1/26/20

To be unmarried
Where the sky went:

There’s a benign debate — where brightness bore in, grateful
Prenuptials stampede out,


Drawing bonds along dark zones of propaganda.

And owing to your interest... this won’t constitute a holy day, merely a
First draft.
Or only one of many noted by a crowd of flutists aft.
My terms are to settle down through the evening. Our proud examples
Gain longterm advantage when hell freezes
Imprisoning refinement only for the self appointed until.
43: There is your dead-of-night agreement to let me in. Iron clad. Skull with putty.
Urgent, dizzy, it all comes down to earth time in dreams, darkly bright, best seen darkly directed.

The more you put on earth, you know shadows, shades, colorations are evidence of imperfect (un)seeing, but blessed (made more adhesive) and happy when looking on you.

It’s much clearer in the light. Yes. That quick. This is a speaking animal in heavy sleep, you remember regression —
all days are nights and nights bright days. All time’s up.
The last emperor had sex with multiple staffers.

He had on one of the most advanced distribution systems.

His agents were crazy for the bigger paradigm of aftermath.
An aperture opened up and a lovable perspective was achieved soon lost. He disappeared, and he had children and they disappeared.

Skepticism was blacklisted by sharpened anomalies.
E.g. there’s nothing left of an emergent zone to secure a prosthetic like lack of despair.
Ethical epitomes go against the grain. Maybe grains.. What are spurious resonators for but to attempt command of natural selection and a jillion bloodlines. 
Um.. there’s nothing but an eye blush of heat that measures desperate ‘orders’ you put in reckless hands. 
Don’t forget your silent partners ripening for future sleep-overs in green, un-despairing usage summaries... 

Brilliant. Breathing new life, we have hundreds w/ crazy coats of arms. Look at you.
I’m lying about the lies I’m telling.

1/25/20

The door to the exchange left ajar.

Fizzy purviews haunting what hang around winning samples from The Inferno. Fizzy as a wave beating thru my eye.. Resonant, structured improvisation vibrates thru volumes of time. I’m chatting up my repressed side to save us from scrapping our early decisions. The charge is to fail to remember the exchange.
The work-together bellows decoherent forms we assemble — Random instances from a momentary lineage we’d overlook otherwise. No proof required, especially. A range of conversations whooped into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences. 
 
A flaming kitchen to heat pizza.  
(more below...) 
We’re imprisoned to reach our market — 
 
Otherwise, normal project staff on the roof, smug in taut outfits and at the top of their game, which is synchronized, perforated by breaking news, jumping bail.
The one-act was mostly about ticket holders with initiative winning the status quo from the beginning..

After the show folded we were never serious. Toys are another good idea until they cross us. We weren’t the first to overcome what we like & hold onto it, so it would take the future to adjust how how began.
That’s a rough outline.
Preaching to altos is an art
practiced by Art Farmer.

Or you can stand by & have what you are looking for reappear
as an entire practice. Suddenly

there are no stages.
4: Unthrifty = extravagant; nothing = nothing.
To traffic in deception, record your writing. Take fast notes
.. and I’m being fra nk, beauty lent to you
will oppose given facts of previous loveliness gone unused —
a perplexed legacy taken outside why or what’s acceptable

to audit profit and thrift. I’m lending you
my saddle for your extrication from delirium ..

Love whom else? Is it largess for me or you to go free? In a coin flip, we

traffic with fog to bequest lilac-dark in the air
spending upon you and me
so great a denatured octagonal gloom
by our own natures, sum of sums, we must take our notes alone.
“Devils were seductive, motivating me to seek their darkness,
Pick up the guitar & write more songs,”
Talking Chimp squealed like a talking dog.

Lean, fluid, balanced, clipped close,
His inner daredevil is fallen into a state of confusion & loneliness
— just to feel a cloud pattern about being no one.

