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.

12: This is a fugue in your full name..
we’ll talk this time.. briskly.

We won’t talk to the hideous, silvered clock — how telling in its barren prime..
Yes, we’re spry in our unclocked bravery, our spring movements and motives, agile yet underhanded
getting back to catch the hang of how time gives and takes.

You may notice we’re defenseless, forsaken, since we have to go on, borne
regardless, like dead wives girded up in sheaves, older men on biers with white, bristly beards.
Anytime today then subject to fast change
as sweets and beauties are disarranged —

Never saw them coming, old and new succumbing to murder and death — but not here, with you —

We brave more with you, questioning you as if we will never waste our time all through summer,
your beauty growing well now into the future..

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 the point of the test?

It’s anonymous either way. 

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

133: My strategy is sweet sleep until we wake.

Who’s calling?
Your friend is coming. Could I abandon myself? then my next self? both appear wounded players, both slaves to slavery?

Who can say? Twice or say thrice double crossed and, again, — it’s not enough to torture me alone —
Engrossed, I can hear my friend groan as if in jail, double crossed — pent up cruelty that’s

As if out of time, Couperin sprawled with the naked around Antoinette.

But let’s be rigorous and agree while we’re in prison I am in you. I am yours in force.

And I keep you in my heart on guard of you and for all of you in me.

Tensions were apparent.

Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to a co-op, wrapped in steam.

Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague exchange, like our national plebiscite, maybe better to pump out to fog’s grasp.

I’m right beneath my shirt. Sort of a theory laden species.  
What if there’s a non-theist way to prepare, provide? & what  
if we’re both wrong, but less wrong than who?  
 
Let’s keep to federalist motives, far from fashion simplicity,
& let’s live together at night while we impel  
 
malfunctions that blurt out permissions extemporaneously,  
licenses to re-authorize no god’s sorrow over death.

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’ve imparted nothing, haven’t praised me. . Gabby. .
Let’s pronounce your true love untrue. But make it count. .
Tho even in this I fear sarcasm.

A nonreligion of eternal cold, a High Service
Sung along both coasts:
Our people are what makes us / great.
Love and heritage go down together.

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

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

Sharpening endurance,
Risking focus.

I like it when pros of song dig in and flail. 
That about covers it.  
( It’s that emotional core between personal and pro.)
Becoming free is a moving and intimate aria. (Like “Summertime.”) I got joy. I got sun.  


Gotta run, pros.

146: I’m talking to you in no rebel-speak.. 
 
Our savior went missing. No more dying then? No lie, I watched us dream within a.i. economics, weeding and planting over a creamery’s radius, destabilizing outside temperaments for molecules eating itty Taos. Body losses. Our Taos. Looters and rhombus-gatherers, all doing their time respectively — great work for the power preserve. Cuts straight through molecule restructure, taking up more chopping patterns to put down key words. Our largest source is not Asia or other spaces, but time, on lease, epic sums of slender, sharpened cuts. The runway along with 21st century humane instrumentation reduced to off and on combat. (Gulp.)     
 
Don’t know. Not going to lie. (Ideologues get stuck on last lines.) 

We just saw (a few feet / minutes from now) however
Your address changed. We could have done it differently before you discovered the user
charts; the parent company was ours before we stole from them.

You’re not going to be delirious are you?
Just for a stretch of disdain..
Robbing me from sleep where I rewrite chain letters you refuse to answer... Good for you.


Good for you — Making up a to do list! blinded by periodic breakthroughs, 
Tho pragmatics circumvents the conscience to mend things — 
The focus is on nothing we won’t do..

— I haven’t slept a wink — Try sleeping pills. 
Yah. Well, that’s a good idea.   
 
I know I’ve been deceitful, but I had my reasons.
Maybe they were dumb reasons, but they were reasons.  
 
I never said I was the best man in the world.  
 
Give me a little credit, will you, credit for being someone...  
 
who tried to love you the only way he knew how.  
 
I know that speech  
 
— You do? — pantaloons last April...  
 
when Devon met Bolt’s empyrean nephew.  
Oh, God.  
— Get out — Please try to understand.  
 
The measure of all histories remains constant
— No need to use that language.   
 
Get out! Now!

13: Son, father, if we were only ourselves
we’d bear up against cold instincts..  So
                              hard  
to put back in the valise, bare love. We pirated the code.   
 
I can’t say we did it willingly (signing our leases through dueling storm gusts). In honor? None! 
 
No fuller determination, love, you love no longer than your life in full.
Others like you, mere semblances to me, hold to the same lease.  

You give me sweet forms of love against a certain fall,  
against coming death and barren winter, my love. O you now —
 
Surely you know each of us ‘should prepare’ 
For none but life and love, holders for a full life, eternally in love.  

I can put a prayer this way.
The color of the spine goes ultimate, high and low, austere yet foreseeable.
And the evaluations are in.

You are part of what we hold.

