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.
Like Clint Eastwood I was shifty
Once. What was that all about?
I know where I am going gawky, rattling my cage.

What happened? Diagramming conditions of jitters and others’ sentences, I am anonymous either way.

Thank you, cohorts, for cartoons and commissioned videos shrieking with what I must bury.
44: It was nice once to have known you. If flesh were thought
A word would 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?
This one is what then? ‘“One’ more piece of funded solidity.” More, not for those who have no more.

My quandary repeats another wish never fulfilled as you and I round off contrasting demands of flimsy seriality and sequence, conquering death with abundance.
The last emperor had sex with multiple staffers.

He had one of the most advanced distribution systems.

His agents were crazy for the fuller 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.


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 do 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.
There’s always looking out, up, through fitful silence & a humane sense of feeling cornered in music practice. Enough, enough men & women are deaf to their ruin

wherein love rebuilds their smirks pressing on — drizzle would hurt if they could see but it’s only visible as a short, stout white truck rolls under haze, Kia-like, choked in a soft, fluffy Dior.
Sonnet 3: 
Now is 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 fresh form 
As light flows, now. “Could you be more specific, my 
Episteme?” April in its prime calls you, repairing you,  
Your ears, your face, forms of yours remembered.
I remember looking up at at the music itself, feeling
we live in a debt growing country.
Maximum restraint = knitting your own brow.

Then let me pull an invisible to the eye hair off your blouse. Blousy
threads & too much sex belong in one pile.
It’s a good look except for expired soy containers suspended from a branch bow: cowslips
& top limbs drooping synthetic due dates over your chest ::

When stairwells mesh & go nowhere either side
between you & our affection, let’s hang in for a while.
Hang our names in artificial druthers.
“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.


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 away with. A mighty wine
origami and the wagon yard for our widows. This is spring history.)
The no-fantasies plan, weeks running backwards
After the announcer’s ecstasy — there are no water edges or dikes
Yet with a rush of civilized dichotomy.
Music filters out hearsay against the grey sky.
All the airports sink back in black and white fjords.
Day to day sometimes the sun’s light goes for more,
Going to be here as long as it takes.
153: & so. I find I’m ready.  

Ready for these proving grounds in which I solve: 

1. Love god heart inflaming new fire: Steep ground, unwise yet wise  
whilst love-kindling abounds — as well as — as coincidental as I love golf & entered golf school.  
2. New heat every time, your eyes — no cure for a month —
your eyes are the beginning for me as my swing improves in their flare. 

3. We’re teed up for a trial bath, your eyes — 

Heated inside each word I borrow or try on —
Syllables fall in a ‘Cupid fountain’ of steam & desire,
curing us & others with love, sick withal. 
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.
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.


You or I can’t copy Creeley singing to Wieners or it could be vice versa,
Both old masters
Who never spoke for love,
Not equipped

To weep

Who is?

— even on a brassiere stool overlooking time/money plaza,
We could never express feelings about delimiting time. Cash figures are tart.

That everything once alive was precious as our talk is precious, that 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.
That’s our racket.
I sleep all night, chastened by my agenda. Like everyone else I’ve got business waiting and I guess new places to run over. Tender hair sprouts with sweat, sill alive, pierced to the root by tamarisk and peyote flowers at table, ample liquor and song. The sweetness outside not wavering in rain to any rational depth... I’ve got bed then business waiting in my crosshairs.
63: Hours..drain..blood.

As I am now, Max Planck fellows are running off with radical research incentives for a frontier in vanishing unboundedness: Cramming organized treasures into small packages, tethered particle immolations. The dignity of boson appearances, confounding cruelty and love, alike, fed from memory and sight. Cutting with little or no motive, the sky foregrounding processes of mere appearances, stealing our ‘just anarchic joys,’ all of them, always.
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.
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.


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 ..
I am citizen physicist to an inner antecedent. How drowsiness may be my great escape or I may walk it off, forgetting I’m oblivious.

Your face, the trains I ride, it’s all good. And staying casual definitely has legs.

Come midnight Mr Deadpan had a big smile. Anytime I teased him or cuddled him, his four appendages went as wiggly as a frog, silly, a smile across his whole face, black button eyes on top of his head because the night is not over — all smile and eyes in front, green in the back. When I held him he was a jumble of cuddles and inertia. His legs flopped around until I stopped.

That way.
76: In flight, a framework could be told on telling. 
How can varsity spend their tribute? How spent? Why?    
This café, I think, is going to elaborate these points & help me stay dry and not get lost.   
I know the framework of my notes craves attention, that’s why I write of you.   
Why I finish a stretch and new and old lines get confused, showing their new birth.
Fuse the way they
Continue as light rain. My argument.
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.
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 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
— crash. Al-

so let me see..
dreams get advanced —
Comatose, I'm yours.. returning the favor.
A blue feeling about a sweetheart is breaking over the lazy and dead. I’m still not awake, a bad idea. Ideas with particularity, again. A feeling for the bread before it rises stuffed with blasts from space, our fond way in,
praising doom on our own dime.