In my canine illusion
of minimalism
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down
& got lost and scattered trying to remember.
Feeling comfort in disruption is one point. Together, we define entire affability arcs in ironic laughter, a series of slippery zoning disputes. Two points or more (identical in all respects).

Any abstract attitudes are buried below our gestalt-like, collective strip-down (the whole of reality) to the ashen stem cells of relatively unspeaking, as tho history was a set of realities.
Body-snatching, the third point is you and I have a multi-reality to join the others, since our lives are directionless in Rose County. Good night, ensign.

Good night to expose an accident or two that don’t matter, made tactical as we circumvent a few exchange elements, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.
duh.. After lovemaking, performance: the words and rhyming systems for married or unmarried. 
Once you think about it, think it over in any narrative, to execute thought is behind the thought beside itself.

1/24/20

Marxist-self irony:  
I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of subjective misnomers.  Eating and breathing them too. It’s July, August.. 
And this is what it means to have a muse. No blame. 
No poet will work in a freezing apartment except when it’s far more than a place for thoughts to gather thru summer. She struggles in cold rooms for little compensation and goes beyond the joy of subverting arbiters of something loath. Something enlivened, something ripe. 
 
Paperwork fastened to repetitive joy, coming July, August..
Another time, we meet in this version north of the town offices 

shaking tidal vapor thru no wait, no  


fewer than ten seconds off the slopes  
 


meaning above the steps coincided with the light  
 


clipped to the powder base patching this thaw  
 


— spirals discharged, wind heats the ground and trees open.
Being used as part of the audience seems offensive.
You pass over that and ask for a 2nd date with an audience member.
Soon after loggerheads are avoided with grit, understatement.

What do you say? Bonne balance, hey my.

You grow accustomed, so to speak, no name
gets escalated until the focus is lost.
De rien and thank goodness.

Leaving the June-July beach
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs as the wagon sways
with fellowship. Love in the future, a handshake spreads the rain,
flowers, rain, flowers. (That's it! The moat-house for the wagon
then some new wagon shirts we can walk home with. A mighty wine
origami and the wagon yard for our widows. This is spring history.)
152: Today, all my vows are oaths to your kindness, constancy, love, you bet.
Back when there was a hell, each vow seemed sufficient
and inclusive for a new occasion of faith.
It’s easy, too unenlightened, even dishonest now.

Once back in the day the fair-minded had more complex appetites,
sworn to give loving eyes to blindness they brainstormed over such innocence —
half-truths, lies never happened. But

in a larger context there was the most recidivism in fashion and lit.
Dante nibbled fast, in very mumbled tones... under a huge, ampersand-shade of grace.

There was a terrific wine list — and one knew one’s balletic twists down pat,
drinking perfusions as he had at strangers shedding their platform boots.
Sweetest of the geeks take their lessons to heart and join a special breed apart. Hoody demeanor and default dalliance breaking convention will get us to our destinations faster and more pumped. Something about / the “human couplet” / keeps me over and under. It’s a military formula, zennish almost, common enough to striving rock as well as poetry composition.

The carbon steel of every day never dimmed
Second after blasted second.
Standard touching looks terrible or descendant. 
Capacious anxiety, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... we’re done.  
You can break the law to shoulder perfection or save a life, only once. Either way is a fractional immeasurable in any context / e.r.  
 
Something was definitely going on.   
 
Lefties are feeling cornered (not to say conned) but  
it’s breathtaking administering the right wing to you.
Inter-OK...

1/23/20

I’ll taper our next soirée with visually inevitable things and select for keen gameness. Today a deep-seated specialist would work with genres and approximately autonomous forms and contemplate the significance of staying interdisciplinary; I see. Um, ok, yes, ma’am. I’ve misspelled some signs. 

I have not fulfilled norms set by low probability. (Politics and the dignity of appearances don’t mix.) Judgmentally I keep on an even keel, I cry when it becomes subsequent. I credit everything on the surface without a message. But now — I say, drink up.
I’ll hold back. Not go down. 

