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.

9: No form of you
Felt anything but used, average.. a spent, destructive sort of blandness. Also a problem.

Your world consumed less with guilt for political experience / current status / winning outright =

Hey here I am! Staying married, single you and I may change our minds!
I already forgot to.
Could ..ah! you and I are loved by many. I’ll commit, in sleep ...
We are watched over and settled into a kindly already new shifting
Still enjoying practice, wailing, banging triangles and drums ...
Your private voice as wet as many eyes we can sleep with. Look.

I wake [Ah!] — My own voice a bit hoarse
..a life talking with you,
But not a spec of you tonight.

Our dual cosmos doodad self-inflates as a product injector covered by cultural exertion, just like weather bombs wearing Beirut postwar colors, pebble and pale, lucent grays.

Colors go up all right, each color of stone seething with a claque inside, giving access to haystacks that we call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.

I really don’t know what I’m buying.
Materiality, tho, can’t exist. No dissonance, a new status quo that’s 4 ever and sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness — unraveling our optics, dissolved into attitudes about that first time behind all the good times 4-ward.

98: Smothered abstractions — Absent from you in spring, seems it’s winter now. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless, but different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams drawn after you, dreams that forgive me for holding the moment too long — for paranoia’s trapping us both. Summer’s story, flowers’ sweet smell, lilies white, roses vermillion: The sweet spirit of youth’s hues and fumes. These are your abstractions, all these pattern figures drawn for and after you.

Once there was a crutch like levitation, it got modulated. Modulated is like drummers and saxophonists, women coming out to play, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our environment and backing it up with inexact beats and multiplying sounds from what they were doing before the session took hold.

Sexual scaffolding hovers in the interim, instantly recognized as male identity. Identity and hardened m.o.’s then evaporated. We invented them from silences, lies and a feral sense of feeling cornered in a soulless piano practice lesson. Enough — men as well as women are resigned and re-acclimated to generations of processed shock of the simple — the safe-zone simple, where infectious pop is authenticated, highlighting some weak spots.

Wherein a smirk presses on — mass culture destroyed by life-changing sex.

That would be the solid thanks to no progress.

You put a question mark after feeling genreless — in a Brainard film, it would be a pick
-up line.
There is no personality, only successive time frames, 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 others’ love labor, enabling and overlooking our conditional first, only day together...

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 ... there is nothing low, nothing sacred.

No interviews today. Triumph* is creepy**.

*Creepiness, unlike triumph, is widely construed as inaudible tendencies toward plundering contexts to alter asymmetrical inference.


**Authentic triumph, group or personal, cannot be construed.

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.

Any non empirical approach compels outsourced argument.

I’ll try for an overweight blunt invention
of the non willed state, or what some call civil
efficacy for streamlined intake. Let’s soak up the view.

— Let’s be fair, a song of gossip v a notional prosodic partnership is a fluke enjoining boosters of inequity.

Runic, compared to verse now.

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

Our slogan could be restated: Bodies of formulae destroy poetry until only style prevails.

(Yay..)

154: Once asleep I’m sick of disarming love; I’m diseased, too hot a votary of yours.

I’m sick, taking a vow to live off another desire — never touching you..
Trompe l’oeil I now know approximates healthful maiden abstractions.. (like branding
each true heart until warmed — hotter than other brands) ..and so warm we can take up

mind and body worship on the side. Worship un-quenched, a daily practice that perpetuates our trippy belief system. Or more,

our remedy never cools, but heats us for more and newer cures..

Cocktails, 4:00 pm. Dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflecting gritty, highly-trafficked back alleys of jinx, beaming seduction and violence. Are you healthy enough for this perfection? One is a little off, ok — speaking the usual way subverts expectations. A stencil of our dialog frames many others As a thought pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.

With every rallentando I feel cleaner, more nondenominational than ever.
Now a little drunk I look up at crocuses fighting odor, climbing elm trunks.
It’s air apparent, I feel cleaner with you. Clearer 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 tested for flu ..
You and I in slow, we hope, radon decay
that stays unaffiliated yet torched with prayer.

33: I may not be deep enough; loose alliteration masks that, only maybe — maybe I’ve got a thought altering ‘mentalist’ landscape up my sleeve. ‘Heavenly alchemy,’ your words. My love is the sun in the morning .. You have a roundish face, green eyes and a slender yet blunt nose that hardens your otherwise sad, unrecognizable features and sovereign eyes. When I read about contradiction and ‘splendor’ I keep wiping tears from my neck, but I never read the sun in the morning as your love before I met you.

