Childhood runs out, our taxonomies still  
unexplained as temp permits.   
...you know what I mean standing here, promoting pap acceptance.. you’re a diva in fact 
with nothing to give back, not mad enough, feeling too little.

Feelings, too few.

One by one
wait for it. They
seem more promiscuous than anything not there.
Therefore here.  
If we don’t buy this, we’re the product.
64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced,
increasing store with loss, done in by time’s fell hand,
the rich proud cost of grief and expressing it American English.
I hope you can let this go..

Time will come to take our love away, leaving me breathing, no form —
Structurally I seem sustained only by so lofty a hypothetical force —
But I can’t go on without some
interchange — a new episode within your telegenics. And
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, I fear losing you.
My soul’s inscription reads you’re my state of the eternal state, my business.
Wondering about a weathering anomaly,

I write in my nature/head. Let’s hold a séance! 
I snare us Joy to starve a fever. Is it raining? 
Seven rooms (usually) with clay-toned physiques 
fighting the relative fight waving to then receding on one another 

— everybody impulsive, under an influence, which is filthy. Snow!
A foot of snow from the window. Laps of water are filled with light, snow rotating in reverse as if knowing how to purify offspring & manage forever in lurches of nibbling torque adjusting into daylight.
Pleasure is to ethics as unknowing is to epistemology —


There’s a cool but thoroughly staged oral tradition that’s like trail mix, so rhetorically honey-sealed and narratively palatable anyone with a few years of good high school English can have in. It’s clear long jumps and pull-ups in tone are deployed to signify irony and distance about food prep and galley stainless. The gestalt is to flare up yet relax a while, stay urbanely offhand and sound normal, not superior in any obvious way. I’ve been saving a spot for you, waist high.
Do hang on.
Pierre Bourdieu threw a projectile that applies this new year while top donor ‘families’ are in control — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of capital distribution are stopgaps like assembled heterodoxology while subdominant esthetic fields balloon and get consumed by baggier ideas.” 

Speaking of baggage as distraction, Bourdieu went home to his Cajun kitchen and added, “We gain as much knowledge from our shortcomings as insights.”   
The shortcoming between having things to say about ‘tastes’ back then, only a few years ago — and now — Republicans circling the wagons while checks and balances are nasally inspissated thru fear.
We’re released by ourselves into the water supply. Globe-trotters. Kissers, both cheeks. Up toward the heights curls come back. Bells in heaven. My eyebrow arched and I gasped.

In physiologist years this is a star-quake, falling and liberated by the carpentry in reading sensory input as the doctor’s tongue worked in circles. Then he darted straight in. I realized tension was flying from my face, dull and throbbing.
Sonnet 86:

The future reaches full sail bound for intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to surprise and grow, that is, write great verse.
I thought of you giving us cohorts aid.. Astonished, we see our pride flies away with others, out of control as it works around a crowd of familiars whom we teach to write.

Once our brains ripen, we concede neither to calm of victory nor to fear — at night I lack a precious affable character beyond my mortal self.. both that and a familiar’s ghost-morality strike me as too precious then, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling this line.
A dictionary of Indo-European roots lists derivatives for gno = know, can, cunning, ken, kith, kin, uncouth, notice, notify, notion, notorious, cognition, recognize, connoisseur, quaint(?), ignore, noble (known, knowable), gnomon (diagnosis, prognosis), narrate (from Latin gnarrare); & these less ‘probable’ links = annotate, norm, abnormal, enormous.

Poets, I guess, know this, so someone’s dismissal of another's work by shrug / hum is unclear thinking, a mark of unknowing. Patterns of dismissal show a settlement of ignorance. Ignorance comes easy, tho, among conservatives like me. First is not reading. I won’t buy the book, if given the book, I’ll sell it. Second, there’s reading just to find a formal quality (scanning?). Can I do this? What’s the vocabulary like? This reveals a poco inquisitiveness, but it’s all about willful typecasting, bracketing in other words streamlined for not reading further. For face to face ignorance, there’s not listening or not listening much or listening to find an opening for my chance to speak (hey do you like what I do?). Hanging around enormous egos like mine is just not fun, unless, of course, there are compensating abnormalities. 

