Pickerel babes greet one another in fluent

Pickerelish. Parents want to lose their young

but can’t, stuck in schools, diagonal peach cones & rods of violet.

(As with fish

there’s salience to nodding agreement thought-

fully.) I get all my ideas from media

studies, yet inorganic brainstorming

like this is easier-to-sleep-w/-&-pulsate

-to.

Song: If every frontal-ist were interrupted, we’d never get back. 
 
This is an integument first to seeing speech as transparent. (‘This’  
 
“is” frontal opportunism.) When you’re young  
nepotism is also rampant in meaning maybe.  
Maybe not as opaque. Ok. I hear voices in the kitchen. My thoughts sneeze in total makeover  
as 'this' recedes — putting it mockingly — heading back w/ nothing to add. 

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 about us
— looking back under whose  
 
thumb? And am I yours?

If you ingest grief, parody is aqua foam, orange foam and broken glass. Now I’ve said everything I know about the nostalgia evoked by kissing your foul hand. 
No meditation spanning surfaces of the woods, no 
massage. No favor of bullet points. So
there’s nothing to bifurcate to render your stinking degeneracy. 

May you come down with writer’s block and slump back into your rotten messianic parole.

Here it is. Seth returns as a world-famous impersonator
and hypnotist, but there’s this twist, you’ve been studying
in Europe at the Posh Hairnet Institute.
I like it. Life and death issues. I’ve been abroad.

Comatose in Vienna. Just for a while. Foolproof.

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

I like it.

Tonal jumps signify charity in a spatial
float off...

repurposing one’s alter ego, raising stakes
according to odds makers for daring.

Don’t show us
your simple skill. Make it work.

This is becoming god’s country.
A man in drag wearing a gown I tie.
Your cool red bones,

A cold star, partly the wind,
Your superb gall

And me, my feelings which move in time
While this lowest button erases...

There they go
When you say

Well stay well
Where they rang.

Anima to Anima, you couldn’t be ruder.

I’m not afraid of showing the much simpler, formless, inexact I degrade and dissipate into highly animate raw munition. My fingers are supposed to cohere in two fair hands I cull from hearsay. Raising one exudes only passion, which if you allow I agree with, with intertwined wilderness raising two...

My counselor affidavit registers deficiency in discovery and revolving pretexts. All the same, hunches count. (I’ve always been competing with myself.) 
 
Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for foundering within the social anomaly of treason.  
Rules commit us. Voters chose Trump. Yet this is the latest case.  Everything I note here is integrated. Remember those days? Remember those databases centered on surplus insertions while John Kennedy sober on the ground kept looking up... (Reminds me when democratic ideals could get by on appearances.)

152: Selfportrait in loving you with hedge clippers in hand, fighting blood sugar.
[Zygotes follow commands. They’re a collective.]
I remember hedges thru 3rd parties, their deep viney-ness.

Sunrise. Whose-ever rhyming system — Uhmms call up homonym oblongs,
Back strings pop into songs. [The RNA of things they seem..]
To enlighten you and me I’m

Mashing oaths to love into phosphate genetic tags, keepsaking your tag, mine, ours, ourselves!

“Stages of violence yearn for a whereabouts.
The sneakiest conditions disperse — thinking of you (did I?)
not out of calculation; it began how far and vast

signals liberate us to oppose lesser facts,” you wrote.
Or plans change.
Without speech, intimacy is peroration.
That’s a normal reduction or formula for my song,
not a word on process.

Jumps to universality mature into familiar splashes of anesthesia: Takes my place being places (an event in tropes) — 

Meantime, we’re here for discovery thru inflection in lap pools of condensed matter from the aquatic world. 
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 sunshine in suspension, ripped, 

Amputated chutes off moisture! 

Grape vines burst out, nonlackluster. Though I love grime, universality’s guilt-
making — Fortuna carrying me thru, unphased: She does this to deplete me of hope. 

1st choice for a sonnet is to solve for x. Be funny and coalesce. 

Dear multiple choices forever: Send a message I can wolf down. Convey a sense of urgency that’s superfluous. Put anesthesia off.

Some had swing..

The scandal passed, hardly worth the coverage,
otherwise excellent. You saw that?
We got back into the van.
Do you own your swarm’s jackets? It seems relevant
if filed haphazardly under the swarming file,

“Single file,” say;
her jaw trembled

while we run the jewels.

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

122: The longer I live it’s right in front of me, above all, beyond all, your gift within my brain.

There’s a glow in seconds before razed oblivion, fun .. and explosive. Wow.

Or much like staying in the now, yielding thru nature to receive you more, more of you.

An idle life abandoned. I’m forgetting about it. How?
You and I remain beyond date and time in my heart and brain. I won’t be funny or make a stab, score or tally... I’ll subsist to import your love into me .. Again.

One had the idea surviving —  
vibrant feelings on a moving day,  
a day washed in over time — (if we need one).   
What does one need now and for what?    
 
Does it matter, that light and grey question?   
Do you test, tease, defame among the best?     
 
I ducked your punch, closed the distance.   
I told you, no, I have to bolt. And add a second one.

What’s my business? Aperture systems led me to holding Volatility models from tv, vocalism in a sense. Hidden risks shift weight (merge accounts request). CVS photo counter. I know him, he knows me, I admire him, he back. Instructions are errands; I’m my own boss.

With every rallentando I feel cleaner, more nondenominational than ever.
Now a little drunk I look up at elm crocuses fighting odor, climbing a trunk.
Its heirs apparently. I feel cleaner with you. Clearer as in noble gas and flux. I do.
Molecules will sue

You — they’ll sue us both for our goals and coral glow —
What a snit! Apart from love I am ashamed now
Breaking up with you feels like getting retested for flu ...
You and I in slow, we hope, radon decay
Torched with prayer. Or thereabouts.

