You and I go over the Spinoza graphemes. I also was thinking it’s hard for us to get foreign sports equipment or a new o.s. without indices of suspicion and objurgating.
If you agree, I’m happiest procrastinating. We have a pleasant sencha. It strengthens our attention for doing so little.

Random influences could fill in our cancelled checks. Filling in on smart hills, cute and cuter butterflies having at butterflies, why?

The jet gate opens to the drawing room, once a factory outdoors where snow & sunlight close their distance. The old new & new strung out on sectionals, an untapped atmosphere of oblique, puckish Swiss.. The Swiss playing the stunt of relays between workplace & dogma, everything everyone can live by w/out being sequestered or brutally charged by material objects : so by these shortcomings we softball in harmony around some helpings of sky & helpings of Swiss.

The contours are to look urbanely offhand and sound normal, asymmetrically curt.   
  
Pulling a change-up tantrum repurposed into conceptual deflation.   
Psychotropic bios are commonly diagnosed as parallel discourse twists.    
  
Now one concentrates on the next available thing   
Until one like me goes broke; summarily I’m screwed.   
I then center on perception (whether beauty or wit), sustaining losses out of causticity.

Mueller on investing in Trump: 

Absence of thought rules for executive authority. ‘For’ or in place of. That is a summary. Correct. Felonies are edged with intricate crosshatches over pastel word clumps, busy and redacted, hacked into non-exculpatory fudging. True, soft or hard, p.r. pellets change our misimpressions a bit.

Pattern a busy, contingent thoughtlessness that’s slime,  
generally, as it’s all over me.  

Next, he’s a waste of time. 
Am I threatening him?

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 read the sun in the morning as your love before I met you.

One style is no style, a luxurious quest.
The one style.
If you’re stagnant, you’re dead, pure, metaphysical evil. 
I put a recalled toy in my mouth, more profitable than narcotics. 
Doggie style, god thus is mirrored information.

The if-movement (aspirations) can be thought
A saga you (any of us) can pump off & on — so on

-Coming then coming clean, another part of our closeness.
Lateer, new police!
[speak of paranoia]

*
You don’t understand until I do.

Spacetime. Slash pauses.
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /
not while evangelic angles of light are making a fracas on our way home.
Vaccinated, I have a merciless itch.. what is this collapsed satori we travel into?
Other instances of ourselves / Passing the “casting

of cities,” thinking past us. Way past.
A normal 2 years B-4 messing with U. Why wait?

For a recap, 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.

34: I have a base feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in a way —
Together, you and I define arcs of ironic repentance but worked out in a series of tear-shedding disputes. Just so, we’re still cloaked in loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal my storm-beaten face but not the offending wind smudging our wounds into a double-cross of rotten smoke. Why?

It’s not enough I lose, ransomed to disgrace. I’m scared; ah, no relief as such. Not yet. I don’t travel well in new grief. I hide from your face even as it’s shedding dry tears, breaking promises, still breaking me.

Some witches stand way out in a group, my mutt  
& a star couple born of passion, sparkles  
that go the distance without going  
against my finer inner pooch whose lion’s share of  
derived practices crank open to show  
neurotic coherence. The mutt’s  
face loses color; she’s hoarse  
& as dog-eared as Caligula.

Poetry on the style page (where it stays). 
*   
 
A thought I’ll put aside: a poem is a sonic record of felling trees (for the page).

A valid socialist government is not that hot in Slavic labials.
Apparatchiks wear pilates for motives, eager too, speechifying shyly  

With rabbity, squeaking voices, sounding like biblical  
French — French is just plain meaner. And they negotiate cash for
Rapprochement. Keeping one’s posture simple on the corner of utterly out of space.  I

Am still there  
As well. My views are not incompatible with theirs.   

Only there’s a redo for the first republic that we fail completely, openly.

Copenhagen interpretation:
Our active models are you & a perfect sweep I can live by w/out being 
sequestered or bitterly charged for my own shortcomings 
distended in harmony around some parts of sky 

I understand as profuse clouds. Understand like take in. 
Huh? Is it fire? Up in sparks’ glow 

the moon made indispensable for smearing its light 
that travels down in a tiered border-like scrawl?