 What I want are noble communities of uncouth poets who not only notice one another but stay awake & narrate Oh. If it’s abnormally sweet, you’ll be the first to know.
We have no boundaries and can go further even in unendurable weather.

— drafted 2003
We invented the night birds.  
Had to. What we thought we understood  
they enjoy making ‘dumb-  
great,’ incomprehensible from the top  
terminating in celebrity stalkers, gawking in peers’ backyards —  
Following doc’s orders so conditions inflect non-criminal immunity  
to sudden desire with intimacy. 
Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads.
The contours.


By the way, every right wing worm thinks every owner of a worm is subject to restitution  
even as most tax experts evoke cuddly breeder values in brute ecrus.. 
I’m here too, waiting for everyone I can’t stop waiting for.   
I live in a container house near a few others   
and wait on nothing at all, only sustained focus and innovation in nowhere equivalent to a disc. I won’t do it, nah, abrigado. 
I work on text.. I’ll grieve later on, turn to pen and ink for human voice breaking glass in an r v to drown out the dog track, 

Social progress is in a pickle, a big abnormal mess, a product of our time. It wins all the half-eaten take-out on the table. 40% of obdurate hardly-ever voters like you and me. And how long can you live folding up conversation, shadows unused, perpetually minimalist verging on filth and circumstance? Who isn’t in one?
Ironic judgment. 
There are a hundred butterflies in perilous art. What’s wrong with watching one or two spin like happy mediums, go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?
59: Sonnets are ok, nothing new — going backwards here — 
Let’s vote Labor —  
an ostentatious luncheon in ‘old world’ pensiveness,  
beguiling brainwork, self-admiring praise.  
I might say more, fool my brain mended by you and your composed image but
I stay in character.  
O sure — we’re easily freaked by what antique words 
still dig up and how re-inventions get composed, but we have to keep our wits —
looking back under whose  
thumb? And am I yours?
Beginning to get the picture. Your flash is surface.

You wiggle like a borzoi
w/ backsliding wipe-outs & fan reactions:
trash affects we tautologize into cattle calls of glum purity.
At least our calls are directed to one area...
‘holding each other open’ foreordaining our mobile devices will moan to the surface. Your flash.

There may be many areas, too.
With good optics petro and related interests can get serious. Bosons exhale thru rainy nightfall. I reason their surrogate likenesses (x) are more set and more recently struck down. 
Razed. Rain’s over, prancing on the lawn, rain in light draining oil.
We’re for a more open openness with plenty of recreation.  (Humanist discourse is indirect.) 
I’m also out on the bluejeans end in my leftwing head where consensus flies around like the flu. (Harder to stay immune now.) There’s a glow in my argumentation like a red mountain avalanche of progressive tools and bots that fuck over the machine age. 


High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long- 
stood. Waking up released. Populations drenched.  
A circus repatriated.
Psychotropic bios diagnosed as bare truth- 
Stratagems. Siphon starters. Add the rank  
I confer on the next available beauty, living and perhaps dying with one  
Until he goes broke — summarily I’m screwed of what beauty was.  
I center then on perception (for another purpose),
Sustaining losses out of irony.
Looking back I think commuter bike paths tamper with green space.

Coming clean about adulthood is a neat precipice.
The surface (ubi sunt) has music twisting intellectually, pedaling in shorthand, gliding with objects ..

Duh wheels duly rounded.

Doing what I am here to do,
Does I can’t be responsible ring a bell?
Sonnet 78: 
Disperse my rudeness.  
Captain scientist, see what influences we’ve advanced, doubled? See what more you can do! Your eyes throw us down a hole and we keep there, cover me up. You are all my art. Learn / teach my rude ignorance. 
Only these exceptions: I wasn’t talking to you. I was singing on high to the fair interest of the sailing corps. Ah, same time, so often I’ve invoked you as a muse, I’m afraid I can’t keep working with you looking over my shoulder.  
I hope I’ve been clear.
In not struggling with comparative vulnerability to vie for solitude,  
I pursued insight by your ‘grant’; for how do I hold you? That’s one for liberal arts.  
Secure oases cannot be considered in terms other than liberal; 
with great laughter impelling knowing, not knowing, comfortable  
All a given. Someday.
Modesty is unimpressive in itself.  
There’s an either / or for attrition of affects, concision or eyesore. 
And there’s a struggle to housesit too much information.


