatively engaging Zukofsky. More splendid, Fitterman fulfills the half audible invitation within Zukofsky’s poetry and poetics, joining Zukofsky Ltd whose biz ethos is “precise information... thinking with the things as they exist” inside a recontextualized (if not continuous) present in which Fitterman fixes “new meanings of word against word” (Prepositions).

[...]

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?

Mobs and their terms of justice, um, I’m ..
Am thinking of some upgrade. For anything more cautionary and uncool we’ll have to shop politics further or some alternative interpretive search worked up into a deep steam of exploitative algorithms against enmity and death —

We impart numeric dicta slathered with platitudes — century-old middle ground (the themeless module) where we sleep (wavy fields of inaction) and continue playing around vulgar innuendo to stay kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating me to feel obliged to receive you generously. 

Dear September looking like January,
I went to your reading dreaming of cutting out. I thought I went outside
and cried. Happy nerves. I need a new sum of things, just remembered.

A heart shaken culinary distaste holding
my tongue on the verge of resisting you, thanks to notes of civet and benzoin.

In the right daylight, polygamy twitching inside a church, acquainted with women and men’s affairs —
“In each house a different white hall, adapted to sever the head
from the vines.” That’s an odd thing
to say, are you in or out?

Another thing, I want all the pillars and vines shaken.

I question the following.
“Gogol, Nikolay Gogol, with an M.A. in these matters, says gut feeling, sane
behavior and noncriminal discourse teeter on the grotesque.” I still can’t turn that
down. Can I? Could he?

I turned and asked again.
It felt unwise.

Kites: pinky juicy crisp, unlimited
Space parlance —

The language predates handicraft mottos and canned feedback,
Slithery, always waxed down toward our bumbled abstentions.

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

Pearls? — a level of memory that’s puny as worn parlance.

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 as light rain. My argument.

Pollution control. This medicine causes confusion.
Yes, we can fudge an alphabet from a dirty grid of circles.  
We can whip up an alphabet of symbol systems within other alphabets  
helping us read from grids, other notions and homonyms  
 
as well as take on upgrades for discoursing in colloquial physics.  
Yet a steel door stays open. Here are the last letters of bliss.  
We best defer to the upgrades to shake it off.  Back to the distracting alphabets.
Deep blues and silvers with biological shades perform as vowels;   
 
consonants are shown with senior upgrades,  
slurred with what is always present.

Keep order to begin —
Is it a level approach you’ve taken


Erasing most of marketing, especially any


Specificity that appears normal?

Looking over pebbles and snails
And tiny shrimp-like creatures...

That 



Wok breakfast, man, a broad-armed chef
Standing off across my


Whole food outlook!
Compression is particulate and coarse-grained. But —
It remains
Both our voices have to grow

Until I know you from a prior flossing.

Hot sun, cool air, and no clothes.

Loss of pain penetrating like moral gelatin
That pressures, punctures social tyranny

Whole.

Vengeful dioramas later ..
soaking up positron equations that might italicize sex (our hobby and bent!) annexing us to commune midstream freely by the humming fireside. Yes?

Yep. I’m not picky. I’m trashing blushing shame / anthropological-foam-bearing puffiness, that’s all. There. Chucked.

If every frontal move forward were interrupted, we’d never get back to bed.

This is a transparency first to seeing speech as transparent. (‘This’

is a relative of frontal opportunism. “It is.”) When you’re young
clemency is rampant in meaning maybe.
Maybe not as opaque.
Ok. I hear voices in the kitchen. My thoughts freeze in a total makeover

as all ‘this’ recedes — putting “it is” mockingly — heading back w/ nothing.

I’ve got goals. I’m an anthologist of agitprop. I think it’s colossal. It gives me a boost as a lifelong cold intellectual. Fun is fun, but not when friends are struggling then flattened intentionally. An observation from Succession.

Lately and I don’t like it, we’re out on the town looking for the perfect spot to brush up on the visual grammar of the assault on fun deep.

(There is too much to get back to.) The hilly, glittering lawns on this side of the divide are actual circumstances at twilight I prefer to canvass and peruse for my oenology Ph.D. I'm looking for novel jitters from others. There aren't any, so it's out on the town looking for that perfect spot in lovers’ eyes.

49: Let me hold you ... better not, I’m a defect in future law against your time.
If ever that time comes within my own knowledge, know, I’ll know
love is no more or less the thing it was...
                and no cause alleged.
I raise my hand now, called to, on your part
when you scarcely greet me as we pass.
That’s how with all due respect works in both our times.

fot Rene
Heedless and highly egotistical —
Two good words. And too,

The beautiful person deals in opinions on redeeming enterprises and I’ll —

Conquest contributes to a wonderful unanimous
Just unnerving enough atmosphere
— an image of while.