Sonnet 3: 
 
Now is the time.  
Image &  posterity aren’t everything. But they call you back. Same for dying. Let’s stop Pisces & disdain. Face to face, mark self   
-love as no fond option. Unearned. Yet thru clear windows 
April will renew another golden time taking form, 
Beguiling as light flows. “Could you be more specific, my 
Episteme?” April in its prime calls you, repairing you,  
Your ears, your face, fresh forms of golden times remembered.

Over the summer construction advances.
Uncivil also true, summer advances, supreme over the construction.
Everybody goes!
... inevitably constructivist and supremacist impulses are joined.

I forget ephemerality, I forget narrative. 
I’m drunk on the environment; 

I’m a working temp, a role promised Malthus that threw him over the cliff.   
 
Now suppose a perfect Darwin of heavenly fury,  
searing, puffy, relaxed and succinct.   
 
Now an angel, let’s run some #’s.  
To pass out when we wake is ample.   
 
I’m at your side placing puts  
on the evolutionary table, petite in wanting you (I do).  
I forget farewells.

Fun and determined, senator. What shall we dredge up today?
A friend notes, 

Tonight’s salad won’t contain much nor belong to much itself. 

Or 
tho its taste promise is delicious to us, to tell it so to its face = sucking up.. 
taking nothing for granted 

..we’ll leave the d.r. to taste maligners = our foreheads are void just thinking that way, why? — as if adapting to a contest among decentered pests! 
Dioramas later, 
soaking up positron equations I might short out 40 days, lent to us (our hobby and bent!) disabling us to commune midstream freely by the humming fireside. Yes? 

Yep. I’m not picky. I’m trashing political-foam-bearing puffiness, that’s all. There. Chucked.

Caspar continues, 

I’d rather not trouble you with my impressions of resource hoarding, so dependent on flow of daytime into night. Shades at midnight can ‘almost’ whisper faintly but I botch capturing even a fraction of their directive. My willingness to keep watch through the evening keeps up only to find your granting me permission to maintain my distance. I’ll let you go then. I knew you would understand.

121: A friend writes, assurance from dharma augments the sport of being & being extends
to reproach general evil and vile absence : I am &  most men are not that bad, not that adulterated 
if we reckon our being accelerating just pleasures, and ok — 
straight, rank feeling has a point & I see how others see it. 
Count your own abuses, bevel-ers.

I may count on my thoughts, not others whose eyes seem false —
I think it good I maintain who I am.

Whom will we discover? How? 
Do you both laugh? Per rules,  
regs of sounding it out  
it’s overdue.  
You’re back in vertigo  
 
yielding authority with no proxy.  
 
Like a minimalist practicing karate high noon  
: any of your remedy gets exaggerated, desert marsh = a bespoke presence...  
What’s this the (x) about?  
You say yay (for x). 

So far: There is still no nastier event in poetry since top dawg Arthur Rimbaud snitched on Paul Verlaine & switched off poetry to run guns. (What about that prick? Rimbaud, I mean. Can you rap over Bourdieu & Weil’s take on renunciation of the Dionysian crafts, poetry & lovemaking, as a coherent strategy in Rimbaud’s case? The system upended — production so restricted it pro forma led to killing the craft? leaving oneself out by reference to internalized, thus rerealized, revised, social norms of cultural legitimacy & self-perfection!)

The French have other words for inversions. See what their friends are playing. Find friends.

Absence of thought rules for higher authority. A busy, cool thoughtlessness that’s slimed over again and again, maybe. 

It’s a fact eye contact is defensive but our checklists and strategies determine most of the contents. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane senses. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) 

This is how contingency shows up in texts, making sense from alterations that are situational within a figure-chicken / ground-egg round robin. 
I retract my falsehoods. At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice projective geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.) 

Feeling is feeling. 
It’s said repetitive motion has gone too far  
and some at all levels will be enclosed, not spoken of,  
climbing into casual spectacle, ritually putting  
other lives together & keeping nothing.  
Trained staff encourages sampling,  
sharpened, feeling a moral duty.   
 
That was the life of the party speaking. Highly attentive,  
morally camouflaged. A gun fired.  
 
So you get it now about dualism, you can make 4 walls your rendezvous, hang a roof, lounge in queue for the motorcade. The ride feels small —

43: There is your dead-of-night agreement to let me in. Iron clad. Like skull with putty.
Urgent, dizzy, all agreements come down to earth time in dreams, darkly bright, best seen darkly directed.

