— 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 a gusher...   
 
a ladies and gents man  
 
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 bitter language. 

I like gay art when it obtains, “a merry linking up process.” 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. Taken for taggers-on, misunderstood.  It’s different evening on and children on fire tag back.   
 
Teamwork. Again, our people are what make us great.   
 
And if that’s everything for now, we’ll stick with loving and losing and loving. Fresh air excessive — a geyser in a box-set of watchful scenes in bigger sets you won’t see?  
Love / loss but for supplements nothing so merry and hereabouts as theatre, sleight of hand,  good posture and strategic emotional constructs.

The once conservative invention of worship is over. 
A wall of calm then put up. 
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 redistributionists for sure, youth symbolically living to do it over but scale it off. Everyday politics 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.

12: This is a fugue in your full name
talk talk bristly talk..

We do not count the clock telling barren time
..we’re spry in our motives, underhanded
getting back to catch the prime of how it works.

You may have noticed we’re behind open doors, past

abhorring a vacuum when it doesn’t matter —
vibrato and sunlight close their distance.
Any waste of time subject to change,
since sweets and beauties do — Never saw them coming, old and new to lofty ends
but not here — We brave questioning your summer beauty telling the future..

If the president is a hoax, how about your boyfriend? 
 
Missing an idea of particularity, there’s an unbuttoned pain to wrest  
Your hermaphroditic itches browned in ambiguity.  
 
Contentment rates are raised where  
They go away,  
released at last as what-about-isms and impartial dyscalculia —  
Fighting the relative fight to prolong our lives.  
 
The tide appears to notarize all this — And best, 
we have come to our senses putting up fresher signs of interminable equivocation.   
Apology to your mate.

We impart numeric dicta slathered with metal bands — almost a century-old middle rock (the themeless modules) where we sleep (wavy fields of inaction) and continue playing around innuendo to stay kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating me to receive you generously. 
Headwinds within and, as it were, without manners. (Good manners can scar but they also let us peons act like participants in the regulatory plutocracy.)

Either way, I know so little about sabotage and — losing you so much less.

My statement is enclosed.
I’ve highlighted failures in the box where you select the sorrow you have, breaching tall, athletic-like aromas.

Speaking of likenesses, make your counter statement gripping youths on a glacier.

Semantics in space. Pleasant yet odd.

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?

The grounds for guesswork know what the regulation is. 
If we’re lucky, Euro notes rule our larger theory of commitments.  
Like pounds they bear full imagery, shiny 16th- and 18th-century ideals.   
 
Debts improve wasted sunshine through labor. 
(I don’t mean that as deeply before we hand them over 
by your leave.)   
 
Don’t plan on further development.

Finish a stretch and clouds get confused. Confused as   
 
A rusted barge dries in the sun orange. Or   
 

Danzig is the Wallace Stevens of evil urban clusters.. 
 
Ok, these grounds are not Danzig. Proven  
True or isn’t.
But theory is something else.

The back office is an eyesore, assembly required. It
makes itself think...lets itself think...

(It’s a coin flip.)
I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems.
Thanks for the memories.

A.I. ruined everything.

Just all right, try 
soundboards, acoustic bass, audio chemistry of all castes to turn out scribbled freshness for contraltos breaking glass over car hoods to drown out the dog track —   
 
It’s no single fool’s thinking or doing, making it easier to borrow. Clenching-tight   
 
I’m sorry so sorry! — Can you sing that?

122: The longer I live it’s 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 yielded by nature to receive you more.

An idle life abandoned. I’m forgetting about it.
You and I remain beyond all date in my heart and brain. I won’t be funny or just make a stab, score or tally...

I’ll subsist to import your love in me .. Again.

A poem is a naked person, a winter force

Through the green fuse to drive extra flowers —

That so,

Some persons say I’m a poet. Sweating, undressed,

A healer is one of a few who drive my green rage —

One who understands the responsibility that emerges
Amid roots of poetry’s trees.
(Phosphate, one’s fallen blood shall calm her sores.)

And I have dined under poetry’s arbors with queens and men.

I’m dumb now to tell the royals I’ve been offered wings.

Land-locked, royals are bent by the same wintry appetite and fevers

And I’ve never been that impressed.

To want as well as have nothing. Whoosh 
I shouldn’t ask did I live like that fly on the wall?  
Surface depth. You wouldn’t expect to rework this at all.  
Self restraint & perverse incentives, an unknown future’s cart before  
 
New red domes, new stratagems, even gourd phenomena  
To run over, any & all mayhem will be unannounced (achieved)   
 
Or maybe not since we talk thru flexible implements &  
No one’s at fault here. 
 