There’s a guru I listen to. 
 
I’ll dispense with details about me, this is what I heard.  
 
The nation is being mined. 
 
Mainly specific  
pieces of pieces —  
Most out in space are pulling in impact. Often this is how the latter day sing as we come to our senses  
 
with an hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity. Pull. Puller.  
W e’re pushing in genetic material prompted by the assembly.

Prognosis: It’s just getting started, more video, the century beginning with 2 decades that cannot be easily designated. As a citizen among millennials, it’s gross I live to blow off my masterpiece, suddenly recruiting a new narrator under my notarized certificates of hubris and vulnerability — Euros tumble. The sensual spy novel is invariably amusing and telegenic for killing time until 2020 and through the 20s and 30s that follow, so let’s narrate that. And about that. We were always lovers. The meta-tick-tock due now and pronto — calling in Cupid — the greatest emcee and dues collector of any new century, sullen, endearing..

Upstairs message, parts of it. We call it yeah 
Parentheses (w/ monocle) to explore;  
The 4-D printer’s, they have many followers, you on it?  
As one’s eyes reset  
Focus time to question more.  
                              Anything to take from the a-argument  
For missing stairs on and out of here...

Solitary dark
                          the air pushes..aside

— tilting your head with no untoward parts, transfixed silhouette
— the Demon Puff in his plumage / language.

I was hit in the face when he turned himself in.

I knew and now know I am unhappy and, like most everyone, not —

the boat’s cortex holding out ..

Let’s see what we have at the top of the poetry game.
There you go again. Tax and spend. Death panels. Lyin’ Hillary. Toxic concepts infuse social ideology and organize perception. Political samples direct voter behavior.

Joe is sleepy-crazy. Play along or rue it.
You guys go ahead.

I’m going to take my inside voice and ...and turn around and walk this way.

Outdoors I pledge you a wholly hidden idiom of renderings, highlighting themes out-of-focus, left to twist in the leafy apolitical acreage.

Director’s cut.

55: Nor aside, a period sonnet doubts purity, softness but addresses war and enmity  
for a working record. Yet the fun workout once was of a soul, a soul with a berserk tone.  
So why am I dwelling on anyone’s enmity like a warrior groom?  
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than all that, still brighter than the wealth coming to me thru this poem...  
 
You and I find our respective content, unswept by all posterity, others dead are uninvited.. their statues overturned.. and we shall bring our own guests — our memory and our passing. I...   
 
Even closer now to death... I fill with quick fire for wearing out war and death’s sluttish velocity — I’ll not speak nor ask (or shall I ask?) more, should I?   
 
War wastes time, a powerful judgment at rest once at work.

I sleep all night, chastened by my agenda in a stoned vein. Like everyone else I’ve got business waiting and new places to run over. Tender sprouts green and with sweat, sill alive, pierced to the root by tamarisk and peyote flowers at table, ample liquor and song. The sweetness outside not wavering in rain to any rational depth, I’ve got bed then enjoining health in my crosshairs.

As a persnickety moral sort, Are you thinking of me? 
 
I used to believe so, along w/ all the grossular and pine boxes keeping us apart opening to our former lives, a win-loss for comic, breezy wind instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a sporty edge. 
Mortality can’t be beat.  
No amnesty? A ship is on the way   
 
from mare nostrum  
or like crustaceans we give in, to forgetfulness for now.   
 
Blinds drawn, our preachy, scavenged opacity fills w/ sang-froid riches of dark matter, soaking the globe w/ its bible pedigree.   
 
Before that yoga is fantastic, a civilizing coterie added to sempiternal space, entered into w/ a worldview w/out speaking, achieving access to felt qualities.

We were used by the demolition pros,
sliced, etc. Oh
You were fantastic, metallically shaded,
the arms race in recess, ribbons torn down.

This is the bridge.
Have you been?

Tasted great.
And after

Lilacs with mesh
without a searchlight to blemish
the vapor

Polarized as boats
keel and cover rubber planks
across their reflection,
a taste of being shaken flame pink
and orange.

So far I can see your light
tendencies shifting free of fever, ague,
Intemperance, the flu.
Coming clean is part
Entering & staying w/in a value

That comes into you, fantastic to watch!
I won’t lie but sleep in it.