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

It’s much clearer in the light. Yes. That quick. This is a speaking animal in heavy sleep, remembering regression —
all days are nights and nights bright days. All time’s up.

Anything Apollonian looks flab prone. In sciency prose.
O yup, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... we’re done
.. In my prose half we can break laws to shoulder perfection or save a life, once or
Either way is fractional in the context / e.r.
In the crazy wild apothecary we call all infinite sets
a rolling surveillance unwraps many polycarbonate essences.

For them, freedom is personal. There’s solid drama down a month of long halls,
binary fissions while we’re expecting one meta-interaction at a time.

The will to quiet is the flip side of getting a lit 
-tle piece to burble, crying doubly inaudibly  
for more power when a robot loses its job offer after a thoroughly successful war on the homeless...  
I get scared how the losers meditate their spinning up to the new hostile  
surface, w/ no message. So there’s nothing left as surplus.

Discovery entails voicing new speech from old, 
 
Knowitall.  
 
And [...there is no inside [...] only what’s already here [what I breathe] outside, which is continually immature, impulsive...] [and]  
 
To observe what’s streamlined and compressed, aiming fast —  
I’m scared. Good night to write up an accident or two that don’t matter, made tactical as we circumvent voice commands, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.

Terry Eagleton’s formulations re text and production can be less daunting when edited to their central premises. 1) Production is the key. 2) Text is a production of ideology. 3) Text and performance are “analogous to the relation between grammar and speech” – a production of a production (such as a theatrical performance of a text, his example, or critical interpretation of a text, my example).

Speech is a product, not a reproduction, of grammar; grammar is the determining structure of discourse, but the character of discourse cannot be mechanically derived from it... In studying relations between text and performance, then, we study modes of determination which are precise and rigorous, not accounted for in terms of ‘reflection’ or ‘reproduction’. We are examining, in short, the conditions of production.


 
An empirical analyst accounts for the double performance of her enterprise.

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 take 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, in your sight...
pursuing you in peace, all or nothing, with you alone.

Time runs out. 
I stay in position, authentic / inauthentic;  

I model your attitude and your facts  
yet  

fear overextending them if  
or when —  
This is when —  
Huh? Now you know I did it.  
I wish I hadn’t / I wish I didn’t.  
Poetics, a subset, off that, of epistemology,

As Isaac passes from consciousness within physics to desolated marsh,
walk along with me. / Where to?

To the battlefront. Nightly measurement skyrockets (blasé for improvising
at first, then it coils & feels there are authentic possibilities) ..

I admire your parents (ghost punks), friends, enemies’ enemies, strangers, also ..

Charitable informatics is garbled when this derivative. Avoid rejecting
criticism, keep your smart object-waves under wraps ..

(I forget hints of confrontation let these other voices barge in,
forward, back passing thru the 1st position
of the sprout.)
It’s written (odd, eh?) that was enough. O May!

It’s hopeless, my life like my sweating over you, nondestructive, unextreme. I crack up when someone mentions reincarnation, but next time you’ll pick a family from a line of tenured scientists in the non-snickering future. We on the left are depressed because ours is a classless de-corporated shtetl — no need for socialists? time will tell. Tho, maybe there’s no option? 

You’d still love political verse, but with reservations because of the dirt, all the skid marks and resonance of decay, “refined by distance.” I made sure you could tell.

Lilac is a favorite zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. 
Here we are, talking about it.
I feel so socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing the center: 
More than a single system, 

A huge agnostic discipline 
About attitudes behind morals. 

You know this open and shut — 
Take it down / or thumb thru 

The balance left over. Inhabit the brim 

To the point you don’t have to know anymore yoga than 
We know now — less than nothing, the inside of zest.

It’s hopeless, my life like my sweating over you, nondestructive, unextreme. I crack up when someone mentions reincarnation, but next time you’ll pick a family from a line of tenured scientists in the non-snickering future. We on the left are depressed because ours is a classless de-corporated shtetl — no need for socialists? time will tell. Tho, maybe there’s no option? 

You’d still love political verse, but with reservations because of the dirt, all the skid marks and resonance of decay, “refined by distance.” I made sure you could tell.

