Nolo contendere, so it must be spring, just one daffodil stands, 
Gothically lonely contexts & forsythia’s juvenilia, pancake brown.   
No acid red, no sulfuric brown, no browns in hidden rounds  
or soft stems.   
I’m not sure it’s inclusive or scrambled enough if we differentiate among drams  
& besides, why be preoccupied with elastic peculiarities?   
Nobody has to talk to me about me.
I see what no means. This island, 
the water rosy cast.   
Poll these opinions. No contest.
Rough framework: A giddy notation to a story.
Visuals like tenured blurs formally at odds,
split seconds in a bigger, frank understanding with no data.
A bog of cloudburst capsizes, disabused of clouds,

blending in, no longer exterior to land

untrusted and abstract, a heavy rain

snapping into randomness.


Without counsel, full consent is a slog mating a slow burn. 
You trust yourself by age 600, satisfied  
Euclidean space holds the blueprints to make your home slog efficient.   
That was before you were reborn or uninvented.  
Recursions set in. You had no modesty issues.  
You have none now, none detected  
and fewer and fewer policy goals (unlike chemistry in its infancy).   
You changed your shirt, put your weight over and into a sketch (a study)  of one on one in galvanized torture that escalates, utter   
formalities documented in our eyes, so fine counter-stretched, kept on balance / in suspense —
There are procedures for mourning. There are a slew of them. 
I can’t say these things. These same things. Page one, no one, page 101. 

I may go on to continue. To be pressed on cardboard. 
It almost makes me say all aboard. Then it “goes.” 

for Ted Greenwald
I unholster my arms & dance across water.
Not crushed yet, the narrator loses color,
since the jug's unlocked & to no product hewn.

I’m still not finished, he says, like a whining bitch. We
telepath only in the mothher tongue, careful with swearwords.
The jug we’re addressing is not sentient, hard of hearing.

The jug’s just a backstory anyway, mordant or
morbidly overstressed around the speakers’ bureau.
The bureau deploys Aristotelian systems going forward, systems extremes
that cannot be overcome by or within synonyms.
96: This is weird. A focus group from the groom’s side picked us both, agreeing w/ newer media that features young candidates, lower right, with your lips, center frame, moving up and down, sport documentation, more or less:

The groom was in the vicinity of being led astray...

Here’s the stumper.

Whatever base or ism, the urge to love is put down to error and class anthropology.

We open our front door and see what the state’s strength translates to. The shortest path ignited by havoc, honest and exhausted gazers. Geezers. From it’s-not-the-same-now all the way to a nanoscience of celebrating honest betrayal. Sort of addictive.
Wanton anthropology won.
I know this, at least I know I see what I mean. Why drive to a new place where they’re cooking something imbecilic? Why waste time at what could be our last lunch, pouring coke over a glass table.. because you won’t live to feel the buzz, watching the clock seeking immortality..
Any ineptitude from continuing motivates our family plan, a ceremonial prank, an outright lie living on others’ good graces: A.I. living in sin. 

A.I. re babies under these circumstances brings up future drug dependence, except not yours of course.  

I note one’s pale eyestripe of looking and pleading. Down curved and black edged, camouflage for being unread. Frankly, one’s not that much into whom? When the father was asked, he hesitated and then offered, “Certainly not me.”
The hollow inside is mixed up, the survey said

overlapping symbols’re happening way out in the ocean.

Your ocean. Your flamenco in transition.
Our faith and consequences.


Knower and the known in physics, all branches, all matter —
Is that a document in your pocket or did you make it up?
If you agree I’m happiest procrastinating.
Up with proportionality, southpaw.
Geometry respects the brain.. 
operands like to piggyback... 
Preliminary findings we said,  
knowing it’s going to grow   
— I just drove all the way  
from Hawaii.  That proves it 
genius-like, it was  
lighting up my senses   
like just before you’re shaven. I’m  
noting how your chin juts into mirror form —   
Your neck’s more formal than that — really  
a splendid animal halo front to back.
Giving in to temptation, she reinvented herself. In sum, she’s erotic with no social conscience. Lantern jaw. Not a jaw, but a chin that extends a fuzzy glow like a lantern that shines onto flab, a short neckline. Right. She’s got a weak chin. No jaw. A double chin.