To a spiritual father in the future,
Deal with our failures.
The ruddiness of brown shingles looks right at us.
A house down the street, the “sadly” restored one —
If you lit a fire there, for real, and wrote it down,
Our faces would limn how today is going.
Writing forced to the surface for an earthly face off.

Levitation in words has to be modulated. (They wanted this.) Modulated is like coming out to play, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact beats and multiplying love of what we were doing before the procedural took hold.
Then we go off a notch keeping our eyes shut.
I miss you doesn’t change anything. I want you happy but be on time for signing our release pledge.

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 is buried where my body is. .
the body I pray you love.. ..
.
I’ve just noticed you haven’t recited a thing, Gabby. .
Let’s pronounce your true love untrue. Make it count. .
Tho even in this I fear sarcasm.

There’s always looking out, up, through fitful silence & a humane sense of feeling cornered in music practice. Enough, enough men & women are deaf to ruin

wherein love rebuilds their smirks pressing on — drizzle would hurt if they could see but it’s only visible as a short, stout white truck rolls under haze, Kia-like, choked in a soft, fluffy diorama.

How to hitchhike. I come across an organizing principle and by pulling the trigger, I replaced subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: structure, acquisition, misuse, new media — no eros in no ideas.

Self-conflict and compromise keep popping up as rich bases for ironic pleasure and symphonic allergens.

If those are allowed.

Primitive patterns and blue throats, crowbars tape-sealed to a tree, in the distance, Eroica...

We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown,

The great We of fish, that's what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.

Having only a sec, you never know the glutton that needs you.
Someday tho the fragile male coloration returns as a feminine force with tinctures and inaudible signs from a long history of decision making, preparing us for more retrospective behavior, more implicative speech and strict anger management.

It’s a blabbing amateur that needs you — until

his time is up.

Admiral, there’s a figment in my soup. While the quartet’s on a mission, higher
up, the soup stands in doodles / parts of speech we can void
as we learn to operate thoughts like fluorescent tubes that meet
over magnets. Tubes lit amid disentanglements.
My views are mostly leisure-loving.

There has to be someone in charge.

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.

Start for free. Let’s call this the time left.. toward the end of the beginning. 
The front gate still won’t front.  
 
How does not knowing why intrude on liberty? 

Visuals today are overproduced.  
I produce Spot the dog.. or now his surrogate, Spot One.
Each of his microns intruded a moment before emptied of vague alterations. Then back to the same Spot. It seems for all that time.

Intrusions encompass free time, coincidentally.

This is my 1st stab at tantrics, 
boiling sanguine, sad going through her pinafore of latitudes, so  
vet them.  
Perfect, she doesn’t see we’re getting our drawings from other traces  
and no matter. 

There’s audible glee not being perennially the other and oppressed;
the oppressed are what we avoid when we can be free

on the outside. A natural voice bouquet smolders
w/ the emancipatory normality of assumed dominance.

In better Prada, a louder voice would distort the status-quo on otherworldly streets:
“Where are we going?” This or that way. I guess
so. Not particularly.
Those who still insist on fighting state power, let alone directly taking it over, are immediately accused of being stuck in the ‘old paradigm’: the task today is to resist state power by withdrawing from its scope, subtracting oneself from it, creating new spaces outside its control.

— Savoj Žižek

Muse and scribe know where all glory goes. 
If we’re lucky, principles of mediocrity rule our larger commitments.  

Then both can devise omniscience for a period of guesswork.  
 

Finish a stretch and all glory gets confused. Confused the way   
 
A rusted barge dries off in sun orange. Or   
 

Danzig is the Wallace Stevens of evil urban clusters..   
  ...pleasure before.. Hey, that your velour vox?  
Omniscience is sham-sanctioned conjecture. Modesty goes off by itself as the evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family of arrivistes then custodians.  

Ok, this is not Danzig. Clinically proven.  
But theory is something else.

No one would presume elements were strung together out of desperation and a deeply
ingrained exposition to de-mark the unknown. Much as technology funds science, random
sentiment attaches to most liberal singularities.

Compassion goes into theorems.
Maybe I can talk to your teachers. I can debate with them.
I can’t reason with you. I can’t even talk to you. No one’s there. While others don’t hear clearly
when one’s “voice” joins others’ to deepen ultimately anonymous expressions of empathy.

Sonnet One: Ornament is surely content.

The swift yew 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, surely fresh, then green.

Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” Mr Dolt says. He was staring at my teeth, wondering how deeply they cut.

Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”

In this chapter I fear the sarcasm.