$ transfer: I’m sleep.
An only hill / a huge stage
I’ve been searching
Awake most nights, debates that decay:
A clean face in the morning − caped
W/ sounds. Sounds caped w/ light, the best

When I perceive dogs and woods in salt air
Together, like them and like us.
Can you dig stillness? Can you keep an eye out, the ocean over.

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.

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.

What is curious style? Taken whole:
“Give in, dig it.”
Blimey. (There’s a new policy to block deletions.)
I’m sipping Tropicana on curiosity’s behalf,
Taken your lead. Word processing in sheer Palatino
All the time, staggering prose!
Tomorrow I’ll
Tap out more deletions I forgot to lose —

Trixie, again, leaves for what was once a finishing school. She’s wearing khakis and a red T-shirt and my new backpack stuffed with graphs. She wants more than a group-regulated ethos for the manufacture of comedy and verse. Like you who said

The archives are at risk.

Last point, I’ll subsist in attrition finding and picking up purviews “encircling travel” — a shore in maneuvers pitched way up like mores with infectious provisos, integers-to-be and no buzz to kill. 

That thar buzz beats my eyes open when I (am or) was looking ragged but in a studied, not irresponsible way, reading and taking dictation to wrap up sleep.

I have decent rooms and vegetarian board. Living large is an art prepared without a couth manual. I hope you’re both open to a former way of life stocked with interfering colorations of air as in a plush, intimate drawing room augmented with coarse bouquet. Like Elizabethans, say, we would see there were lots of tulle and offline making of amends. Music sounds on alert changing uniforms for the weekend with some breathy, lithe, spooky edge.

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, preached against, but 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..

New day! Matins yet ghosted, Starsky’s tongue in my ear
& all the bobwhites in Appalachia hush... off

& then — second — noise
of collared, greening hospitality where Hellenic

banter might calm a tax credit havoc.
                           Third, I stay nonprofit
worshiping everything that belongs.
All else is stress related.

Realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio”
I am touched by everyone now alive,
softest jazz, lower right, your lips moving up, down,
talking design shit. Someone’s naive mirror sale, for example.

Someone’s book is staring out the window, saved-up.
So, with regard to static and its ovular window, stasis —
it’s not who grinned first that counts, but also where
and however. That’s my middle point for the interim,

realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”

Never disagree
with inferiors. Superiors. Never.

Never point to silent contentment
with its branches lifting suspended glare
defining a nearly invisible, rotating opinion column.

Opinions from math deliver good news, stately motoring already had its faint say.
Now you can text and drive overtime, behold zeta functions befalling hedgerows like a new highway divider along an infinite axis.

Concision or hue dealing method, means

can be objective and lack will. Rain,
an incident unveiled as ambition. It’s in the eye

as a catamaran of process.. this is while I’m doing only one thing at one time
on a crazed errand-stream
to contest 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. It can’t mean just what his language implies?

I turned and asked again.
It felt unwise.

63: Hours..drain..blood.

As I am now, Max Planck fellows are running off with radical research incentives for a frontier in vanishing unboundedness: Cramming organized treasures into small packages, tethered particle immolations. The dignity of boson appearances, confounding cruelty and love, alike, fed from memory. Cutting with little or no motive, the sky foregrounding processes of mere appearances, stealing our ‘just anarchic joys,’ all of them, always.

Stop waving that grape juice ...
That was sentries ago. Ever since
That inference never comes up when language gets tired.
Yet one’s eyes fill with manpower.

The climate showing my cards — a friend led me to one,
A sure bet ad infinitum.
He smiles with no doubts about my bluffing knowhow & innocence
... the rain keeps raising our minds’ oceanfront, bringing it all back.

I’m a woman. Or you. We have all the training we need listening to Jim Carroll — oral chemistry, the beginning of rage, this is my body. Almost the same as hopeless, the only oasis was just passed. I was more at home with early stage fright than deconstraining tastes at war with passivity. 

Then you and I had an urge and we felt gorgeous wearing an engineer’s hairnet over the situation.

I’m having a 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  
shimmer  
— crash. Al-  
 
So let me see..  
dreams are on a map  
where throw us into the program.

There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.
Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for sunlight.
I lower your voice to closest approximate parity.

Finalists quit general practice — re-up for industry with no honor system.
Actuaries unmoor. Affection looks like vicarious advice. Vicarious isn’t strong
enough. Inner, outer merge in our skulls, an emotional syndrome that’s broken

down, yet a lost cause. I’m driven somewhere then by love
to sketch sweet totems that “look pretty close” with my eyes closed.

There’s transactional friendship, as well. It’s a slog like sloganeering or craft (flashing an observable sign to consciousness). To postulate, craft is to slogans as sport is to kicking down signs (see above). Don’t get me yakking about today’s news. Uncertain, odd sounds are cool, and we’re all for them and against impingement unless they mess up our transactions.

I’m having a 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  
shimmer  
— crash. Al-  
 
So let me see..  
dreams are on a map  
where they throw us into the program.

82: Sing:

I swear..

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

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

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

Devised in love, that’s the plain worst case, and, further, here we are — let me give you a hand.

En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse within; pushing deeply.
Our lot’s in a hurry.

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 and vital amid meanderings that are ordered appearances gone dormant, nearly, or running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in more unboundedness, optics unravelled in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.

Did you catch the interim report?   
 
Operetta’s core keeps an eye out, part of industrial knowledge that considers prototype approximates in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard. 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 in the libretto where we preserve disparities. You deserve it. 
 
Sweetness is vacillating as usual after hours on clear nights. Robbers, cops 
Though fragrant, turn opaque  
 
And poof — still  
..could rain.

Ballet’s focus keeps an eye out
Watching us spin like sentience
Stuck in an unhappy medium —

Sweetness itself catches every care
Giving cause to baby Mozart
To squawk in opera

Moving big parts from minor sorts
(Observing only immunity) —
Clumsy hours of letting be

Naming your name — and that’s
Why baby reserves his dissonance
To guard shapes of light and volume

Nested in a keyboard to determine
Your name in performance.