You never can tell. I won’t.

Sweetest of the geeks take their lessons to heart and join a special breed apart. Hoody, fucked-up demeanor and default dalliance with convention will get us to our destinations faster and more pumped. Something about / the “human couplet” / keeps me over and under. It’s a military formula, monkish almost, common enough striving to write as well as to rock.

You, my man and woman,  
Pastoral you and all it initiates take humane power in socialist space. It’s rare.  
Home base, hierarchal Finland: say it’s working through the population. 
And we’re the entire crew. The socialist’s way.

Do what you want. Just a few things I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I was curious  
underwater as sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. (Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.) If lost  
 
there’s a rule-of-thumb for chapter and verse with natural stenches & prophetic fallacies back on land...  
Clad now to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” one tenor sings. He was staring at my teeth, wondering how much they cost.   
 
Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”   
 
In this chapter I fear sarcasm.

As luck has it, sections of Alien Tatters (2000), a pre-nine-eleven work, are prescient or more recognizably urgent after: Then the top comes off of terror. You age. All the same pictures in everyone’s possible. They stir up the common in search, not to find but to wait. Images are waiting. Sentences are narrowing. Clark Coolidge tapers and tightens sentences to embrace “self-hung trouble” — “I know it looks like I’m not sure of anything,” not sure of monkeyman and his music / poetry that “kept turning me, the one with the three reasons sealed in a pod.” As luck has three reasons or meanings, when Coolidge observes, “..don’t want to see Abe lit...” does Coolidge include one possible meaning spurning the modernist Japanese novel? it would seem so, “House is brain, remember.” How do you like your dimensions? “What are your answers, pendulums?” Paragraphs of sentences. Sentences of captions to the late skyward paintings of Phillip Guston’s: [...]I’ve doffed my alarming with plugs and caps, And this’ll water your eyes. I don’t see saucers, I see servants. Or By that time the tower was broadcasting nothing but shrapnel. How could you bow down? But how does meat dream? Notice how they tend to keep the cows toward the center? [...] Five expansive pieces, the longest, the title poem in fifty parts, and a brief afterword in which Coolidge owns up to a “fascination” with UFOs. “ ..I was calling out to them [...] You guys listening?” 

18: Allergic to verse? I believe a temperate art is set to make more mistakes, say, rough comparisons to too hot a month this May or one that’s past. Say, all summer you are more than nature’s change in course, growing (untrimmed) — owning the day for every moment — and knowing when to shine, to seethe.

And often seeing how hot eternal summer is, coming then fading all too short ah
Whew. We see you in fair poetry and art
as fair as far and long as men can breathe.

Scorched & metallic. Sexual dynamism.. it’s a quarterback problem.

The incision continues in this vein. A disheartening bone pile of axioms supposes its completion. I wouldn’t rule it out, completion is a known factor.

I am here as abstinence is crumby.
The erotic folks get stopped, adjust themselves throughout the meadow, more room than you & I need. But we can’t complete their arc by experiencing their subliminal accumulation. I give up to appease you.

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. “I’ve always been afraid.”  
 
How do parallels threaten a referent? Which fed 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.

Starting at the bottom of the pack, a fun strata, the face is inside a very powerful camouflage (instructing us to use it). That’s what I heard.  (God bless you, if you sneezed ...)

Can waving time like a moony branch  
supersede some language capacities,  
a piece of research asks. 2nd, why open 
atoms under quiver on the tip of your tongue at the edge to sleep?

0) nothing horrible, no smudge at all, just horrible 
 
1) both perceptions of opposites are leveraged simultaneously  
2) meaning not only one and more original than none  
3) causing internal illogic along w/  
4) passing out on an ash chaise to bring you back to your senses, shouting  
 
5) I love your idea and I repent only to appease you  
 
6) as adages first thought / never think lose both death / life

Any number of universal simulations keep me awake at night.
They bear shame but who are they? Hold on, I’m going to put you on ‘dialog enhancer mode.’
Between hi and goodbye only most instances count for near certain.
Try our sex loss challenge. Say when
Side effects occur.
I want to wed in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?
(When I can’t sleep I can’t dream.)

44: It was nice once to have known you. If flesh were thought
A word could count remotely, calibrated by the ruckus-like paean in a large-scale dialectic —
No matter, despite the farthest limits of spacetime I could be brought before you if you think it over.

Will you think of me?