143: Kiss me, skull.
Paying attention is the field call haunting the future.
Be kind, then turn back —
More for the retina to unscrew internal hysteria pouring up, breaking away, embarrassed,

Losing both death and life in pursuit of other business. You’ll

Look how I feel.
No plan is perfect.

Stacked tonal aspirations. 
Not a problem — for a relief pitcher staying blithe in the win column, changing into a tenebrae-stitched uniform, eco-conscious and cool in response to one’s frantic cells. 

... the rookie is burning on the outside, his only credits were adamance /
to squelch any dramaturgy from theology, wellbeing and actionable conditions, missing how far you are beaten into their projections.

An outline of foreign service starts at once, as its top ashes flow upwards, looking sketchy as well as appealing to tastes abroad. I hope all are happy. Don’t be sad. Bag a good one. 

My foreign friend flicks on the sunlamp
to countermine zooms.
Her neck and collarbone are burning
to show their softness. Her hair seems partible
emitting an innocence that lasts.
That’s an outline. 

The status quo models verse as living matter re-involved with impulsive energy coursing around flecks of appropriated ideas, especially when it comes to appearances, tones and language use itself. I might call this artful transmutation of intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t a history of folk enslaved to procedure.

41: An abstract, pretty temptation below gentle laughter: Ay,
Beauty for your years .. Ah me.

Ah blizzard.

Together, you and I follow a twofold point of wooing / forced absence, but I’m not that far from following your lead and therefore, like you, assailed. Y. Dating youth is tantamount to body snatching, another point. Tempting but false equivalence even there: Y. We chide the other’s choice — where this follows I cannot lead, leaving me in a riot of liberty where you are.

I’m just saying theocracy’s imputers are icy blokes with no sympathy for phantoms, emanations or specters brought up in an ‘alien’ language. And to clear things up, there’s a scent of acacia and frangipani coming from their smart landlords, the ones in black culottes.

Oh, here’s their release from last night. Don’t smudge it.
I speak with doctrinal knowledge, your holiness, smudge and beware.

A flood of text molecules offers ‘relationships.’ It’s very simple.
This isn’t the time for that.

No. Let’s.
We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. There you are!
To explain entrepreneurial ignition inside a more collaborative framework.. 

O adoring you as an all-in enterprise assumes a moral politics where clouds of electrons follow us into magnetic orbit.

To be unmarried
Where the sky went:

There’s a bright debate — where eager heartbeats bore in, grateful prenuptials stampede out,


Drawing youthful bounds along dark zones of propaganda

And owing to your interest… this won’t constitute a holy date or sacrament. Or only one of many as notated by back-up flutists.

My terms are to settle down through the evening. Your proud examples
Gain longterm advantage spreading the plan. Imprisoning refinement.

The vulnerable and maligned muses were not held enough as children on a moonscape of beaks. Ever notice? Certainly I wasn't. Now I have to make excuses for friends of mine buried below their own livelihoods with no heirs.

They’re donning synthetics, and only half familiar, and just too intense, plundering the transport of their ambience. 

Hands up.  
There’s a beyond just passed an easy show of hands 
beyond orgasm overdue an hour ago (one mild altercation took it 
into a shade of de-constraining tease). 

A heyday of hands.

106: In love, a practice of counterclockwise seems like not much at all, only sustained focus, innovation of hand, foot, lips, of eye, of brow, nowhere expressing all your beauty ...

Nope,
all right, I lose. I’ll open in complete command of nothing, no skill to praise you.
From the outside the sky hints of hinges, bolted prophesies that you master —

I can’t waste time — we’re tethered here. Mostly.

For love we’ll ingest all of you, prefiguring present day,
inflating while we data dive, I could say

exhaling descriptions
w/ eyes to wonder on the full worth of your beauty making beauty.

I’m fifteen. We can do the roundtable math rather well, yet not entirely. Free-range sunlight in the clerestory of our lair... where elements of bloodthirsty aplomb are obsessively off-key. Safety in timing carefully disguised as bright and furious, knowing the advantages waiting a beat.

I’ve good news in bed. (But) I’m getting ahead.

Can you clarify why? For what party in sleep?

Breakfast past midnight is smokin’ yet a lost cause. Like The Inferno and Nerves and every shined wonder since. I have nil to learn engineering the tilde of speech desire.

The whole sky is celebrated. All sorts.


Why make so much of fragmentary blue in here and there an owlet or purple jet streak?