No character but a gray, cerebral mutt.
She designed herself colorful, simply drawn, doglike. So she did have character, despite her fanciful, perfidious mien and no jaw.

Switching face dyes, she sat in the dark waiting for all the colors to fold in. The occasion seemed sado-obvious and frustrated her pursuit of prophecy, a number of them.
81: I forget so much memory is empowered by mistakes = my gentle verse.
Verse versus my taking umbrage feeds distortion = breathing from a common grave

Fond pleas fracture time... your & my memories, all our deaths & 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?
Yum-suffused shortbread has some regions, ancestry
In brogues. So it’s really something and nothing

And we have developed responses
.. untruthful automated Now Pro voices ..“that acquiesce on a positive note..”
This can’t be real, one doesn’t have to seem interesting. “No clouds, hi contrast,
Of little depth.” But that doesn’t sound bad. There’s a slimmer chance

I’m captioning the fixed width to Now Pro today
Evolving in massive overuse. Hmm?

Last words on process: Counterfeiting
Is luckier than reading everything before it’s rooted in or out.

No sweat on heavy attainment comes up next, avail. in this rough version of Recently Used
English to wish you any and all the full pleasure I withheld. Damn!
Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads. 
The contours.


Like dozens of others spin
-ning opaque data sets, it’s probable
I’ll never make chicken
or any designated soup for you — I never make
chicken soup but if you ached for me
to I would.
You come before vegetarian salvation.
I’ll never make
that either.
Singing into one’s hat is like shooting for triumph.
Otherwise, sung language has a light vegan sexuality.

Whew! I’ve been chewing to 1 side, noted by 3rd parties (dentists)..

Hanging out in unusual white corridors...
Suggesting we’re still trembling, owing to

The chew off, creating new intelligence for making sense,
Most often pulling some predictable rabbit out of a hat —

A Pythagorean hat for which there is a beginning,
There is an end, don’t fix it.
Writers freely consume their own slapstick
when there’s a conceptual contingency to max, along
with requisite ethical structure to examine anyone’s taste level.

Now you know what to expect.

You can’t put limits on free-lancers’ exuberant leisure
within a theoretical commune of vengeance..
Smart money on the solo stiff up against her writing board.
The staff on ethics sit this out, blood-soaked, shaking.
68: Flowers shorn off bowers, what beauty was —
I’m losing my head over you
as if I’ll inhabit my death head before you go or even around you now..
‘Without all ornament,’ I stay abreast, knowing whether nature’s
bastard signs are still vital, not recreational, charting a map of nature’s full store.
As if before golden tresses Arvo Pärt appears chafing: making no summer of green, of flowers, reborn from no second
life — oblique as the antique you ‘of yore’— now I myself, truly in attrition, missing both Pärt and you, composing tho still around you.

Your beauty stays alive and new to me.. a second life, new as roses, as ‘a second head..’
2 quests.. Just who are we to say we should attend to what I am doing? It’s love like ours that pitches English to prioritized claims. Are you sitting in the sentence while listening there? wearing nothing but a motive, eager to do what we were afraid to be?
What does it mean to work? I don’t know that either. What I know is how to belong, stake out territory and bust heads, maintaining an atmosphere of trust.
Aren’t we supposed to feed the acrobatic dogs? Yes but summer, winter? Minutes after the work is filed, dozens stand in line for a treat, free rein over the sentence.


Land use. That’s what the new world is about. Are we breeding steer or picking pansies? 
Just two modalities. Sorry, I have no other apolitical associations I can share. I ran through a dude ranch then tried raw energy.