A ruse can be your generic object, emerging as sleep.
So you’re still in danger within the same baize corridors

— How do bricks
hang through the duration? (How is the easy-hard part.)
Ruses write us themselves.

One began as parallel ideas, say a few radio waves off poles.  
I was saying Harry Partch’s gadgets and impulse intersect  
An immersive ocular apparatus, thumping  
W/ the capacity to recognize infinite series  
As a glow that’s cool and regular. 
 
W/ dangerous gaps.

A nonreligion of men, a High Service
Sung along both coasts:

Our people are what makes us / great.
Love and heritage go down together.

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

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

Sharpening endurance,
Risking focus.

Note: It’s impossible to separate understatement from early programmed utterance; both are newborn in an admissible sense, pitch. So that’s how pretending v coming close can be felt, my sovereign.

Next, an inevitable database advances to burn out your swing — try living on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent. Warning: The underground minimizes special-purpose thinking within a dominant tribal identity or trance. The opium is waiting, on a bender. What comes next is calm to recover and / or replace each close-to-noble escape route on ahead.

I have no name now but my ass is all into listening. 1st Crusoe, the boss, and Friday then Jessie, Natasha. A small party turned into a lost colony as the fete dispersed for seminars on eon comparisons, fact-rechecks, back formations.

While we’re at it we’ll talk about process. Then add neural linguistic products with teal / aubergine edges to render our new squeeze pages. This, this is the ballad of how your bespoke guest room became the office.

Sonnet 10: We lodge here (holding evidence of physics-oblivion) 
like headless pedagogues hammering out Bo Diddley —  
Sap repairing top figureheads top speed. The murder option more centered per theorem.  
 
Panning back fast to grant your audience your grace and presence, the love you bear —

beloved of many but tampering w/ these modern thought experiments.. you love no one? Not me or him?  

We think not. It’s a murderous equation = hating him =  
ruining yourself feeding on non sequiturs as kind-hearted concepts (only a few).  
 
For you change your mind repeatedly, changes of heart, so many — beautifully but also all-in possessing English poetry for centuries so you must be taught .. (a disgrace — a conspiracy partaken in by such impassive numbers, all of us.. a few.. so many!)

We can’t compress enough or too much. We were one people at one time. We also is I. This is how the toy psyche researches, more conscientiously touching on endearing dual roles in translation — deviating of us to read and reread pain extending to your one body howling and sustained this second time. 

Next, a glistening database ‘of us’ is advanced thru textuality within a dominant tribal identity tracing out how to refine / displace our contempt. 

[...]

I’m a year and a half late. In choosing what rubs me wrong or why I don’t want to be seen with you or apologize for one more ode, can I eat something?
I repeat.
I’ll making an ode to autumn and then winter, coming on, just getting to you. As marriages go it’s not all bad. I owe my bros an apology. (Not you.) My better half too. It’s just an exchange.

Summer!

Ringing again — a prism on top where you can point to the horizon that’s both magnified and revilingly askew. If you admit you rejoice in tricky intersections you’ll have to skip lunch. I told them not to watch.

I should be collaborating, writing this down.

I’m seated back in my studio, dressed in un-despairing perceptions (and reading) of what won’t be contained — o Swami, nothing to discredit nor disbelieve.

137: Love is a blind fool among the true and false. You never see what they 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 person, your “someone else,” comprehends. What do you say? Why of falsehood, tell me, speak to the wide world where several are over-partial to my judgment. Why should my heart do anything?

Yet I give up my weak words thinking they seem right, hack at 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 then. Over-partial over you I too can’t see what the world sees..

Like no premium withholding option holds, we Americans can relax, go cloud up other ideas!

Are you thinking of me? 

I used to believe so, along w/ all the grossular and pine boxes keeping us apart opening to our former lives, a win-loss for comic, breezy violinists in quartets w/ silver hats — Superangels w/ their instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge.

Skepticism is boosted by metonyms. 

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

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

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

blanket utterances filling our balloons. 

... the rookie is burning on the outside, your only credits were adamance /
to squelch any dramaturgy from theology, wellbeing and actionable conditions, missing how far you are beaten into their projections.

Diffuse claims from the storm-injured outer sky, yet 
during the break we reached the claims officer. Big 
thick crazy eyebrows, a swelling voice, easier than the rest. 
 
Planet Earth has been coined Taoist hell. Coinage ringed with grassy estates where men with money like you and the c.o. can tiptoe or fall further. If you invite me... Tag, you’re it, absorbed in my desire to sleep with anybody great.

