12/7/22

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, 

nah.
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.
58: Deserting the beach — god forbid 
 
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways  
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your call, a handshake  
spreads the rain,  
 
flowers, rain,  
flowers.  
(That’s it! Do what you want.  
 
The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we  
can walk away with. Good. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our  
widows.  
 
This is spring history.)
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.

12/6/22

Psychotropic bios diagnosed as barren 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.
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.
81: I forget so much memory is empowered by mistakes = my gentle verse.
Verse versus my taking umbrage feeds distortion = breathing from a common grave.

Fond pleas fracture time... your & my memories, all our deaths & morbidity — all survive.

For in men’s mouths death lives in thoughts of dying,


Thoughts still read aloud by tongues also re-rehearsing life with the dead. Haven’t I

Lived to breathe your epitaph? Or am I lying?
You like it, Sleeve. Native fluency may be floatable within, once regarded in its wholeness, its contours beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough though meaner beyond its whereabouts. There’s also a slurry kiss inside.

Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off economy was to result.

Where o where did we hide our donor workspace, the top percent of it, and who kept you from living freely?

12/5/22

It’s between hopeless and rebuked by evolution.
Hemi / semi —
orphaned as-is...

Photons in a neutrino cavity. Glad scene-makers or martial critics, proud old squares barnstorming career obstacles.

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

‘The world of cardmember services holds its own’ = swift due dates to succeeding circumstance. 
High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long- 
stood. Waking up, a new lease! Populations wrenched.  
A circus repatriated.
69: Kind eyes are deep deeds,  
a small part of glamor all see  
along with our backups watching you move  
in tawny synthetic daybreak light..  
 
We smile, neither laugh, extending
easy praise, looking into glamor farther than the eye..  
 
Questions of where, when we’re all right in love.
Fact: eye contact is mostly 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 to and fro altercations sited within a figure-ground colloquy.
“‘In a way’,” he said, “nothing saved me until ‘we ran the gauntlet —’”

12/4/22

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.
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 takes you all over. No victims.
70: I don’t blame you. Much.
Alone in your ‘kingdom’ flying backwards. You’re facing the street, passing it... A science fiction flushed hollow, cankers along with buds look prime outside and you’re still passing thru, unstained by ambush, adhering neatly to nothing, just passing. Yet suspects’ approval always ornaments tacit impurities of state. Heaven’s sweet hush.

Who are they who might envy you? Slanderers, even wooers — and such charged discourse! Don’t hold it in. Talk to me, shatter me, touch.
“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.

12/3/22

Filming at midnight — kvelling schtick a transitory nontactical concept.
And today’s laughter protocol looks ‘more than serious.’ Except...
It’s been remarkable to gauge how sneering, vaporous, obtruding personalities —
A sure loser’s term — proceed un-amusingly
Or even uncivilly in opening salvos. Seems rehearsed practice, perhaps.

By salvo — the first three or four minutes of monotone in character, in talk and in poems.
You can even do that up in film.
“Stump, don’t ask,” I said — So much slobber invested from the start, forced discourse, along with any oomph, runs dry.
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 one guard at the gate.  
A free coupon! No, the front gate won’t front  
As there are centers of wishing beyond 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.
77: You and I see love as a print-out in eternity:
We live here, in a time share of your stealth, your voice,
Your beauty’s imprint.

12/2/22

It dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for generic consensus over these big, flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions made of paradoxical tissues.
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of our whole sector before repro-ed onward.

Purely offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that goes unsolved.
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, uttering it is hardly ever for the 1st time.
Phonemes 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 signage along an infinite axis.
75: Every time I visit you in your mascara I become lucid about the fear you strike. Day by day you’re in my thoughts, food to my life. And I see your brilliance lives again, sure enough; it always has, fudging strife and abasement. There you are.

I came to poetry later than you.
Pleasure then the transportation of your soul taking place about here and now.
Nothing for me. I feel I’m a pursuer of no delight, uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my whorl of cement paintings..

Starved for a look, now, counting it best if the world
see both my fear and pleasure feasting off you, on your dime, thus, within your sight...
pursuing you in peace, all or nothing, you alone.
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...

12/1/22

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.
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 ...
104: You’re fair doing this, my friend. Etc.
I saw both of us stop dials, reset our actual pace. Still one..

..you and I may be deceived, turning toward the season’s
purebreds for fresher figures, good times and hot pricing, unless  

deception or envy is perceived better.
Burn for me, friend. Hues balance details to your green motions. 

Since.. I have seen shaken flares express fear and beauty in your eyes. 
I eyed your figure before you were born  

off perfumes of April standing as axioms for June and later — in cold pride 
you’ve already processed.. stolen for future use.

You turn summer into spring, one’s first guided 
tour — such a future is never old, never overdone.
Long day, maestro. I’ll butt dial (this still happens) you,
egressing. We’ve achieved very little even with our arguments intact,
noting there’s pride — I didn’t take any — pride in our measures
— to section our mountainous itches and engagements
— to go over, mix more with money types,
top cashiers — it’s called freedom of worship.
Long day, maestro. I’ll butt dial (this still happens) you,
egressing. We’ve achieved very little even with our arguments intact,
noting there’s pride — I didn’t take any — pride in our measures
— to section our mountainous itches and engagements
— to go over, mix more with money types,
top cashiers — it’s called freedom of worship.

11/30/22

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.
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?
132: I’d like to bend rules to wipe temperance from a finger painting 
while we dress soberly for the pityiable sky out west — 
It’s so cold here. A place for mourning w/ subdued, heartfelt pain, along w/ rare 
minerals that turn into your eyes and tree colors back east. 

Your eyes I love, and they bother me most
where a fullness ushers both of us by your grace — 
not half the sun nor half the glory from heaven 
suits me more as two morning eyes become your face.
We fell in love, enjoyed it when the vertex saw you off. Later we got dressed for golf, but congregated in the face with peers.

Better now if we didn’t digress, just file out a shade apart to trail so many copycat champs of democracy.
Heaven is in the heart with its egg drop of credos, documents, from which large scale dull instruments are tossed all over the freeze.

Say you’ll be back. My co-pay. A blast of cold air
Stoked by an invasion of intimacy.
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.

11/29/22

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.
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.
Sonnet 105: We express your idolatry as science. Fair, kind, true. Three at once.

Amazing to love you in praise of your science. Sum of sums!



Amazing to feel influenced by your themes, your scope, o many songs.  Your idolatry


Affords me your love of a lifetime. 
Take care, and take time you seem to say; 
inspire small talk and wonder between you 

while keeping your sum in view. You
look good put together.
Having only a sec, Are you thinking of me?

I used to believe so, along w/ all the grossular and pine boxes keeping us apart opening to our former lives, winning-losing before comic, breezy violinists w/ silver hats — Superangels w/ instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge.

Time’s up.

11/28/22

En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse w/in; pushing up deeply. 
Our lot’s in a hurry. Natant decapods added vowels.  
 
No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there is no threshold. Another one. Matter persists, w/o dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual and vital amid meanderings that are ordered appearances gone dormant, nearly kaput, or snap, running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in more ubiquity. Optics unravel in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.
Our supply chain deals fatalism whose allegory
can shape and twist any desire, except a ready
-made means to change the supplier that feeds us.
That tells me
I love needing what tv does.
It feels great here. We’re on tv.
74: I agree to your bail pro tem. Security should have conducted a more scholarly pat down.

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

When you have a chance for review, I think all this will be due you. Layers of my spirit made yours & any remains have no other 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 one line.