My friend ran away with his silent partner
who stole my identity. I’m trying
to look at it from my point of view.
The current balance resumes its teachings. Can-
dles out, pie for the asking, grace
to be white boats. Afraid of the beers.

It is possible to get homesick locally. Of course.

The local is inside you, sang Pete Seeger and Bob Creeley.
First heard this when I tossed my head and rode
one foot, pawing the ground before a gallop.
As for my consultant that day, he shook
the bed, broke his baby toe,
So much as ‘the way things were’ stay the same that one day.

103: You’re showing up more. I got wind of it, put you in
Just to make you 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, 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.)

A rhetoric gone terribly right, and so
We draw together

If we’re to make a life together.
The dead never see us or
All that pulls us apart.

When it’s just the two of us, paired, oh
Clearly the thing to do is follow policy
Filling speech balloons like Supermen ..

I’m too ugly to be molested. It’s true.
But I like meeting new people and having life changing sex.
That would be the interior window into no progress.

No UFOs.

Making love is war. It’s not just money:
I’m afraid it’s a Little
Dipper: Emma, You’re handsome!
Hold on?
..membranes are functional! It’s an open

Darwinian algorithm to back more
nano-proposals, say, walking in, “hey..”

No excuses, now
make this a rite and glistening of the wild...

We go out with babes among cosmoi.
Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment is cut back,

Reminding us of a few contingencies we picked up off trays,
Bright boomerangs that tantalize in the feasible, wanting nothing and showing
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.

And some of these babes are both dead and alive. Chew on that, Hobbes.

30: Losses restored?
Often there’s a new plot — I think on you (dear friend) — those words we had and didn’t have were consequences. The milieu has been bad. Bad is cancelled woe, since we know enmeshed values constitute remembrance of things past, wastes of time.

Yet I take liberties moaning now, bubble footed in dark briefs. I have a dream of fair housing: Free-range light and dark in the clerestory to our lair... Our sorrows end. Some of us are going there after work. I’ll pay.Would you like to come?

Cocktails, 4:00 pm.

Dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflecting gritty, highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence.

Are you healthy enough for this perfection?


A little off, ok — speaking the usual way subverts expectations.
A stencil of our dialog frames many others
As a thought pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.

Don’t take it.
That ordered a way of not answering the phone.. poof.. ..
A command now nearly lost.
I’m bipolar from the past. You know. What?

Just like putting the call off ..
We can make a poem go mute.
If it doesn’t speak, we don’t have to pay it as much.
A world-less deaf-mute.
That’s how unclear the past becomes.

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.

Info-tainments advance by themselves, lovely distractions, shooting the steepest mountains w/ slime. Thinking back, they segue to riveting motions in our self interrogation — commuting to work where we share high fives & broker a plan!

The cross-hatching allowing ancestors to exchange a few xenogenetic traits for others, has just about run out of steam. We’re left wondering, once more what there is about this plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to.

Side streets extend down to hourly weather, to the power grid;
Razed, rain’s over, its light flow an oily example.

This extends thru night rain. I reason rain’s surrogacy is the more serious and newer down.

More anguish driving over to a panel on reasoning and not writing anything down, a stomach turning experience

in its emptied refraction dancing on a taillight for syntactical beings (in a sentence) on a muddy drive.

97: Before apologizing, winter is fantastic, like summer for wanton beginners,
a civilizing pleasure messing up eternal categories, removed by you.
Your absence offers waiting rooms, libations & supports how I feel from within
& speaking of the pure land, I’m freezing. Barely recognize the place.

111: Before I turn into another cure of yours, you for my sake, i.e., I assure you a bitter hand or bad toss took away anything too crafty in my nature... I am more receptive to work now and long subdued from harm, at last this far and away. It all goes ah! nothing bitter, I’m your willing patient. Fortunes, manners, means, everything doubly correct is subdued, tho. Pity in that sense our infection, bad deeds, guilt, nothing else — (almost) — the die cast.

All nature repairs to a cryonics lab that’s been reopened. Just for a second.

I reconnect to highlights and the mimicking hidden force of gravity. You guys go ahead.
I’m going to roll on, Volvo-like; that’s the best stunt.
Gilbert Ryle asks, “might not every action or reaction be a piece of shamming?”

Peace, justice, ecology, all uplifting.
That’s not to say there’ll be any food.

But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently…

Midnight dining, rambling
like deer in bed, shiny
children of smoke, you know how —
No jitters, the heart rapped
anytime by sounds in flame of passive groans
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches —
opera and shush.

Political direction gets cluttered with secrecy.

Sometimes your thought wanders from the epicurean, no?
No shit, the value of terror is epic. How about any blood on the waves?

I drove off the roof and am now on foot.

28: Robbing the cradle: The big picture shows me my modest place.
I’m technically adept dining in (or out) day by night and night by day —

each the other’s reigning enemy taking umbrage from grumpy distortion,
fractured logic (Hex 39) and their combined morbidity.
While you — I always flatter you in long consent;
You picked up the check. That’s swell, looting prestige,

the nether handle to stronger sorrows and griefs. So we never sleep,
but exactly what the cradle requests; the place rocks.

Dear,

She lost the election. We can’t know what she’s thinking. It’s crazed.

Keep tact abstract.
Keep it to oneself
Healing a vote, a voice split to a pulp, gnawed —
Feeling a salt chill unexpectedly going up the swirling lines
Of humorists, ideologues, ragged modernists, including this one.

Holding to their path, rescuing none.
Yours, & ‘even more in mayhem,’

Should we have
a message?
We’re talking to what must be figurative breakpoints with fate and fate’s consignments. Example.

Just kidding
Empty messages remember nothing of detached
sensory esotericists.

Vault-loads of cash tho grant fame and no literal disapproval.
We have a message.
A politic paranoia recommended for staying cool and stable in an
emotional tri-level.

The coding is simple, your Fearsome.
Your voice is full of loot, “walking Genet
on a diamond leash.”

Make falling apart counterfactual.
Make my mind avoid bohemia.
Recover the masterpiece.
Destroy and smooth feeling worse.
Imitate killing seeing
the system.

P 98: phony publisher
None of this turns out what we think it is or was —

Waking hay feverish, bona fide stuffed up


— Standing across Jimmy Lotuswept,


Your just altering the whole outlook!

77: Beginning to get the picture. Beyond the blanks

you can taste love printing out time’s progress to eternity:

Our love (a winner when you take a look) is a time share in choreography.
Joining you, me, my writing learns & shows the shady stealth of other men — committed to giving you children delivered from their brains w/ backsliding wipe-outs & their aftermath:
Nursed on your beauty’s imprint.