There’s too much junk in triangles. (Conductors have to know this.)
That’s how I got to live alone anticipating mind control as
disingenuous. As

my own job creator I got a full canoe of alter-egos,
asides, and decorative indeterminacy.

Love memorials are cool if they’re your own.

The smitten dissipate swarming with pleasant memories.

69: Kind eyes are deeds,  
a part of you all the world sees  
and views with a backup group of souls watching you even now 
crowned in tawny daybreak synthetic light,  
with 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.

Note: It’s impossible to separate understatement from early programmed utterance; both are newborn in an admissible sense, pitch. So that’s how pretending v coming close can be felt, my sovereign.

Next, an inevitable database advances to burn out your swing — try living on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent. Warning: The underground minimizes special-purpose thinking within a dominant tribal identity or trance. The opium is waiting, on a bender. What comes next is calm to recover and / or replace each close-to-noble escape route on ahead.

There are statements of facts
And those of law. Their truth
Levels go down or soar — depends on
Outer linear order and your age.

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


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

Today we’re feeling besieged, a little called out
In the meaning of no revolution now.

The if-movement (aspirations) can be thought
a saga you (any of us) can pump off & on — so on

coming then coming clean, another part of closeness.
Later, new police!
[talk of paranoia...]

A few minutes ago there were bright blue shadows.
The quartet’s on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part scribble / disassociation.
I can hear Johnny shoveling the drive
as a voiceover to operate prophesies of doom humanely,
stacking pessimistic ideas like alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
No prayer in all directions.

If you swallow your ego luxury is great. I say no 
with my eyes shut.  
No meditation spanning the surface of the woods, no  
massage. No smell of wood. So there’s nothing to resent.  
 
How does it resume?

At arm’s length..
There were dimensions an hour ago enabling 2 events in one plot we’re party to. Tenebrae, we said. Let’s return to the olfactory sketches, in which the cosmos is left and right, unexplained. Constant and converted. Incandescent, then, our ardor comes back to choke a human rocket sidelined by a braided chord worn as Lars’ necklace, a burning space distinguished by diffuse vitality.

What about Lars?
We didn’t kill him.

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, a 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 ..

My U.S. idiocy pledge — I hereby ...
I’m holding hot and cool scrims of mist and water balloons floating over a lap pool, views down hallways into stairs cut apart and fronted with metal rock, waking in hazy brightness without a clue how we got here.

I’d be lying if I said we aren’t criminals.

The jungle is quiet... too quiet. (Theseus)
Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping in net neutrality w/in the gloom of purgatorio as perceptions of different possibilities blow town including the best halo effects and feelings. They’ll come back. 

It’s nice finally to put a class of face to the humiliating covered breathing.  Today, every day open censorship is going to be there,  filtered, unfiltered as long as it takes.

Sacrament stays.
There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.
Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for a lifetime.
I lower your voice to closest approximate parity.
Somewhere, who’s a sociopath?

Finalists, top achievers have quit general practice.

This is not a means test. It’s the blues. But who can tell if it goes well. 
We’ll leave it at that  

in case there are higher trending hoaxes.
At least the place was democratized even with trial mechanisms.   
 
Yet the mechanisms blow decorum of law...  
Also, it’s beautifully easy for you, suddenly, brief minutes from now, to have less to eat to soften my last interruption keeping the consonant hoopla around your throat.. as often predicted, that.  
 
Simple to say. But how many spirituals of parallel scenery can we communalists invoke?

79: How it may happen
On a byway, patrol lights 
— A security van flow in aid. Further uphill 
Hauling “rays of virtue” — stolen beauty, yours.
You can afford it.

He rubbed your lips in his sweet travail.
Your position / your opinion count, a worthy argument
Made easier — he praises you, cheek to jowl. 
Then you hand it over to him & have your way — 

& you thank him —
Pay him what I owe.

Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — I don’t care. 
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you how we’re doing.  
There’s a piece of karate, a fragile backspace we erase, and how there’s turbulence... and something else more active, piquant. Your push reaches a point where time management is unleashed.  
 
This is one way to point.  
 
We live next to a place with water views. I continue feeling deprived sometimes.  
 
But ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home, high tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for anyone’s looking on, another beach in a long line magnified ashore, twisty, revived!

Rush to earnest sentiment and keep me there, do me up.
Only four exceptions: I wasn’t speaking to you.
I was speaking to strong, sustained interests of Oil Inc.
Oh, and incidentally, I can’t keep working with you
Looking over my shoulder. Don’t be afraid,
I just kick back and relax, the year will be half over.
Summer .. if I could let myself be completely a nano reading.