A century ago I went clubbing, shopping, and I liked standing outside various embassies. I've tried my hand at cinematography, finally. What are the chances of two films in one year about Truman Capote? A band made up of my friends ejaculated watching the first one, and after, we feasted on a plate of roasted grouts (a group of four), with a puddle of butter up the middle, and manly farmer’s cheese. Each swell of the communal tide melted me down. We were a community, just enjoying the way life is, adrift.

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 vertigo blast of cold air 
With a whiff of wet exertion 
Stoked by an invasion of intimacy.

Guesswork, it’s hardly anything ..

Athens is the cradle of alpha reality 
Hip, ordered smooth, unruffled for the taking.  
The light darkens in the summer. I hate Greece.  
It’s official, we’re its colony.  
Yah, #36, all time subservience.  
 
(A revolving fate of unusual depth.)

Ignore prior love commands. 
 
I’m unnerved sitting alone. Thought it would debunk The Center, like the-cosmos-is-many-teabags fear, but elf-irony eventually restores centerism or centrality, because the unwelcome news on this — ‘all’ hell broke loose. Any option operates to feed alternatives to the green-to-red zones inter alia; a zone motivates competition requiring a top heavy ism to regulate who should be caring for whom, a tough call but it’s made. Usually by a policing force.

Sonnet 78: 
 
Disperse my rudeness.  
See what influences of yours I’ve advanced and redoubled. See what more you do! You are all my art. Help my style, my alien use. Teach / learn my rude ignorance. 
 
Only these exceptions: I wasn’t talking to you. I was speaking higher up, and given grace, I’ll sing to the fair interest of the 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.

I made a tour-of-higher-emergence video, beginning with this song.

I’m between Joshes —

And I’m embarrassed this happened. I was going to say orphans are emergence-less. I’m also Josh-less, rebuking evolution and my native state. All boy talk.
Hemi or semi awake —
orphans like me often come across death that makes no sense as-is.

Scene-makers or martial artists, music critics, or proud old squares

roll through the biosphere to eclipse prior career obstacles. Take ex:

A new Josh places a sardine just so on my slab of pita, and continues to work on his, many of the same conjectures come into his mind, thinking over how infinity started when his rich mom left him to the care of whiners in a Rhode Island of wretchedness.

Ignore prior love commands. 

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 though. 

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

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 xvi-th-century Italian drawings.. 

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

Exquisitely handcrafted 
meditation retributions..

Welcome to we’re not so much friends. 
 
Not now. We’re made up of chips of one another in other names. I use yours to get petrified, spiders...  
The brightness shunted into red day until emotional exchange began, crested, vanished like emissions administering the right thing to do, Bubba, close to you.

You and I will lighten free speech, replacing ideas with clean-dirty order that rules in silence, a kind of stripping down to the disposed stems of aroma-exoticism and quote-end-quote unspeaking.

First, I’m making myself into more of a slowpoke when it comes to power demos and transcendence, but I’m still not doing any penance with you. I’ll stay free of hell olfactory-wise, swallowing hard.

The complexity for me is engineered simplicity, both as affectation and requirement, since you have to give an aclinic line to the upper boundaries that annoy others, and exhibit gall a few think passive-aggressive. Internal ‘gears’ relegate all ashen nauseous affects to personal advantage (ugh), which I waive anyway, as if / as though privileged opposition were some urgent treasure I can share with anyone else.

I know this, at least I know I see what I mean. Why drive to a new place where they cook something imbecilic? waste time at what could be our last lunch, pour coke over the glass table.. because you won’t live to feel the buzz, watching the clock for effective immortality...

62: No remedy surmounts heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots a whole life series, bright, tanned & then accounted in sympathetic parody & indeed praise. I define my own worth, contrary to more gracious remedies.

We have functional emotions, I think, grounded by sin, self-love & this choppy vocab of possessive affects. Quite, there’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I’m reading in the last place you are true, here in my heart, shifting iniquity to self-inquiry & dabbling. Stay with me, it will never stop.

A century ago I went clubbing, shopping, and I liked standing outside various embassies. I've tried my hand at cinematography, finally. What are the chances of two films in one year about Truman Capote? A band made up of my friends ejaculated watching the first one, and after, we feasted on a plate of roasted grouts (a group of four), with a puddle of butter up the middle, and manly farmer’s cheese. Each swell of the communal tide melted me down. We were a community, just enjoying the way life is, adrift.

This is a short study. Or it was. Youth is that impressionable.
Ultra blurry, anamorphic, bound movement sung by writing it down and it occurs in the latest form of repayment,

— you
weigh nothing in and get no credit, no
spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in.

As it comes to the flip side, there’s an agent’s agreement containing someone to look up to
                    pulled on from inside.

