51: In motion, no excuses — war is unjust when only one side wages it.
Gleaned from what war is, my desire keeps pace.

I’ll be an angel investor in spontaneity, no need but love, for love.
This is strictly, deliriously our business, self-realized adventure
losing daily battles, no excuses.

What time do you get off work in poetry? Should I know?
Speeding up when swift extremity can seem but slow

I hastened to run toward you
as though mounted within the wind before even starting ..
Microscopic honesty — we used to say — is the sanest practice for complete thumb control and body fitness. 
Let’s go thru it again, generations of ample volunteering and worship set these scruples up. They come back. Soon you relax your balance, honest equipoise for a good writer is common enough, even now. 
We went over our defensive appearances, for instance. Keep to schedule. Key is your keeping a regimen for hours at a time before it can wear off: So never let it. Curvatures in spacetime affix to our high expectations. If they pass muster they’ll slant any promise you have, had or you don’t know in the aftermath of your hiatus (hesitation), revving up.


One cause is edged with distant buzz, intervention — you have the touch —
tides by the book rotate out to here, the rim and pliant acreage possessed by that touch.

Emotions in gear, a snake tail in quiet we won’t notice until eased into rote phrases,
foiled by moments of tact, a finespun balance awaiting a lull.
I keep my mouth shut, listening,  
Escalating all synonyms to inhabit received logic.  
I’m measuring a timeline by chance. I’m  
Concentrating on coloring in valuable sounds, also 
Pushing the most extreme among core arts,  
Refining defiance as self defense.  
This introduces the cult of the squish
29: I am deaf, “bootless” you say, never hearing I’ve been scorned, despised, all alone for desiring you...

Yet I make a fortune wishing, thinking of you when? when disgraced

Remembering hymns for love rich in hope, wealth, art, a human scope.
How all men’s eyes rise at dawn from birth, this outcast state without you, when..
Almost enjoined as to the sullen, least contented, almost cursed —

Looking for, singing from earth, thinking of you through daybreak.
Never dine — a term of 
Meantime I’m a member of the takeaway school.  
Mean something, take something away...  
how my twin psyche writes more conscientiously  
touching on raw parts in endearing translation.   
Symbolism weighs in  
as a shortcut: Some future of the past thinking & writing (as if). 
As if I stress  
we’re suspicious of wormholes, tho  
I never use tone shifting while throwing a cookout together.  
For what party for sleep?


A petting zoo cannot stand for practice?

As a curator of sorts, I have to ask. Ask a lot.

Your space calls for more.
Defy self interest.
It’s alpine only in all direction,
but metabolism will live trailing off anyhow, all
along with clumsy fearless tempos,
a framework for rants surrounded by cool ceramic
wallboard, balmy altar ‘figures’.. worth conserving or not?
Our models are you & everything I can live by w/out being
charged for my shortcomings.
Ballooning in harmony around some parts of sky

I take for profuse clouds.
Huh? Is it the fire?

Or what else sits this out, lit for smearing light force
traveling down in a tiered border-like scrawl?
No appointments today. Triumph** is that creepy*. And counter-intuitive.

*Creepy widely construed as deafening tendencies toward plundered contexts for altering the body’s asymmetrical neuropsychology.

**Triumph, group or personal, can be unscrewed from abstraction during critical Q & A’s. How does triumph threaten a referent? when going straight to the point of quasi-autonomy. Was ist das? 

I’m asking out loud for one reason only, so the receiver will sound an alarm (an autonomous light).

Merely of course sounded.
44: It was nice once to have known you. If flesh were thought
A word would count, even remotely, calibrated by the ruckus-like paean within a large-scale dialectic —
No matter, despite the farthest limits of spacetime I could be brought before you if you think it over.

Will you think of me?
Good I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of misnomers. Eating and breathing them too. 

Ghosts roam with the panicked. (All of us.) It’s like a last dance in respect to what you guys were doing — working off a 20-year watch list.   
There’s hustle to market, along with rips in the divino cargo of spacetime whose overnight vessels burgeon on blobby warmth, piped in like Berlioz, accompanied by addictions to ennobling risk. Come here often?


I live in an echo of a country.   