This is in response to the commerce-vectors coursing through your brain drenched in pop concepts. Thinking like yours brings unique comfort to support our position in the food chain, which is always in dispute. 

I adhere to the same late-filing rules as you. We are keepers of years each night. 

I’m a novice enthusiast. And.
Art is theft all right. Tonight. Years from now. 
Then, inscrutably I’ll never break down and cry.
You or I can’t copy Creeley singing to Wieners or vice versa,
Both old masters
Who never spoke for love,
Not equipped



To weep.



—
Who is?



— even on a brassiere stool overlooking time is money plaza,
We could never express feelings about delimiting time. Figures of thought are tart.

That everything once alive was precious as our talk is precious and cheap.
That “Having no time to spend” comes off as counterfact in a pas
De deux falling apart
— we interns slipping on pieces of tracing paper after the ballet
To make a racket.
66: Simple truth, our work here in the desert is beginning to spin. Like the blind we’re disabled by authorities who wiretap secrets weighing nothing in, no credit, no ripped off melancholy, nothing but misplaced honor with a substitution agreement containing you and a more civil version of you in full force, pulled from inside..  and..
 
Can we cut to the disgraceful part?  
Relax but beware, laws of cause and effect are disabled as traffic pours in and aims straight at you. And the other you. Tired with this, the other you will perfect the business end (doctor-like). The civil you and I misplaced our joy since sleeping on it.. applying love to our own flesh alone as well as losing control of simple holding skills. Simply tongue tied and tired with all this perfection, I leave my love alone but attend you and yours, of course. And.
The drill of local news, temperature, hours of indebtedness, mayhem, a fascinating stack of known challenges — locality reduced to the economy, co-rejecting isms that are not concentric. Centricity & challenge influence perception; both engage what leftists & the right make up as sources for so noted middle ground. Nothing but themeless modules. Nothing to uphold.
No to Bat Masterson & Hamlet,
Gothic non being, lonely contexts & Goethe’s juvenilia.
No good instincts, no ephemerality, no hidden rounds
or flexible spite.

I’m not sure it’s inclusive or scrambled enough if we differentiate among them, & besides, why be preoccupied with peculiarities?

Nobody has to talk it over with me. I see what no means.
First movement:

Beginning to see the picture. Beyond some blanks
you can follow love making progress toward endlessness:
Our love (a winner .. have a look!) is a time share in calligraphy.
Joining you, me — my hand learns & flows with others’ sleight of hand — committed to your tongue tho, delivered from your brain,
nursed on your beauty’s signature.
Now we have equities;
our story has legs.

1/22/20

We think on our feet like animals brushing up on ideas...
Condition blue. 
Ten or so 
ululations kick it off, running 
over one ocean. 

Ripping in mean 
swimmer’s blue, 
in a competing mesne, 
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta 
more down surf, startling 
That swells 
the back light among us.
They circulate the flowers — up to now they have many words for it

but it’s fielding skepticism that’s making money harder to borrow. Clenching-tight,
abandoning death with approximate language, Yamaguchi says.
Wigs pick up, driftwood gets epigrammatic, upsides unrelated, pale, immaculate.
The sky has its style, subject for close attention. They said.

Paying attention is the field call to valuing the future. And the future notices who attends.

But it does not impinge on the field.
I have felt your voice,
followed your craft —

One touch,
one orated note.

Sleep has more ideas for here and now
where everything is a right turn;
we made contact then for a time
inspired by my taking your course.

No plan, we thought about speaking,
better than keeping you out —

Watching you spin like sentience
“refined by distance” since that was the last of

casual contact \ spectacle,
putting my life together but keeping your drift ..
76: In flight, the framework is told on telling. 
How can varsity spend their tribute? How spent? Why?    
 
This café, I think, is going to answer that & help the weather from getting lost.   
I know the framework of 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. My argument.
Your new boyfriend gives me butterflies.

Butterflies have no meat. Not really.

