A stab at tantrics, a High Service

Sung along both coasts:
Our people are what makes us / great.
Love and heritage go down together.

The last nonpoem eases 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.
The disease gathered in a kitchen of the West Wing.
Democracy is a charity case. I have checklists from partisan television.
Civil discourse’s beginning to come undone, a mistake... a lasting one.


Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of the epistemic industry that can consider anonymous approximations in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard.

Moving forward I have all of an hour to believe in sweetness made into infamous exposure (in costume). Still, I cannot stress enough

your card was de-activated.
It’s a perilous ‘was’ — let me give you a way out.
Since there are multiple aims, capital will be re-bought, redefined,
irresistibly absorbed in sleights of hand. Meaning it,

if I voice a question mark at the end of feeling genreless, it becomes my pick-up line for the calmative afterlife.
Naval voices wake me up. 
It’s too embarrassing 

pulsing in a deep mirror, 
light rain to snow performing butoh. 

(Ethical and mammalian boundaries pertain.) 

I’ll put it this way and be done.
I misfiled my core principles, went 
for higher ones in baroque-neurotic dream. 

Any higher, they’re not talking ..
(there’s tighter discipline) 

Highly apéritif, 
morally camouflaged cold indirection. 
But our metabolism really took off, along 
with raw emotions from a huge palimpsest 
of no exposition, since 

it’s all of the above. 
Literally nothing is granted, nowhere, no how.  
There’s a centerpiece to explain how flowers are cut as progressions. 
Iconoclasts count them in a series as foreground to falling cornices. 
They did (in plurals). 
Now months later, there’s good news 
Since you wait for a change of fortune, not for empowering others. 
Your freedom belongs hiding in plain sight, on the ground.
Fuller discourse can scar others, you see, yet you see nothing but simple, bare facts are slaughtered by pressing the remote.
Free, in subjective sensation.
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.
Flames stink up the place. Hay on fire. Let’s dump all this way in the rearview. We will be leaving footholds in town, doubles of blurs in dizzy luxury, punching thru colorless straw and spheres in embers.

Hay savors its just punishment! — regulatory propriety could care less, looking to nominal trivia — exactly what we recoil from. Who are these authorities summoning logical defenses to endorse their own Hail Mary passes and our first entertaining containment?
Our bodies are made for each other. 
It’s astonishing.  Did you hear back, what? 
.. I’m changing my mind for a life you changed  
So relax.  
No cheap shots. Nope. Take the plunge..  
Now I’ll try occupying your emotional life.. I move in with a conscience 
Operating with data of the moment.  
Our biggest hurdles, memories.


Language has a slight vegan sexuality appealing
On one side as noted by third parties

Who hang out in their unusual white corridors,
Suggesting we’re still trembling from the

Pinch off, just a short chopper ride
From the bank and trade. It’s language

With a so called blind glossary,
Investing in placidities.
Why does a face arrest? Our thoughts knit together
Like mica pile ups and our voices ricochet thru voicetracks.
We’re lobbing the acorns underbrush until we’re scooped
Up for holding our breath, bounced, kicked, ungloved by catalysts.
Suspend suspension..

Our hesitance to go there is weather related warmth riding in and a similar improvised sauna of fog going out, all but darkness offshore the day before.
The atmosphere wheezes through its pace emboldening dreams.

What hinges out?
Hop in, I’m a musician.
36: Radical repetitions. There they go. Altho seeming the same one, 
you’re almost mine. Yet you get so far then stop.  You’re not alone.  
I may not be my one delight — for you are not solely mine. It’s a shame tho we honor our inner living love as it divides us into blotted hours, alone. I confess — or let me confess both radical respects are separable, each shamed into a love of one sort with altered effects —  
Your love, mine — honored remains from our nervous systems that distort our both loves, it seems, set to break (but do not so) into two, both borne alone radially.
Politics directs poetry to harden joy orbs.
A proposition (like this) felt anxious, I guess
...what? This early
When you got up your speech was
Vibrating w/ apnea, falling
Flattened onto note pads in succession zones.

You and what you say expire, all zonal gossip!
Thriftless speech for controlling anger, how your mind is read.
By future standards don’t-I-wish
is disgusting.

How so? we failures inquire. Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory while you howl. “Mm,” the howler says. He was staring at my clogs, wondering how they’re embossed.

When struck a lightning rod emits dust, after that a solution, a chemical substance that squiggles down to my feet. That’s how.