Nothing new, a feeling continues you could write until you drop ... 
a feeling from here buried below the half familiar animation 
I’d like to pull off, 
replacing one half with
a hotel ensemble for stripping down, never talking. 

When it comes to speaking one on one I have to be 
charmed and not worry about what passes through me. 
(Me, of course, is an expansive subset of being charmed, a trinket I believe.)

74: I agree to your bail. Security should have conducted a more scholarly pat down.

We are under arrest but you’ve lost nothing. You’re mine.
Ten to one, better parts of our street cred show up in literature and data tracking. Faint Milano opera on one speaker as a memorial.

When you have a chance for review, I think this will be due you. Layers of my spirit are made yours & any remains have no life to leap to, no death, either — carried away then having some interest in what’s going down on this wretched yet contented earth, all it contains, even this line.

We leveraged the social papyrus to miss you.
How long have you planted thoughts with no gender balance?
I agree. To be reviewed is to be published.
Shit. Ahem.

Teaching can’t be taught.

Well, 2 out of 3.

I hardly know you. And will never know you. I’ll give you a call.

Matters of on-switch:
Mind and body worship conforms to system leaks.
I’m too ugly to be molested. That’s true. Who knows

I kissed a cat. Once.

Once out of what? out of dying belief
I wrote on otherness.. when down (“I’ve stopped looking”) otherness came.

A sober-garish run on sentence
Lay before my head cold rumbling..

My body in the language of dunes and trash
— soba colors with melons and daytime news.

I’m sorry for shoddy reasoning and growth. Sorry as important pieces


Of aqua foam and orange foam and glass.

Even more I like meeting mates’ life-changing kisses —
Kisses on progress. To reach the fallen dominoes..

Just because you feel nothing

You’re leaking results before ‘thinking it over’;
IF I have no idea that holds you,
THEN how does an idea
Of idea an

-ticpate stipulating proofs for missing the ‘and,’ ‘or’ and ‘not’ of binary practice?

This cloaking device avoids detection. Slanting, lost, an hour later we’re beginning to ride over borders, borders are still porous, just look at this phonemic adventure! I need some topper wipe.

You’re turning me on.

Reading pulp, there’s an interlude between devices where I wish you’d taken up singing of thingness.

70: I don’t blame you. Much.
Alone in your ‘kingdom’ flying backwards. You’re facing the street, passing it... A science fiction flushed hollow, cankers along with buds look prime outside and you’re still passing thru, unstained by ambush, adhering neatly to nothing, just passing. Yet suspects’ approval always ornaments tacit impurities of state. Heaven’s sweet hush.

Who are they who might envy you? Slanderers, even wooers — and such charged discourse! Don’t hold it in. Talk to me, shatter me, touch.

Too many ideas inside — I’d,
You know — can’t.. when I think

Who’s thinking, maybe later I’m
Just Pessoa locked in place

Where things think on their own


You know — more than 1 I,
Things, myself, lots to hide
Yes or no, and I’m me too
So I should give you shit


Because when I speak you’re
Stirring up other ideas
What I feel I
Think I feel, oh, Ma’am!
Man! You’re telling me
Nothing new here —

A stupid thing, knowing this.
Re-examining all my meanness,
Italicizing my failures. I’m ham-
Fisted attempting satire.
Snooty, freaky, I gay love it.

plodding from the Portuguese

We dance a cobra balance in our DNA.
The color wheel nurses a fine ethos in our genes.

I have the same problem buying oil.

I see your inside voice, binary to binary autosuggestion. 
When it gets dark it happens fast.  
 
We wanted to go to  
This point, stabilizing the home office — over the ocean  
W/out oil in the water — ‘or personal contact.’

Simple and poor, that’s a traffic violation.
Work through naïve discourse —

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

Make it dorky and intimate.

There will be subtitles, various languages. You may dream while staying
awake and translate the exposed back of another dreaming.

Nothing accrues but there’s a lifetime of waking thoughts.
Sleep has nothing to do with nothing.

— Let’s be fair, the partnership was an accident enjoining boosters of equity.  Runic, compared to poetry now. 

It just snowballed until all frontiers on Earth were taken under one Halloween rule. 

Our slogan has been restated: Bodies of formulae destroy poetry until only style prevails. 

(Yay..)

Sonnet 61:
Simple enough picking up a pen . . . land and those living on it have material functions; similarly I see you.

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

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

metaphors and substitutes, one at a time — less formal, so near home it’s like taking your dictation, taking after your love of my love of you.

Mobs and their terms of justice, um, I’m ..

Am thinking of an upgrade. For anything more cautionary and uncool we’ll have to shop politics further, some interpretive research worked up into a deep steam of capitalism; we’ll get back to you all —

10 gallons of the Hirsch, please, dayment-ready, fenduc w/ the crescent canonical tartelle in a diary of bows, mmm ah.
Attempting authenticity in insoluble speech, we put up firewalls. And by peril as usual we mean danger, blood sport and games or politics, what some call.

British require eccentricity as a lovely part of identity.
Americans excel in artificial eccentricity focused on trying.

Our alienation has been recorded and jocularly shelved. For cloying effects, I think one sprig is picking up and driftwood looks epigrammatic, the upside unrelated, pale, immaculate. I’ll cut you off one side of the division.



I’m not about to let you starve. Marry me.


(Shifting back to pre-friends mode...)

You don’t understand until I do.
The if-movement (aspirations) can be thought
A saga you (as any of us) can pump off & on — so on

-Coming then coming clean is another part of closeness.
Later, new police!
[old paranoia]

Our alienation has been recorded and jocularly shelved. For cloying effects, I think one sprig is picking up and driftwood looks epigrammatic, the upside unrelated, pale, immaculate. I’ll cut you off one side of the division.



I’m not about to let you starve. Marry me.


(Shifting back to pre-friends mode...)

71: We don’t remember your life, your name, for I no longer mourn you. Why would I? Forget about me.