Don’t know why the ranch stands there still in no summation after the transaction but before I turn away, circumscribed, all hat, no cattle.
In my illusion of minimalist guts, hammering steel, ale, 
a full branch. I scored a first wormhole on schedule, a hell of time. A frayed entity, o   
nuh, I should say the accretion settled down, humble salve   
soon spread over us, losing our touch, scattered
trying to..       
Simply put, to remember where early wounds from speech are   
mispronounced, which wait inside, which sorts hit or fit our doing....  
doing mimesis within nature,   
How is sorrow possible, otherwise?
The Globes

A scent of snow and sunlight, of loss — but what sinks in conclusion underlies the twisted and grouped maximum sciences.

Hyper-manly references (sailors, bunks, ballet) are scooped up from one segment of the sensate scale, motivated by an ambivert male persona more than all sex or proclivity. Joe Ceravolo is presented to The Golden Globes as he insists one comply with his reasoning (Supply it flowing out). That insistence enforced by repetition at the end, “in this rice Spring.” Let’s try slides of warm(ed over) rice piled up in a good grief of regrets, long regrets. What slushes to the surface is Ceravolo’s compression of physical acts, audacious desire (Supply me), and inconceivable, hoped-for spectacle (because there is in this rice Spring).

Spectacle, desire, necessities at The Globes. When I find them in another, I know we’re getting close.
Sonnet One: Ornament is content.

The yews know how to wear theirs, desiring buds to herald greenness and increase —
much as we eat the world to save it. Together, dilating, flaming, increasing now in riper time, your own eyes contracting, bright, fresh, then green.
There are statements of facts
And those of law. Their truth
Levels go down or soar — depending on
Outer linear order and your age.

Each generation gets torched through the pass, those that would,

Externalizing struggle beyond their years. (Like in the renaissance.)

In today’s federalism we’re feeling besieged and called out
within the meaning of no revolution now.
How did Auden begin? Green song of ourselves...
The dumbfounded rush in when he’s around. It’s not their fault.

He has that look-for-it itch. Garish tulip brocaded w/ physics.
One presumes Auden’s elements are strung together out of capital’s desperation and a deeply ingrained will to dominate the unknown, much as technology takes on all comers...

From Iraq, Africa, coming from Brazil to Hiroshima, Syria, graphic measures of tragic-comedic obliteration.

All this time the dumb and dumbfounded are different.

How did Auden begin? Green song of ourselves...
As in Where the 舞踏 were you?


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. 
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. 
My leaving office is double edged as I’m prone to off-center my traveling light and affirming any retraction. I’m tapping down a reliance on hard work, pleasures, plans, and this most generalized — one shoulder hitched higher. I’m ready, set to name names but allegorizing ‘companions’ — it happens.

It’s nothing personal. Hands up.

On the corner of statue and cape, there’s
a play friend who just passed an easy show of hands
beyond orgasm overdue an hour ago (one mild altercation took it
into shades of de-constraining tease).

A heyday of hands.
56: Lament —

Prose enters a poem. It has a work permit, a blunter edge. That’s why
The place has been wiped clean of unforced errors. A sad interim:

The poem essay invests in spontaneity gleaned from what icons blur;
Hey, there are no middle class poem essayists. Yet, we can rubber any room —
My advice for exploring ideas, renew your force, stick to the sentence.
Come daily to the return of love tomorrow today.

To go along continue needing more riches, sharper appetites as it were.
Rare thanks for the view.
After vowing hate I bear you love.
& what of it?
I’m like everyone else who grew up refusing novels, a nutshell of a wonk glaring, boasting bragging rights over inexact outcomes, crayon-ing over lucky, boundless love non-judgmentally!
& of course I did time w/ “live people...”
Feeling is feeling. It’s official.
Then it’s repetitive, suggesting emotion has gone too far 
& some at all levels will be disclosed, then not spoken of, 
climbing into casual spectacle, ritually putting 
our lives together & whittling wry self management into grift. 
National treasure: Crocheted titanium with a clown’s face.


