RNA itemizes facts. 
Do you name your dares?  
Or stay bubble-footed in the dark,  
 
Fat, never satisfied?  
We come from creatures far back, slowly calmed  
By fear we were of a kind they were to others, lacking  
Redoubled patrimony and their finding-it-out tools.   
 
Distribution adjustment has those to spare..  
Now tasked down from behaviorist briefs. 

Notes on Expressionism: 
 
Ridiculed by sycophants & inferiors, RM Rilke talked to whom? 
I rank his output high.  
Off the scale, 9 plus or more to exaggerate  
(if I could, hmm)..   
 
Duino. No lacunae needed, Rilke’s asyntacity sets an extreme standard atop  a maximally tall order, looking down over his sprawling, immersive, dark & smoky project-for-good, 10 or higher.   
 
— Empress Eugenie

National treasure: Crocheted titanium with a clown’s face.

Then it happens. A man’s voice, handsome, calm; also nervous ab structure.  Too much strength? perhaps. Protecting a man’s dignity threatens it. Altogether. Everyone knows that. 
But — ‘worth the trouble’ — called out in a trembler voice to other men fomenting like brats 
blurring terrain,  
accessing the matter, stenciling closure.  
 
He shouts, ‘Can we search for reason in nature’s chaos... ' 
 
No one reads aloud like this, it’s pulsating — and wonderful.   
 
A near miracle in drag.

Standing — showers and others’ happiness that neutrinos can’t stop scattering. Next the sun we say shines, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of our meaning it and not tempted. It’s still my life, we say. Some of you and me was here, retreating to emancipating solitude, keeping / adding up the wait time, sporting by degrees the related changes you see and are.

I’m a floater of cynicism when it comes to treatable influences.

Early on our folks taught us to celebrate country music!
Burp through the microphone, Earl, and stare ahead.
It’s early on — it’s a joke — I hadn’t spoken to you I imagined
about a construction zone perforated by echoes, swindles,
procedural lunges toward extra gags. But I see I had.

Flashbacks pertain.  
Large reflecting pools of the future, it’s just a thought. 
If I introduce vagueness to mitigate error as a more devout  machine therapy, we can escape  
thought-train derailment, bringing on threat streams in graphemic parole,  
a narrow rescue from disillusion. 

70: I don’t blame you.
Alone in your ‘kingdom’ flying backwards. You’re facing the street, passing it... A science fiction flushed hollow, cankers and buds looking prime outside and you’re still passing, unstained by any ambush, adhering neatly to nothing, just passing, yet suspects’ approval ornamenting impurities of state. Heaven’s sweetest.

Who are they who envy you? slandering, even wooed — and such charged discourse! Don’t hold it in. Talk to their doctors.

Ode: I’m sleep. An only hill 
I’ve been researching  
Awake most nights:  
A clean face in the morning — caped  
W/ sounds. Sounds caped w/ light that’s the best.  
 
Dogs and woods by the ocean, other 
Kludges and hacks harder to implement.   
Can you dig the stillness? Can you keep an eye out, the ocean over.   
 
Repeat this until approved.

As Isaac passes from consciousness in 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!

The workout once was of a soul...

(The lord’s will tilting my ribs reflected aphids gathering on a wall, also unanswerably, in the hand. Whose hand? Those were my sentiments. The last ones. I’m pretty sure. If I weren’t sure I’d take it back.)

Stutterers stutter trying not to
looking to feints in thorny circumstance,
unable to help us play a single practical
joke — I hadn’t spoken to you for months
about your adaptability thru mirrors, swindles..
distending procedural lunges toward more feints.

It’s hard for me to take credit for all you’ve done
yet I can see these things happening without you;
furthermore, I give up on any topic I redact.

58: Deserting the beach — god forbid 
 
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways  
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your beck and call, a handshake  
spreads the rain,  
flowers, rain,  
flowers.  
(That’s it! Do what you want.  
 
The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we  
can walk on with. Hell... a mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our  
widows.  
 
This is spring history.)

Peace, justice, ecology, all uplifting. 
That’s not to say there’ll be no food.   
 

But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently  
— 4 plastic badges for now and pa-   
 

Per sacks. Imitation spinner features,  
striving for positive letterform   
 
Abstracts, speed processed  
but that alone is wearying. Bitch bitch.   
 
You can’t do this job alone — it’s intuition.  
Nor can I maintain perspicacity. It’s 

Like all great conflicts,
synecdoche left not sharing to chance.

How could we let this happen? 