I owe a debt to Christmas.
Blindfolded angels of thinking in the past —
All mute waving back


Protecting us from our known predicates,


Taking on more substantial pain, taking more onboard, putting them


In mind of us affiliates, at last.

It’s pie for the new year to set yourself free through what you don’t know — that takes a kind of unfinished aplomb, needing practice and achieved overviews. The verbatim relishes living among a slew of lucky design ideas orphaned to an alien ethnicity, busted out of place, in the wrong skin and age.

(Welcome home.)

Right away we’re nimbus-wet. Dark edges must be why
Two very different outcomes equally square
What you hear w/ the you you wear & what you are.

I stake your reputation, touting
you & kiss & lap up the air in your 1st mustache sense.

Francesca Gino, Michael Norton, Dan Ariely hypothesize links among wearing counterfeits, feeling ‘fake’ or inauthentic, and behaving unethically.
This takeaway from Mr Bingo’s yoga class, New London.

Pierre Bourdieu threw a projectile that applies this new year while top donor ‘families’ are in control — “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of capital distribution are stopgaps like assembled heterodoxology while subdominant esthetic fields balloon and get consumed by baggier ideas.”

Speaking of baggage as distraction, Bourdieu went home to his Cajun kitchen and added, “We gain as much knowledge from our shortcomings as insights.”

The shortcoming between having things to say about ‘tastes’ back then, only a few years ago — and now — Republicans circling the wagons while checks and balances are nasally inspissated thru fear.

There’s a cool but thoroughly staged oral tradition that’s like trail mix, so rhetorically honey-sealed and narratively palatable anyone with a few years of good high school English can have in. It’s clear long jumps and pull-ups in tone are deployed to signify irony and distance about food prep and galley stainless. The gestalt is to flare up yet relax a while, stay urbanely offhand and sound normal, not superior in any obvious way. I’ve been saving a spot for you. Do hang on.

Pleasure is to ethics as unknowing is to epistemology —

A shrine of axioms supposes its completion, honing everyone to the surface.


Late afternoon to another.

Protecting your dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that.


I bet I have no major issues.. We could buy one or two now or try living on Hollywood scraps and ropes of feeling, piling them up in the garage, with tarnished piano wire, shoddy mineral samples — stacked together like beach chairs — stacked like old Jane Mansfield — if she sat there Jane would certainly let the sunset pitch its foam as both purchases are burning up.

92 (ii):

I added frontal motion to the story about your looks that intimidate, m’lord.
Visual surprise comes with an infrequent snow flake or ember
floating down to our nose level. Can you steel yourself to live no longer than your love?

No? That’s cool — creamed just for sleeping with you, blackmailed..

wandering into the new wrong theater guild

chopped into little squares of hypnotic drumming

and massive parallel vistas projecting smiles and learning

O what a better term we serve —

showing up invisible. Totally insane. Libido.

Can we straddle the divide among convention, unattenuated sense-making & sorting through out-of-brainier experiment?
Every Harvey Keitel film substantiates you may have a gun, you could be reaching to get a gun, or you could just be, in essence, fronting.

You want to get real to include the cosmos.
But there is a hairnet over the situation.


Inner retreat.

Peerless thistles, tamed pigeons.
If only we could gloss
Behind the State Capitol


illuminating and still slurping


undertow from the beats.

Check list.
Check the bill. Check it out. Don’t expect much.
Chew a bund loaf, make out with bullish dolls.
Map out how to rough house.

Sing: I love it when prose or song digs in and flails.
That about covers it.
(One’s destiny is that emotional core between personal and professional.)
The larynx becoming free is a moving and intimate narrative.


Got to run, prose.

I’m fidgeting to mind my semiotic manners,
lit by mid-lunch clarity, sporting and Floridian —
an enclosure with no pulpit, without dogma...

spreading out in willful overloads of language design,

Skilled decor, de-simplified or notional contracts
in contretemps between science and who knew?
ironic technologies with no precedent —

a corporate hold across a matrix of manners and adaptations, restrained praxis and hermetic syntax.
Nice beachfront. Amuse our ears and eyes, there are so few
and fewer bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little)
— it seems an absurd referent and then less
and less so, here and there.

“I’ve got to get back to the city.” Why bother, Buddha imitator? Reeves is guileless, a pious, ethereal hulk in a collapsing bug life. He sneaked his junk across the border just to release his frustration, verbally sneering at no place to go in a natural voice.

We are a color of cunnilingus. I noticed, though, you and I applied for pharmaceutical assistance, an oscillation gelatin called Sparkling Affront. Nothing was more or less than arabesque, forgetting our place in the secret order of failure. We once left a lavish record of the male-female hush from hand to fingers to mouth: in epic hock to our hips.

Our temperature raised the magnitude of repetitions into a shriveled median in the after-life or its meandering dissolution ...

An obtainable conspiracy, perhaps, surely no hoax.

For some gamblers sex is immediate, overwhelming, terse and decisively in overview — A thousand and one friends back in the city in a little boil .. poker boats like polka dots.
This is a loose translation, drawing on elements of your life. You planted yourself here. How was it to record the soundtrack for an unscripted movie? Was it like writing from a retrieval search with lots of different data trees leading to nebulous, chaotic deculturalization?

Dude it’s raining.

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.

My love is the sun in the morning .. One has a roundish face, green eyes and a slender yet blunt nose that hardens his otherwise sad, unrecognizable features and his sovereign eyes of alchemy.

When I read about ‘splendor’ I keep wiping tears from my neck, but I never read the sun in the morning as love before I met you.

We got a grip on.
Times are an outrage. Good times, bad, treason’s treason.
We’re tracking themes thru anxiety —
for prejudice damn well plays a formalist bias,
a tradition of selfishness I’m loosely not interested in.

Tax breaks for the wealthiest keep it humming.
Due process is to look, also

(we note now at the end to physics-oblivion)
to be seen.

An open question. What criteria do you
adopt in choosing poems and books of poems to read?

Give me a textual praxis as if from a mansion gone wild.
Admittedly, going wild is a black hole like a mansion, also praxis.

One needs antic intellectualism. Lead-free prose.
Four husbands.
Simplistic, Manichaen juxtaposition.
A solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.).

Jousting snacks.
New verbs like dave, firebug, Stradivari.

There is no circling the rink.
No complaints or sworn declarations,
Nothing frilly and glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;
We’ve lost your 名刺 and your name.

We can demolish only one artificiality
At a time. Not a toy, not you, not me. It’s an example of enterprise.
It doesn’t love you or me. It loves what we do.
It’s a learner, more a surferdude lover. We intervene only once.
Remember, all our troubles disappear.
You’re almost naked. You’re my business.