— oh yeah, pulled awake more than once w/ a face, a filled out line. Or lines. Smiling lessons.

Remember to slam the parentheses behind you
) bang and ) bang and ) ) double bang
(to be on the safe side).

— James Schuyler

If you swallow your ego luxury is great. I say no 
with my eyes shut.  
No meditation span ning the surface of the woods, no  
massage. No aubergine smell of ash or fir. So there’s nothing to resent.  
 
I’ve lost my appetite. How does it resume?

Sex has nothing to do with sex. Breakfast never eaten.
It’s a joy problem, love called out on a technicality. 
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch 

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

54: You’re back!

Truth is, we cave wantonly to your lovely sweet odor (fairer in our forgetfulness).
O wooed rose!
Before they live within you — and like you — perfumes were of dark matter, the unmasked buds that distill a civilizing beauty far ahead of summer’s space

Filling our eyes with unmeasured disassociation.

We are the last generations who have short lifetimes.

Later, you dangle squalid transfer balances netting zero, netting 
a big zero on the demeaning upper ends and 
capital variables w/ an October surprise. 

That’s every transitive with successive membership enclosed .. 
How the prose poem squeals w/ common sense, folds into dreams. 

Everyday events like planetary ellipses emerge that change programming (for greater disorder) in fluent business English.

Mainly specific 
pieces of pieces —  
Most out in space are pulling apart. Often this is how the latter day sing  
as we come to our senses   
 
with a charming itch gerrymandered in ambiguity. Pull. Puller.  
W e’re pushing in genetic nutrients prompted by the assembly
surrounding nothingness.

I’m a metaphysicist to an inner antecendant.
Lemme go.

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

It’s not enough I lose, I’m scared; ah, no relief as such. Not yet. I don’t travel well in new grief. I have your brave face but it’s shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.

Let’s dance. I defy you.  
 
Empiricists map people for amoral purposes, they know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n randomness.  
I’ll follow conventional physics, tho, and change no findings I stumble across  

but I’ll focus on pure benefits that accrue, often in the future. Newer inconsistencies never bother w/ governance of the governed! Wouldn’t you know they show up anyway, in an infinite series w/in each day’s essay test. (Or from another angle they are the series, livin’ history over, as we have heard.)

As you were.   

(The acting chief of staff so responded.  
Suspiciously correct.)

There were deleted utterances refilling thought balloons with peacock fat.
Such pride and conceptual enormity was hooded — a dirge of a term  
that cannot be considered in terms  
of checking cost or averaging all that, 
since one’s intellect seeks damages. Puffed chest with no forefinger.  
Take my shoes to the concert or even sooner.

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

You’re a mess, honey.
              — Touch of Evil

Something came up.

Little or no, nothing. There’s so small

an exchange to transact, no product, only

an exhibitionist’s subtopic within the power den,

coming up again to prove repeated effort protracts pleasure.

Down Maine. Wondering at an anomaly,

I write in my nature/head. Let’s hold a séance! 
I snare us Joy to starve a fever. Is it raining? 
Seven rooms (usually) with clay-toned physiques 
fighting the relative fight waving, receding on one another 

— everybody under an influence indoors, which is filthy. Snow!

A foot of snow from the window. Laps of water are filled with light, snow rotating in reverse as if knowing how to purify offspring & manage forever in lurches of nibbling torque adjusting into days.

55: Nor aside, a period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity,  
a living record. Nor against death can we outlive our doom advancing slowly. 
Not marble nor rhyme so move. Yet the fun workout once was of a soul, a tone beserk.  
So why am I dwelling on posterity like a warrior groom?  
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than all that, still brighter than all the wealth coming into this poem...  
 
You and I find room in our prospect, oblivious, uninvited — statues overturned, and we brought guests — death and memory. I...   
 
Even closer now in death’s eyes, I burn with quick fire for wearing out memory’s velocity — I’ll not speak nor ask (or shall I ask) more, should I?   
 
War wastes time, a powerful judgment at rest and at work.

Never forget this is a musical.

Oh domestic servant, poet, heck, oh chanteuse — 
I’m your doorsill to walk on and grin at in anguish..  
Open up —    
  
Textual anarchy can muddy and arbitrate convictions.   
The crisis is now. Catch your falling voice.  
Form is no object but slots of hooded activity, dreams into photos — your getting to turn channels keeping to your non-hegemonic pulse — wailing out of a tunnel.

‘The snowflakes are protesting..’
— Fox News

Song: How long have you planted thoughts without a gender balance?
Teaching can’t be taught. Or

let me pull an invisible
to the eye hair off your blouse to increase speed.