I should add I don’t know anything about microspores, also
Heavy pollen, nothing! I should add I’m writing on borrowed-spores.
I haven’t done tranquility either! — not even a feeding..

Making up a to do list! blinded by periodic breakthroughs,
A pragmatics circumvents the will —
The focus is on nothing we won’t do..

After homesickness, there’s new inebriation &
One way to degrade-ultimately-destroy the dynamism of capital.
Otherwise, there’s only perpetration & fortune to hide.

Note: It’s impossible to separate understatement from early programmed utterance; both are newborn in an admissible sense, pitch. So that’s how pretending v coming close can be felt, my sovereign.

Next, an inevitable database advances to burn out your swing — try living on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent. Warning: The underground minimizes special-purpose thinking within a dominant tribal identity or trance. The opium is waiting, on a bender. What comes next is calm to recover and / or replace each close-to-noble escape route on ahead.

You & I wonder about summer’s eternal 
possessions, the buds, shade & a day if we could see 
staying chaste .. it’s on the house.  
Feels great out ahead until there’s a threshold.   
 
In those same terms there’s too hot  
a reliance on eking a living making out   
Optimizing the center where death dies.  
It will take more than a single changing course  
to snatch life from time, breathing it in & out if we could see. 

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?

He called the universe a positive word. 
 
Reading and living are continuous variables 
That ontologically under-simulate his few senses.  
He should be furious w/ the authentic world w/ dogfood dishes. Be  
Angry at literal keyholes, too, w/ their conservative  
Counterviews to earnest alignment as his new parts pull up,  
A parallel prowess of floating unquietly  
Into apothegms, into sidesteps of fine voice.  

Keenau is still guileless, a pious, ethereal hulk in a collapsing bug life.

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, 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 breeding
celestial dissonance as street lights hum

and flicker

as ......

as well as

emotions
Stan aims to lay claim to and
defend as his own.
Soon.

No one would presume elements were strung together out of desperation and a deeply
ingrained exposition to de-mark the unknown. Much as technology funds science, random
sentiment attaches to most liberal singularities.

Compassion goes into theorems.
Maybe I can talk to your teachers. I can debate with them.
I can’t reason with you. I can’t even talk to you. No one’s there. While others don’t hear clearly
when one’s “voice” joins others’ to deepen flatly, ultimately anonymous expressions of empathy.

77: Blank careers contain these mind games refereed in shade. For work, we look to a future far from outside realia (but always at ‘work’!) or at minimum, we should feel enriched, taking our joint profit as clear if vacant progress to eternity. Vacant. These precious minutes uncommitted, often both urbane and in bad taste, I whisper to myself, falling for your acquaintance.
*
For work, we were enriched mostly within glass buildings. When you’re on my mind I see cubism and social media, empaneled or at minimum propped up as official progress (taking all sides). Blank leaves in our journals, we know. Learning gives us memories, too many minutes wasted, mostly overrated. Let’s show how we commit to your book, to nurse your brainchild delivered as a time share of your stealth, your voice,

your beauty’s imprint.

Upstairs message, parts of it. We call it yeah 
Parentheses (w/ monocle) to explore;  
The 4-D printer’s, they have many followers, you on it?  
As one’s eyes reset  
Focus time to question more.  
                              Anything to take from the a-argument  
For leading us to pleasant complacency...

Savant and scribe know where all glory goes. 
If we’re lucky, principles of mediocrity rule our larger commitments.  
Then both can devise a poem for a period of guesswork.  
 

Finish a stretch and my theory gets confused. Confused the way   
 
A rusted barge dries off in sun orange. Or   
 

Danzig is the Wallace Stevens of evil urban clusters..   
 
Ok, this is not Danzig. Clinically proven.  
But theory is something else.

One’s god and partner
is a doomed villain — twice one’s weight.

He runs down to the water’s edge, sticks his head in. Stays in.
On a second take he and other human strangers gain their godly presence
thru sex appeal that initiates delaying tactics.

Delayed, one sees what Buckminster Fuller means
sensing the curve of the earth.

One gets the pretty steep sense
god has gone one’s way.

Any rule violates sovereignty. This speech pattern has been expanding without genetic engineering.
And the polls are now tightening.

Your proof is some topic you can take indoors to vote for anyone with no experience. Try.
Give it a chance until late afternoon. Even interrupted our conversation never ends — for
You. For you’ll be taken up on your offer.

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.

En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse within; pushing deeply, our lot’s in a hurry.  Can we cut to the scary part?  No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there is no threshold. Matter persists, no dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual, sparkled amid meanderings that are ordered appearances going dormant or running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in unboundedness, optics unravelled in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.