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.

O poetry is like one poetry. For
Clinging to one tradition, poetry is like nothing
Else in entertainment; at first it reveres collectivity,
Tiered access & flavors of spontaneity.

I’m thinking of a most awkward color.
The ballroom looks
Tiled back & forth mistily
Across immense miasma. That seems useful.

“Do we get party hats,” asked one rich in the tradition.
In another direction an ex-party manager
Advised a close reading of The American Heritage Dictionary.
The poetry label can be part of a headscarf, more than obvious:
Wild-eyed, one of the top tens, as one makes a preparation response
Framed like all the others’.

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

Sunrise. Whoever, rhyming — Uhmms call up homonym systems,
Back strings pop into songs. [The RNA bits of things doing more good.]
To enlighten you and me I’m

Mashing oaths-to-love into genetic keepsakes, your tag = good, mine = ok, ours = phosphorous!

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.

Your movements go by a few names, still coordinated but hidden in.. hardly underwear.

Not dreadful but low, classic, easy, unforgettable elements surrounding a presence (for now) then taking them off — your panties — quiet and respectful in everyday nudity.

For nudity, it’s always a swing dance in practice, a whole new side of narrowing expense and becoming hallowed thru the center, handing over your hard currency and coins.

A lot of Dutch people go Dutch.

Sonnet 100: Muse. You. We have worthless spoils darkening our song — an idle song we convert to argument with little or no honor. Still it ‘sings’ to the ear. In numbers and verse I surveil your fame most everywhere. You return time and again, lending my base subjects body- action and energy — you’re faster in my time. Come closer: Your power and skill suspend most of my fears even as we love vicariously — even more to love more, to redeem spending my fury and all my life in satire.

Spacetime.
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /
not while evangelic angles of light conscientiously make a big deal taking us home.
Vaccinated, I have a merciless itch.. just what is this collapsed satori we travel into?
Quote: Passing the “casting
of cities,” thinking past us — end quote.

I’m never sure. I’m still a novice,
numb to knowing what conscience is.

I’ll do what I can. It wears on me.
Smothered abstractions take time. Another day, slim odds. Almost mirthless, yet different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me for killing the moment. Paranoia’s belated audition traps me if I let go while not assuming authority.

Evasion tho provides an advanced style, state-of-art restraint — the harsh gets exaggerated.

One more day to recover losses mid-grin.

Beyond us, beyond them, 4% atoms, tiny
wriggling strings; hidden yet 22% of the tug —

dark and unknown predicates
fixated on procedure, a luscious, noiseless bond.

We can call it a bond
adding up the lead time, eyes

open, moving, waiting, meaning
taking rational effect?

You and I can’t attempt it without
touching on our dual roles as we reradiate consensus.

84: Partnerships were counterparts, 1st a little lunatic, more than most...
                Even worse, hotly culled. And who can say?
Let me copy what’s clearly writ, how writing lends some small glory, substituting for natural praise
                — you’re admired everywhere! Fame dignifies your story.
Adding no curse, I lower my voice to approximately yours.

To such immured an example, who can say more? You alone are you
                 As your story goes. And you let it go.
Rich in style, but fondly penurious compared to what is writ in you.

The care flip. Use as directed.

Combustion and dust spores filling avenues becoming identical, your honor. People borrow shelter in ice cream convenience centres, then bolt for the subway, running with asinine language (you can’t call it dialog). Ugly apartments. Life-draining clothes. New affections. Highly recommended. 

Bathing in enjambement, my naked duty —
‘worth the trouble’ — called out in a tremblor voice to children
blurring the terrain,
a stenciled closure: he shouts,

Let’s search for reason in nature’s chaos...
No one writes like this, pulsating — it’s wonderful.

A miracle.

11: 1st choice for a sonnet: to solve you for x. If you must, be rude, foolish but coalesce;
An x factor takes up lives like yours.

Let’s hear it, yea!

We feel bursts of fresh blood, increased by wisdom, your endowment.

Wait. Later, with or without x... it seems cold here, an ebbing world away...

And so like-minded so fast —
We convert yea to .. folly ..

The world you call yours we make featureless, barren.

Inky smoke releasing a genocidal collage, living
Thought in agitated waves, reproached, disappeared
In drumming opinions (subtracting best practices) —
Look for nothing to help harsh times that should come to an end.
Cold freezing nature, per se, nature will age, perish, decay.
But we keep x in mind, cherished love..
The more you and yours live on .. I get my life back .. what you give.

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.