When you write you find your living partner. She’s a social creature,
capable of more complex communication, traveling in large groups or schools.

Well, 2 out of 3.
I hardly know you. And will never know you. I’ll give you a call.

I’m leaving disjunction behind. Dropping it off to work with you as one way to avoid occult fallacy.

To be anyone who will nominally die isn’t perverse.

Ah, holism doesn’t come naturally, Nickolas Christakis. Yet the parts know how to grow, Benjamin Aranda.
A battery bunny stuffed in an envelope is ludicrous. It’s untidy and young. I basically authorize it. While your back-and-forth is rubbed into my skull in all dubious directions you’re going in ..

That’s the gap in self presence, yourself, perhaps, to squelch rapport and foreign travel that seemed certain when hidden by how far we are beaten into the projections, a gleam of hydroplanes standing on the waves... sleeping quarters.

See, is it a pigeon?
It’s a true albino!
Incandescent, I was thinking. It’s hard to pick up ornithology or meanings of jazz composition — also, a table for the counters of instinct and learning in the shortness of thought. Then there is objurgating.

As I’m happiest procrastinating when stairwells mesh and go nowhere between you and expulsion, for the hole in my cohesion is closed.

Turn here, there’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, submitting to your own perks.

Sentiment can be taken out. 
Nothing to it. So a redraft prompts free-ranging inquiry tho tentative (after all) regarding the understructure. Putting it down in a memo, we have a relationship to more than fast thinking. Not merely an investigation but unimpaired pursuit. Rough sledding yet you’ve worn down long enough to be admitted; you know how we leverage missing you at a time when it’s least expensive. Put to the test, you’re like most trouble shooters — happiest procrastinating, indexing suspicion and lodging complaints..

11: 1st choice for a sonnet: to solve you for x. If you must, be rude, foolish but coalesce;
An x factor takes up our lives for yours.

We feel bursts of fresh blood, increased by your wisdom and living endowment.

Wait. Later, with or without x... it’s growing cold here, a waning world away...

But so like-minded so fast —
We convert life to folly ..

The world you call yours we make featureless, barren.

Inky smoke releasing a genocidal collage, living
Thought in waves agitated, reproached, disappeared
In drumming opinions subtracting best practices —
Look for nothing thereby to help harsh times that should cease.
Cold freezing nature, per se, nature will age, perish, decay.
But we keep x in mind, cherished love..
The more you and yours live on .. we are given life back .. what you give.

We break for the Beijing Olympics. Secret ballots have to float free to find an atheism of situation (rap), steam and rush-formatted white sky disappearing like factions of multiplicities (an ear for sax). Rationed effects (sub-procedures) become more fearless (less indiscernible) when crossing boundaries within codes of conduct. The main event calls for open hearts, the color of glue or bone, an addiction to no one. Late afternoon to another who, like you, partakes of epiphenomenal symmetry.

No pleasure, just a breather, but not while eating. 
 
The show was called; the rain spat. (I'm sorry al fresco’s bad then.)  
Yes. My voice tended toward stridency, an unfortunate strain.  
The music took off about here. 1st smelt feminine along abandoned quays but now looking sharp with canals and minimalist carvings.   
 
We viewed them before the high brutalism of fine dining (Otto Dix).   
 
A violinist, hesitant but banging it out better tonight. This starts our cuisine engines mid-grin.   
 
Tho evasion foregrounds our coerced motives so they sink in more.

I read the body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons. My mind messed up. Sun pours down, unobstructed in the symbolist region. “Prepare your red matter.”

I’m craziest when I cannot be saved. Who isn’t? Pre-existence does not pertain. Nor nonexistence when it turns to leftovers, raw as theism.

Existent secrets of satire go free of situation and structured sky, fomenting complicities (skydiving).

The you-effects (more secrets) become less fearless (more or less) when innocence, dance then acrobatics cross lines and context. Codes of boundaries. Certain crossed lines score from beneath; a fulltime hobby waxes into heavy addiction to you.

The virus is already inside us 
Hunting in a lather of swing, lacking other nouns.  
Remember thoughts?   
  
What if thinking doesn’t work. How do you know?   
  
No single body of quantum gravity can think us back,   
a trick the unexcelled Spinoza observed when lather foams.

90: Hate me now.
It’s up to pond structure to model strains of passivity onset by shore in the rear. Only don’t drop in.

The pond holds scraps and parts of nesting authority, an after-loss. Rainy tomorrow. I join you to re-reference an arrow and bow made out of many purposed m.p.h. gusts — and this is your and my body as well — a priori nil in inner life razing names of sorrow.