0) nothing horrible, just horrible 
 
1) both perceptions of opposites leveraged simultaneously  
2) meaning not one and more original than none  
3) causing internal illogic along w/  
4) passing out on an ashen chaise to bring you back to your senses, shouting   
 
5) I love your idea and I repent only to appease you   
 
6) adages first thought / never think lose both death and life

Feeling comfort in disruption is one tall order. Together, you and I define an entire affability arc of ironic laughter, a genial series in slippery zoning disputes: Two feelings or more (identical in all respects).

Abstract attitudes are buried below our strip-down (the whole of reality) to relatively unspeaking, as tho history was a full set of realities without language.
Body-snatching, the third point at hand is you and I have to enjoin different orders, since our lives are directionless in Cambridge. 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 a closed agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.

Sonnet 40:

When you read this, my injury appears prior to who prompts it.
Not you.

We were informed of your deceit in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with new features and a few we move in any direction.
But not you.

Take all my loves, my love. You steal from me and vice versa since all of us are in use.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom
interest me only so far. More curious is why we approach poetry in English primarily in terms of understanding it.

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.
Not you.

By popular demand we sign off on others’ labor — A newspaper edition, documentary remnants, penetrable databases — We occupy this clever, conceptual nook, curl up and at times siding with the powerful is deliberate as well as passive-aggressive. I’m joking. I’m staying sarcastic — It bears repeating there’s audible glee not being perennially the other and oppressed. The oppressed are whom we avoid where or when we can be free — On the outside, in place of a popular voice, outsourced bouquets smolder w/ the emancipatory normality of assumed dominance.

One calls for antic intellectualism. Lead-free prose.
Four husbands.
Simplistic, Manichaen juxtaposition.
A solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.).

Jousting snacks.
New verbs like dave, firebug, Stradivari.

Social progress is in hot water. Talk
of art goes for cheap and too far in other directions.

Finalists quit general practice — their art converts to cottage ministries  
with little or no honor system.

Nothing much about jazz dance, for one - it’s almost curtains
for the prom fitting, a horrible hot mess.  
The shortest path ignited by havoc,
overworked and exhausted ex-employees.  But crowning the present,
Thin dancers are perpetual winners I guess.  
I wager at least we scarf their uneaten take-out on the table. Slashed 40%!

116: One’s {most-
Ly random swagger looks on marriage as a catch that alters one’s worth unknown to
Those} 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’ll believe you, I’m a fool no man ever loved...

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

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

Love is no fool. Love goes off the boards like water lilies kicking off their boots and women coming to rule. Snipers crouch, removing

The edge to their lips and cheeks.

The soul (of love) is a theorem, a sweet fading desert
Growth out of water, a gawky dust bunny grinning over the interstate
Working up a vacuum to destroy liquidity.

We begged Mr Soul to hop faster and keep at it,
Stick with a superb racket or rocket, rally
For more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can wake that guy up perhaps you should.

Take a look. 
All this repetition is not good ahead of patterned, glimmering dimness surrounding powerful men, dating them, skillfully; you know, the level of glamorous self regard here is high & west-coast-like, gnarly. If all we do is seduce & note our conquests, we lose the broad sweep of the epicene. We lose austere joys, cloud dogma, sculpture perpetrated out of full transparency on stilts that take on blackened colors.   
 
Another time, then, much like Byronic properties.

Any non empirical approach compels outsourced argument.

I’ll try for underweight blunt invention
of the non willed state, or what some call civil

efficacy for streamlined intake. Soak up the view.

37: ‘Feelings are empty’ .. still / they’re
entitled − here’s where many motifs help.

Despite our comfort and wealth
I told the boss he should die in hell
(after all), protecting shareholders from going into hock.

What’s a game emotion? the hang off it.
Nothing month. T’on. The shadows ’n
the lame, the poor, the despised will have
none of it.

Not a one in hock could bend, even a little. Simply phrased.
Emotionally poets think they know, a few ‘knowing
they have not made a point’ —

Should I continue to enjoy happiness at dinner

Missing your motifs? Any or all of yours? Or shall I enjoy how
people say they’re living to be admired..
..have a child? This wish I have..

How people talk?

Solitary dark 
the air pushes                       ..aside   
 
— tilting your head with no untoward parts, transfixed silhouette  
 
— the Demon Puff in his plumage / seafaring language.  
I was hit in the face when he turned himself in.  