In the interim we had a blast. Knowhow
could be redubbed genetic sleep deprivation.   
I’ll admit this view is crazy or a breach of somebody’s manners, a soft thick quilt the sun  

might marshal over the property. 
I should break my leasehold, ergo. Not really, she said out  
loud, a breath ahead of how I could know. 

This was the last first time or a fragment.
I will never betray metaphysics oxidizing beauty goals.

The main thing is to tell a story. It is [....] very important.
— O’Hara et al.
Composing like this focuses on writers, how they are unionized and almost surrounded. Refocus is prewriting.
15: It’s your last day of youth when you throw trust out, clear sight and now telepathy — you’ll never feel his perfect arms around you again. Never feel the wet air on his skin, or wake up in his sap on his secret warm bed. You’re done, you don’t get a chance to influence, comment, try again for anything, not even for something you’re not. And I’m not.

I can’t do any better than what I’ve changed for love of you.
Slumped over in gaffs,

many without pulse, how did one stand tall, pause

then brush his hair back? Men

like him looking up like flight risks; say

“Exactly,” in that miracle voice?

A faint breeze on zoom as you slip

your phone in his pocket — How against

containers hanging along the bow all fonts

are justified by defacing matter —

1/2 this, 1/2 that I’m sick of nice things. Whiskey.


There are three pleasure substitutes (tablets).
The frayed honeymoon is first and,

second, blushing is normative
with its little feint from guts and neurons.

After a honeymoon deflections accrue.
After homesickness, there’s new inebriation,
one way to cut down the dynamism of capital.
Otherwise, there’s only perpetration and fortune to hide.
Sonnet 94:

We can’t go on without thinking it over.
If I had had the foreground I’d be subsiding in attrition as it were,
I’d have heaven’s grace to weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken fewer notes I’d have less power to hurt,
expressing “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings

which we can’t pinpoint or supplicate, my lord, husband...

May I live but die if fair ever turns sour
or our summer festers rather than show summer flowers with no pitched provisos
and integers-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none.
Production through retrieval and communal ethos is a distinctive feature of the medieval era. It’s not ironic in the least digital data assembly enables our return to those earlier kinds of production and ethos. Work produced now is parallel along almost incalculable dimensions. And if most of that work is still authored, we can posit the mushrooming of art production (including poetry) over an arguably short time will totalize individual product into a kind of chillingly 2nd-tier relevance (with a few nonconceptual exceptions, of course).


Our last owner had an understanding with multiple staff. 
His happiness washes up in our candy-bar and cudgel DNA.   
O we celebrated, beaten but breathing for what’s next.   
We have a most advanced gene distribution system.     
Try to look better. 
Sex flames stink up the place. Hay on fire. Let’s dump all this way in the rearview where we can’t see. We will be leaving footholds in town, doubles of blurs in dizzy luxury, punching thru colorless straw and spheres in embers.
All savor just punishment! — regulatory propriety could care less, looking to nominal trivia — exactly what we recoil from, summoning logical defenses to explain a poem’s Hail Mary pass as well as your entertaining containment.
Language + materials referred to, dimensions variable. Dimensions variable. That’s the ceci n’est pas une pipe part. I’m one of those hoarders of history, picking out, piling stuff in the big garage 
(filling up with accessible language), keeping barbed wire and Ted Greenwald materials reconciled like a pair of chairs.
76: In flight, the framework would be told on telling. 
How can varsity expend their tribute? How spent? Why?    
This café, I think, is going to try to answer that & help the rain stop falling on me.   
I know the framework around my notes craves attention, that’s why I always write of you.   
Why I finish a stretch and new and old lines get confused, showing their new birth.
Fuse the way they
Continue as light rain clears. My argument.
Baby Watteau —

The empty sale window darkens and I’m on the move (or we are). Early or late, the sky’s not falling as a point of fact. Watteau glows like a stripper in spirals. Another point, harder to verify. More blessed, Baby’s greatest comes early; Cézanne was late. These data still matter, in a manner of ungainly small talk — I’ve found someone else, Looking more deeply in, thinly veiled versions of a fossilized Cézanne.

The glow is hard to describe — an infancy on higher up, going blind. Perfecting for a fall. (My baby traps me.)


