It takes a while. Day by day. The way 23 hours ago the multiplicity of writing today took a while. Time 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.

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 a brainless voice, yet 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.

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. Two, 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.

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?

Your search had no results.
The time is split into categories of use for your work and for the sinister about-face during a system download added to our labor.
A life sentence for causing a ruckus.
Call when you’re ready.

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.

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.

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.

Sec’s up.

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.

Filming you again. Filming double quotes.
Close up: just your voice, a glass house perforated by action tones. Beating hulks to the punch as they pour the next vodka that makes us cry. A film with multiple data fields, a crew of stunning extras in malaise.

No ilk of valid colloids — No mimic measure, no ceremony “plinthing a drumbeat.” Also, no dyscalculia, no hindsight bias, and on purpose, no flavor.

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.

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.

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.

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.

In text design every utterance is for sale. I’m delighted in my forties and fifties. And after, I’m intensely relaxed, everything exposed as muggy air filled with puzzling results you can pin your lapel on like tendrils.
There’s a low threshold for unlimited text space and transfers, however.
It’s better when I wake up we’ve just landed.

Volumes in the sun sound great. I started at the top, what was there? I just stood there, then a few rain forest elements incised to form solid bands connected to now-text or a-moment-from-now text. Also, it’s easy, differentiate the two, but not for long.

Tensions were apparent.

Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to a co-op, wrapped in steam.

Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague exchange, like our national plebiscite, maybe better to pump out to fog’s grasp.

20: Like voices & solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.) — smart, amazing particles sleep it off thru traffic, affecting shifting hues up to the rolling bridge lattice. On you
& by you, nature’s face is warm & bright. All hues charged & painted, brilliant to the eye — adding amazement & new purpose that’s stuffed with pleasure, not needing love, except when it comes altogether!

Thereupon we control our handiwork, less false than one’s life, almost like passion’s master-&-mistress gazing on you as passions grow.

Waves (all the best of them) beat my eyes off. Don’t care, I still can see and lie about what I believe is fact, clinging to structured improvisation that takes a volume of time, only it’s a civil leave now coming back to bone substance.

Like The Inferno and Nerves and every shined thing since, we are collectively involved engineering the tide of speech desire.

One doesn’t know any more
or if there are good times ahead of war.

It’s impolitic to separate performance from text; both encourage woodies. Have you thought of writing?

Since we gave up on poetry, singalong vaulted to the top of the agenda. Leaving office had a double meaning to off-center the filing (filtering) system and other singularities I’ve kept versed in for years. We have no limits to affirm any retractions, feeding our reliance on illumined work, dire pleasures, majestic plans and, this most generalized I guess, burningly turning back, looking on while the wax dims. Almost.

50: A hip cast of super angels strumming harps, an encore of Zeus Arrhenothelus

Bringing up larger journeys for the stretch and preen in vigilance onward —
So far the miles to me are measured from my friends and joy left behind.
I fall back tired, breathe while new cast members come on —
They are casually let go bearing my weight.

Our joy restored at a slight remove from sharp pain and darkness in grief, putting this in mind, Since we answer to manifold waves that weigh in:

Unprovoked, a heavy vacuum still.. you are away while I am on my way at my travel’s end.

50: A hip cast of super angels strumming harps, an encore of Zeus Arrhenothelus

Bringing up larger journeys for the stretch and preen in vigilance onward —
So far the miles to me are measured from my friends and joy left behind.
I fall back tired, breathe while new cast members come on —
They are casually let go bearing my weight.

Our joy restored at a slight remove from sharp pain and darkness in grief, putting this in mind, Since we answer to manifold waves that weigh in:

Unprovoked, a heavy vacuum still.. you are away while I am on my way at my travel’s end.

Microscopic levitation gets modulated. Had to be. Modulated is like coming out to predict your hard held views, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact explanations and multiplying love of what we were doing before the procedural took hold. Then we are off again, taken off, backed up in the cloud this time, keeping our data immune to causation.

A warm nearly winter day. Solved for the resplendent spelling, but not remorse. Now it’s a year later, a fine day emanating will go, good news tho. Typo, I’m late; it’s fitting, weeping inside before you go away. Not at rest, circumspect. (I’m just beginning..) Well, most every worry or mistake is literal, based on trying to rewrite hellish varieties of you getting fingerprinted from eight perspectives, from xvith-century Italian drawings.. ..The stars are out of their miniseries one boomerang day after another. Every day’s important, I see. I remember your aroma, &.. ..Before that yoga is fantastic, a civilizing coterie added to sempiternal space & entered into w/ a worldview w/out achieving access to felt qualities.