Writing in a voice for a glass room that rings of convoluted propaganda, in finger paint. 
With brush and paint we take dirt off a crescent metal, easy to pick up, feed and embrace after the climate changes. So writ. Under suspicion.

Go on, I respect you. Tell us about your background in propositional aesthetics (affiliates who you think are like you but aren’t).
Another moment soon to stare out the window, a flood lamp over my shoulder to herald the swindle in wind farming. Craning one’s mien goes on in this vein, time passes — comments from barbers on stale movies, political lies — freedom takes off at many a midpoint. It’s personal, e.r. managers tell me this ought to be.

It’s almost sullen to write enflamed birdsong and comb back your hair at the same time.. Can you do that? At the barber’s? To sound like your own critic stay light with a spooky edge.

Life is short and good grooming rakes you all over. No victims.
It’s between hopeless and rebuked by evolution.
Hemi or semi —
orphaned as-is...

Photons in a neutrino cavity. Glad scene-makers or martial artists, music critics, or proud old squares barnstorming swift-footed through the biosphere to eclipse career obstacles.

Failures in love fall away, never in 2 places enough needing permission, shuttered, untainted, bleak, drear and just dumb. 

‘The world of secrets holds its own’ = patterns to succeeding circumstance. 
74: I agree to your bail. Security should have conducted a more scholarly pat down.

We are under arrest but you’ve lost nothing. You’re mine.
Ten to one, better parts of our street cred show up in literature and data tracking. Faint Milano opera on one speaker as a memorial.

When you have a chance for review, I think this will be due you. Layers of my spirit are made yours & any remains have no life to leap to, no death, either — carried away then having some interest in what’s going down on this wretched yet contented earth, all it contains, even this line.
What’s missing is, why is there feeling?  
It’s a state of mind according to Hoyle a day later;  
Global warming jazzes a decimal of our pablum.  
Where should I hurt?  
Once or more. A few more.  
There’s no projected torture unless it causes organ failure.  

Baby steps fix the climate really fast indoors.  
For we feel tall  
and inflatable as we cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.
National treasure: Crocheted titanium with a clown’s face.


Flashbacks pertain.
Large reflecting pools in the future, it’s just a thought.
If I introduce vagueness as a more devout
machine therapist, we can escape

thought-train derailment, bringing on experiments in graphemic parole,
rescue room from disillusionment.

[final part]
A spider running down inside you is in response to production-vectors coursing throughout the enthusiasm industry. Continuous profits bring story-telling comfort to support well-thought-out positions, which are always in dispute, in the food chain.   
Art captive to narrative? Maybe much of it. I adhere to the same late-filing rules as you.  
Thereto art is theft by all means. All right. I’m almost a novice enthusiast. It may be years from now we’ll return to favor. 
Until then, inscrutably I shall be free of the food chain and ask for nothing.
Don’t we have an elevator to take (to greet you)? 
Gavel to gavel hours turning the page. Hours. 
What we do converts personality to stunt-craft.  
What we act out through open discourse... W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please,  
have your way. Have your composite gods who do it for the masses.  
(This soon after a last breath, is it safe to call on you O Yeats?) (Maybe not.)  

Some of us are too disgraced to save
the day. 
Though not all of us will defriend you now or any time. Now there is only commutation of friendship.  
It’s natural, a picnic in the outback.   
The wilds... on all fours, all floors. Hours.
52: I’m in lock-up because of you.

Therefore you and I are both scorekeepers. Ours.

I keep you among my jewels,
Blasted yet blessed moods in ‘key’ to configure unfolding pleasure,
So I am rich, I hope, blunting your deceit for years...
The long time it takes, seldom coming in one fine day —
In time special instants so rare —

Until then, being had by you was worth it as it were

Like euphoria, an instant in doubt hiding the finer points.
Speaking of solemn upper-lower class triumph and treasure,
We find others also keep to the survey, chest to chest, mine to yours.
“Bliss.” We were looking it up. 
A battle between two acumens  
bringing up a few others,  
times two more of those brain states from euphoria.  
A marsh is now interesting  
(vitae) for the sea. To the eye, in sun nothing but applesauce shellac,  
a varnish the sea brought in without consent, leader of the pack  
in subject matter. Not on varnish, on bliss.
To break this down, I’m always explaining the place where I work.
Gateau what’s his name is done (i.e., delivered) in a tangle of foxglove as you and I de-meadow.