Like a surly freeloader / poet, I overhear captions within sullen mechanical clauses... giving vile warnings. It’s vile — compounded when I think you read this line into my thoughts. I’m only the hand that writ ...and I plan to negotiate more cash for rapprochement before I go. Hey, don’t worry, my next line is not incompatible with yours, for I love you so.

Feeling cornered. Blue moon as it were.
The music seems headstrong.

Everything we light on is structure to write ..
Light always exchanges positions. Thank you.
Your mellowness operates a transferrable mind.
That line raises a lark, also structure.

Rules write themselves from .. Me? I’m
Immersed watching the light.

Then a synthetic stint, a few light chunks going someplace where
Our senses look futuristic in the right light, so a constant.

Lots of us are gifts  
and land across our example   
while we watch the wind taken   
that the waves under you lift   
Tho see-thru as doves   
which today are nothing more,   
swept with a visual certainty   
no matter how we change in love.

I’d like to thank the Academy.

Goliath, Duchamps, Sinatra!

Parallel constructs warned me of overrefined emblems and complexity’s sweeping reproach. I’m not religious. Not by a long shot; I took note of what you like from the beginning and became pope. Your pope. I acted on a few ideas we had in mind. Then I left.

Oh, construct servers... tell us a little more about your miserable ontology affecting checks, balances, and mantra logjams —

How did worldviews crumble into environmentality to pantomime economic inferences undercutting American literacy?

I could laugh. 
 
Promoted to intimacy  
it’s tormenting therefore and it’s sinking in, remotely  
parallel to kissing your mouth (...trying to). 
The rest of the language problems raised here are see-through like my waistcoat  
where I show you  
 
an authentic wood with kites  
on a decal of shade trees.

Sonnet 7:

Outgoing at noon, attending on what? I’m not going out. I’m about getting on (mouthing off) with or without you. Just look how my sight’s scripted by high pitched infantile alienation, falling over you. Again. It’s not too late! New optimism apparently pays gifting you burning head. Another way we’re both blackmailed over there is nothing low, nothing sacred.

Some feelings return.

Terpsicore is ascetic, improvisatory, sherbet hued, Erato, a voice of suspicion and many hisses, Clio, her last commanding notes tumbling as rumors circulate. Melpomeme, all blues and mistaken early on, every beat ridden like a whale gainsaying oomph. An echo of flame, ailing Calliope still makes love in public (especially the flying public). Her echo requires a stop-start pattern of marriage songs, blizzard, and dance.

The lines break up around Clio's supplicant remains. Polyhymnia was rushed off, bombing on stage.

Did Euterpe get paid for that?

No, no one pays for her sabotage, her exacting dignity in rebuttal or her tongue-in-cheek feelings moving on.

Denis the Menace grew a pair this summer. I now have a boyfriend. We’re in love, we’re out of it, we’re trying to run each other over in a slow sweep, and it continues, since I’m first and last bored with superordination and thought about having chapter delineations.. just paragraph breaks. Just so, the sky collides in the air, a hue of golf balls. 

That color discontinued, for historical justice.   
Days are broken into first seasons separated by sensual regions.  
Our supply chain deals fatalism as an element of allegory   
shaping and twisting regions of all desire, except a ready   
-made means to change Denis or the day supplier feeding us collisions. 

Glass dial:

It sounds like you know the feeling but you’re not getting it. I want to distinguish my common prayer grabbing knives & spoons v. your intuition that expresses it.

Let’s unholster & dance across the room / the lumberjack in me & you.
The color wheel graduated to go with our rainforest ethos & smiley faces. We speak our mother tongue, fine food, to no product hewn.

I remember those breasts.. 

A geometry that respects the brain, 


Fred Astaire kind of shit. 
When I win, I’m 

Drifting toward us, 
It’s a back-drift 

Under your blanket. I’m 

Over you now. I’m half-awake 


Falling asleep in the speaker’s presence. 


It’s deeper than that really.

107: Even tho you can’t concentrate, you’re in a balmy place, well,
A place I’ve never been before. You’re dreaming on things to come.
You look fresh. You have on your eyeliner again.
I like what you’re hoping to proclaim this time.

Down with tyrants, their crests and tombs.
No sad augurs, fewer uncertainties.

Suppose forfeiting doom, suppose
Peace with no death in a world wide with dreaming endlessly.

Just piano and voice. Piano and your voice. Practice,

The big meal. Inductions to other habits of yours —

Just because we’re surly, externalizing ideas.

A gleaming haze drags cloud sculptures of needle-felted wool

Like nerves warmed over by spinning in freezing wind.

Not yet. I don’t forget the scent of snow and sunlight, of your utter loss
— of whatnot in over the counter after-loss and scent, yours.

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. 

Matins in 4 new minutes —

Capitalism never hesitates beating then shooting the innocent into opiate space but each victim goes broke, often sighing take me, kill freely and find me O outer knee —

This is done doing it over —
Never doubt..ew..there’s enterprise in victimhood, each higher up will argue. There’s one problem. Only cash in small bills in exchange for a free ride. We mean it, tho, let’s discourse, subject to chance ..

A Deux Magots adaptation:
Robots embrace shrill,

a pale mist of drifting nothing. Blameless, nonetheless free of anguish for the moment.

The masters picked that up from them.. wolves running through snow melting into wolves ..

In text design every utterance is for sale. I’m delighted in my forties and fifties. And after, I’m intensely relaxed, everything exposed as muggy air filled with puzzling results you can pin your lapel on like tendrils.
There’s a low threshold for unlimited text space and transfers, however.
It’s better when I wake up we’ve just landed.

Volumes in the sun sound great. I started at the top, what was there? I just stood there, then a few rain forest elements incised to form solid bands connected to now-text or a-moment-from-now text. Also, it’s easy, differentiate the two, but not for long.

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.