Sonnet 40:

When you read this, my injury appears prior to who prompts it.
Not you.

We were informed on your deceit in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with a couple of new features and a few we move in any direction.
Not you.

Take all my loves, love. You steal from me and vice versa since all of us is in use.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom
interest me only so far. More curious is why we approach American poetry primarily in terms of understanding it.

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.
Not you.

Because I’m a particle animal I can do it all day.
Rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl
A sparkle to figure life altogether, no vision...
There is tho nothing like no despair.

— the world becoming flat and falling across 



The telling



(instances of)



Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic



Streaks and — weird! — high wails of titanic fog, sifting down from



Rain ceilings (of)



The snow. The snowing. The across (falling),



It is (falling) across 


Morton Feldman.

We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.

As ‘you learn to draw, remind yourself...’ the brain is said to resemble Chuck Norris. Interesting esthetic, Nordic but not fatal — Chuck or a funny bone will go for the reckless. Really his movies remind me of marigold & allegiance to the ice ants swarming the ozone so I look away — The earth is not the hearthrob earth, but it has strength and balance and Duma unanimity. Each winter corrupts the exterior.... poplars attaining their ultra field and stream, doing a job shunned by most, showered with tips.

This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side.
I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
is a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over its mad body.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.

89: In relation to conflicts over scale, Habermas and I want to inspect what others say.

Truly offensive. Forgetting what you and I have to say has nothing to do with current biases of mine. Like so many others, I’m fixated on war, loss of democratic principles and governance procedures —

procedures again, only this time writ extremely large. The writ carries a stark reference to the last liberal prime number among us, John Rawls, but how wrong, inarticulate and superficial to use him this way. I’ll disgrace myself if you don’t tell me to change.

And speaking of lameness, I’m conflicted about criteria for justice, questions how these may apply to our acquaintance and your stranglehold now ...

Hate altered.

So shall we live.

True physicality dwells in our thoughts even as
Ghosts roam with panicked ants on the ground. Consciously mixed media. You can’t throw ghosts out. It helps there’s a mating dance to appreciate what they are doing — we’re working on it.

There’s body hustle, along with rips in the cargo of space~time where our uppermost thoughts burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth from a sweetheart, accompanied by addiction to risk.

Come here often?

Bullied into autocracy
Hell is too big to fail.

Meanwhile the loyal opposition becoming an influence in the field is fired.

The ousted president drops to his knees.

What makes chosen words dressed in black?
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority.
Most rainbows taste like shit, but we keep looking.

My statement is enclosed.
I’ve highlighted failures in the Xbox where you select the sorrow you know, reaching outside, tall, athletic-like aromas.

Speaking of like, make your counter statement gripping in a raining birdscape.

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.

99: Stay on the hunt, tough to please, speculate, take notes

even as vengeful tectonic plates jump over
our fears, shame and despair.

Annexed to you, a purple violet seems grossly dyed, your soft cheek
raining havoc for lilies.. marjoram, my love’s breath, your breath. (Uh.) Here’s
where you and I lose the scent. Ever


-yone does. Clouded
flames ennoble the sky to blush through


my love’s veins, your hands, both of us on thorns
condemned for pride, 
going on all nerves stolen from you.

Sculpture:

The ‘universal’ that is so un-square and new and obvious in Joan Miró is less so

here — here is 21st century America. (I’m just making up excuses.)

For design resolution toward

— unless you already live there, take roads by a shore in bad translation
blues, stock blacks pitched through numbers-to-be, numbers in conceptual realism, contradicting formal transport to where you thought.

There aren’t any warnings. Tensions were apparent.

Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam.

That said, the minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never happened.
Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague change, like our plebiscite, better to pump out to the fog’s grasp.

Adaptability in circumstances
is hardly effortless:
I add, Ellipses.

Swimmer:
Our models are you & everything I can live by w/out being
sequestered or bitterly charged for my shortcomings
ballooning in harmony around some parts of sky

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

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

Woe is paralytic. I also detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of it, even when love centers on the numbed one with a body of rare happiness like popsicle rose gold in outer space —

all of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest to be stupid Dionysian.

Dionysian = garish brocade with puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.
Space in theory.

Sonnet 94:

If I had the foreground I’d subside in attrition as it were,
I’d have heaven’s grace to weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken fewer notes I’d have less power to hurt
thinking of “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings

we had moving into our very own subjectivities
that we can’t pinpoint or supplicate, my lord, my husband...

May I live and die if fair ever turns sour
in these our summer to summer’s pitched provisos
and integers-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none.

I threw together more self portraits today.

Some have kind eyeholes,
a measure of gamblers’ intelligence, along w/ the eyes
of course, pieces of the foreground puzzle

in the background — and to sweeten the brew (attention)
young bodies keep replacing bets on everything.

High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long-
stood. Helium released. Populations drenched.
A circus repatriated.

Since when is / are government
cliffside?

Monotone is no longer that severe or cool. Cool isn’t cool.
Got it, the animal brain’s a little stiff but I feel what I think.
Words are our feel-
Ers. The river purrs, purls — not its sound
But ours, so I read this
By me and not me, us.

Lao Tsu (Lao Zi): The flower’s name is hooded, part doodle, part we’re not sure his swag is clean.

We’re in the hallway leading to stairs cut in two, fronted with don’t-know plaques, waking in hazy brightness — no clue how we got there.
Get used to it or go home to switch landmass.
For setting up a phrase targeting the other

if he can or if he wants,
what you said is partner to it. And how his confusion is proof to diffuse.

Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — I don’t care.
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you how we’re doing.
There’s a piece of karate, a fragile backspace we erase, and how
there’s turbulence... and something else more active, piquant. Your
push reaches a point where time management is unleashed.
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting your brow.

This is one way to point.

I live next to a place with water views. I continue feeling deprived sometimes.
But ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home, high tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for anyone’s look-see, another beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!

We repeat there are rules to doing morning:
Sleep in without a stratagem,
Coax hues backward.

How can anybody care modernism, a despoiled inheritance for poetry, beguiled, diverted, is flatly unlike architecture’s connections to the past. Apparently tomorrow is more appealing even if we know where architecture takes us. Poetry?

Like no premium withholding option holders, we Americans can relax, go cloud up other ideas!

Are you thinking of me?
I used to believe so, along w/ all the grossular and pine boxes keeping us apart opening to our former lives, a win-loss for comic, breezy violinists in quartets w/ silver hats — Superangels w/ their instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge.