We need a fix for everything founded in potentialities and obsession. Come in. Please step inside where the fix should be. 

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

I'll make him disappear.  

And away with these shirtless demagogues from history.  

 We got them to crack but I want you.
The good days are over. The bad days are over.
If we win there will be a fee.
This is mesh justice for our duality.
We need a fix for everything founded in potentialities and obsession. Come in. Please step inside where the fix should be. 

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

I'll make him disappear.  

And away with these shirtless demagogues from history.  

 We got them to crack but I want you.
35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.

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

You are 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.
There were missing utterances for filling balloons
w/ the enormity of what got hooded — a dirge-y lexicon
that cannot be considered tenable
given cost averages — One’s intellect seeks damages
more than fair warning.
I hear your inside voice, binary to binary autosuggestion.
When it gets dark it sounds fast.

We wanted to go to
This point in real estate, stabilizing the new office — over the ocean
w/out ‘water- or personal-contact.’

Should we take 
a message?  
We’re talking to what must 
be figurative breakpoints with fate and fate’s consignments. 4 walls as examples.  
Empty messages recall nothing of detached  
sensory esotericists.  
  We’ll erase that message. Also 
Politic display of paranoia recommended for staying cool and stable in an emotional tri-level.


At some tiny level there’s spontaneous disintegration of what’s on my mind until I find myself in a half-life where speech still matters. 
By way of a PS on bohemians, Schuyler (ravaged of course) was more of one than Ginsberg, unravaged. And Brainard (ravaged then unravaged then ravaged) was a big boho. Auden? Think so. Jim Brodey, a boho. Even less narrowly, Harry Matthews.
On a highway, gentle search lights
— Luxury vans flow in aid. Further uphill
Hauling “rays of light that seethe patently” —
Stolen beauty ...he gives it his way!
He can afford it.

A ray’s lip, your lip, curls in his record performance /
Your opinion or position counts, a worthy argument
Made easier — You take the wheel,
Officer. I’ll hand it to you & have your way —

Then thank him —
There’s due process replicating our facial
Comfort in raw push-pulls...

Touching on other behavior in a wily, rough
Translation (desultorily asexual)...
Brutality extending just to your cheek by jowl on the nth call;
More intuition — “rhymed” with your near-virginity beneath, disappearing into

A thrall’s molecular
At some tiny level there’s spontaneous disintegration of what’s on my mind until I find myself in a half-life where speech still matters. 
By way of a PS on bohemians, Schuyler (ravaged of course) was more of one than Ginsberg, unravaged. And Brainard (ravaged then unravaged then ravaged) was a big boho. Auden? Think so. Jim Brodey, a boho. Even less narrowly, Harry Matthews.
146: I’m talking to you in American. 
The savior went missing. No more dying then? Not going to lie, I watched us dream in a.i. economics, weeding and planting over a cemetery’s radius, destabilizing temperaments of worms eating itty souls. Body losses. Looters and rhombus-gatherers, all doing their time respectively — great work for the power preserve, cuts straight through the soul’s restructure creating more chopping patterns to abandon like dross.   
Shanghai chips mounted as background to the film score muting key words. The largest source is not Asia, but time, so short a lease, epic sums on slender, empty shots. The 21st century runway and humane instrumentation are redone for open combat. (It might be feminists like us are on genome probation.)     
Don’t know. Not going to lie. (Ideologues often get stuck on the last line.) 
Outdoors a muted roll call gathers under bright archways,
A hazard to papery aircraft taking off.

We’ll be seen for sure...

Don’t know why we are in this automatic summation now or a few seconds from now after others’ surveillance but before I look you over, with only a few spy cams to snatch our poise inside hypotheses andvice versa... the constant hiding.
Blackened windows:
We know we don’t know.
Prosody is a marketplace,
a rendezvous to encapsulate data fields for the tongue.  

I’m sorry this happened. I was going to stay  
the moment we set the stage, squinting within representation.. 
until I went broke. I was then indebted. I am now.

I just can’t say enough.
Now an international scale opposes the lexemes of my body. It’s scary-loud, yet there’s comic debate as dreams seem to centralize.

I have come to my senses, tho, acting my age with your beauty inside. So what I say prompts the assembly I made of torn Gillette letters and small decimals.

Each step (of my essay) grounds in my heart.