Angst roughens up indulgence.
You know the side effects —
We’re 1/2-way there. That’s when aliens evanesce.
Their loneliness and excruciating pain
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing
basin, weeping .. piling on debt ..

I’ll tell you what awaits all the weary in The Bible. Locusts.

No foes, no spite — 
Sing: Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment cut back! Getting 
To there uproots the photon series, exalted then stiffened into parody.. 

Reminding my love of a few contingencies we picked up from a tray 
Of bright boomerangs that tantalize in the feasible, wanting nil and showing 
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.

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 in the eyes of men?

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

Last, best, fair in gay 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.

Everything I do is sin. One after another, piling up.
Yet the nuclear self lingers thru the year; he’s that fellow (and a fan, even now).
We grow. “Absolutely.” Them.

Nothing’s more authentic than having unadorned communal assent.
You’re holding me, middle of a welding
Machine-of-light, until our vertebrae burn. We grow. Them.

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 in the eyes of men?

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

Last, best, fair in gay 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.

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?

I’ve checked data on height variation, they’re disgusting. I’ve also been reading Cliff Notes for Le Morte d’Arthur, which I finished last night with the help of two pitchers of Skyy. Reading Mina Loy as well: she abandoned three kids in Italy to take up egg crate sculpting in NYC. I’ll have what she’s having. That’s how I found a Mina substitute, she and I married for weeks. Skipping school mostly in bed, she has to have sex, but I don’t because I want more than anonymous gratitude.. Well, studying the contextual nuances of human height is hopeless. Let’s say this one datum took me forever.

Atoms of the future = the 1st head turns in which a detail is explicative in several ways at once. 

Clockwise = second head turn: 2 or more meanings re-solved into one experiment; foul results = few explanations.


Counterclockwise = third turn, in which there are 2 or more salient experiments.


A pulse of light of the right duration = 4th turn, alternative explanations but none good enough for clarifying experimenters’ state of confusion.



Superposition = fifth, lucky confusion: the experimenter is enamored of her idea in the eventful processes of argument and testing. 



A row of 10 = sixth, universal yet irrelevantly ‘sweet’ shades of experiment, this time many experiments join in minting correlates as explanations, makin’em up. 



Measure = seventh, and it’s official. Unbending full argument and verification of dogmas, examining contradictions, transforming ungated minds turning heads toward amplified democracy: All are counted, dirty outdoorsmen and women, kicking big toes, skiers, sailors, all on board.

I drink to downsizing false negatives
off soulful atmospheres of displeasure
then falling back and breathing while your
rescuers get authenticated.
“Great I’ll hold...”
2 out of 2 observers were cut off. Pretty please on a wet
highway.

And during the break we plunged into a new arrangement.

It’s forbidden to talk now. It could be ethics,
since authenticity acts against self interest.

Stealthy climaxes based on nothing.
Claymation teeth marks leave an elegiac scent.

I’m a year or a season 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’m writing an ode to 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!

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 praised me, imparting nothing, Gabby. .
Let’s pronounce your true love untrue. Make it count. .
Tho even in this I fear sarcasm.

We are one species homo erectus

meaning taking many different steps at one time all over time.

For now, I may have taken a 24-hour cold tablet (they pulled them off the market for humans) and my brain is boinging forward into TV-noir starring Max H — remember the ex-sprinter who played him? While the show was popular for three weeks Max’s asymmetrical haircut began to give male pattern balding a tolerable hipster pass.

After Max was canceled you noticed him doing a few walk-ons, standing before monotone backgrounds in a few series then commercials. He stood fast and sunk, like these sharp pellets slicing through my blood, sinking me south by southwest, bullets pointing down and out my feet.

The 10 polisciences exist. (We do tell.) So ours is a great America. Can we go for a ride?
Btw, we got here on big feet.
That’s what it feels like or sounds like, not always is.

So it’s no. Also, you know what .. we just can’t do enough. Sleeping 26 hours would be a flaw in my socialist secession. It’s a sorry concentrate: Until we went broke we were indebted.
Now an international scale opposes the light in our constitution. Analysis is scary-loud,
yet there are comic possibilities as federalist dreams itch to colonize.

Language + materials referred to, dimensions variable. Dimensions variable.
That’s the ceci n’est pas une pipe part. I’m the one picking out, piling stuff in the garage

(to accessible language), keeping barbed wire and Ted Greenwald materials reconciled like chairs.

Like chairs for the departed (maybe not yet).
A beautiful life sentence:
Everyone’s in place. One’s place.
Food also knows where it belongs.

The stage brightens.
Is it sub-luminous un-inhibiting our endowment?

Knowing the ropes to scale now
clearing the theatre of solemn comforts,

Stern, all the food pecked over, even down
to our place, last place, last row.

We like newness in a way and reallocation schemes when both of us leave stroke marks. Like
how I graduated from this shame of yours and mine, this pride

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

Can you place our names? I row a canoe for my alter-ego, frequent asides and decorative indeterminacy.

With full employment, I got to anticipating mind control as disingenuous.

Sonnet 150:

Power to the powerful. A truism like this reminds me of a simple turn of the ignition, no big deal... A trek over scrubland back at that bind where you and others were fed insights beyond evolutionary limits. All in an identical manner, everyone repeating one message while sugarcoating skyrockets and financial news slides by in choppy ‘prose.’
Would you like to ask questions or can we demo our depth of skill?
Just cause won’t be brought up. I deduce you’ll be packing another head game to make me love you again, this time giving no cause to hate. True love, O who or what depth of yours gave the lie to sway me as more worthy now to love you more?

Cold drafts are escapement and spray
forming part brightness with a pulse,
part average improvisatory dare.
Diluent? Sleepy days of assented-to hours loosen us
from these biodata — discharged to interiors,
into sussed, sonic focus.

Substitute snow falls like sea foam over snow.

Read the inspection label. To continue, asymmetry solves perfection.

Snow lists a mood replaced as the driveway met you. (You’ll always be dad’s inside, animals looking at you.)