A company like ours takes it into the astrophysics facility.
We’re in the flat present tense, account outlines in simultaneous perceptions —
Reciting new slang exponents as we have no major gay issues,
Making wave sounds we scout flyweights in a recursive landscape.
Progress / nothing: China funds high speed railroads in Africa.
Americans for Prosperity funds and wins campaigns banning high speed rail and busses in TN, AR, AZ, MI.


We already have what we ask for.

Vainly but not fast in never induce italics:
We gave it up at the Office.

Driving this point is hardly ever for the 1st time
disappearing into immense molecules like our other words, just molecules ago.

Sitting down delivers the good news, stateliness while steering already had its faint say. Now we can text and ‘drive’ over time and zeta functions mowing down hedgerows like highway dividers along an infinite axis.
At a new level of storytelling that hang-in-there ideal is on your side, time sick. 
It goes with a backhand irony like pigeon guided defense missiles or no guards at the gate.  
A free coupon! No, the front gate won’t front  
As there are centers of wishing beyond your closed doors.   
All batteries are now charged (that’s the feeling). I’m pouring  
Molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with microfiber  
— I’m about to walk the spiral and more!  
While chestnuts stand around in verbal hoards  
Coupons expire.
A social progressive is a depressed comedian today, a big abnormal mess, product of one’s time. He or she wins all the half-eaten take-out left on the table. 40% of obdurate hardly-ever voters like you and me. And how long can one live folding up conversation, conjecture perpetually minimalist verging on filth and circumstance? Who isn’t one?
114: I say.

I say drink up.
My eyes drink up in thanks for there’s so much. Turning lesser sin to perfect gusto. So many substitutes. So many chances —

Haiku-ing to Delmore Schwartz repeatedly, I can’t worry or pierce my ears further.

O we or most of us have a destiny in flattery and aftermaths. But it’s after all that.

I’m late to vocalize what my eyes sink to, finding you only in resemblances.
Withholding time-inverse we reupholster & improve levels of comfort across consciousness / we, that is, the explicator in you & me. A chance laden balance.

That balance rotates with our fooling ourselves over variant hazards in our heads tilted 
vertically to catch some sun. Inelegant in our common way we look down on square plots of thought outlines.
Tattoos first, 2nd, his hair.

The plot leaves the door to irresolution ajar —

Guess what, the grabber is un-belted in segments like a sex rattle
spinning to take effect. It adds an all night ring to our narrative, id est,
the needle breathing hard, leaving the hole
open to mas irresolution
and topspin for picking up the dissolved thread.
You & then I change very slowly with a shower curtain,
on televised football. Management didn’t yell
raising your pulse rate. Or is sweet smelling flame just to remind me?


Libido, the big reach of the brain and new ways to be policed are on a vain man’s mind (one with any pulse); the 1st few words take on destabilizing character. I’m trying to clean this [snip] to leave enough ‘intent’ to keep me happy after I’m finished he’s finished. This is an exemplary yet limited transmission, so I’m framing it fun work, the kind that cuts straight through its own restructure creating more choppy patterns to abandon ...
It dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for generic consensus over these flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions made of paradoxical tissue.
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole sector before repro-ed onward.

Purely offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.
It takes a while. Day by day. The way 23 hours ago the multiplicity of writing today took a while. Times itself: A brainset, no doubt, occupied .. & this just in — jokes turn into dreams. It’s dreams that forgive us for everything (except melancholia). That’s because multiplicities, ‘sleeping while awake,’ get downgraded to icy normality, farthest from sight, trapping you & me inside a force field owing to our expertise. 

So there’s no lack of constancy in experimental states of mongrel forgery & our economic pull.
79: How it may happen
On a highway, gentle police lights 
— Luxury vans flow in aid. Further uphill 
Hauling “rays of virtue” — stolen beauty, yours.
He can afford it.