No pleasure from coercion, not where I was eating.

The show was called; the rain spat.

(I'm sorry al fresco was bad then.)
Yes. And my voice tended toward stridency, an unfortunate strain.
The music took off about here. 1st looked feminine along the abandoned quays with minimalist carvings
We viewed before the repast, thinning out in the high brutalism of dining (Otto Dix).
A violinist, hesitant but playing better now, starts our fine dining engines mid-grin.

Evasion foregrounds coerced motives. So they sink in more.

88: Patriarchy expands fraternal allegiance. I so belong.

We’re well acquainted with our own double weakness. Well, I really enjoy it. 9 out of 10, then some.
What do you look like now? It’s right to ask? With all my loving thoughts
I can set down our story, bending sharpened anomalies.

Such as your etude like celebrity. We both gain an advantage (all wrong)

ancestors understood in losing resistance, creating busy, making-chaos “work,”
enacting a more cautionary life, absent trifles and the other’s intuitive psychiatry.

Oh domestic servant, poet, heck, oh chanteuse —
I’m your doorsill to walk on and lick in anguish..
Break your silence —

Text disorder can acknowledge and arbitrate some of our convictions.
The crisis is now. Form is not an object but activity, an explosion,
channeling a non-hegemonic pulsing — and due to substitution
ceiling lights haunt this.

Mortality can’t be beat.
No amnesty? A ship is on the way

from mare nostrum
or / & like crustaceans we give in, to forgetfulness for now.

Blinds drawn, our preachy, scavenged opacity fills w/ sang-froid riches of dark matter, soaking the globe w/ its bible pedigree.

Before that yoga is fantastic, a civilizing coterie added to sempiternal space & entered into w/ a worldview w/out speaking achieving access to felt qualities.

I may have torn up the text (though torn only from my mind — you backstroke, swim and still float around in my semen.)

Skepticism is blacklisted by metonyms. Time to respect poets.

There’s nothing left of an emergent zone for lack of despair.
Nothing.. even huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy in immaculate fictive symbols.

You can’t predict what we’ll do in light flows and hard winds, and there aren’t enough white flags going around to encapsulate your suspicions.

There were deleted utterances filling balloons
with conceptual enormity but it was hooded — a dirge of a term
that cannot be considered in terms
of checking cost averages
since one’s intellect seeks damages
going to a concert or even sooner.

128: How often the ear stands tacit partner confounded with sweet concord, which I know jacks about.
To be in concord, how often envy falls off, as tho changing the music — wiry motions for a living harvest:

Blushing to be tickled I kiss the tender inward of your hand that sways in and out,

Either side of my poor lips, more than nimble, blessed, tickled! so happy for your lips to kiss.

There’s a guru I listen to.

“Let’s get back to bohemia, yes? and don’t call that rustic mytho hole in the Newtons suitably deshabille for my bohemians in fury chopping the air.”

Guru, you’re so unnecessary!
“Plus, you forgot the eco slant. Habermas. Sam. Yosemite.”
I’ll dispense with details about me, this is what I heard.

The nation is being mined.

Student conviction was a sorry concentrate — Vincent Price, that name again.
Until we went broke we were indebted.

There’s an international side to unbuttoned, squeegeed strain —
That guy was the first to get a grip and hold on. He was witless after a while, undead.

I’m the skinny kid in slapstick, except
it wasn’t slapstick it was acrylic spray.

Mainly specific
pieces of pieces —
M ost out in space are pulling in impact. Often this is how the latter day sing
as we come to our senses

with an hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity. Pull. Puller.
W e’re pushing in genetic material prompted by the assembly.

Sex has nothing to do with sex.
It’s a joy problem, love let go on a called technicality,
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch

Per bantam partisans in calculated caution
Toweling off ready for the next bracket.
Boxing’s always hospitable. We’re not that stupid.

49: Let me hold you ... No, I’m a future defect in law against your time.
If ever that time comes within my own knowledge, I’ll know
love is no less or more the thing it was...
                    and no cause is alleged.
I raise my hand now, called to on your part
when you scarcely greet me as we pass.
That’s how with all due respect works in my time.

Saving a life you can break the law to shoulder perfection.
Context becomes the e.r. Something is definitely going on.

Like a race of giants, welcome to we’re not so much friends.

Not now. We are made up of chips of one another in other names. I use yours to get ahead.
The brightness shunted into red day until emotional exchange began, crested, and vanished like emissions administering the right thing to do, close to you.

A warm nearly winter day.

Solved for the resplendent spelling, but not remorse.
Now it’s a year later, a fine day emanating
good news tho.

Typo, I’m late; it’s fitting, weeping inside before you go away.

Not at rest, circumspect. (I’m just beginning...)
Well, most every worry or mistake is bilateral, based on trying to rewrite
Hellish varieties of you getting fingerprinted in eight
Perspectives, after the xvith-century Italian drawings..

..The stars are early, out and out of their miseries
One boomerang day after another. Every day’s
Important, I see. I remember your aroma, surnamed olive della
luminari.

If you swallow your ego luxury is great. I say no
with my eyes shut.
No meditation spanning the surface of the woods, no
massage. No smell of wood. So there’s nothing to resent.

How does it resume?

Athens is the cradle of alpha reality
Hip, cool, ordered smooth, unruffled for the taking.
The light darkens. I hate Greece.
It’s official, we’re its colony.
Yah, #36, all time subservience.
(It’s not easy being special.)

How or why don’t we know LA language, our language, can shrink WS Burroughs to one of those diamondback cardigan sporting bargain seekers around Best Buy a canyon away? trampling security to save on a featherweight flat v, angling and protesting airily ‘to cheat Peggy and the Fates’ alongside the perfumed Gorgons hidden from passersby until it was too late for them? In this he wrote a “constant feeding” of androgyny fortifies the muscular constrictors as well as our big sister, Peggy. Astonishing, a cornet!

41: An abstract, pretty temptation underneath gentle laughter: Ay,
Your beauty for your years .. Ah me.

Ah blizzard.

Together, you and I follow a twofold point of wooing and forced absence, yet I’m not that far from following your lead — therefore a point assailed. Youth is tantamount to
Body snatching, a 2nd point. Tempting but false equivalence even there:
we chide the other’s choice — where it follows I cannot lead, leaving me in a riot of liberty:
where you are.

Take a look.
All this repetition is not good ahead of patterned, glimmering haze surrounding powerful men, dating them, skillfully; you know, the level of glamorous self regard here is high & gnarly. If all we do is seduce & note our conquests, we lose. We lose austere joys, cloud dogma, sculpture perpetrated out of full transparency on stilts that take on blackened colors.