You don’t get to snooze.
Snow is a collective meme that takes its singular form learning to drive.

Mercury is wow! pensive, coming back, back... no..

You’re saying no to billing days first, no to virulent, callow graphemes, stance covers for a copyist. Cut the trad crocus, low opinions and bloodied mesh. No aplomb in nature, please. No chiastic haunts. And no golf property.

There is no personality, so why beat anyone up? We can read back over found work but never go back to walk the innocent-seeming turret and loggia built by another’s labor, overlooking our exciting first bakeoff together...

Funny place
for a dance, Mr Baker.

Since you brought a pizza —
What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us and sociopaths to raise your own
slave-owner stature, fabulously?

That aside —

104: You’re fair doing this, my friend. And.
I saw both of us stop dials, and reset the pace. Fear, danger, for one of us,

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

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

since I was shaken by the beauty from your eyes.
I feel I have eyed your figure before you were born.

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

You turn summer into spring’s first guided
tour — such a future can never be old, never overdone.

There’s nothing like sax in inner cities.

I’m a sometimes solo tenor altho
I play with a numbers fielder who is also sax director.
And the future holds those who attend. But it does not impinge on the field.
Lyrical vagueness leaves me pockmarked, just a feeling.

Why was this week’s sax sectioned off? What inventory are we?

The future trails off.

Should we have 
a message?  
 
We’re talking to what must  
be figurative breakpoints listed under fate and fate’s consignments. Example.   
 
Just kidding. Since the launch of modernist housing  
empty messages remember nothing of detached  
sensory esotericists.  
 
Vault-loads of cash tho grant fame and no literal disapproval.  
Granted, we have  
a message strategy.  
 
A politic paranoia recommended for laying back, cool and stable in an emotional tri-level.

[Earle Brown in the audio ground...]

Mashing stencils into phosphate keepsakes

Her voice changed into a meaning,
All meanings are the full meaning.
It’s no single fool’s doing, making it easier to borrow. Clenching-tight

I’m sorry so sorry Can you sing that? from a reveler on a roll who keeps forgetting

Every day you get changes your life.

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

Your prefixed, scavenged opacity
fills with sangfroid riches of dark matter,
cloaking them with lark pedigrees.

14: In my judgment
what little I know of truth and beauty comes thru your eyes.
Except not tonight without you: Newer urgencies
for starry prognosticators pointing thru rain and wind,
pointing to each other, so exposed they feign ignorance, aimlessly...

And yet bad luck too when their lightning rod flashes while, lightly,
its chemical spark thrives for a second more then returns to stars —
doomed like cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.

Top of the moment — I saw your approaching motion
..my once satellite du monde in demi vacuum.
Now you’re smiling, shhhhh more observant, with a more observant love.
Still flush — yes, feels.. not useless.
It feels impossible.

Likely, shhhhh becomes welcoming
hands that boss,

parliament
maneuvers. Explanation intact.

When shopping from your texts I find solid proof 
Showing stunning results for innuendo: ‘You’re good. 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 went much further —  
Making money w/out reason is mass   
 
-ive. After.. surely if that’s the mood, there are vector  
Utilities for expressing wealth after dark..   
 
Sleep has no idea of here and now when ordering everything is the right answer
.. all on your check!

Have we no will, no interest to shed our platform ambiguity?

Rainy Sundays or any day we break for the shadow olympics observed or imagined on the ceiling: Rationed atheism has long been the main event. Sectarians find a balance of situation (organ music), steam and rush-formatted white ‘sky’ disappearing like totals in multiplicities (music for copulation). Late afternoon to others.

Factor in a plug-in for artisanal calisthenics.

Body resonance turns into a prism on top of which you can finger-point to the horizon, magnified and askew. So note what happens.
Better yet, get a friend or two to write for you, pretending they are you, falling mute, covering your lips with my gloved thumb.

Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled. 
Thus, Chickee is my guy.

55: Nor aside, a period sonnet doubts purity, softness but addresses war and enmity  
for a living record. Yet the fun workout once was of a soul, a soul a tone beserk.  
So why am I dwelling on the bloody ending like a warrior groom?  
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than that, still brighter than the wealth coming to me thru this poem...  
 
You and I find our own contents, oblivious to posterity, they’re uninvited — their statues
overturned, and we brought our own guests — memory and death. I...   
 
Even closer now to death... I burn with quick flame 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.

Fat chance gestalt code-switchers stutter trying not ..
Wordless dialectic is never strong enough. Yup, I repeat, smiling
with optimism that’s rewriting while it flips,
changes genres in lewd sleep.

Those organized by dreams triumph in their mind and body worship.
First vicarious, then conforming to a belief system.

And now it’s just fading maybe?

Or maybe it should.

There’s a term for attrition of affects, eyesore.

And there’s a hypertonic struggle to housesit too much information. You know it exists. Bad antecedents. Human body fat jumps, worth $100,000 a gallon.
This is the good gold.

A life is charged for care. I’m otherwise a coffee head! But no more, let’s pare it down.

Have we ever done anything but tamper with the weather? Oh, who knows? Oh, Ladytron. You seem so fake-excited in the sprayed periphery, staying in balance inside a soft radical vapor of bigness that’s quashed.

A few years ago poet and critic Peter Schjeldahl wrote of Yale Art School dean Tony Smith’s directorship of the Venice Biennale (1968), finding Smith the “most anti-academic of academics.” Per Schjeldahl, Smith opposes “rationalist theoretical tendencies,” preferring “artist’s initiative and the viewer’s intuition.”
I appreciate Schjeldahl’s pointing to intuition as a key exchange element between artist and viewer, poet and listener / reader. Evasive as it is, intuition becomes the sine qua non for influential reading, much less reader response. The contrasts of a projected plan vs chance become the quanta of exchange between writer and reader. Expectations influenced by a reader’s experiences contribute to an initial schema for intake. That plan is set in place. The text, if poetry, changes everything if the reader is ready for chance. The narrative operates in spatial dimensions for irreversible transport, influencing future planning, giving chance agency position for change.