Broken, giddy up, dead. 
Today I face thunder — how to pay homage... 
Bouncy.. apocalypse.. 
My instinct when asked is to inch back 
To the moody raw nation jettisoning any 
Civil use of half-soothing words 
On top various uninvented heights, 
The same heights outward 
Of looking into what we broke.

Paradoxical tissue is still not perfect, living unlocked, but scrunched for breakfast.
It dawns on us I am covered with joy reform. That’s why I went for consensus over
the tractor-red flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions!
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole ironic sector before repro-ed onward

offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.

Here’s my favorite. 
 
Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection and uprising. Here, the audience rises.  
 
(That is, artisans among the audience rise, impetuous (hex 46, top line), some from costive stock, unflappably happy, even brusque.)  

Somewhere I float in. I’m late for the prom fitting, weeping inside. Funny place  
for a dance, font color= F8E0E6 >Mr Baker.

Why thru sprinkles? stepping over water balloons floating 
in a once swimming pool.. spurts of views down  
hallways, stairs set apart and fronted  
with music waking in dimming brightness  
with no memory how you got there. That you? 
Didn’t they tell you  
slim tones and soft muscularity prove   
our brains are stolen. Later   
 

we wander off the promontory back home muttering “TV,   
TV,” a mildly eccentric suburbia     
 

waiting for payday in awe-inspiring taxation.   
Hazards all sides.  
There you are.

87: Sodajerks. Their stock was luminous. Adding

that noun phrase furthered ambition (we’re sure it was theirs), amusing
vim shaken out from the inside. Each had a skeleton curse, after all; the lot growing
fewer over time. (Youth — not occupation, great riches, nor better judgment — remains the determinate object of love.) An emotional matter
language models for 3 dimensional farewells in waking you
then not knowing.

Time runs out. 
 
Your poetry has a political bent.  
Stays in position, authentic / inauthentic;   
 

I model your bifurcated attitude  
yet  

everything I do is sin. One after another piles up if  
or when —  
 
Today is when —  
 
The nuclear self, writing you & me, lingers for more... Huh? Now you know I did it.  
 
I wish I hadn’t / I wish I didn’t.  
Fund-raise off that.

A convert sings:
Dear May looking like June,  
my notes went outside and cried. Happy nerves. I’m on welfare from scansion,
just remembered.   
 
A heart holding  
my tongue on the verge of resisting notes of civet and holding.   
 
In the right daylight outside yet  
“In each house a different hall, adapted to sever the head  
from the vine.” That’s an odd thing 
to say casually, are you now self-embedded or out?   
 
In faith I infer all morale is short lived.

It’s impolitic to separate the performance from stage direction; both are deadpan. Have you thought of writing?

Is that how you see yourself?

— your idea of daylight
every day becoming ordinary knowledge
of parallel ebullience

                                waiting to come up
half in sleep,
steadfast in geometry to grant the horizon horizons, the whole body.

Our retention rates are what makes us /great.
Love and heritage go down together.

The last nonpoem eases the dress code, a bolo tie display on 8
For a race of giants (giants are made up pieces of one another in other names).

Love came up short for a few and drove them to forgery. And shatters.
The taking of whatever works to swat the hand that feeds them,

Sharpening endurance,
Risking focus.

Struggling with no vulnerability to vie for solitude, I pursued insight by your ‘grant’; for how do I hold you? That’s one for liberal arts. Secure oases cannot be considered in terms other than liberal; with great laughter impelling knowing, not knowing, comfortable indeterminacy.       
  
A given. Someday.  
  
Now no song of punishment without a reward, sorrow over death. 
Only your own half meets you halfway, how morning can blur promises   
while letting your adages cool.  
 
Is this a document or did you and I make it up?  
Frozen water on Mars is our smoking gun.   
 
Another question  
Of how should I hurt?  
Once and be done.

Surely as there’s a corporate hold across manners and adaptations,
there’ll be curricula restraining praxis
and workbooks in hermetic syntax.

Nice beachfront but there are fewer
bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little) —
it seems immaterial — immaterial, 1 of those 2-headed enigmas :

nothing much and — hey! — metaphysical.
An eerie self-eating mutation.

87: Sodajerks. Their stock was luminous. Adding

that noun phrase furthered ambition (we’re sure it was theirs), amusing
vim shaken out from the inside. Each had a skeleton curse, after all; the lot growing
fewer over time. (Youth — not occupation, great riches, nor better judgment — remains the determinate object of love.) An emotional matter
language models for 3 dimensional farewells in waking you
then not knowing.

Back I said, my piece of non-advice. 
 