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.
Our area is interpretive search. 
(Want to read our minds?) No symmetry among unequal strains.   
No that’s not right.   
The ‘search narrator’ feels self criticism got way over-modulated becoming 2nd rate, NGO, poor argot sampling hostility.   
Masked or not, my marketing allergy steals from my super ego stuff.. ..easy to cite in tones stressing processed shock and inexactitude.   
Flipping out highlighted weak spots, our freedom, our top level surroundings. Peace, justice, ecology, all uplifting.
That’s not to say there’ll be any more food. 

But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently. 
88: Patriarchy expands fraternal allegiance. & you & I so belong.
We’re well acquainted with our own double weakness. Well, I really enjoy it. 9 out of 10.

& we’re both right and wrong.
What do you look like now? It’s right to ask? With all my loving thoughts I can set down our story, bending my weaknesses against myself.

We both gain an advantage (all wrong) to prove you virtuous.
Cupid is a hired gun who swoons anywhere. Cupid’s id? It’s a violent,
smoking culture so we need straight talk.

It’s a gay culture so we need Cupid. We’ve been up
for two centuries fighting overseas.
Head-on war is a mistake (Diane di Prima).
I swear while we teeter and travel further  
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts —
All these props are just to get in.  
Or I was wondering about the knowhow that causes new wonder,
That licks both problems.


Homeric language trends...
We can’t compress enough or too much. We were one people at one time (1,000,000 bce).
We also =
glistening statistics advanced by textuality. The underground =
stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal (capitalist) identity.

ID traces out how to refine / displace any remnant of multicultural contempt.
Classification adjoined by adaptation passed thru descendants.
This break and entry ensue under a hot air balloon holding our beef jerky.
Once your public is mounted you can add your own awesome content!
Your first lover — so taut

— could heal you thru and through.
Then forces of narrative came seething, your breath fixed

to the floor circling midair as if it had a right to.
Also we see our ETA.
We won’t be a second late — your ex boyfriends
understand we can meet in the act of loving you.

That’s the upshot.
149: Cruelty goes by a few worshipful metaphors. Loving you, or not, down the road.. going against myself.. all due to future lunar invasions!

Heavenly and new, classic, easy, unforgettable metaphors to our surrounding revenge for taking off, fawning over you / fawning under you, quiet and respectful in everyday nudity. For nudity earned your just respect, commanded by your eyes. It will always be a swing reunion in that ritual expanse, a whole new side of narrow and hollow at center, a vacuum spinning wheels!
I have felt your drifting voice,
heard your beautiful style —

from one touch,
one orated note.

Dozing has more ideas for here and the how
— we made contact then in light sleep
inspired by my taking your dream course.

No plans, we thought about speaking,
better than sleeping too much.

Dress casual \ spectacle,
putting my life together but keeping your drift ..
As one says in social sciences, it’s too late for Cy Twombly’s nervous breakdown without speech. There are lucid gaps we spot now and see through... the complete universe in flight enjoins the loyal center, Twombly’s conversation expanding and accelerating.


It was nice to have known you. 
A word travels, calibrated by a ruckus-like paean spoken (rather than speaking) in a large-scale outreach and dialectic — spoken because we both wrote it down to shun sickness and welfare,  
license before comeuppance, soul dad —   
Make that shortstop outreach where all the jazz wears off.   
We’ll sink together deliberately mismatched, yet ignited around the tips by deep compatibility, a healthful state, when we purge   
the sea and air, driving it back to a crawl, to a spot to talk.
Madam poet reads her singable pieces uninflectedly,
a dissonance that plays to mock solemnity (“sing me, song”)
and tuneful reproach (“play dough of god”).
Combing through my notes there’s a world of disputes,

Churlish puffins and other problems to shatter the continuity

Of my exploding goofiness over lunch; of course I mean exploring.

There is no circling the rink.
No complaints or sworn declarations,
Nothing frilly and glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;
We’ve lost your name card and your name.
Sonnet 100: 

Muse. You.
We have worthless spoils darkening our song 
— an idle song we convert into 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 light
— you’re faster in my time. 

Rise then: your power and skill suspend all fears 
even as we love vicariously — even more to love more,
to redeem spending my fury and life in satire.
Weather permitting, there’s a method to share, an incision. What do you say? Bonne balance, hey my — when you whisper this is both natural and perpetual.

Adorno says plain speech is fair game starting over (in the middle) but its sale and puts don’t count. (It’s always been technical.)

Surely there’s foundering beneath the social parasail of violence. Rules commit us. You grow accustomed, so to speak.