I guess they’re unprincipled, drawn into narratives of low concentrate, lacking design,



squeezed across a syntactical floor with shaky particulars.

I prefer you not invite tradespeople in.

We’re in business —
Go online.
(Leave us alone.)
A parrot’s vocal cords give way to multiple hunches. You’re really that tall? There is no wrong answer. Your current salesman voice sports a mind blowing pedigree, meh, too late to make it sparse.

Even your restraint is watered down pat. You’re too qualified and thrifty to feel anything suspended — Mayday!
You and Boy Marisol, I told you both I agree. Enjoy your revisionist’s timeshare, the afterlife to the future, unobstructed, puckered in ab exercise.
I’m

petrified by merger talkathons —

1/21/20

After lovemaking, performance: the words and rhyming systems for pride and license.
Once you think about it, think it over in a narrative, to execute thought is itself recursive — beside the thought, working it out.
Until done,  
factor in visual plug-ins for calisthenics, just a load off a sweet smell.   
 
Artisanal resonance turns into reflections out of which you can finger-point to the horizon,  
 
magnified and now askew, flaking off. So note what happens. 
Yeah? A soar sport. 
 
Soar and insert your bonus and exchange — what do you know!  
Tongues, clean up to your neck — radiant  
 
patterns, your vocals trace phenomenal factoids that can end  
in a draw sustained by   
getting up, stretching for another solar system.
I’m having a pitch dark
obvious brainstorm
so why stop

Only, let’s call it
O baby
all the way unnhh..

O yesses encompass in advance
shimmer
— crash. Al-

so let me see..
dreams get advanced —
Comatose, I'm yours.. returning the favor.
98: Smothered abstractions. Absent from you in spring, I think it’s winter still. 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 for too long — for paranoia’s trapping both of us. Summer’s story, flowers’ smell sweet, lilies white, roses vermillion: The sweet spirit of youth’s hue and odor. You pattern all these figures drawn after you.
There will always be a poem


I will climb on top of it and come

In and out  of time,

Cocking my head to the side slightly,


As I finish shaking, melting then


Into its body...



— Jim Carroll
To a friend in good faith:

Pausing to look at poems, two tomes.
That’s how you toned it down.

In faith I’m divided / confused. I signed 
up. The acoustics can’t be imitated much,
without prior disclosure. Fielding skepticism
makes your fame hard to brush
off. Also a drumbeat for every dataset — top finds, semantic frames
& bons mots, good & loud so the workspace hears them 
& feels them in phases throughout your paschal hush.

1/20/20

There are a few tongue twisters. Episode interiors silhouetted in un-analytical projection, coming-of-age views that screen an official episode [how will I leave you] : However I believe we’re past the middle, nearing the accordion fold of 1 — loving time; not an accident the outlines say there’s a double interior where scribbling adjusts to long division, complex facticity, which scribbling-2 — hate time — tears open and picks at — to pay 1 off in near disappointment — Both scribbling and scribbling-2 climb uphill, texting odd incidents still, and both slide back down just before turning 17, fortune’s bastards biting hard, gritting their teeth, a lot older now. 
Cruelty goes by a few metaphors. Not loving you down the road.. going against myself.. getting soaked in a Mars invasion.


Heavenly and new, classic and easy, unforgettable facts that are fiction to our surrounding revenge for taking off, fawning over / upon you, buttoned up and respectful in everyday nudity. For nudity is earned, commanded by your eyes. It’s always a swing reunion in the etiquette of cosmic expanse, a whole new side of staying special and hollow at center, a vacuum in motion as on wheels.
By caution as usual one could also mean caution around the Koch Bros.
Hence the political surface is blood sport and games, what some call discourse as action. Caution is exercised to preserve the constructs protecting access to the oligarchic core. The equation reduces to politicians = mascots.
139: A poem fires up photoshop. Excuse me.

A poem is a picture as love well knows.

That your cunning lays upon my heart...