Post-cogency, you still doing that? That’s what’s long about sadness,
the real overhead. Lost time, money. A sky of ice cubes for what party in sleep?
When I leave, I’ll take no
memory of a long drive. And just the sardines, please.
The cat owner in me is unknown to me,
but permeates me. Consequences...

Lost time is sawed off from a vast range of others’ gravity.

Sonnet 40:

When you read this, my injury appears prior to who prompts it.
Not you.

We were informed of your deceit in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with new features and a few we move in any direction.
But not you.

Take all my loves, my love. You steal from me and vice versa since all of us are in use.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom
interest me only so far. More curious is why we approach poetry in English primarily in terms of understanding it.

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.
Not you.

This would be my most empirical debacle to date — a bumblebee
clocked into life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
is a flaw like smearing vetiver over its mad, abstract body.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the air in lithe shorthand coupled with fast
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.

This would be my most empirical debacle to date — a bumblebee
clocked into life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
is a flaw like smearing vetiver over its mad, abstract body.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the air in lithe shorthand coupled with fast
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.

The float seems to learn fever can be unwelcome overnight: 
“The float is radiant, jammed with radiant things,” had 
 
Simon Schama anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I been   
eloquent as to the fair, to the bright, we’d need no caption.”     
 
The float throughout anticipates some base point ..   
What does there’s still a move to go do?   
Keep nursing desire past cure — a psychic point 
or three feeding your appetite to please. 

Conformity is a serious consequence and like plain verse, an urban hazard
And it’s well to recall that hated, swallowed feeling inside you and me, too.
How prominently your joyful spritz became an asking price.

(End of asking)

Trying to deodorize verse confirms what?

High sensitivity equals high urgency.

I felt something.

The hollow inside is mixed up, the survey said;

overlapping symbols’re happening way out in the ocean. 

Your ocean. Your breathlessness. My Weimaraner

tilted sideways and faithful as he is he’s destroying
our bed, our non faith and consequences.

Follow instructions.

We got in surrendering our fingerprints

humming to each other. Our hums landed us a windfall. We

toast anyone else entering first grade


w/in one’s center, letting another adult night slide.

My counselor affidavit registers our deficiency of pretexts. All the same, hunches count. (I’ve always been competing with another self.) 
 
Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for foundering within the social anomaly of treason.  
Rules commit us. Voters chose Trump. Yet this is the latest case. 
Everything I note here is integrated by law. Remember those days?

Follow instructions.

We got in surrendering our fingerprints

humming to each other. Our hums landed us a windfall. We

toast anyone else entering first grade


w/in one’s center, letting another adult night slide.

The local is inside you, sang Pete Seeger and Bob Creeley.
First heard this when I tossed my head and rode, hey
one foot, pawing the ground before taking gallops.
As for my consultant that day, he shook
the bed, broke his baby toe,
So much as ‘the way things were’ stay the same that one day.
Hold on?
..membranes are functional! It’s an open

Darwinian algorithm to back more
nano-proposals, say, walking in, “hey..”

After you, a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.
Wait. There’s nothing.

I lower your voice to closest saturnal pattern
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.

Some time back, long before punches of text showed up on the phone, there were snores from ancestors with frequent coughs and grunts crowding together in caves. Back when our bodies taught us phonemes shrieking to signal pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition — folks like you hit upon logic that’s crazy fancy, headed for greatness in the morning. 

It’s different from the evening on and someone with hands on flame hits back. Teamwork.

The thick grasses go out on a date, back dabbling in craftwork while we roll thru them. All this acreage owned by production-geared landlords, prosaic at base, that is, a-theoretical, factual, nearly broke, misunderstood.

90: Hate me now.
It’s up to pond structure to model strains of passivity and its onset by the rear shore. Only don’t drop in.

The tide pool holds scraps and parts of nesting authority as an after-loss. Rainy tomorrow. I join you to re-reference an arrow and bow made out of many purposed m.p.h. gusts — and this is your and my body as well — a priori nil in inner life razing names of sorrow.

Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — I don’t care.
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you what we’re doing.
How there’s a piece of karate, fragile backs we erase, how
there’s turbulence... something else active, pointed. Your
push reaches a piquancy where time management is unleashed.
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting one’s own
brow.