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.

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.

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.

34: I have a base feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in a way — Together, you and I define arcs of ironic repentance but worked out in a series of tearful disputes. Just so, we’re still cloaked in our losses. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve may heal my storm-beaten face but not the offending wind smudging our wounds into a double-cross of smoke and rotten smoke signals. Why? It’s not enough I lose, ransomed to disgrace. I’m scared; as such no relief. Not yet. I don’t travel well in grief. I hide from your face even as it’s shedding dry tears, breaking promises, still breaking me.

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 business in my crosshairs.

91: Who owns property, names, anything under formalism? Boasting of birth,
of skill, we grew up 20th century, years before joy in mega-wealth
became the measure for every day, as adjuncts measure it.

Some glory still of hawks or hounds, pride to a category of leisure. Yup. More? Your love is of more delight than dreams of pleasures


that can’t exist — here we go — our love zooms in value.

Love’s body force is better, richer, prouder, to the top!
You and I own one property having love, finding this joy above the rest.

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.

At speech therapy you wear wet marks under your shirt — there you go — sent, 
Slotted for long scream divisions raising heads and  
.. bright debate  
 
Drawing boundaries along dark areas of youthful propaganda. And ..  
Our dual-cosmos line of argument self-inflates as a weather injector, fouling the atmosphere into beigest colors, pebble and pale lucent rays.  
 
At this point, colors burn up, each measurement raging over acres of matrices, giving more access to haystacks you call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.

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 ...

4: Unthrifty = extravagant; nothing = nothing.
To traffic in deception, record your writing. Take fast notes
.. and I’m being fra nk, beauty lent to you
will oppose given facts of previous loveliness gone unused —
a perplexed legacy taken outside why or what’s acceptable

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

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

traffic with fog to bequest lilac-dark in the air
spending upon you and me
so great a denatured octagonal gloom
by our own natures, sum of sums, we must take our notes alone.

Beating rhythms in a voice for a glassy town of convoluted propaganda, repro-ed in fingered pigments. 

With handbrush and oils you can throw dirt over the charged ecology — easier to pick up, stop feeding and dis-embrace after the climate hangs up.  

Go on, as a corollary. Tell us about your reading in propositional aesthetics (debunked by snotty affiliates who you think are like you but aren’t in the least). 

Jumping in, our best bout staff, shifted or fired, come to work anyway. 

Attention. 

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

Is that all you’re having for dinner? Explanations that transform?

One will need a simpler download for individual agency on the descent. There’s no humor in discretion. No wind in your hair makes us sick. 

Athens is the cradle of alpha reality, 
Hip, stolid, ordered smooth, unruffled for the taking.  
I got married however without knowing the side effects. 
The light darkens. I hate Greece.  
It’s official, we’re its colony.  
Ah, #136, latecomer to the cultural line, all time subservience.  
(It’s not easy being special.)

147: The impressive, impassive float seems to learn amour’s fever is a disease  
as desire is death, unwelcome overnight: 
“The float is radiant, jammed with wares,” 
 
had we anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I been  
eloquent as to the radiant as well as to the sickly, the bright
— we’d need no captions.”  
 
Mad, a lover’s discourse throughout anticipated that very base point, past cure, past care ..  
Why does reason leave now when there’s one move to go?  
Tho vainly expressed, longing is still well fed by our appetite to please.

Sonnet 26: My life is charged by your respect. A merit so great
I don’t sleep much, but I'm given an exemption, I hope.
My thought is tattered, then naked but mostly fair. 

Dear you,

I send you this. Finer aspects lacking for a good generalist’s conceit... I’m wanting words to show I am barely half a wit. My writing addresses ... this itself deliberately to look made up, to look as if we need a hand skipping dinner, combing through jabs and moving high and low pressure points peeled back from getting our tenuous, jutting fingers into and under the interstate that brings us home.

I don’t think driving in my mind can be boasted of only moving from point to point but it’s great I don’t worry it gets easier, better.

Un-reproved, how I love you. I do.

A disheartening work pile supposes its completion. A muse speaks up, tho, in dialog enhancer
mode, increasing the volume a good amount.
We have to stop adjusting the margins for your low, meadow voice... 
for giving up missing your skin

...a good amount ... speaking of meaning?
That would be as far as I get
with you so solid a wonder, ending our aversion to near infinity.

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. What comes first on a bender is calm to recover and / or replace each close-to-noble escape route on ahead.

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 and personal rights, dreaming endlessly.