Since giving up on poetry, singalong has vaulted to the top of our shared agenda. Shared or snared, just like them, say. Leaving office to wolves has a double meaning to off-center the filing (and filtering) system and other singularities I’ve kept back under my appendix for years. We have no limits to affirm any retractions, feeding our reliance on illumined work, dire pleasures, majestic plans and, this most generalized I guess, fortune (Fortune) itself burningly turning back to watch the wax dim.

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 a waiting room (decoherence), libations & it supports how I feel from within. & speaking of the pure land, it’s freezing. Barely recognize the place.

Frequently there’s a bitch
for whom you kiss that person.

She’s the bird notes
with a contract to bore within

— loyal to her lookout torn from a doorway
in a sparse analysis of roundtable math..
don’t pick on anyone else...

I usually renegotiate after a bonfire of love, & like glowing sparks, not a note of cynicism vis à vis whom I adopt. 
It’s better after I begin to wake I’ve landed. A roundhouse in green leaves is great. I merge at the top, half asleep.. 
Moreover, we’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun.. the left knee just there then took a variant position in a sequence of arm scratches — 

an honest hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity until it goes away, released at last into newly impartial states, witless after a while, undead.

Verlaine and that other guy,

2 birdbrains, explicit about nothing or nothing much; no / yes?

Ok, we’re more willful, stay in control — a thousand bees stinging our feet —
Wanting as well as gaining nothing — shhhhhh.. I can’t
.. I shouldn’t ask did I live like that fly on the wall?
You never can tell. I won’t.

— never forward your resume or IQ to a date.
A broader context refuses to arbitrate glamour, okay... we’re done
.. On my behalf Apollo can break laws to shoulder perfection or save a life, once or

either way is fractional in the bigger context / e.r.
Freedom is impersonal. With more throwdowns of perfection up the hall,
binary fission about meaning what is not said
or saying what is not meant.

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.

Etched into my cufflinks: Hell hath urgency.


I’m envious of my clients in purgatory. Not dying is not wanting to die.
My place is to stay in line & not lose my place in hell.

I’m in while trying a couple of poses from the repertoire of
A working stiff, the same post promised Hermes that put him over the edge.

I’m at that temp edge placing cash puts — Gauguin went to Tahiti! —
& no other bets on the periodic table, messieurs, petit in wanting you (I do).
Like fury.

My style is no variation, a luxurious quest. A stiff explanation.
If you’re stagnant, you’re just undead, pure metaphysical pre-evil. 
I put a recalled toy in my mouth, more profitable than narcotics.

Tons of special forces in silhouette .. polished from water .. on day one we’ll .. imagine caress trails.

We’ll correct everything near the top of the grade filling in ahead with capacitance-assistants, eventually 

Theorists of a visual world culture (camaraderie) wholly populated by good, socially secure posturing. After dark trials.

Adam made 10,000 mistakes — and won’t ‘correlate’ the enormity of it,
since evolutionists even now are running back to his bedside to dig up more about causality —

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

Eve, off our boy’s rib, a financial planner ahead of my time, always.
I’m still not finished, she says.
We can spot them both as atheoretical elaborators, since they spoke out first.

Tons of special forces in silhouette .. polished from water .. on day one we’ll .. imagine caress trails.

We’ll correct everything near the top of the grade filling in ahead with capacitance-assistants, eventually 

Theorists of a visual world culture (camaraderie) wholly populated by good, socially secure posturing. After dark trials.

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.

Don’t weep with your pant legs up, banker..

It’s a bitch comedy

Since oogling permeates our antinomy.

Meantime, finally —
You had every opportunity to reset the agenda —
Keep it together. Or pry.

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 new vocabulary bracing for normal heart spasms until climax, numbed in shade.

There’s a pebbled shore for this.

Resolved, the body is loaded for 3 seasons at a painting crossroads:
It’s more relaxing than filming bricks,
bowling tenpins or being w/ anyone who routinely

does things that could be awesome if intentional.

We left our module then to look over your curricula.

Lighting a match, dropping it into conversation..

Videoing = painting / reporting: imparting lyrical data slathered across a middle

ground, a themeless entertainment vehicle (driving us to sleep).

Random figments can’t say what happened that day (ekphrasis) but I know we slept over because there was a soft on the ears mattress to lie on. 
The mime sequence where you and I speak out was overall spoofy. More, there was a modulator from a board of moderation. Behavior like ghosts’...

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’ —

Shall I continue to enjoy dinner

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

How people talk?

To remain disciplined on our new celestial motion weekend

Calls for comfort and drill ...royal style.
Take over.

A white lie calibrated by the ruckus-like paean spoken (rather than speaking) in a large-scale dialectic —

battery powered to sow more male seduction / technology / outreach where all the jazz wears off.
We came herein with falsehoods we picked up earlier, and we sank together deliberately mismatched, yet we were ignited around the finger tips by deep compatibility. Vibrating skin, excitement for the best fibbers to the youngest, abstracted as figures of speech, savants, godsends.

Nonviolence resolutions have been approved. This is the place for airborne definitions. Here you find remuted meaning, good as hearsay to evade a “mixed remuting strategy” to partner with whom, exactly?

O Headwaiters..

I have a steady girl now. I have rage stamped inside. I keep it everywhere inside

everywhere. Coordinates
everywhere...
everywhere..
O rockets to further research.
— O bailiff, be this...
Sung. A first poem.

The effect is real. Real enough 
to be defined consistently. 
 
Errant is not mistaken for arbitrary. Form follows structure. 
In a way nothing’s for keeps. 
2 spiral arrays for time & harmony within a philosophy (moving spatial dimensions) several hours forward.  
 