Another time, then, much like Byronic properties.

A re-edit seeking more bliss starts out as a trick before we put it down in a book.

Next we make an alphabet with a dirty grid of circles.
It’s an alphabet of symbol systems within other alphabets
helping us to read from books about grids, other fool notions

as well as upgrades with fresh alphabets for colloquial physics.
A steel door stays open. Here are the last letters of bliss.
We best defer to the models to differentiate ourselves.
Deep blues and silvers with biological shades to form vowels;

consonants have already taken shape from older models,
losing what is always present.

Can waving time like a moony branch
supersede nature,
a piece of research asks, Why open
atoms under quiver at the edge to sleep?

Our cabin is being set.
For all appearances nothing lurid was due at signing.
But I am confused, sin
-ce claimant to the photogenic vitamin to stop bleeding
is not a complete thought, lacking a predicate, useless
as a future maxim in dissent tho settling in
meaning in a way — like a raincoat of moods but no rain,
someone’s thank you for queuing up for assent.

In order to take on a galactic stare,
Occasional intoxicants
Every 10 yrs —
                                                  A decade goes and still you are unattainable!

Say you’ll be back. A blast of cold air
Stoked by an invasion of intimacy.

139: A poem fires up photoshop. Excuse me.

A poem is a picture as love well knows.

That your unkindness lays upon my heart...

Drown me out, my kitten, dear heart, but don’t wound me, not

this time, and never call me back to justify what’s wrong.
Your good looks attract my enemies — It’s your eyes,
glances aside — but you also overpower with your tongue

to kill me outright, not by art. So I’m defenseless.

I’ve got your robocalls to prove it.

I’m kidding. No more pictures, please.

0) nothing horrible, just horrible

1) both perceptions of opposites leveraged simultaneously
2) meaning not one and more original than none
3) causing internal illogic along w/
4) passing out on an ash wood chaise to bring you back to your senses, shouting

5) I love your idea and I repent only to appease you

6) adages first thought / never think lose both death and life

To want as well as have nothing
I shouldn’t ask did I live like that fly on the wall?
Surface depth. You shouldn’t expect to rework this at all.
Self restraint & perverse incentives, an unknown future’s cart before

New teachers, new stratagems, even newer phenomena
To run over, any & all mayhem will be unannounced (achieved)

Or they won’t be since we talk thru flexible models &
Already what you say takes us off the jet trail! quelling fear of pain.

You never can tell. I won’t.

Some of these species are both dead and alive. Chew on that, Hobbes.
(I give up to appease you.)

We can’t compress enough or too much. We were one people at one time. We also is I. This is how the toy psyche writes more conscientiously touching on endearing dual roles in an algorithmic translation — deviating of us to read and reread pain extending to your one body and infinite ceilings, howling for the first time.

Next, a glistening database ‘of us’ advanced by textuality. The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity tracing out how to refine / displace our contempt.

[...]

The grounds for guesswork know what the best is.
If we’re lucky, Euro notes rule our larger commitments.
Like pounds they bear full imagery, dark 17th- and 18th-century ideas.

(I don’t mean that as deeply before we hand them over.)


Finish a stretch and the clouds get confused. Confused the way

A rusted barge dries in the sun painted orange. Or


Danzig is the Wallace Stevens of evil urban clusters..

Ok, this is not Danzig. Clinically proven.
But theory is something else.

137: Love is a fool. A blind fool. You’re wide awake thinking it through until a subfocus gets lost. You can’t see what they see. You grow accustomed, so to speak, directly oblique : but pointedly no name is escalated or united w/ the width of what beauty is! Where it lies!

Bon équilibre, someone else will not choke and in a non asphyxiating language at that, one a 2nd person, the “someone else,” comprehends. What do you say? Tell me, speak to the wide world where all are over-partial to falsehood. Why should my heart do anything?

Yet I give up weak words thinking they seem right, hack at reasons to try more with the grit of fairer and fouler understatement, neither the worst or best.

And you know, that’s what’s wrong then. You can’t see what they see..

Semantics in space.

The Stanford-Benet mentions a handbook (or its conception) for encapsulating syntax to denote space-time, uniting archetypes found in even more complex disproportions that achieve higher cognitive value than meaning itself.
What have they done?

Refrain: Eurozone class struggle is more and more slippery. Or peach-dreamy. I’m not sure
discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income distribution,
honing you / shaving one into two dimensions on the surface.

I’m socialist by nature, maintaining perspective (the tatemae policy), I pray
while cashing in analytics but I’m alive
(lifting data off) to mine parallelisms (partisan gold), no one strain.


Atheism is otherwise the main event at The Hague. Secrets of satire float
free to find an informatics of doors opening (bassoon music) and structured
multiplicities (an ear for sex).

The glue is my heart “Token Austerity.”

It’s back! A bright spot on the game horizon, we’re beginning to see a need for a brown or grey blanket authority or foundation to issue antinomian licenses. A nondemocratic institution that constitutes only one of a set to which no democratic or parliamentarian voice matters, no second thoughts, no heuristics, and in which nothing un-elfin or hurtful belongs or stays put, holding itself to the test doctrine of multiple shots at Todd’s Miniature Golf.

We impart numeric dicta slathered with platitudes — century-old middle ground (the themeless module) where we sleep (wavy fields of inaction) and continue playing around vulgar innuendo to stay kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating me to feel obliged to receive you generously.
Headwinds within and, as it were, without manners. Good manners can scar others but they also let us peons act like participants in marking time as though subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy. Either way, I know so little about the state and the state so much less, so here are the details.

If there were a don’t fuck it over manifesto it would be
Why make so much of leftist political origin.
Start for free. Let’s call this the time left.. the end of the beginning.
The front gate won’t front.

How do parallels threaten a referent? Which fox drug is best?
Visuals today are overproduced.
Spot the dog.. or now his surrogate intruding a moment before he’s emptied.
Intrusions entail teamwork, coincidentally.

85: Takes substance and breadth; the going price reacts to audacious desire

(a rare cigarette case, may I?) looked after in polished forms and
No thanks. Just piano and voice. Piano and your voice. Words come last.
Practice. The big meal. Inductions to your other habits; hearing your breath

I think good thoughts, speaking in effect, externalizing able ideas.

The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of needle-felted wool

Like praise warmed over by spinning in freezing wind. “Amen”

— I cannot phrase the scent of snow and sunlight, your utter loss

— my tongue tied holding you in my thoughts.

I like gay art. I know nothing about it.

