Adam made 10,000 mistakes — and won’t correlate the enormity of it, since evolutionists even now are running back to his bedside to hear more about causality —

Yet the context’s unlocked, to no ideology hewn. I’m

Eve, off Adam’s rib, a financial planner ahead of my time.
I’m still not finished, she says.
We can spot them both as atheoretical elaborators, since they spoke first.


Showing results for lives in disgrace: You’re profane. Doing this, I offered. Just 
Report to duration centers for the rich for best pricing, unless  
Breaking in looks better. Go. Fees balanced. Good.   
Then you told me borrowed methods will go further —   
Making money w/out reason is mass   
-ive. After.. surely if that’s the way we feel, there are vector   
Utilities for expressing uncritical value   
— national perfume! spritzed over your credit checks.
I personally maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic one more time.
The place is firmly democratized, sir. Beginning once seemed and was
interpenetration among important parallel scenery running this.

Today it’s ur-autumn & with these Q-tips I’m free to cut nothing off.
Not even a con anarchist.
Since this is still pre-season, thoughts wash over time —
For starters: Do you test, lease, defame to get the best?

& the answer in a day wherever that is if ...
Is it time or times?
Sonnet 26: My life is charged by your sweet respect. A merit so great
I don’t sleep much, but I'm given an exemption, I hope.
My thought is tottered, all naked but mostly fair. 

Dear you,

I send you this. Finer aspects are lacking for a good generalist’s conceit. I’m wanting words to show I am barely half a wit. My writing addresses itself deliberately to look made up, to look as if we need a hand skipping dinner, combing through jabs and moving high and low pressure points peeled back from getting our tenuous, jutting fingers into and under the interstate that brings us home.

I don’t think driving in my mind can be boasted of only moving from point to point but it’s great I don’t worry it gets easier, better.

Un-reproved, how I do love you.
’Recursive perception‘ — 
For your birthday (bleak as mine, too) I came straight from the agency. My best wishes welded to the dirty space in which I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception,” which seemed all I wanted to think of, equivocal, in crayola.

Angst was everything.
I personally maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic one more time.
The place is firmly democratized, sir. Beginning once seemed and was
interpenetration among important parallel scenery running this.

Today it’s ur-autumn & with these Q-tips I’m free to cut nothing off.
Not even a con anarchist.
Since this is still pre-season, thoughts wash over time —
For starters: Do you test, lease, defame to get the best?

& the answer in a day wherever that is if ...
Is it time or times?


To a lark, 
Like torsion in differential calc,  
your obliqueness shows up around access  
to ruling authority. It’s far off if you can’t say why.   
Your prefixed, scavenged opacity  
fills with sangfroid riches of dark matter,  
cloaking them with lark pedigrees.
I came for the invoices.

Ever notice? No one lives in that town.

Half-vegetarian, self-colliding fog drinks only from its disconnected, treasured demographic squandering energy.
We cannot mean erasure, remember.
Our nerve infused by regulatory propriety until we get up to dance founding paradox.

Name a landscape and give birth, rename it and you bestow an ecology of resonance and history.

We’ve heard enough.

This is strictly the governor’s business.
Sonnet 27: You’re wearing a scent of rosemary to bed looking on in darkness, looking down —
I’ve been here waiting for far updrafts to work over my mind —
my eyes open wide. I see you more clearly now.

Your shadow always makes night beautiful and an old face new.
Keep secrets of teleportation to float free.
Free momentarily. Here or there are volatility models according to script, vocalism in a sense. We’re beaming them and their feelings up with known and hidden risks — a fat chance shifting their weight brings on slimmer odds for recovery.

All or nothing, you’re on your own.


To figure out how you think about others’ poetry as you review and write about it is fairly stupid, except when you turn to invention techniques that are hallmarks of classical composition. To merge poetry and prose is against all the rules, and may be another procedural breakthrough, especially for those who have been disciplined to follow directions (and not get caught). Simple to say, but the review should be as interesting as the reviewed, without getting in the way. 
I’m for a more open openness with plenty of recreation.
(Humanist discourse is that indirect.) 

I’m also out on the deep end in my leftwing brain where consensus flies around like influenza. (Harder to stay immune now.) There’s a glow in my argumentation like an avalanche that drops acid over the cognitive machine age. 
107: Even tho you can’t concentrate, you’re in a balmy place, well,
A place I’ve never been before. You’re dreaming on things to come.
You look fresh. You have on your eyeliner again.
I like what you’re hoping to proclaim this time.

Down with tyrants, their crests and tombs.
No sad augurs, fewer uncertainties.