Yet that’s only one worst case — let me give you cut, just on the sides. A trim will maximize your signal

As you noted, integrated on a riddle gauge, and part of the solution when you look up.
Artifice, craft, life are short and drive you all over. 
Making out, I can drop the questions and shoot for craning my mien; by squinting everything visceral is scattered. (Behind artifice there’s an interaction lab.)  
(Behind life, a free agnosticism. Easy sway. You’re taken up on your offer.) 
Beaten up hulks pour vodka that swirls in determined tones. A film clip with multiple data fields and a crew of deft extras in malaise, one supported by another grabbing a ring thru a rope, dignifying pain.  
I’m told you’d prefer not to watch. Using your voice, better to ask a friend or two to make you hurt, pretending they are you, falling mute.


This sentence has not improved. It’s been set; 
for all appearances nothing lurid was due at signing.  
But am confused, sin  
-ce claimant to the photogenic vitamin to stop any bleeding  
is not an active voice, lacking pronouncement, transitions — useless  
as a maxim for future dissent tho settling in  
in meaning in a way — like a mourning coat of moods — with no brain.  
There’s only my arrigato for your setting me up for your assent.
Inundated with liberty, I talk thus in mocking forms. It’s well after the game. My face — like yours — sports layers of sleep relief, realizing exponents of our wildest ambitions.

I thought as a lyricist you’d follow the leftover radiant forms — and soberly, even liberally, interact with them in unitary joy (if you can still breathe) —

(I’ve made it normal getting to this next point in our ongoing bear bar repartee.)
153: & so. I find I’m ready, proceeding off 

these proving grounds in which I solve: 

1. Love god heart inflaming new fire. Let’s call this steep ground, unwise yet wise  
whilst love-kindling abounds — as well — coincidental as I love golf & went to golf school.  
2. New heat every time, your eyes — no cure —
your eyes are the beginning for me as my swing improves in their lively fire. 

3. I’m teed up for a trial bath in your eyes — 

Heated, seething inside each word I borrow or try on —
All syllables endure in a ‘Cupid’ fountain of steam & desire,
curing us & others with love, sick withal. 
In order to take on a galactic stare, 
Occasional intoxicants  
Every 10 yrs —  
A decade comes and goes and still you are unattainable!   
Say you’ll be back. Speaking of which, you remind us there — blasts of cold air  
Stoked by an invasion of intimacy.
Juniper my ass.
The juniper stands alone, the mixologist often says, when prayer behooves those who talk but no longer pray. I hope you are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one.

That’s an outline.


The proscenium brightens. Overflow slender. 
Is it inhibiting our endowment?   
Knowing the ropes now, even knowing your sub-luminous substance,  
I’m clearing my life of thin comforts,   
stern food pecked over 
downstage left.
‘In a way’, you said, ‘nothing saved me
until we ran the gauntlet —’
I’m a conservative about behavior. That’s before I put on your fragrance —  
A calm never resolved —  
because we’re only one muppet and one Marine  
reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, our endless waves of shame. 
45: Sir, libido and swift words send and return messages — coming back as light air (thoughts) and quick fire (desire). Air and fire are both with you (wherever I am).

When I hear nothing from you — I’m no longer glad or assured, merely present-absent, oppressed by melancholy

as it were.
It feels I’ve sent my desire away, far away from me, sad for you.
Reprobates — with a kill-agenda — are tickled into corruption.
Here is the place you and I may detect the language driver, untidy and young, deliberate despite the foundational rule of no rule

And speaking up without permission. In other words,

Sin gets somewhere then stops. The wind withers our good looks.

In the mentalist version we grow inner living language over — to pillory hindsight.
Been holding our tongues. That’s how it works. 
Non-interference takes charge, under which an authentic kindergarten language of crawling gets raised & siege is forcibly asserted. If this were true, working against deadline would shape the last steps of withdrawal from our deadlock with future attributes.  
Meantime you targeted a fan like me because of familial obligations to ageless platitude, your camouflage in plain view, the focus of stiff winds over centuries-old middle ground. 
In midlife I once had an idea today was over. I forgot, man.  
With less & less destruction of evolution, we constitute the Odds-on-Group taking part in the co-ritual to outlast time.  
Over & over. Today again. 
Limb truncation covers about half the winners & victims in crossfire. How you handle questions & answers — anything you come up with will stomach fair use doctrine — what the privileged young play by. But the next elite resurgence is an elaborate gerrymander where all ambiguity vanishes for a seeming long time.  
History is old as mutt.