Innocence revealed concerns ethics, not intent. Spinoza spent against his own young interests.  
 
Adoration once had a poetic scent. Still has.  
 
Reputations get worse hinging on character, that’s why apprehension remains, deferentially. Creature masks are conditions in unreasoning reprieve.  
Who will advocate peace for the tranquil  
to empower mergers & exchange?

Yes, I’ve recently incorporated; the firm makes me feel yes! you are more melted into tomorrow’s borrowing high, mighty simplicity. Like when a spelling bee hints at a pattern to teach reform, pushing a path open. 
 
Pull it together, a life that’s sustainable you can just make up. (You are under a firm obligation.) This is a real company. We call her Cathy.  
Or this has nothing to do with  
walking away earning a higher degree,  
‘mountains feel empty’ / they’re  
rude —  
 
And there you go, retreating to that panoptic middle deck where you discover almost the same variations. You’ll have to choose the Non-Group taking part in the landing, staying cool to outlast time. Then this is tomorrow.

A life is charged by voodoo graphics. Once you sleep, you take up the ‘thereabouts’ pattern: still, it’s not overrated, I whisper to you, falling for reincarnation roughing it ..oh, wait, déja vu..

A mind occupied, just so. Am I in an experimental state of forgery? No, I live in a red state. Prithee, how do I maintain balance sheets & my resolute informality? It’s one other day of no hope. Yet different, jokes turn into sleep. & dreams forgive paranoia’s belated redemption, trapping me inside ambitions to put out the house fire (in my head) all by myself. New to physics, I talk in a low to medium braggadocio. My grin sports a few layers of sleep relief, aching in baby, calmly accruing intimacy to belie despair over entropy.

Non-linear process (formerly progress of one kind), implicit co-branding of public domain utterance, hysterical strings (and more strings) of surprise, skilled narrative downgraded to parish bulletins, text-snatching and re-assembly lead on. In “Was That a Real Poem or Did You Just Make It Up Yourself?” Robert Creeley observes, “As a poet, at this moment [1974]...I am angered, contemptuous, impatient, and possibly even cynical concerning the situation of our lives in this ‘national’ place. Language has, publicly, become such an instrument of coercion, persuasion, and deceit.” Sure, though keep in mind that sentiment, along with this very sentence, is assembled with ad hoc thematic pointers. 

In our process an orange cloud enters the locker room of the essay. This is the middle section where Gustave Flaubert is transported to the essay’s ‘character’ to do the interfacing, theme propositions in your own words forming a script. Flaubert did not have a script, much less digital media, and the word ‘hysteria’ does not occur in the text of Madame Bovary. In his time, how informed he seems in connection with emerging appropriations by psychopathology. It’s an early manifest of a viral cloud (in our terms). By now every sentence in MB can be re-assembled into poetry, waiting to be taken out for a non-linear spin.

81: I forget so much memory is empowered by mistakes = my gentle verse.
Versus my forgetting umbrage feeds distortion = breathing from a common grave

Fond pleas fracture time... your and my memories, all our deaths and morbidity — all survive.

For in men’s mouths death lives in thoughts of dying,


Thoughts still read aloud by tongues also re-rehearsing life with the dead. Haven’t I

Lived to breathe your epitaph? Or do I lie?

Step Five (ok, I hardly get to do this): I nod off while admiring clearly invisible gamma material at a teeny axis point of existence. One is strong and stupid with an emphasis on novelty. I can imagine a spontaneous disintegration of pragmatics and rarefied syntax until I find myself in the same place here, only in a ‘half-life’ where — 3 decades later! — speech still matters.

Living in an urban sandwich, 
tomorrow or the day after you take out what’s here,  
where you live and dream, even where you work. 
It’s in the doing log, down toward the bottom. Even if you see  
spoilage as natural you might sense a hidden hand (vengeance)  
every time those who argue grow untimely. 
 
Yet this is space and time — Sense better. 
Whew — you think of puppy paws  
as your head fills up with the stickiest,  
most adorable pup gifs filled out  
in dissonance for street lights hum  
 
and flicker  
 
and ......  
 
and  
 
make a daisy-chain of my 3 emotions,  
which the urban sandwich aims to lay claim to and  
project as its own.

I’m bad at knowing when justice along 
with passion is vital, not recreational.  
I’m passive but I don’t believe in spooks. Here’s the outline.  
A few strings were pulled to get me in this factual place I would never have chosen.
Survival here is strung with progress.

I’ve crossed a few lines. 
Relax and beware, that beat. Certain branches of neo-Darwinism aim straight at us. Fuzz, the pronoun, embodies overwrought subject matter while knowledge beforehand turns into new revenue streams, brought up a peg to clear things with the bosses.

