I work here but not much any more.
Cascading circumstances.
My travel limits are pointing to chimera with no destination.
Striking bells, lightening round.. 
Take a test. Brightness gushes out, but colliding transmissions are roughened by screaming. Screaming ballet is euphoria, turbulent-urges and compromises. But do you understand both points?

It’s anonymous anyway. 

Tho before the diagramming mist rolled in I felt your grace, holding on with both hands.

136: I am nothing. What’s my business? Blind soul systems led me to — O you

— whereas checks to you as well as receipts are accounted for in secrecy, passwords to love pilfered, your soul knows you’re already admitted...

W/ several newer ideals that would leverage you right there in the pluperfect, had your love held me by my name.

Therein, a civilizing process today to staying purposely
dull, entered into by spotting it first. It’s
a clear refinement where character offers libation — my sweet-nothing.

Drink up for nothing will hold us, nothing
supports a love-suit from underneath. Only you win the job!
You’re my own nothing-boss!

Not to arouse undue hearsay, your wellbeing was my concern. Who’s missing? It isn’t safe yet. I won’t forget. 
And that goes for this gala rehearsal. Proud exclamations to postpone further vaping, advancing a counternarrative for co-stars stepping slowly waving gold torches in flames, pressing the troupe into feeling nervous in observed time. 
 
I was going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension 
of disbelief, a flipping out scene out of martial arts, sparkling pen-  
 

umbrae, a pro ring barnstorming on top 
dicing / re-arranging pushed to extremes, 
undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.

My love as a fever costume, inky hell on opium.
Back I said, a piece of non-advice directive.

Hell, like innocence, wrongly revealed, concerns ethics, not intent.
Adoration had had a lilac scent. Still has.

Reputations get worse preceding character, even when apprehension remains
Deferential. One fifth of known marriages are conditions in such unreasoning reprieve.
Who will advocate toward peace, for the tranquil
To empower mergers & exchange?

2: We never come across deep trenches in your beauty here. Not here.

Slow, like never before, a thriftless parabola of your face intersects both of us. Parabolas come up with their own monikers (that were).

Face to shoulders, our gestures are precise, going well into your eyes, and through your eyes, the viewer’s glass.

There are proud motions throughout — answering to your sunken gaze. Warm and cold pride climb down a first, second, third hill. Falling lower — a lusty mainstream-underground

of units of successors proceeding, then, looking craven — we — some of us — avoid them. Of small worth. When asked, will

you recover some of mine? Renew my worth? how much? First, let’s renew
our blood and warmth, summed up in fair use

remembering pleasures of the eyes! neck! and chest!
Yes there..

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.

A cynical swarm steps over and above battle monotones. Our direction shifts as our nervous systems distort exchanges in love so long as the sexes are divided. I’m so a wielder of a goaded identity. But if you or I decry how compromised I am, we miss the point, generally.



Time to release the affinity shapes. I think I’ll stop before that.

(On the other hand, I get kind of overstimulated by bland generalizations .. I wouldn't know how to come down on many everyday issues with start-stop disputes.)

There is nothing but an emergent zone of autonomy to find a prosthetic like lack of despair. Big except. Except when you think it over.

17: I can’t be a second late — I’m hellbent to write you down on paper, to put down the beauty of your eyes where whole numbers enumerate all your graces (even as one ‘poet’ lies) —

Tho my paper yellows with age... by your grace you can live twice. But who will believe this half-truth could be living in parts of you without tangible proof, without your offspring stretching all the way into the night, keenly inanimate now tho living in time.

You say no way, I only half like it, bleh! / The poet lies
...lies, but no more than other earthly tongues filled with living rights to antique songs...

At arm’s length.. There were dimensions an hour ago enabling 2 events in one plot we’re part of. 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 braid worn as Lars’ necklace, a burning space distinguished by diffuse vitality. What about Lars? We didn’t kill him.

You may have noticed I write over your face, a kind of praise,
fuzzy & lovely fragrance of roses, choosing you out
of many then forwarding you as backdrop for my dear heart’s old face 
We reach some element (full sail) within the (verse) set where perfect
touch is unleashed, and by either/or the scenery is
suddenly beyond diagram while the crew calms down. It’s approaching nightfall.
There’s a dual nature of ghost anonymity that makes what’s inside us
disappear, a bright pulling apart at the summitry of our escape.

Either/or? My/your silence cheats at hearts —
unless we’re in love to win over sparkle to figure it out?

16: It’s hard to do a mock-up & care. One idea for you, keep giving yourself away.

You have no better nor sweeter skill than to fortify my grasp and rhyme-on on me.
Girlfriends, boys, gardeners, all “outward fair,”
Nothing less! No less and still another idea for you. Only a wish.

To have you stand on top of a flowering garden, happy, alive in the eyes of those living now .. only an outward idea, yet unset.

I can’t tell you I don’t care.

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

my own job composer 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.

Condition blue.
Ten or so
gulls kick it off, running
over bass.

Ripping in mean
swimmer’s blue,
in a competing mesne,
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta
more down surf, startling
partisan swaps
That swell
the color skit among removed strata.

22: Inside you

the mirror shows a raiment of my heart — therefore
so long as your beauty & youth cover me

— praise & the opposite grow acrostic, seemly rife, stirred by your love
for days. I tender my pen to write down what you bear in your heart
(washes of shadows, unrehearsed, at your will)
— how can I be dated, the elder of us two —your breast lives in mine and mine in you,
fixed in air, we stay in love, nursing love. Expiators.

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.

There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.

Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.

I lower your voice to approximate the closest parity.