Tonal jumps signify charity in a spatial
float off...

repurposing one’s alter ego, raising stakes
according to odds makers for daring.

A man in drag wearing a gown you tie.
Your cool red bones,

A cold star, partly the wind,
Your superb gall

And me, I’m my feelings which move in time
While this lowest button erases...

There they go
When you say

Well stay well
Where they rang.
On or before we invented the night birds..  
Had to. What we thought we understood  
they enjoy making ‘dumb-  
great,’ from the top  —  
Following their orders, so incomprehensible conditions inflect immunity  
to sudden desire with intimacy. 
62: No remedy surmounts heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots a whole series, bright, tanned & then defined by sympathetic parody & praise, indeed, contrary to less gracious remedies.

We have functional emotions, I think, grounded by self-love & this choppy word list of love’s close affects. Also, there’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I’m reading the last place you are ... you’re open wide, here in my heart. Shifting from heaven’s iniquity to self-query, I read you.


Emily, a Hoyle in green dress, leaned 
In her hetero-inclusive manner  
Against a far wall,  
Perhaps not far enough, as  
She seemed distracted —  
Distracted, one word bringing pressure  
Into 4 fingers, my right hand  
Fidgeting with her necklace  
Which at that moment I coveted more than — sing it,are  
You trying to interfere ..  
& she was staring in the mirror — looking  
Not at me but past me, into some space  
— or slot of a zonal precipice  
That might be filled by someone nice,  
A successful televangelist no doubt, yet  
To come, fully, still on a gaseous journey...  
(journey, my roughshod term for predation & warfare  
Which could lead to fuller, calmer scenes thru the mirror..).  
This was years ago, according to Hoyle.
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 tongue-tied with subordination and thought about phenomena already known to us both.
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 had read the sun in the morning as your love before I met you.
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 had read the sun in the morning as your love before I met you.
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 missiles or limited offers at the gate.  
A free coupon! No, the front gate won’t front  
As there are centers of wishing beyond closed doors.   
All batteries are charged (now that’s the feeling). I’m pouring  
Molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with miracle microfibers  
— I’m about to walk the spiral and more!  
While chestnuts stand around in verbal hoards  
Coupons expire.


A fond prayer as the rain falls.

Your eyes are dark, dreamy and they tell me I never did anything right,

For which our shared experience goes to waste.

A poetry of slogans earns the Balzac Award..
Folk-maverick, a darker scrum. Adolescent in a heavenly sense..
You keep telling lies about me in spacious quarters to our hosts in abstraction.

Sing: I love it when prose or song digs in and flails.
That about covers it.
(One’s destiny is that emotional core between personal and professional.)
The larynx becoming free is a moving and intimate narrative.

Got to run, prose.
What now?
[I’m sorry]
You stuck or
98: Smothered abstractions — Still absent from you in spring, seems 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 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.
I get the idea,
an ugly feeling:
we’re dinner figurines / the aptness of the (almost any) time.


Fun time. Is it time or times?
Personally, I maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic, one at a time.
The fun colony is firmly democratized, sir.

Slightly pitched voices from the wraparound porch reach to the sky.
The season seems and is interpenetrations of parallel scenery
et al running this.
There’s always looking out, up, through fitful silence & a humane sense of feeling cornered in music practice. Enough, enough men & women are deaf to ruin...

wherein love rebuilds their smirks pressing on — drizzle would hurt if they could see but it’s only visible as a short, stout white truck rolls under haze, Kia-like, choked in a soft, fluffy diorama.
145: A fiend’s tongue taught me to greet each day with nothing woeful, nothing sweet — Once I don’t hate you 
I find mercy to renew argument and sing.

For your sake, I hate hate.
I see chidingly day follows night...  your lips’ gentle breathing, a languished state, still explosive.

And still today I saw your hand in saving my life ... a great thievish sound altered and flown away.. I’m totally saved, heavenward (back from hell), flown straight up to your heart, Jezebel, never to hate, “never you.”
Channel whatnot.
It reminds me of a nude midstream, harm’s way.

Discordant how I was scared in the dream
where we come back to having gotten this wrong.
We’re both wrong but it’s negative matter
only to some
one hundred decors in one & Dame MacFarlane at the piano.

The endive bloats.