Bursting out of your head while you hike thru grasses: All this acreage owned by prosaic dabblers, a-theoretical factual folk. Broken, misunderstood.
It’s different evening on and children on fire hit back.

Teamwork. Again, our people are what make us great.

And if that’s everything for now, we’ll switch to loving and losing and loving. Fresh air still excessive — a geyser in a box-set of boxes in bigger sets you don't see?
Very classy but nothing so great and natural as theater, sleight of hand,
good posture and strategic intellectual constructs.

— I haven’t slept a wink — Try sleeping pills.
Yah. Well, that’s a good idea.

I know I’ve been deceitful, but I had my reasons. Maybe they were dumb reasons, but they were reasons.

I never said I was the best man in the world.

Give me a little credit, will you, credit for being someone...

who tried to love you the only way he knew how.

I know that speech

— You do? — pantaloons last August...

when Devon meets Bolt’s empyrean nephew.
Oh, God.
— Get out — Please try to understand.

— No need to use that language.

Get out! Now!

Well, I knew m’lord was a prevaricating, bloodlust child — the writs of Rolfe d’Hampole had warned — unceasing sycophant, his incarnadine shadow spilt down dim stairwells to redden more, divagating before olive branches in nightfall, exhorter of few changes, hardly any.

Self determination for all in distress —

Dissonant sports metaphors seem prepared for a gullible ally, mac.
Like preparing the red matter.
(There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.)
Dr Who gadgetry from the future,
How can this be put?
Hey I love you naked —
Roses went from one thing to another, came back.

Buds to blossoms, not moving out.

Not a koan
(how could

it
be impaled?)

— religious type, agnostic,
both listened to reason while a temple friend sliced
off a nipple. It was the middle way,
enlightenment simplified, spelling it out.
Lightning over fog. Over ravines. Knower and the known, all branches, all matter —

A sweet industrial morsel went for all 3 doors assuming no threshold ahead where materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no interruption.

These ways could also be the middle

as Buddha and Buddhists are different things.

60: On a human ~ ant landscape, god feeds on us ants.
It’s unparalleled to the end.

Sing: this changing place, this pebbled
shore is in the repair shop because
it is the repair shop — as miles streak by...

We’ll do what we can — crawling to maturity
set on the rarity of natural youth and beauty.
Slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless in times w/ no hope
Yet guardians who follow grow tired of interruptions and self-
reflective outreach; wherewith the corporation is late
and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.

When? as soon as today.

Dirge: 2 weeks before Xmas. Back to work .. first it’s

Urgent we walk out and get wasted.

The mood then passes from desolating satire to
Constant put-downs you parrot like executive control

— Holding firm in the wilds where festive decorations will be slowly ignited
“In the slumbering gaze” parallel kill and be killed, united obliteration —

A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a stream of gasses embossing conjoined tattoos. Outside the again-feel of an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brightened ways from air conditioning.

You, all our neighbors are mirror bees. Music up. Am I not one?

At midnight — schtick is a tactical concept.
And today’s laughter protocols could not be ‘more serious.’
It’s been remarkable to gauge how sneering, vaporous, obtruding personalities —
A loose term — proceed unamusingly
Or even uncivilly in opening salvos. Seems a rehearsed practice, perhaps.

By salvo — the first three or four minutes of monotone in character, in talk and in writing.
You can’t have that for this film.
So much slobber invested from the start, forced discourse, along with any oomph, runs dry.

Some standards.
Shined asides.

We pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,
Really a vase,

Set it, let sunset pitch in its foam, declare
Poetry goes thru many drafts.

Writers are still proletarian at the start; each a lone entity in a world dominated by luxury groups.

Conflicted about big money, I’ll pick up anything. I read corporate art management aims to commandeer the pipeline, production to sales. As is fairly obvious when you look at other creative industries, video production, digital media, music, as marketing small press poetics, art books integrates with managerial acumen, a chunk of creative taste and decision making stands ready to fall under the control of entrepreneurial influence, NEA, Poetry, Poetry Foundation, down to slick body copy.

11: 1st choice for a sonnet is solve you for x. If you must, be rude, foolish but coalesce;
x copies my life for yours.
After, I feel a burst of fresh blood, wisdom and a living endowment.

Wait. Later, without x... it’s cold, a waning world away...

But so minded so fast —
we convert to folly ..

The world you call yours we’ll keep featureless, barren.

Inky smoke releasing a genocidal collage, like
Thought in waves agitated, reproached, disappeared
In drumming opinions subtracting best practices —
Look for nothing here to increase harsh times that should cease.
Cold nature, per se, nature will age, decay.
And yet not you, my love.. The more you live you are given what you give.

Mercury is wow! pensive, coming back, back... no..

You’re saying no to billing days first, no to virulent, callow graphemes, stance covers for a twit copyist like me. Cut the crocus, low opinions and bloodied mesh. No aplomb in nature, please. No chiastic haunts. And no golf property for now.
When you put a question mark after feeling genreless, it becomes a pick-up line.
There is no personality, so why beat anyone up? We can read back over found work but never go back to walk the innocent-seeming turret and loggia advanced by others’ labor, overlooking our exciting first day together...

When you got up your voice was
Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling
Flat into dust in 4 dimensional motes.

I don’t know how motes, much less how 4 dimensionals rush

And flounder into mountains. I only hear

Vibrating = Sturm und Drang,
Dust controls anger / how severely narrowed minds are wed.

I picked up in a flier my soul is a hypothesis. A fish out of water surfing coastal states to destroy his wiggly self. Since we live in new enterprises and ecologies, we begged him to learn to swim further and stick with a nearly sublime topic, to rally for more than this textual ceramic holding a spray of looking glass.

The sun is gray. Divided and confused.
The system is not perfect. It’s an everybody
movement with that living unlocked smell.
I set the controls; active ingredients are
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.

Noonish.

Upstairs message, parts of it. We call that yeah
Parentheses to explore;
The 4-D printer’s, they have many followers, you on it?
As one’s eyes reset.
Focus time to question more.
              Anything to take from the a-argument
For missing stairs..

Sonnet 78:

Lick my rush.
Captain scientist, see what we’ve doubled? See what you can do! your eyes throw us in a hole and keep me there, cover me up. Only these exceptions: I wasn’t talking to you. I was speaking on high to sing to the best interest of the corps. Eh, same time, so often have I invoked you as a muse, I’m afraid I can’t keep working with you looking over my shoulder.
I hope I’ve been clear.

Sing: Salvation. As adhesive behavior, speech is streaked w/ extra
sensory blather, a polite form of the hole-
in-the-universe. Blather ornot
                    the hole is a sometime power brimming w/ prototypes.