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

Then thank him —
Pay him what I owe.
I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Drumbeats buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous,
drumbeats through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right,

clinging to no theory of purpose, no gift of agency to promote my case, as masking vanity becomes a park manager’s challenge.

Fizzy yet salient points soak over the water poloists hanging out for the escape clause (always the last place they look)!
We repeat there are rules to doing morning: 
Sleep in without a rehearsal,  
Coax a situation back.  
You're only human, Fu dog.

How can you care modernism, a despoiled inheritance for architecture, beguiled, diverted, is flatly unlike poetry’s pocketknife connections to the past. Apparently tomorrow is more appealing even if we know where architecture takes us. Poetry?


My area is interpretive search. 

It’s been a while, Sophocles wrote.  
I’ll assume you suspect the people’s elbow knows. It’s in the forearm of interpreting literature.  

Written or not, nothing is forgotten.
Landscape — Antinomy in its own time: I should know. Something after poured out, dazzling its double structure toward filling empty assembly boxes you were bound to organize. 

Losing steamy light downstairs. And nevertheless you were rushing then pausing over more optical symmetry. An interim for you, pushing up and out. Before we got laid. There is little point now to hold back (cremate) a fixed melody tonight unless there is no one else. 
To Caspar,  
I think you asked for this over dinner.  
Ghost buds for twenty-first century renos in a whole range of sentiments.  
No chance, astrophysicist. 
So you get it now, assigning ghosts to our planet to feel cathartic  
is dimensionally impossible. You’re dull. Rather uneducated.  
You’re all shine and velocity for us, the living!  
Sap is flowing, Caspar, top gear, top speed.   
Grab a sawhorse.
101: It gave me hiccups when our best senses cooled down — praising silence long truant, still overdue. No amends. Beauty needs no pencil.

Both our senses I reference, truth and beauty, in primary season.

And I’m back intermixing, fixing and lifting text, you in the foreground with answered memories. (“Make answer, Muse..” take everything.. need nothing.)

We grabbed the narrator (we couldn’t rule him out), staying blithe in twin columns.
In a mean perspective Bartok reached for
the moon. How is that helpful?
With your brand one constant.. you cut the rest off...
Remembering you forgot your killer monologue.

Taking your curtain call, you hobble

Away like a name dropper.

Emotions were something else, they don’t belong.

Follow instructions — slippers, noodles make us warm
‘As rouged scholars of what’s next to us’ repair to an adjoining display.
One of these days..
I don’t think so ..


A note on aging.

Smacked down by a coordinate from outer space,
Keanu Reeves is not reckless, iniquitous, or anatomically complex,
though monotone to the gills like a slower yet more self-subtracted Rod Serling.
I owe a debt to Christmas. 
Blindfolded angels thinking in the past — 
All mute waving back,  

Protecting us from our unknown predicates,   

Taking on more substantial roadwork, taking more onboard, putting them   

In mind of the New Year, at last.
After you, a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.
Wait. There’s nothing.

I lower your voice to closest saturnal parity
plucked out of adversative brutality ..
Yet nothing is forbidden.
Finalists like you quit general practice — off to privacy
with little or no honor left, one laughed. And yet not you, your honor...

Summer’s actuaries record having a good time as vicarious, no
moving figures. (Vicarious isn’t strong enough.)
Inner, outer merge in our honor system, no shadows, o praise the light flow drawn
in odor and hue! After you.
Sonnet 131: Meeting slander again: 
A delivery system processes our facial powers —  they have many words for yours — doting, precious

But it’s our doing, tossing cash in for pizza ..

It’s a balsa wood decade, valuing hoax, coming too near tyranny
for it never ends, I swear. 

Although I swear to myself alone, my heart,
our love constitutes a long shot
in a thousand groans to outlast madness
and slander. And in good faith — how fair and fairer that will be. 
Right away we’re vapor-vets. Dark edges must be why
Two very different outcomes equally square
What you hear w/ the you you wear & what you are.

I stake your reputation, touting
You & kiss & lap up the air in your 1st mustache sense.
Denis, once the Menace, grew a pair over summer. I now have a boyfriend. Yearning for corruption, we’re in love, we’re out of it, we’re trying to run each other over, and it continues, since I’m first and last bored with subordination and thought about phenomena already known to us both.