That drowns me out, my kitten, dear heart, but don’t wound me, not

this time, and never call me back to justify what’s wrong.
Your good looks attract my enemies — It’s your eyes
yet glances aside — with your unkind tongue you overpower me,

kill me outright, never through any art. So I’m defenseless.

Also I’ve saved all your robocalls to prove it.

I’m not kidding. No more calls, no pictures, please.
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a stream of gasses embossing conjoined tattoos. Outside the feel of an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brightened ways w/ brays.

All our neighbors are mirror bees. Are we not ones?
The work-together-bellows forms (like monad personalities) that we assemble — fluky events from a momentary lineage we’d overlook otherwise. No proof required, especially. A range of conversations whooped into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences. 
 
A jailer’s kitchen to heat the Sanka.  
(more below...) 
We’re imprisoned to reach our market — 
 
Otherwise, normal project staff on the roof, smug in taut outfits and at the top of their caffeine game, which is synchronized, perforated by breaking news, jumping bail.
Self-barter, a potential volt in a then-this-is-now domain...
Just praying.

1/19/20

This is off season & with these swabs we are free to cut nothing down.
Not even a con anarchist.
Under pre-season conditions, a mad(wo)man’s or tyrant’s thoughts wash over time —
For starters: Does one test, tease, defame to extract the best from competition?

& the answer in another season whenever that is if ..
.. is it time or times?
Spinoza acts against his own young interests.
Adoration has a poetic scent, nascent pastels.

Reputations preceded character, an act of apprehension remains
deferentially. Who will advocate toward peace, the tranquil
to empower the cliffside —
quiet in the nick of it.
A heedless apparatchik, I came to my senses later to strum the alert.
Modulating the self raises the stakes
according to types of daring.

Don’t be offended, demonstrate
a simple skill.

Self mastery begins thus,
With pencil marks across gessoed

Pearls — trance police
— I’m not sure anyone can
deal with them... turning into a

Spectacle — They’re taking dictation
put into thinking doing the math.

Space parlance & more intuition —
rhymed with situations beneath disappearing

Molecular
effects.
44: It was nice once to have known you. If flesh were thought
A word could count 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?
Teen to older person,
cornered (not to say conned).

Hold to your decoder status that’s forever sparkled quo vadis,
meandering within ordered appearances unraveling optics —

I mean to say high birth, career orbit
mean very little to vocal fervor.

Either way is a fractional
infinite in the context / e.r.

OK I mean
I’m done.
What if we put the male talking chimp away for five seconds.
“Let’s not do that, let’s not make hurting each other impossible to resist,” the real talking chimp enjoined, unable to stop herself.
Unexpectedly, she took me home to meet her family.
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 garage 
(of accessible language), keeping barbed wire and Ted Greenwald materials reconciled like chairs.

1/18/20

Unfinished sculpture. 
 
I am is still here, the body’s heroic purring could not be put off. (One hush dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).
Inessential consequences of my behavior are writing.
I’ve got a pet name for my tongue. Jerk A.

Surely as there’s a drumbeat in the heart of theoreticians, there are lightweight near-truths about their achieving access to felt qualities.
Jerks’re brusque. Their new job title, urgent. More house to watch ahead for sober handlers of airedales w/ no equity motives. But I’m underhanded getting to axioms we can manipulate;

no right, no wrong?

Or / & like crustaceans you & I give in, to forgetfulness, according to an eclipse.

Our gabfest takes place over the fields for each of us in the multiverse
up in a weather balloon holding beef jerky.
For a recap, artificial Intelligence continues to take up ‘busy work’ leaving humans to important dreams.

I color within lines. Drink? I take my latte to bed
And set it on the stand, tagged and released.
You wailed it, Yosemite. Morose I am.. and optimistic.
18: Allergic to verse? I believe a temperate art is set to make more mistakes, say, rough comparisons to too hot a month this spring or one that’s past. Say, all summer you are more than nature’s change in course, growing (untrimmed) — owning the day for every moment — and knowing when to shine, to seethe.