Somewhere.. what’s a sociopath?
The truth is a manifold vacuum. And we’re feathery.
Shorthand abstractions like these comprise unforgettable totems to our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off, spinning or spun, upset, out of control.

100% our touch.

8: Music to hear? Truth is we seem sad and feathery, as tho speechless, self-killed.  
 
Only short distillations where unions are made for a time  
like this mutual ordering to our touching and grasping the moment, now surrounding it with songs of taking off for the unknown, spinning, spun,  
 
upset, out of control yet  
 
that’s how we fasten sweet music we hear to move around objects. 
 
100% our touch.

The music brokerage remains in aeronautical space.
A month ago a morning flew by.
My closest amigo is my
most carnal ally. It’s sea cooperation.

I was hit in the face when he turned himself in.
I knew I am unhappy and similarly, like most everyone, I am not —
The 1st few words take on destabilizing character. I’m trying to clean this up [snip] have to leave enough ‘intent’ to keep me pleased, since after I’m finished he’s finished. This is an exemplary yet limited procedure, so I’m framing it as fun exercise, cutting straight through its own restructure creating more choppy patterns to abandon ...

Folks from a gridded compartment have decided
most perfectionism is out of step
while playing as aficionados of the vulgar

to provoke both nature and full disclosure.
Those organized under their strong gesture shall triumph.
Those compartment folk know this and tap
all our communication, born of necessity. Our own dialog reflects
gritty highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence.
Oooo we’ve discovered our voice.

140: Winter too fast ahead, base description: cruel. Should we be madder?
In sleep even a con anarchist gets seasonal immunity. 
Growing, still asleep, this is appealing — better there were much more under preseason wraps. 
Snow this soon would be a surprise.

I hadn’t known snow like this. I’m a novice enthusiast, the tongue-tied manner of snow conveying warmth and pity. 

Should I go broke? Just relax.
It’s snowing, nothing personal, wafting like deep winter over our awesome hamlet — 

Further out the snowblowers pile on like error-prone spiders hustling always. Faster.

Folks from a gridded compartment have decided
most perfectionism is out of step
while playing as aficionados of the vulgar

to provoke both nature and full disclosure.
Those organized under their strong gesture shall triumph.
Those compartment folk know this and tap
all our communication, born of necessity. Our own dialog reflects
gritty highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence.
Oooo we’ve discovered our voice.

Dinner in precision blizzard-words, drifting,
Reversed decisions rotating in cavernous surf like mercurial quanta
Shifting soft, whispered — this could occur. You’ll go in circles digging deep, redressing
The boat’s mortality —
Say when. Pulse, how did we say when?
There’s the written form, a cool word
Clambering, feeling its way...

Voices in funnels, a trickledown of some futurity,
Dropping my sights — but now, they’re rising
— this is the fastest way to earn points. And somehow
We’re surrounded by a new opening line:
We write for children, progeny. So
Forward, a debit resonance favors our successors —

We’re nothing but voices that bell without simple words show.

Simple makes a difference, please, make us an offer
As Baby Wateau vanishes
& the cake sale flags — vanished out of memory & sight as I am now.

5: No remembrance now. Of confounding beauty. Of your lovely gaze where beauty dwells. 

Once I played a stealth painter portraying sweet, unrobed women and men. Subjects were mostly strung out on sofas — big, jaunty shapes who swaddled their inner pooch — gentle work but yes I loved you better frosty / lusty!  

I was framed by approaching you in summer, distilling pulverized, liquid dots
— a pointillist prisoner doing time, 

never resting, pent in by tyrannical daylight that still excels in leading us on —

Kites: pinky juicy crisp
Space parlance —

The language predates mottoes and their handicraft with canned vibration
Slithery, waxed down toward our bumbled abstentions.

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

Pearls — trance police, a hex video
On top under-invented heights.

Physicalism (product brand continuity) adapts to schemes (a speed-up in thought control).
Government, absent your liberty, is not that impregnable. As background, your charter is one colorful PROCESS shot. A lethal-to-pallid vassal group locksteps to your scent. You yourself clothed less formally, tame, save motives for eagerness.

And this is what I did not want to say.
There is product on the loose.

32: You’re reserved outdoors, for your love adds layers
And exempts us from showing up to enchain, knife, subdue.. 
That’s once I reach heights of happier men but none like you —
As Satie plays, giving away what we’re better at 
— gosh! I read an earlier generation in tears warms up today’s loving style. 
Poor from love, a class struggles thinking it’s for real. 

The struggle, not the tears. 

Levitation in words has to be modulated. (The levitators wanted this.) Modulated is like coming out to play, sampling indecisiveness, the masked hostility of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact beats, 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.

A poem is like a naked circus person, say, her winter force

Through the green fuse drives extra flowers —

That so?

Some say I’m a poet. Sweating,

A healer is one of a few who drive my green rage —

One who understands the responsibility emerging
Amid roots of poetry’s trees.
(Phosphate and fallen blood will calm her sores.)

And I dined under poetry’s arbors with her through now.

I’m numb to reveal I’ve been offered wings.

Land-locked, our favorites bent by the same wintry fevers

And I’ve never been so impressed.
High time to define manship come of age, long- 
Stood. Waking up released. Populations drenched.  

A circus repatriated.

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 tear-shedding disputes. Just so, we’re still cloaked in loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal my storm-beaten face but not the offending wind smudging our wounds into a double-cross of rotten smoke. Why?

It’s not enough I lose, ransomed to disgrace. I’m scared; ah, no relief as such. Not yet. I don’t travel well in new grief. I hide from your face even as it’s shedding dry tears, breaking promises, still breaking me.

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.