I’m that slaphappy-proof to diffuse your eyes from posterity. Where your eyes go is the whole body cool from so many substitutes for meditation we can’t breathe.
92: To my love in constant revolt, stealing away... 

Our life together won’t work. I’m almost happy, I guess. Love pours a 100 proof — intramural scars, a heightened blush, hard labor. Staying power we dread the most, having had your love — now... what’s a fair question? ...is there another, more thoughful stage to live through?
Depends on you and me, always. Yet I find lifetime love is formally difficult and, o oops... I am reading others happy to die are on fire. 

Happy to die! — do we take their place?
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.
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


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.

Auto-electrocuted. But calmed down. Sore thumbs. No more tv. There’s a dual nature of justice going around in “resentment and forgiveness” with high notes we won’t erase. A muggy, fantastic soprano, jittery, active against the grain. She reaches a point at which touch management is unleashed.
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.
134: Knocked out by sure bets and unassailable vote counts. It sounds like utter intrigue to the self-illumined or half-taught —

An inured slice of childhood domains — all to attain another, future time.
But back to us. 
Now and then I may have liked primary grades more. I later picked up romantic couplets —
Lost in bromance, wearing nothing but motives for aching to keep doing what I feared, our lives in usurer love? So he’s yours? 

I’ll sue you for disrespect, covetous of my comfort, my couplet. I lived for your peach fuzz thru witless dialectic. (Note above.)

I drank your Labrador tea. And for further research I took up free, motorized speech. (Op cit.)

Similar theories, large discontinuities. Dirge:
I can’t worry or pierce my ears further.
Cruelty goes by a few I.Ds. Not loving you down the road.. getting soaked..

Heavenly and new, classic and easy, unforgettable facts that are approaches to our revenge for taking off, fawning, buttoned up and respectful in everyday nudity. Our nudity earned, commanded by your eyes, man, a feeling, a swing reunion in comic expanse, a whole new etiquet to staying special and hollow at center, a vacuum in motion, on wheels.
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?


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 one fractional
infinite in the context / e.r.

OK I mean
I’m done.
Language is spoken better where it’s re-taught. While you’re at it 
sing out and fudge your correspondence. Then get off on your  
resonance and offer joint events that promote your own ventures!  
Professor, this ballad of how especially the ivory tower  
is under entrepreneurial influence  
— it’s a hair shy of failure as a tune or concession   

to breaching cultural ergonomics — all of it.
47: Good turns, one after another — I turn to your good looks, filed between arterial and bitch comedy. 
Either way you could have set this remote for a sexier video — 
Why not share it? The clips you saved, along with my worship of your face have nearly expired.. except your looks still drive me nuts.. I’m in love.. famished at the banquet of love (where we fall sleep). 

Awake, I can’t move further than my thoughts, always picturing you.. while pressing buttons.. but I have my sight on you, you see? God damn this remote, I can’t change it by myself, my eyes are awake, in my heart .. 

Here, you take 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



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.
The crisis is not an 
object but life movement, explosions  

funneling a hegemonic pulsation — and due to substitution  
Gustave Flaubert haunts this o
beside your double vanity, while keeping fit ...  
On the run, playing with tribal goals, how funny you are..  
There are bass chords you kept inside.  
Between descriptions, silence, a periphery.  
No way to describe — much less rhyme — hiding on the loose.   
Loosely hiding? Let’s compost for a mo.   
Flaubert loose in the air wonders how high an apartment we’ll have.
14: In my judgment
what little I know of truth and beauty comes thru your eyes.
Except not tonight without you: Newer urgencies
for starry weathermen pointing thru rain and wind,
pointing to each other, so exposed they feign ignorance, aimlessly...

And yet bad luck too when a lightning rod flashes while, lightly,
its chemical spark thrives for a second more then returns to stars —
doomed like cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.
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).
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.


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.)
Donald Trump projects and feeds off the hypocrisy of American behavior,
especially through non-ironic discourse.

Blatantly careless, docile or not, seems a new daring.. 
I have no idea.. it’s handed to me..
The deliberate downgrading of the presidency 
More than fair warning — 

See ya,
144: You and I model language as living matter — the love we have re-involving impulsive energy coursing through particles of appropriated wit and spirit, especially given appearances and language given itself. Still. Never in doubt, you and I despair over synthetic transmutations of savage intelligence as if it were only that, as if poetry weren’t a history of subjugate pride and fiendish procedures.
Concision in detailing method is a catamaran of process.

This is how morning began.

Getting there we wait in long lines for Twain. The Thai are hardly speaking. I turned to a companion and asked if he was interested in how poetry’s put together.
He thought about pure things as style surrounded by syntax. All in one at once.
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.