(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.)
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.
Guess what, a vibrating rattle in hand
rings all night tumbling out of mind, leaving this hole
open to irresolution,
figures 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.
72: When love is missing, shame is worth nothing. .
You devise virtuous lies (dear love) .. I picked that up, false, smug, cute. .
a braid of welts around your neck. .
My name may be buried where my body is. .
the body I pray you love.. ..
I’ve just noticed you haven’t recited a thing, Gabby. .
Let’s rewrite your true love untrue. Make it count. .
Tho even in this I fear sarcasm.
I’m having an up-
pitch dark brainstorm so obvious 
why stop  

Only, let’s call it implanted intelligence,
O baby  
all the way unnhh..     

O yesses encompass in advance  
— crash. Al-    

So let me see..  
dreams get drawn on a map  

of all maps...
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.
The workout once was of a soul...


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.
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.
Dark stamina turns out a soulful lab mix of you and me. The further we go on

Descriptors peel away, earning extra penumbrae with trace synonyms.
What a night. No problem
Expunging the storied narrative and

Ordinary one-in-a-million stuff that appears normal, believable.

Then that

Rolling out of bed far off across

You and yours, just dreaming it up

putting you in mind of an imminent photo realism.
59: Sonnets are ok, nothing new — going backwards here — 
Let’s vote Labour —  
an ostentatious luncheon in ‘old world’ pensiveness,  
beguiling brainwork, self-admiring praise.  
I might say more, fool my brain mended by you and your composed image but
I stay in character.  
O sure — we’re easily freaked by what antique words 
still dig up and how re-inventions get composed, but we have to keep our wits —
looking back under whose  
thumb? And am I yours?
The once conservative invention of worship is over. 
A wall of calm thus put up. There are no facts in the future.
For now, love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing adult ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering political parroting and consensus. It’s not known why parroting caught on. We’re mostly redistributionists for sure, youth symbolically living to do it over but scale calm up. Everyday politics is practiced by young and old in anger, useless bruising rhetoric, forcibly asserted. 

Cultural obligations shape who youth are, a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance with our future attributes.
We’re a special team. We’re circumspect. 
Our sharing mechanism (uber text) gives no voice 
to repeated wandering motifs over long hours 
we back off from. Nightly 

we face living with memes & east winds 
taking it to other investors who might stay offended, 

the next step in the training. 
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.


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.
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, Mr Baker.
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.
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 firewalls from waking you
then not knowing.
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

tilting sideways and holding his whisky, destroying
our bed, our bad faith and consequences.
Time runs out. 
Your poetry has a political bent.  
Stays in position, authentic / inauthentic;   

I model your bifurcated attitude  

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.  
Go-fund-me off that.
It’s impolitic to separate the performance from stage direction; both are deadpan. Have you thought of writing?


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?
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.
Trust an old memory,

Corporate design is a sable coat, still.

You have nothing else to wear.
Ounce by carbon resin ounce native fluency may be floatable within, once regarded in this wholeness w/ contours beeped forward, smart enough tho meaner beyond these whereabouts.

The native whereabouts on loud speaker as it were, the workspace, the top percents of it, can hear,
feel its sweet succinct stages striking noon after dark.
92: To my love in constant revolt, stealing away... 

Once again our life seems to be coming to an end. Next, I’m happy love never sticks around; love is wrong to depend on inside scars. Manual labor. A heightened blush. Staying power to fear the worst, for I was happy to have had your love — now, I don’t know, what’s a fair question? — is there one last assured state to restage or live in? It depends on you and me, not false humor, since I remain in this humorless state without you, without dashing all our love. I find my lifetime love for you is formally difficult and, o oops... Others happy to die are on fire. 
Happy to die! — do we take their place?
I can’t take vicissitudes. We’re staying in.
Appointment by haircuts.
This was a no-no but we always will.
New wilderness outdoors traces
a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed,
cuddling escalations in body movement, ledgers of faces.
Lucky you and I live on, fudging abasement
in clean confinement serving a purpose within
supernumerary states of being (confined). Nevertheless
gastronomy is to breaking the ice as ‘fucking / sponginess’ is
to bacchanals.
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.
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..