And often seeing how hot eternal summer is, coming then fading all too short ah..
Whew. We see you in fair poetry and art
as fair as far and long as men can breathe.
After glamour there’s revisionist power, a legacy inside us. Wo- 
lfed down improv crap — we’re pre-wired or is there a fee? 
Radiance now is in a lather. Remember deliverance?  
 
“What if it doesn’t work. Then what?” Everything works. 
In any time and place of our choosing: Act gathered, something there?  
 
True love brings on a physician practiced in the arts of relapse.
Meantime we’ve moved off the mainland. 
No unknown futures present newer phenomena, fenced off.  
We have no perverse incentive to take more chances as we talk thru our replacement woods.  
 
CLEARS THROAT. LAUGHTER. Postdisruptive.

1/17/20

What can be done to language? I register nothing. Never again? 
 
Boredom is poor experiment, our knobby supervisor said. And that’s what we wrote down to snap out of it — lightness, joy, eyes-open dream. And 3rd cousin to dream: Knower and known are clean osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the suitably flared reptile frontier.  
 
Time I guess to air-lift foolish eagerness and cover it with worn Keds and Swiss Army knives. I’ve been a floater of cynicism in relation to any concept I sever. (It’s hard for me to take credit.) “It’s always about dying,” btw, “never death.” After dying, the process is plugged to death, a ‘never,’ as in never never.

I consider head scratchers neurolinguistic balloon product managers. Once or twice removed.
Fact: eye contact is more defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense that’s forbidden. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making patterns to and from alterations sited within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.  At the same time I’m forgiven I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)
Pound. Confused or colorful, often gaudy, a mazed creature, vagabond within a Dutch bordello (condottiere inflated), involved in deliberately ambiguous strains of professorial fat (think of Cathay). A motley mayor to his inlet, his weeded self, a speck of a noun beat against cymbals, a puzzler over a paronomasia offered by anti-popes and holy fools who wore down the degringolades and moving tyros at the head of modernity —

In the forefront of wooden tones, EP served his victims the mystery dead hand, uncertainty occulted and shiny. We borrow from EP, tracing him down now to throw him into erumpent, latticed breakthroughs he first walked into, then over. A discolored specialist for a mendacious tomorrow, a tomorrow indefinitely remote, not new, rantipole yet superfine.

Had Pound retroactively polluted intake of the high modernist toxins that aesthetic portends? Poetry released of all responsibilities regrouped, rooted in political indifference, self-abnegation, self-defense. Poetry no longer invoked to try history.
145: A fiend’s tongue taught me to greet then end each day with nothing woeful, nothing sweet —

Once I don’t hate you 
I find mercy to renew my argument and sing.

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

But today I saw your hand in my life ... a great doomed sound altered, flown away.. I’m totally saved, to heaven from hell, flown straight to your heart, Jezebel, never to hate, “not you.”
The crisis to now: Form is not
object but double identity, an explosive
funneling a non-hegemonic pulse — and due to substitution
off rhyme gathers in the moment

You look fabulous, a strong monster
under scrutiny from your upcoming voiceover!

Some will have heard everything.
But that’s when we fundamentally begin to wander
Like adjunct pleasure twins once in a trance, just this once.
‘Electing’ a demagogue feels like brain cancer.
Realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio” 
I am touched by everyone now alive,  
softest jazz, lower right, his lips moving up, down,  
talking design shit.
His father’s image contains everything he knows. How can a bantam weight =  
feigner? his dad asked in freeze frame over the mirror phone.   
 
(Dad’s next book is staring out the window, saved-up.)  
Amusing I suppose. With regard to static and its ovoid, stasis  
in a compulsive battle over the ultimate smiley face —  
it’s not just who grinned first (dad) that counts, but also where  
and how. This’s my tongue giving his lips (the son’s) a brush up  
realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”
Prayer behooves you, it often says. Prayer for those who talk shite no longer pray. I hope you are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one. 
That’s an outline.