Storylines, battle scars, vanity, thrills, sky
dogs, gesso & sloppy intercourse under homeless and drunken conditions that surround ourdesire
to laugh down compliments from insurgents binding heartbreak.

Credo: You’re good doing this.
Just
Report to command centers for the new pricing, lest
Misery looks a lot better. Go. Fees balanced. Get out!

After.. there are vector
Utilities (direct flares) for expressing blinking enzymes. I believe we never saw them before.

Burn, turn, run away
Suffering coincidence in time
To hit the meaning of just whose future is come..

And stop waving that grape juice. Language is tired. Your eyes fill with manpower. Your hair’s on the brink.

I wrote this 15 minutes ago.
That hasn’t stopped me from modeling.

A fop sur la route is a Parisian invention, an essentialist’s incarnation.

Steer clearly. Highway safety — bow, I love what we do together


Like switching work bags, mixing it up then. We should be mortified but impressed.
(This siegecraft apparently works.
For my driving, I’ve hired a fop strategist.)

Standing — rain and others’ happiness that neutrinos can’t stand 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, and more ‘you’ve been away,’ retreating to emancipating solitude, keeping / adding up the wait time, sporting by degrees the related changes you seem to see and are.

84: Partnerships were counterparts, 1st a little lunatic, more than most...
              Worse, hotly culled.
Let me copy what is written here and how it lends some small glory, substituting natural praise
              — you’re admired almost everywhere, making it clear
I lower your voice to approximate parity.

To which example, who can say more? You alone
              As the story goes. And you let it go.
Rich in style, equally penurious, more fond of poetry.

The big thief of American poetry?
Dickinson speaking: I never win, she says. Except evenings.
Management would feel mortified showing themselves,
So exposed they’d feign ignorance, wander aimlessly
Taking off (in their heads, at least) for better moments
Until new urgencies emerge.

Man, she is weird. Is there room in the room
For further origins. Let’s rewrite Biotherm, she says.
I fear her sarcasm.
Composition for her is sardonic comfort with a sober edge.
Management leaked this against her wishes.

A pervert is attacking my persona. Except evenings.

To remain disciplined for our new celestial motion weekend
Calls on comfort and drill, “...habits of empire.”
Start over.
Cocktail wieners.
Kids love them!

Peel’em back and throw your knives.
A (s)he-mind’s pill for song and dance is so! long overdue.

Our partners are shiny then fallen, with grey streaks.
Disciplined to start over.

It’s only words, stars all out, to quote you.
They are real actors, not people.

Blackened windows:
We know we don’t know
Reeling over facts in a marketplace,
A rendezvous to encapsulate sleights of tongue.

A la Depeche Mode, We’re trained in several logos and media theologies;

Hey it’s obvious as that mobile device you’re holding.
Hands down. We live on the ground, off the land.

The culture caught up to our light sprinkles of sexuality.

We chew to 1 side, noted by 3rd parties
Superego abstractions hanging out in their unusual white corridors

Suggesting we’re still trembling from the



Physical chew off, just a short chopper ride

From the first bank and trade. It’s sprinkling, adding up feelings
With a so called mother glossary, 1st-
Order noncommercial phenomena pitted together as cognates

Still coming to seed and adornment,
Half-audible ricochets feeding us like a lawn.

106: In love, the practice of counterclockwise is nothing at all, only sustained focus, innovation of hand, foot, lips, of eye, of brow, in nowhere equivalent to expressing your beauty ...

Nah
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 now —
I’ll not waste time — we’re tethered here.

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

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

Obsessing over you the sky squeaks w/ common sense, folds into dreams.
Comp lit finds it has a square shape, bolted down in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for competing readings.

There is an interpretation to this nightly misfortune (which is ours). Dream space is tight. You can’t find your story in a void of crescendo: Where’s the cost?

Well all right let’s not.

Where are domestic metaphors anyway? our rooms have even less to say..
Tho, when I’m feeling it, going out and doing things metaphysically ..

.. I get where I was.

I swear while we continue and travel further
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts
All our props are dextrose contingent.
Or I was wondering about invention of the planets, sympathizing
With a numbers guru also the director — one of them that never knew the draft.
Often that’s a normal baritone and determinative section to sing:
Spencerian, bodily stranded leaving war to the professionals.

Let me grab my pen and clamber over here to the iconic network... you’re right, this isn’t the mammoth for you or me. Before the heat dies we’ll try praying in all directions and improve our math skills for our partners’ sexual satisfaction as they pivot from high table to a ringing mountain of attention-grabbing hysteria.

To tyranny,
I was thinking of god, shoplift energy ..
Hold on, I was handed this bag of sentences.

And this is what I did not want to say.

We marry. There are mantras on rustic tolerance, manners but no one has more than the allotted answers for the stumper final (newer solutions are nothing less than what we have in mind!) :
Did I mention Wittgenstein helped set our algebraic terms? This is a dynamic factor everywhere the living supersede manners and physicality itself, where there is no privacy. Not now. Started before Béla Tarr’s close ups, his editing, the ‘border violations’ and the runtime of his films transcended precise location and presence, running forward and back.

136: I am nothing. What’s my business? Aperture systems led me to O you

And these volatility models from tv, vocalism in a sense, among a number.
Hidden risks lift weights (merge accounts request)

— whereas my epistemology scampers in secrecy, the password robbed...
W/ several ideas that would have leveraged you right there in the pluperfect, had your love made my name.

Therein, a civilizing process today to staying purposely
dull, entered into too by spotting it first. It’s
a clear refinement where character offers liberation — my sweet nothing
supports your love-suit from underneath. You win the job!
I’m my own nothing boss.

Holidays again. A violet mist.
This is prison.

(You have the evidence. Ugh!)

Losers = worshippers of their detractors.
Heaven is in our hearts with an egg drop of credos and documents, from which large scale dull instruments get tossed.

We drink to our mistakes.

This is a.m. color I propose: Q-tips & smoke. I can pick you up, take a day off
                          from everyone standing
physical & prime for the stress of relays between a rat race
                          & security IF

my 3-D models are you & everything else I can be w/ w/out you

Winter. What do we know? We have functional emotions and this much-traveled vocabulary of affects.
To learn something about what you mean is to let high jinks belie despair over entropy. For a quiet start, try zero gravity. But you don’t get to keep any larvae. They’re apart. Their cloying song goes out mutely (in winter) and you feel a need to ache in their baby blue blather, calmly accruing intimacy.

Fact: eye contact is more defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making a pattern to and from alterations sited within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.
At the same time 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.)

Unfinished sculpture.