One thinks one loves you all-purpose, all calm, never resolved, 
Because you’re only one resource, one swab   
 
In a climate of drumming opinions and best practices —  
Then driving rain and surging seas, over heinous Persia  
 
Long overdue, you said, any day. A refreshing reminder.  
My sympathies.

Can we reconstruct weather formations circling bright light credited to seven chimeras in a purified labyrinth?

Yes, I think we can. Those seven, now under the forecast quiver to sleep, resemble one another trembling in patterns.

. *
Pierre Bourdieu throws a projectile — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of
capital distribution are stopgaps like reassembling heterodoxlogy while
subdominant esthetic fields balloon into baggier ideas.”

Bourdieu gets home to his Cajun kitchen, much later, and hears whether
it’s a voice in his head. “We gain as much knowledge from our shortcomings
as insights.” Well, ah! Our shortcomings have their own weather stats to share here
while checks and balances are nasally inspissated thru fear.

103: You’re showing up more. I got wind of it, put you in
Just to make our list. I’m from and form the periphery;

My muse makes it so. Don’t blame me.
Say I’ll be back. We’ll look into it. You never can tell.
Poverty is all right but not extreme poverty. Without you I’m barely striving

“How do I love you and have the scope,
And expect no help?”

Some things you need to whisper again, and more, much more ..
(I forget now what you sound like.)

Guess what, a vibrating rattle in hand
rings all night tumbling out of mind, leaving this hole
open to irresolution,
figure suspended, door ajar.

Once you really had us. I was choked up by your running in and out, nearly in a sidle. I told you we agreed a little but not a lot. The plotting — lackluster — I hope you’re coming back for things you need to follow up, us.

One followup.
Today everything I sculpt or shade is yours (mock ups / ruptured items / body copy) or it was when we were in Tacoma picking up fun Japanese. An engineer described it as leaving gaps.

Light exchanged positions. A frat party to you.
It felt good how it broke the room down. And up.
The payoff is one room axis of favoring and feeling more
but far below seppuku —

Ours was a taxonomic correction for error. 
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax.

Male muses 
 
— 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 my friends buried below their own animation with no heirs on site.  
They’re donning synthetics, and only half familiar, and just too intense, plundering the transport from their ambience.   
 
And I was musing, simple stuff picking up a pen.

“Here I use my shaken my voice..”

First on wrong, quaint, then drenched though slackened



Janus was proud to sponsor Janus 



shaking this neap vapor through no shadow weighed, no 



ten or more fears and slopes 


meeting above the steps coincided with their light. 


A high-clip to the final base



atmospherics, their blast patching the thaw 



— spirals discharge, wind heats the ground and trees open.

So the others’ don’t doesn’t count...
“I again not so nicely
Staked out your street cred...” or..
A dress code made perfect in just one’s won’t...

Anchor the wall with fun words, fun you’ve had personally, say.
That’s an order, captain.
All your words over the entire wall.

122: The longer I live it’s right in front of me, beyond all, your gift within my brain.

There’s a glow in seconds before razed oblivion, fun .. and explosive. Wow.

Or much like staying in the now, yielding thru nature to receive you more.

An idle life abandoned. I’m forgetting about it.
You and I remain beyond all date and time in my heart and brain. I won’t be funny or make a stab, score or tally... I’ll subsist to import your love into me .. Again.

My counselor affidavit registers a deficiency of thought and evolving stuff. All the same, this is the second point.

Again the others’ doesn’t count. (I’ve always been competing with another self.)

Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for smoking a joint within the social paradox of treason. Rules commit us. Voters went for the bumble head cheat. Yet this is the latest case.

Everything I note here is integrated. These databases center on surplus insertions while someone super and sober on the ground keeps looking up. We like our democratic ideals to get by on appearances.
It’s written that was enough. O May!

Uber eats poem. 

For immediate release: A tormented lab mix of appliance and beast, user-taxed slabs of pork tortilla, casaba and sausage sorbet on a cherry platter, all wrapped up for you to tear open, putting me in mind of a future photo realism, a live feed to your reading this from the Fed Ex of poetics. Yes. 
Speaking of which... it’s tricky signing here.

Publicity is the soul of justice. 
That’s a great question.

I say you sign off on others’ labor — A newspaper edition, documentary remnants, penetrable databases — We occupy this clever, conceptual nook, curling up, thinking up ... At times siding with the powerful (administrators) seems deliberate as well as passive-aggressive, love’s public effect, blots of respect for undue labor. 
I’m kidding. I’m staying sarcastic — unironically. Anxious pleasures bearing pleasurable anxiety, repeating ...