Suppose forfeiting doom, suppose
Peace with no death in a world wide with dreaming endlessly.
The focal point is an entity with many focuses halving them into foci. 
Isn’t that a calling?  
I’m filming pratfalls that seem hard to manage.  
Let me hold us in the dark... It’s a future perfect thought  
as your body keeps moving, clouds part, sotted with the urge to fit nothing in.  
That’s how being with you works asleep.  
Outdoors a muted rollcall gathered under offcolor archways, 
A hazard to all paper aircraft taking off.  
Um sure I guess.. Don’t know why we are in this automatic summation now or a few seconds from now after the transaction but before thinking about it, looking it over, with only a few elements incised to form solid bands reprieving vice versa.


Combustion and dust spores filling avenues between half truths.

We delete any plagiarism
— but up to now they have fewer words for it.
Fielding skepticism makes money harder to borrow. Clenching-tight,
I’m in another century where hoax passes for coming close.

Wigs pick up; driftwood gets epigrammatic, their upsides unrelated, pale,
immaculate. The sky has its style, subject for constant upkeep. It’s said.

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

But it does not impinge on the field.
I can’t make it. I’m staying in.
We can’t always gather this way but we do as we’ve done.
New wilderness tracing a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed, cuddling escalations in body movement, ledgers of age. The brilliant live on in one flarfy phrase, one word fudging abasement in confinement serving a purpose within supernumerary states of being (confined). 
151: Our berserk contact squeezes us into gentle shadows that are too numb to know what conscience is.

We learnt lightly, love is too young. Yet triumph in love is slathered over the poor, betrayed, cheated, even excluded. Axioms and other proofs are what we are deft w/. So the poor-excluded conscience doesn’t count? I can’t tell, I wouldn’t know. Who does?
When instrumentalists and the proud struck their alliance, you and I thought this is a gross prize although our ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspirations became more footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.
Once a Marxist, now I’m a Darwinian. 
To let cleverness exceed incident levels   
we had a taxonomic relationship.   
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax.   
Some wind, just above freezing, the cat’s tongue is puffy and disheveled.


Rain drowns you in the best ‘hosing.’ That’s a pet name for my tongue.

Surely as there’s a heartbeat to math there are light, oblique truths gaining access to felt qualities.
We’re tart. The new job title, urgent. More pets romp on, ahead of sober ai redales w/ no clawback motives. But I’m underhanded getting to an axiom we can manipulate: No amnesty?

or / & like crustaceans we give in, to forgetfulness.

This rain surrounds a weather balloon holding jerky.
Semantics in space. 

The Stanford-Benet mentions a handbook (or its conception) for encapsulating syntax to denote spacetime, uniting archetypes found in even more complex disproportions that achieve higher cognitive value than meaning itself.  
What have they done?
127: C.V.: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating ravenous yawns in fair use praxis, and there’s some age old false connection to an eyesore we dreamed up, borrowing a face beauty slanders. There, inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying nameless, profane, counting inventory, keeping faith from their esteemed orientation, mining the richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday, they think: So many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs they flare up into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer! Blocks we’ve been party to after a late lunch. 
Hitherto ethos susses southpaw disproportionality, so lovers per lifetime meet their lucky doubles halfway, borrowing a face here, slanting a blurred promise we had there or we don’t know we had, in shame letting it almost die down. 
Sobriety, not mine, makes the case for / against boredom in composition, that is, in the poem-making venture. Boredom? Blame it on relatives, the empire-prone who ride escalators up and down the Radisson nearest you.

Sociologists are stepping up and nodding off
Under the influence of futon cramps at home and similar vehicles
Transporting pouti debs and elephant men,
Dostoevsky wrote.


Love, A cool looking Japanese acrobat slow-motioned to me to go for the moody and unexpected.
Doesn’t it freak you when categories are givens you don’t need to work out? Some of you has given in — there you go, retreating, emancipating solitude, more sound-oriented than dance.

But that reminds me, your draw is immediate, overwhelming, terse and of a Castilian order. A hundred body moves, spacetime, action contained in one = you at the piano. Leafy veggies tossed for George Balanchine.
“Devils were seductive, once motivating me to seek their darkness, 
Pick up the guitar & write more songs,”  
Talking Chimp squealed like a talking dog.  
Lean, fluid, sleek & balanced, clipped close,  
This daredevil is fallen into a state of confusion & loneliness  
— just to feel cloud patterns about being no one. 
Sonnet 100: 

Muse. You.
We have worthless spoils darkening our song 
— an idle song we convert to argument 
with little or no honor. Still it ‘sings’ to the ear.