It’s an argosy of what’s evolutionary before it gets more uplifted.

I like it when pros of song dig in and flail. 
That about covers it.  
( It’s that emotional core between personal and pro.)
Becoming free is a moving and intimate aria. (Like “Summertime.”) I got joy. I got sun.  


Gotta run, pros.

115: Devouring you and reckoning.. I love you best. A doubting part of my fiction holds. (I could not love you more in the course of altering my accent.) I have no clear incentive to divert, mindless of taking chances, since I’ve already changed through fierce blunt talk — too much talk and I’ve raised a toast to loving you too desperately... The junk madness of it, as my judgment’s grown less certain over the course of a million accidents (how angry rewrite gets) and how it makes your tan beauty (and me, too) enflamed for pale, poker-faced poets like Rene.

Fact: eye contact is mostly on the defensive but our strategies around the eyes are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense. This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making a pattern, to and fro altercations sited within a figure-ground colloquy.
“‘In a way’,” he said, “‘nothing saved me until we ran the gauntlet —’”

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

A huge agnostic discipline
About attitudes behind morals.

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

The balance left over. Inhabit the brim

To the point you realize
We know now — now less than nothing...
a view down a corridor of great numbers.

42: What do you need now and for what?
You may ask if I loved you.
Is that my bravo question?
Do you test, tease, defame always to get the best?
I ducked his punch, closed the distance.
My loss is my love’s gain for my sake.
I told him, no don’t, I have to bolt.

Loving offense more, I excuse you both.

Credo:
Misery looks a lot better. Go. Fees balanced. Get out!

Staring at trains’ inhabitants at South Station —
Our blankness fills in family trees offside. After.. there are instrument
Channels (word flares) for composing love. We never saw this before.

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

To admire oneself, one’s distinction,
There’s a lot more ahead.

Poetry goes thru many drafts.

I forget ephemerality, I forget narrative. 
I’m drunk on the environment, 
still a working temp, a role promised Malthus that threw him over the cliff.   
 
Now suppose a perfect Darwin of heavenly fury,  
searing, puffy, relaxed and succinct.   
 
Now an angel, let’s run some #’s.  
To pass out when we wake is ample.   
 
I’m at your side placing puts  
on the evolutionary table, petite in wanting you (I do).  
I forget farewells.

35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.


A scent of acacia and soft frangipani, sweet but no trespass at all.


You’re triumph.

Don’t sweat over past comparisons. Done. Good-bye.
I’ll muddy up your love of skiing once and your playing chess against yourself, may I?
It makes sense at that, loving you is a civil war — sensual to a fault —

Roses, grieve no more.. nor silver fountains, nor clouds, no eclipses!

Good-bye everything.

Filming at midnight — kvelling schtick is a tactical concept.
And today’s laughter protocols could not be ‘more serious.’ Except...
It’s been remarkable to gauge how sneering, vaporous, obtruding personalities —
A loose term — proceed un-amusingly
Or even uncivilly in opening salvos. Seems a rehearsed practice, perhaps.

By salvo — the first three or four minutes of monotone in character, in talk and in poems.
You can’t do that up in this film.
So much slobber invested from the start, forced discourse, along with any oomph, runs dry.

Pantoum: given a key, you lose it
— shifting attention but staying in touch.

I forget functioning ghost towns caked with tire tracks,
I draw a blank on jailhouse interiors and decades of Tonka trucks.

[...there is no outside [...] only what’s already here [what we breathe] below...it’s
Immature, impulsive...] key [as above] ..

— I forget empirical relationships the most, the visual force of
                    a “mottled taxonomy,”

Complaints and sworn declarations...
I forget meeting you.

64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced. 
It increases its store with loss, tho, done in by time’s fell hand, 
— the cost of grief & openly & proudly expressing it thru American English. 
I hope we can let the language of grief 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, fearing losing you. 
My soul’s inscription reads you’re my state in the eternal state, my business.

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

Louisiana, East of Eden: That time of year with smarter definition. 
How’s that if your electricity is out and nothing works?  
We needed smarter drywall too, to excite dusk in the   
ferns and moss growing another way after sunset, every-   
thing about the yield blowing in its news  
of recurring unitary joy...   
 
that must expire.  
 
I liked getting you to this point, finished off by you. 

98: Smothered abstractions — Absent from you in a good season, I think it’s winter now. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless, yet 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, lilies white, roses vermillion: A sense of youth’s hue and odors. These are your abstractions, all these pattern figures drawn for and after you.

The terms are, go settle down through the evening, finish your addenda
at gunpoint. Perhaps heartbeats get covered by a shroud that frays
and unspools to gain advantage spreading the plan.

Without license, we impart numeric dicta slathered with platitudes —
with all the conviction of a third episode —
century-old middle ground (the themeless module) where we stay sleep (wavy
fields of inaction) and continue playing around vulgar innuendo to bear being
kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating me not to rule you out, generously.