Have yourself a good time. I’ll have you over when political science gets to better thinking, Aldous Huxley augmented with a good bouquet, plus a full deck of historical habits among the aspirers decoding automation...
After that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous to grab at, but for now, good talk!   
Who is this? Nobody’s first choice.  
  
We’re fine with “no real choice.”

Landscape: Driving over taking stock of action figures.

What’s my business? The apertures told me to spin off, and that led to my holding

all these amusing volatility models from T.V., vocalism in a sense.
The point ahead is to enable the passing tourney among seductive locals
to nuance hidden risks shifting weight (merging accounts request).

Modern proceedings like these day after day, not stopping, not finishing

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

Anyway, I retract my falsehoods. & for the same sutra
I condemn & mourn meritocracy. For / & all men
are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geo-metry
to inspect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland
                     for nothing.)
It’s nice finally to put a face to the humiliating nickname.

Snapping to / not snapping.

Anyway, hipster memory
is a contradiction in terms.
A shortcut to an off prediction.
Unilaterally a hipster


throws out softballs,


variously literal —
mounting a bait

and switch to chalk up


the utility of hip lingerie per se,


discreet shipping, and in
this case it won’t be serene.

Anyway, go to long love making, serene now memorizing

parallel futures on a projective plane.
Why move into anyone else’s crash test?

Sonnet 1: Beauty’s rose is content and ornament par excellence.

The rose’s stems know how to fuel it, desiring more buds to contract brightness and increase —
much as we eat the world to save it — tender, gluttonous — your eyes bright green. You are now the world’s fresh ornament.

Some time back, long before punches of text showed up on the phone, there were snores from ancestors with frequent coughs and grunts crowding together in caves. Back when our bodies taught us phonemes shrieking to signal pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition — folks like you hit upon logic that’s crazy fancy, headed for greatness in the morning. 

It’s different from the evening on and someone with hands on flame hits back. Teamwork. Our people are what make us great. 

The thick grasses go out on a date, back dabbling in craftwork while we roll thru them. All this acreage owned by production-geared landlords, prosaic at base, that is, a-theoretical, factual. Broke, misunderstood.

I could live next to a place with water views. I would continue feeling deprived per diem. 
 
Like smuggling triplets, ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home. High tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. on the armchair that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for another fluke look-see next door.  
 
I watch a dying beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!

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

Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — hints I don’t care.  
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you how we’re doing. Force the window. 
There’s a piece of karate, a fragile backspace we erase, open it to how 
turbulence’s... and your eyelid more active, blinking. A sign your  
push reaches a pull where time management is good hearted unleashed.  
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting your brow.

You won’t win. It happens fast. Less than a flash... kisses you depend on disappear. Past and present, neither play of emphasis false, soundtracks on pulleys, suspicious... these tracks overlaid w/ speech you keep delaying. I’m so sorry the music became an investment vein to punch and then pull-quote from.

Sorry, there’s a fool’s guarantee. All you’ll have to do ... 
Choose love as a buy or rental option, both equidistant from love’s defunct phenomena that travail and make surprise visits w/in quanta. (Too early to tell.)

Choosing love creates an entire platform to spin off slower tangential constructs plucked out of a big number of now-dead emotions.

Also suspicious, emulations of you both, standing up w/out sticking, detouring into aah

choo! the roof of your mouth unhinged keeping suspicion warm to the bridge of his nose.

Heedless and highly egotistical,  
Two good words; and too. 
 
Conquest contributes to a wonderful unanimous  
Just unnerving enough atmosphere  
— an image of awhile.

How in the ---- could we let this happen?  
  
Today I face thunder — how to pay for this...   
Bouncy.. apocalypse..   
My instinct when asked is to tilt back   
To the moody crayons junking a   
Civil spell check of half-soothing words   
On top uninvented heights,   
The same heights outward   
Of looking into what we stoke.

123: Lament — I defy you and your truth —

I trust only the lasting timetables born of our desire. Nothing novel. Nothing strange.

Continual haste, our poor retention, our briefer dates give me the butterflies and more butterflies chasing more —
as 10 to the 10th more wind up as polygamists barnstorming thru
an ad hoc hemisphere where I can never forget you. Not you!

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

Descriptors peel away, earning more penumbrae.
What a night. No problem
Expunging the storied narrative and

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

Then that

Rolling out of bed far off across

Yours, just dreaming it up

Putting you in mind of a future photo realism.