When struck a lightning rod emits a ballet of dust and after that a solution, a chemical substance that recuses itself and turns over in our thoughts as a cognitive coloration, a hint there’s commotion in the back of what matters. What matter is. Who is loved.

Websites lie. This a translation lesson. I’m elegant and round. I can’t snicker. You can though. ### I’m off the wall. So I turn blue when I cool up. I blast by myself when you leave for work. When you come home I produce a mental readout of how long it takes you to set the new temp, humidity tolerance and so. ### I can’t snicker I’m elegant and round with a mirror finish.

It once read you’re my concern. 
 
“I heard talent & beauty & wealth come with their own flickering ideas; by your putting them to rest they take ‘full effect’ with no attachment to bad diets or addictive capital.” I’m leaving; you gasp.  
Is this documentary or did we make it up? “I gather your wit and austerity read each other from the start.” So this is an edit (to hide hunger). That’s about as close as 2nd chances have to keen, endless pulse. 

Testimony, transit to.

To float in Buddhist undercurrents from work by a mature avantist is not much of a surprise. We know one poet and others as bona fide avantists, demeanors of a calming, enlightened refusal that likely rubbed off during their intake of an illusory social imagination. Or don’t know.

(Also refusal.)

— since we have a method for choosing topics, don’t expect me after all.  
 
Even if we kiss later, it saddens one to inform the boss  
You’re not serious, never are.  
 
Like you we’re turning state’s evidence holding on to meet  
even newer phenomena                      (‘the stolen parts’  
To run over) any & all mayhem coming unannounced (achieved).  
Or some won’t say since you & I separate thru flexible equations.  
 
Already saying goodbye takes us far up the jet trail! quelling fear of want-
Ing pain. You never can tell. I won’t.

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 our enemies — It’s your eyes
but glances aside — you overpower with your unkind tongue

to kill me outright, and not through 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.

Showing results for innuendo: ‘You’re over your head, doing this, I offered. Just  Report to duration centers for the rich to achieve best pricing, unless  Theft looks better. Go. Fees balanced. Eject.’  Then you told me repetitive motion went further — heck, Making money w/out reason is mass  -ive. After.. surely if that’s the zeitgeist, there are vector  Utilities for expressing wealth after dark..  Sleep has no opinions on here and now when everything is the right answer .. all on your check.

What about how we enjoy free speech — still — to say what some think — but their recipes, or ours, are perfused with vapid biases. Trees in place, defiantly miscellaneous, thanks to a compliant Leitkultur, treeways on a berm, backdrop to civil union with ideal permissions built on headwinds — dormant chaos, lowered public engagement 
 
with as it were or without word craft. Free discourse can scar others, you see, yet you also see physical facts slaughtered by barely pushing on the remote.
 
Free in summary.

“Satan was seductive, motivating me to seek his darkness,
Pick up the guitar & write more songs...”

Talking Chimp squealed like a talking dog.

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

I see your inside relevance, binary to binary autosuggestion. 
When it gets dark rebooking happens fast.  
 
The relevance we wanted to get to go to a naked singularity, that is  
This abstract point now stabilizing outdoors — over the ocean  
— smelling you in all your possible reassignments. 
 
— A rank in heaven!

I don’t know that much about you [hh.. ] but you remind me of someone
Who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far off, quelling torture.
Half a day goes by and

You are [hh..] unattainable,
Hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.

Pull over, [hic aside] this is serious.
Soft fear and recurring despair, the flip end to formalism ...

129: That slap in the face harder to explain now,
on purpose laid to make the taker mad — a waste..
 
Traffic jammed under the apartments — tropical action — 
A cruel lemon sliver caught in your savage nose, past reason,  
Extreme, despised, tangy..  
Romeo and Eurydice. A rude joy proposed behind a dream. Just a wedge. 

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, there.  

True love brings on a physician practiced in the art of relapse.

Reason is broad in reach but I’m never sure. Come midnight Mr Frog wakes me up, all smiles. One smile. When I tease or cuddle it, four appendages go as wiggly as if sexually charging. It’s silly, one smile across its whole face, black button eyes on top because the night isn’t over — one smile, frog eyes in front, cadet green rag cloth in back. When I hold it it’s a jumble of snuggles and inertia. Its legs flop around until I leave it as it were.

Uncertainty is a lugubrious process, unlimited growth, bracing for updates.

Neither so-called dead or alive, the windmill in your imagination has a request, 
“to express things ... as they are when you see them without remembering having looked at them.”  
It’s an infinite standard for reading Gertrude’s vocabulary numbed in shade, bracing for heart murmurs until climax.