Nothing’s inference, compressed form:
a ‘crown’ of contradictions veer dimensional rhetoric —  
 
Can waving time like a moony branch  
supersede nature,  
 
a piece of research asks. It’s asking a lot. Why open  
atoms under quivers at the edge to sleep?

89: In relation to conflicts over scale, the big guy and I want to inspect what you and others say.

Truly offensive, maybe. Like so many others, I’m fixated on war, warcraft, loss of democratic principles and governance procedures —

Dealing in 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 bring him up 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 strangleholds now ...

It’s pie months before Thanksgiving.. To set yourself free through what you don’t know — that takes a kind of unfinished aplomb, needing practice and achieved overviews. The verbatim relishes living among a slew of lucky design orphans from an alien vicinity, busted out of place, in the wrong skin and age.

(Welcome home.)

We need a balance for everything foundered in obsession. Come in. Please step inside where the balance should be.


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


I'll make him disappear.


And away with these shirtless demagogues from the previous slave-owners episode. 

We got them to break their fever but today I want you.

I can’t make it. We’re staying in.

A nutcase with an exploding cigar spins around saying, I’ve been watching you.

I spent decades as a stealth pathologist performing autopsies on ‘live people.’ 
My relationships are mostly strung out on sofa sectionals of pulverized dots —
He tells me I know this place better than my own bedroom, seeing he knows what I mean.

I can’t make it.

New wilderness tracing a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed, cuddling escalations in body movement, ledgers of age. Pummeling brilliance lives on in a pretty good phrase, a single word, and it always has, fudging abasement in clean confinement serving a purpose within supernumerary states of being (confined). 

After the decline of the 2(X)th century,
The state held sway on the 2nd floor near an ancestral cloaking device.
Eminent domain: Paranoia was passed out. Young & ugly you & I were next. Behavioristic info dumped into drinks
Not to arouse the unknown or undue, our well-being was of concern.
There are a few invitations we won’t forget.
& that does it for this hour. Meta-esthetics have postponed further equity for you & me together w/out & because of you, Señor Nasty = & no end to all observers laughing thru-out.

64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced. 
It increases its store with loss, done in by time’s fell hand, 
the cost of grief & openly, proudly 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 camera-readiness. &  
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.

Metaphor and life changing commerce..

Sugar Dust (you in a Bernini head replant) brings on the knowledge effect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching seasons float in willpower. I never understood insinuation. I never misunderstood it, either — a pulverizing divide teasing my attitude into admonitory tableaux sponged with your eyes...

Sunshine feels like a slap in the face. 
Milling around is jammed.  
Engines manage to hover. Pie charts and monthly market data are no guarantee of future thrum and rumble, hey and whoa — how awful, how much are we exercising to circumvent compulsory salutes and arm flapping? 

A soundtrack with pulleys, leisure to sing... gazes overlaid
w/ speech you keep delaying. An investment to punch into
hapless quibbles over riv vu’s.

Taut shortnesses of thought bubbles, disarmed by suspicions, you’re
an emulation of a man —
no way flippant, standing up without sticking, you could prove

choo! Uccello on his roof car unhinged, bartending! That’s how you sound. If you stand
if you speak if you kerchief

— are you keeping suspicion warm
to the bridge of my nerves?

Payment hence remains. It comes from the Greek for feigned ignorance. 

For legions of believers 
Who are in this for praise.

The general of desire wait lists the system. 


Notebook open, wallet shut.

I use bigger words than you,
pluralizing the spring flowers, the moons in autumn —
Classification by evolutionary collisions.
I think I prefer you all-purpose, best calm, never resolved.

20: Like voices & solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.) — smart, amazing particles sleep it off in traffic, affecting shifting hues up to the rolling bridge lattice. On you
& by you, nature’s face is warm & bright. All hues charged & painted brilliant to the eye — adding amazement & new purpose that’s stuffed with pleasure, not needing love, except when it comes altogether!

Thereupon we control our handiwork, less false than one’s life, almost like passion’s master-&-mistress gazing on you as passions grow.

Our national leaders and their propagandists know very well liberal capitalism is an inegalitarian regime, unjust, and unsuitable for the vast majority of humanity.

Grandeur is a deluxe quest and metaphysical evil.

I’m not a model, I just look like one. (Helen Vendler)

We’re the only nation that flies into hurricanes. (D.A. Levy)

Piano strings! precise and going no- 

                    where  
 

floating up nervous laughter  
 
.. an octopus taken more than once a day.  

Minutes after your work can be filed ..  
if there’s ‘work’ to ‘file.’  
Or will we be going anywhere?   
 
It seems like anywhere unless you know where you are .. 
just praying ..

Something came up. And what’s not mentioned expands underground.
This is unlikely as lightning gaining on fog. Lightning understands

it’s disassociated. Has nothing to transact, no tingle or lasting appeal.

How is it falling with grey streaks that look glazed or remedial well past

the exercise and expense of

the seven seas.

It would be a challenge to simplify winning as in a new car or suffering injury, 
Starving how?  
 
You’re at the door  
 
As I thought of you.  
 
Now an urgent delay for  
 
More. 

24: One perspective: My eye plays the painter. Good background for you & me to peep in.
Wherethrough a whole art school of cunning painters can pick you up, take a day off
away from hangers-on. Painters will be drawn to your skill & art — in your true image.
Your glazed eye for an eye, good turns both physical & in thought
win the day even as shapely models file by with body frames like yours —
painters will gaze on them to retrace your form but never reach your heart.

Someday all this will be yours. Five hundred
City blocks that lean socialist along
An untapped atmosphere of noir swing. Add slovenly
Housekeeping and altho you steal from me, puckish flair
And snappy dialog
Bearing love’s wrong.

Beginning I was angry buying my first diary-balance-ledger. (Moleskin.) But I learned a lesson.
There was no progress in the interim.
Party management was unleashed. Specialties got molded. Molded like sister drummers and saxophonists playing to masked hostility & indecisiveness backing up inexactitude from what they voiced before the beat took hold.

And there’s no party.