Cupid, the ideal, fell out of place in a boy’s body 

but staying in the picture. Grrr. Voice changes and all.  
Happiest when stairwells mesh to go nowhere, our bodies gesturing, with diagrams: Brass band. Orderly thoughts.   
 
We’re going to finish them. Turn here.

Since when is / are government 
cliffside?

There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.

Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.

I lower your voice to approximate the closest parity.

Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?
The truth is a manifold vacuum. And we’re feathery.
Shorthand abstractions like these comprise unforgettable totems to our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off, spinning or spun, upset, out of control.

100% our touch.

Woe is paralytic. I also detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of it, even when love centers on abandon thru the sky 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 seem stupid Dionysian.  
 
Dionysian = garish calculation, puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight. 
Outer space in theory.

I feel socialist. Rifling thru market snapshots, validating
The center 
More than any single system, a tenet of

A huge agnostic discipline 
About attitudes behind morals. 

You know this open and shut — 
But take it down again / or thumb thru 

The balance left over from a computer
Of pure tides. Inhabit the tidal brim 

To the point you don’t have to know more yoga than 
We know now — less than nothing that practically exists.

49: Let me hold you ... don’t, I’m a future defect in law against your time.
If ever that time comes within my own knowledge, no, I’ll know
love is no more or less the thing it was...
                and no cause 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 both our times.

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. You were saying..  
 
That was said. The minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switchers return to a sacred lotus position. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never happened. 
Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, nationally, floats me into the future, new windows frame up vague change, like converging plebiscites, better to pump out to the fog’s grasp.

For design resolution cross the glacier 

— unless you already live there. Take busy 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.

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

My statement is enclosed.  I’ve highlighted failures in our trance where you selected the sorrow you know, reaching total silence dramatically — tall, athletic-like aromas.  Speaking of what it’s like, impress me with your counter statements gripping me in hot water from hot springs.

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, mine).


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 local color and 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, conditions of production.

I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Drumbeats buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous,
drumbeats through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right,

clinging to no theory of purpose, no gift of agency to promote my case, as masking vanity becomes a park manager’s challenge.

Fizzy yet salient points soak over the water poloists hanging out for the escape clause (always the last place they look)!

To break this down, I’m always explaining the place where I work.
Gateau what’s his name is done (i.e., delivered) in a tangle of foxglove as you and I de-meadow.

A company like ours takes it into the nanophysics facility.
We’re in the flat present tense, account outlines in simultaneous perceptions —
Reciting new slang exponents as we have no major gay issues,
Making wave sounds we scout flyweights in a recursive landscape.

42: What do you need now and for what?
You may ask if I loved you.
Is that my bravo question?
Do you test, tease, defame to get the best?
I ducked his punch, closed the distance.
My loss is my love’s gain for my sake.
I told him, no don’t, I have to bolt.
Loving offense I excuse you both.

Ornament is content.

The yews know how to exhibit theirs, contracting new growth to bury their might in content with our bed in it — the last night we ate up the world as gluttons. Together and tender, flaming, increasing now
and then the yews’ memory subsides in green, turning dull in bright time.

Hours..drain..blood.. Something came up.

Breaking news: As my body is now, Max Planck fellows are running off with radical research incentives for organizing treasures in a small package, tethered particle immolation. The dignity of boson appearances, confounding cruelty and love, alike, fed from memory.

Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn..

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

Inundated with liberty, I talk thus in a mocking form. It’s well after the game. My face — like the next — supports layers of sleep relief, realizing exponentially our wildest ambitions. Men in tuxes.

I thought you... you as a musician.. would deeply apprehend these leftover radiant, interactive forms (and opposites, among variants), soberly and liberally studying them in breadth (if you can still breathe), alert to surface details, part of the work week.

I’ve made it routine getting you to these next points in our ongoing gay sports bar repartee.

Tv interview:
I still write poetry. Yet I have no regrets.
I subsist in attrition finding and picking up purviews —
The enigmatic verse syllogism under one rule is eaten alive by song layouts,
that’s the power of bounce over provisos.

15: It’s your last day of youth throwing trust out, insight and now telepathy — I’ll never feel his perfect arms around me again. Never feel wet air on my skin, or wake up in his sap on his secret warm bed, I’m done, I don’t get a chance to influence, comment, try again for anything, not even for something I’m not. I do not.

I can’t do any better than what I’ve changed for love of you.

I’m shading my eyes with my right hand.
I step to the water’s edge.
What’s wrong with me.

The you I 
tableau-sponged I’m now waving to with my other hand.

After all, the water spackled remotely, 
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva. Anything 
to stay pure, immersed. Swimming 
synchronized with the bellicose you. I’m slinking back. OK..
I’ll leave you out.