I am is still here, the body’s heroic purring could not be put off. (One dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).

An awful virus.
Rhetoric as privilege dies.
Came from outer space; was well radicalized before it got here.

Freer speech in every direction — your known inclination
for walking strong will accelerate, wild yet tranquil,
ruthless in a sense, the boundless layers set in funereal trance
tweeting under the bust of the rhetor, a civil, democratic ideal.

But no one tweeting wants to get ‘under..an ideal.’ Freedom is personal

As we think like animals brushing up on ideas...

Condition blue.
Ten or so
gulls kick it off, running
over bass.

Ripping in mean
swimmer’s blue,
in a competing mesne,
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta
more down surf, startling
partisan swaps
That swell
the color skit among removed strata.

You’re exempted from outdoors, Psyche,
Exempted from showing up to enchain, knife, subdue..
That’s before I reverse your fragrance —

The calm never resolved —
because we’re only one muppet and one marine
reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, etc.

“‘In a way’,” he said, “‘nothing saved me until we ran the gauntlet —’”

                      Urban attitudes from La-Z-Boy.
*

I can put exquisite prayer this way.
We need to work on a new trial and platform. I recommend blending in with ex-lyricists and anyone non music industry.

So I put your name on and in. Am I fit for the scenario? Are you and I?
The color of the spine is plotting murder while we stay neutral, high and low, austere yet foreseeable.
And the evaluations are in.
You are part of what we hold.
It’s an argosy of what’s evolutionary before more uplifted.

Anything Apollonian looks terrible.
Capacious anxiety, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... I’m done.
You can break the law to shoulder perfection or save a life, once. Either way is a fractional infinite in the context / e.r. Something is definitely going on.

Lefties are feeling cornered (not to say conned) but
it’s breathtaking administering the right thing to do to you.

36: There they go. Altho one
You’re not alone...
you’re mine. We get somewhere, so far then stop.
It’s a shame you and I grow our inner living love in dim light. In that respect I confess — or let me confess our undivided love is tickled, altered into love’s sole effect, corruption —

Your love, mine — separable remains of the nervous system that distorts our love radially into two lives.

I can’t circle my attraction to Japanese manners. Not yet.
A morning beverage color, though, is how a light olive shifts to vetiver or chartreuse, fading hunter into aroma basilicum, dark lawn as ice minted circles yellow sage for citrus spritzes and multiples of khaki to translucent sprigs of tea.

I remember looking up at at the music itself, feeling an urgency in ideas. Menu:
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.
Blouse and sex belong in a pile.
It’s a seeming nice place except for plastic
containers hanging along the branch bow: the cowslip
and top limbs maximized along blood on my chest ::

When stairwells mesh and go nowhere either side
between you and your affection, let’s hang in for a while.
Hang our names in roots.

Inter-OK...

(Someone asked me to float ridicule of the phonemic state of old style edits.)

That’s how near-shitty thinks while our so-named public face makes a living, almost kidding and choosing your chest, shoulders and hands to gunfire. What kind of prose government overthrow takes dabbling more lightly?

...pleasure before Hey, that your vox?
For the poet art administrator, hissy fits of modesty are unimpressive, swept up and vacuumed off each floor.

A year in taxes and you’re a neo-accepter of excess, making, being particles since and before the temporal.

Fits of pique are objective misnomers, eating and breathing them, too, as our ideology-swept rhetoric of double quotes administrating burgeons. Omniscience is officially sanctioned conjecture. Modesty goes as the evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family of arrivistes and custodians.

[w John W]

25: No dying here, let those in favor never be removed.
A few words travel, ‘unlooked for,’ calibrated by our ruckus / favorite doing-the-honors spoken (rather than speaking) in a larger-scale dialectic —

an epistemic war / outreach where all the jazz wears off. It’s triumph!

After, for a frown, a thousand victories once buried pride / the sun’s eye.

We’re happy we can boast love in favor of love fresh from the book

whose fortune spread joy we honor most.

Donors take over America locks, stocks and barrels (for the Dems).

Rhapsodic justice is made to look calculated. It’s easier to have a set of spring-summer consonants in your throat than break our rules and brag too much, too enormous a bliss.

By caution as usual we mean caution to the core.
Discourse in a hammock, wanting to be nearer. Caution preserves constructs protecting access to the core. The equation reduces to healing power = unhealthy options = smoking hot.

This is what then? ‘“One’ piece of empty solidity.” Not for those who have more.

The future in tatters weighs in as a shortcut, “I need me.” It’s a lovely tirade. (Jack Spicer)
All thus was mirrored in meantimes. Staring into light wrongly revealed I’m pretending to be yours at your asinine behest. Remember it’s wrong — I am not pet swapped, I never intimidate a party in conflict. As a consequence doors open & I’m auto-electrocuted.

My quandary repeats aromas from hydrangea in labor (staging nightmares) —

once in labor we chose our birth parents; this is a tenet of some.

Yet it’s with Bonnard visuals of pleasure I’d be holding you for conniving to carpet silence. O Amerigo —
Another wish never fulfilled, you and I round off contrasting demands of flimsy seriality and sequence, conquering death with abundance.

141: Heart to heart:
I’m dating other members while we go thru systems — in faith I love you
in my eyes.

Your own speech acts and errors aside, in spite of foolish tunes, no pain, not any taste, there’s always
desire.. it’s self-invited. It’s inside you like sin. We’ve gone
over this. But I dote on tender feelings with you alone.

And your views look great in text, available where I promise all my senses serve you ...
Thus far I am yours, unswayed by slaphappy-proof likenesses to-be, I love you
pleased, delighted, you only.

Cupid fell
into olive swelter in unnamed aromas
that led his dogs to you, making clear

Even Sam Smith fell for
Cupid in a blouse, Cupid’s blank stare.
A blast furnace getting head.

Cupid pulls the curtains to reveal a street,
yards, outside where people pass by in walk-on parts.

One doesn’t know any more
if there are good times ahead of war.

Draft to you, easier to speak for me.

Your snobbishness killed me.
No monks wrote the inscription for our ashes. It reads: Just because you’re not there to attribute what we know to swimming exhausted doesn’t mean these two weren’t Bodhis / each physique w/ a hammer in hand. Nailing our souls together takes a moment of their lives that we don’t love or hate.

Whatever takes substance and breadth, we’re not doing it!

Breathtaking.

Auto-electrocuted. But calmed down. No more tv, sore thumbs. There’s a dual nature of justice going around in “resentment and forgiveness” with high notes we won’t deflate. A muggy, fantastic soprano, jittery, active against the grain. She reaches a point at which the point director is traceable.
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.