Here’s how I hitchhike. I pull on my gloves and come across an organizing principle for pulling a trigger or 2, replacing subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: structure, acquisition, mis-use, peasant media — no Eros except in ideas, room for the best but never the pure. 

3, One who hitches has no right to speak other than excellently. Self-conflict and compromise keep coming up as rich bases for ironic pleasure and symphonic failure. If that’s allowed.  

Primitive patterns and blue throats, crowbars taped to a tree, in the distance, Eroica...  

We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown,  

The great We of fish, that’s what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.

By future standards don’t-I-wish 
is disgusting.  
 
How so? we failures inquire. Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory, you howl. “Mm,”the anthropic analyst howls back. He’s staring at my clogs, wondering how they’re embossed.  
 
When struck a lightning rod emits dust, after that a solution, a chemical substance that squiggles down to my feet. That’s how.

It’s impossible to separate understatement from performance; both are adolescent in tilt & pitch. So that’s how cave & landscape can be felt. Next, a cool minimal database is advanced to burn out your swing — try living on meeting death medium-hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent. 

The underground = stick abstractions & collisions within a dominant tribal identity or trance. The upshot, to meet & / or emplace each close to noble attempt being you.

113: Replete with you,
I selected a rogue anime — you with improved vision to shape my mind
catching birds, creatures.. e.g. even the governor.. mountains.

Since I left you my mind’s eye has gone partly blind, yet seeing you day and night.
All untrue.

My point is awfully slight — incapable of more, out and about, unkind
~ For leaving you, to me, seems effectually rude ~
Even dove- or sea-crow-forms pay homage to you, shaped to your outdoor features.

Some, rudest to crudest, impart your functions
and get noticed — but deliver no part of you, true mind.

Experience is impulsive, according to unrigorous physics out-evolving pretexts for concealment with no plausibility in the future of the past. 
 
No such work experience predictable for a pay grade gaining access only to weather bombs in a manifold vacuum. Algorithms   
 
Would be taking you on and over and winning without willing to substantiate or junk your work stuff.   
 
Algorithms are vicarious. We thought no way, no ultimatums to rephrase, no immoral aspirations — nothing but work slathered with work!

Mobs and their terms of justice, um, I’m .. 
thinking of some upgrade. For anything more cautionary and uncool we’ll have to shop politics further, some interpretive search worked up into a deep discharge of knowledge and how sparks can be applied  
 
so new tools will get back to us all —

What a night! No problem
I slurp eating what’s reflected in your mind.    
Milk white saucers containing light — ergo
The dreamboat approach never grows stale.
You just don’t patent it.

I’ll do what I can. It wears on me.
Smothered abstractions take time. Another day, slim odds. Almost hopeless, yet different jokes toss in sleep, dreams that forgive you for killing the moment. For paranoia’s belated audition entraps you if you don’t relax your authority.

Evasion tho foregrounds more advanced style, state-of-the-art motives — harsh comes across, exaggerated. Another day to recover your loss mid-grin.

I once had an idea today was over. I forgot, man.  With less & less destruction of our marriage, we constitute the locus of self worth taking part in a co-ritual to outlast time.  Over & over. Today again.

Sonnet 78: 
  
Disperse my rudeness.   
See what influences of yours I’ve redoubled. See what more you do! You are in all my art. Advance my style, my alien use. Teach / learn from my rude ignorance.    
 
Only these exceptions: I wasn’t talking only to you. I was speaking higher up, and given grace, I’ll sing to the fair interest of the entire corps. Ah, same time, so often have I invoked you as a muse, I’m proud working with you looking over my shoulder ..   
... knowing our poetry is under your assistance, born of you.

Mind control is a big order of alter-egos, disingenuous.
Can you place our names? You miss the point.
Destroy and smooth nothing.
Imitate killing seeing
the system.
Make my mind avoid our bohemia.

Let’s knock off a masterplan for truth value, wider scope.

Here’s a thought. Stiles of cash stuffed inside passions, stacking up with such speed our global historiography reflects the world as it is, advancing toward convenience stops and arbitrary stretches we don’t care about. 

Well, most of these “pieces” are literal, based on trying to sit down and sing [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still wearing your headset.”  
 
An air of inevitability around advanced codes has been shattered. It seems inauthentic in your last mustache sense. I am more than at war. Your holding me, the middle of the throat..   
 
I kiss the air. This.

My peers make films and fast food.