In numbers and verse I surveil your fame most everywhere.
You return time and again, lending my base subjects light
— you’re faster in my time. 

Come closer: Your power and skill suspend most of my fears 
even as we love vicariously — even more to love more,
to redeem spending my fury and all my life in satire.
Your movements go by a few names, still coordinated but hidden in.. hardly underwear.

Not dreadful but low, classic, easy, unforgettable elements surrounding a presence (for now) then taking them off — your panties — quiet and respectful in everyday nudity.

For nudity, it’s always a swing dance in practice, a whole new side of narrowing expense and becoming hallowed thru the center, handing over your hard currency and coins.

A lot of Dutch people go Dutch.


Your looks, my cooking ..

An imperfect actor converts expectations.

Stage fright showed his perfection is error.

To misappropriate is to provoke rage in absentia, unoriginal, merely sly

while the ephemeral actor triumphs, wearing socioeco white gloves.
We are ...We Are So Sorry  
Thesis Study Group — writing in 
Extremely quick intervals (about a tenth of a second) and short distances (about a billionth of a trillionth of a centimeter) — just as our dads, quantum fluxes, drive through terrestrial ideas of up/down, day/night, before/after, you know. 
Cinema likenesses are profuse or would be if we probed more Nippon aircadet dudes.  
That’s why a good workout is a terrific poem.  
Usually. I still haven’t figured out why I’m restricted to a world without suffering that can’t exist. 
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.


At a new level of storytelling that hang-in-there spirit is on your side. 
It goes with a backhand irony like a guided missile or extra guards at the gate.  
As there are centers of wishing beyond closed doors  
All batteries are 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 jobbed hoards,  
coupons expire.
It’s come to our attention a proposition digs into science or it does not.
It was amazing to meet you and your idea. In a way

it was impressive to meet your funky penumbra, to be influenced by street life needlepoint 
and other class resentments.

I was astonished to communicate with inky musculature evoking nighttime.

Oceans then deserts.

‘Quoting’ here. I can’t stop. It’s my job.

That’s what it seemed.
55: A living record, a period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity — nor can we outlive this, against death, advancing slowly.
Not marble nor rhyme so move. Dropping my nor mood... the fun workout once was of a soul, a tone cucumber, a hue not seen here nor in Lyon.
So why am I dwelling on posterity like a warrior groom?
My own lover’s eyes shine brighter than all the color coming into the poem...

You and I find room in this prospect — oblivious, uninvited, I bring guests — death and memory, statues overturned. I...

Even now in our eyes, we find fire for wearing out memory’s velocity — ask (or shall I ask) shall I?

Nor wills posterity rest.
What’s a bleb? It sounds small.
Jumping ahead. A decade from now no one’s big and famous. 
We’re forgetting nothing moves the needle. This argues for problematics.


Should we have 
a message?  
Possessive self-possession. Without a bleb or title.


I flash to a fresh writing space. And I’ve never been more uplifted, more unnerved by my desire somberly floated in a fun orrery, just a display except for the impossible, now audible signs of new history, of mixed intentions, preparing me for a fixed response with renewed power. 

Surely there’s no rebounding beneath the social parasail of poetics sequestration. 

Reset emphasis belongs in the verbatim over 

-supply. That is, which lexicon will be appointed most enabling.  
Ellipses point the way out & will continue — how we express and re-express ideas, simple or not.  

Big, multiple ideas are broken down or/and up.. discrete yet continuous 

constituent.. subordinated input emerges, important as key testimony, simple or and not.  

Simpler the better. Poor poetry yes, scansion none the less.
Not to arouse hearsay, your wellbeing was my concern. I can’t forget. 
Not even a tenth of a millionth of a second. 
And that does it for this free frame. Proud exclamations have put off even the most uncomfortable of changes, advancing a lighter viewpoint, the world as it is, pressing ideas with multiples. Many observers.
91: Who owns property, names, anything under formalism? Boasting of birth,
of skill, we grew up 20th century, years before joy in mega-wealth
became the measure for every day, as adjuncts measure it.

Some glory still of hawks or hounds, pride to a category of leisure. Yup. More? Your love is of more delight than dreams of pleasures

that can’t exist — here we go — our love zooms in value.

Love’s body force is better, richer, prouder, to the top!
You and I own one property having love, finding this joy above the rest.
We’re cruising at altitudes of theorem. Quack probabilities dim until we restructure our credit history, nail it to live data. Where does the political economy have us put it? His-her terrain — also yours and mine, since we’re all for one as subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy.. 
Let her go, let him do what he was elected to do..  
Sorry, not tonight...