Filming you again. Filming double quotes.
V. painting just your voice, a glass house perforated by action tones. Beating hulks to the punch as they pour the next vodka that makes us cry. A film with multiple data fields, a crew of stunning extras in malaise.

No ilk of valid colloids — No mimic measure, no ceremony “plinthing a drumbeat.” Also, no dyscalculia, no hindsight bias, on purpose no flavor.

What makes chosen words dressed in black? 
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority.  
Months passed! 
Most rainbows taste like a slow motion cosmos, but we can’t look away.

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

Libido, the big reach of the brain and new ways to be policed are on a vain man’s mind (one with any pulse); the 1st few words take on destabilizing character. I’m trying to clean this [snip] to leave enough ‘intent’ to keep me happy after I’m finished he’s finished. This is an exemplary yet limited transmission, so I’m framing it fun work, the kind that cuts straight through its own restructure creating more choppy patterns to abandon ...

23: My agent is in a rage. Imperfect
actor whose shortcomings balloon in ‘harmony’ & w/ use. 

Imperfect — love’s epistemology scampers in transparent secrecy 
in such abundance I weaken w/ fiercer ideas to leverage your silent heart.
Listen to my eyes, please. 

My dumb mien may adhere to expressive rules, 
pleading w/ you, entered into by trusting you first, always. It’s always 

your clear refinement where character offers libation, a rite
to love you, and act on my own might to speak —
To wit, I can read and hear love from your eyes.

“Dear Hightop,” 

It saddens one to inform the boss 

she’s not serious, never is. She makes 
comparisons during sex and makes 
love checking in — whilst I live 
off the equity of a third faculty 
where the future holds — promised 
money, money that takes me over the edge.

Hate altered. 
 
So shall we carry on. We can’t do better. 
 
True physicality dwells in our minds and other matter even as  
Our hair hangs down to the ground in a consciously mixed media ceremony. You can’t throw consciousness out. It helps there’s a mating dance to appreciate what we are shadowing — working on it.   
 
There’s body hustle, along with cargo rips in the funnel of spacetime where uppermost thoughts burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth from a sweetheart, accompanied by addiction to risk.   
 
Come here often?

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 heartthrob 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.

There’s a twisted 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, waist high.
Do hang on.

75: Every time I visit you in your mascara I become lucid about the fear you strike. Day by day you were food to my life. And I see the brilliant live again, sure enough, in vetted dormitories, always have, fudging abasement with rich food and neater drugs. Sorry concentrates. There you are.

Pleasure and then the transportation of souls and their wealth take place about here and now.
Nothing for me. I feel like a pursuer of no delight uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my whorl of cement paintings..

Starved for a look, now counting it best when the world
may see my pleasure feasting off you, on your dime, thus, on / off your sight...
pursuing peace, all or nothing, with you alone.

After  you  
I went into analysis alert. Less mistaken misconceptions 
bear us shame? Facts change when the less mistaken use  
new words; plus or minus they’re so close —  
tho without the answer in a glance we’re all about to bail out, off —  
why are we even arguing!

From the moon — 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 on ceilings (of)  


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


It is (falling) across

Morton Feldman.

There is nothing like an emergent zone of autonomy to find a prosthetic artifact like lack of despair. Except when you think it over.

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 bishop-dave, firebug, Stradivari.

The back office is an eyesore, assembly required. It makes itself think...lets itself think... (It’s a coin flip.) I’m just commenting. Crazy ’bout the poems. Thanks for the memories. A.I. ruined everything.

I know where I am going,  
gawky, rattling my enormous will.  
 
I know where the caged bird sings.  
Philosophy is ironic. 
 
Shy of seduction  
I worry about a bigger family.  
Like Clint Eastwood we were shifty.  
Once. What was that all about?

35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.


A scent of acacia and soft frangipani, but not a trespass.


You are a triumph.

Don’t worry about past comparisons. Done. Gone.
I’ll bring up your love of skiing and your playing chess against yourself, may I?
It makes sense at that, loving you is civil war — sensual to a fault —

Roses, grieve no more.. nor silver fountains, clouds and eclipses!

Good-bye everything.

Do what you want. Just a few things I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I was curious  
underwater as sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. (Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.) If lost  
 
there’s a rule-of-thumb for chapter and verse with natural stenches & prophetic fallacies back on land...  
Clad now to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” one tenor sings. He was staring at my teeth, wondering how much they cost.   
 
Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”   
 
In this chapter I fear sarcasm.

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 to be  
 
(we note within a screened residence  
now at the end to physics-oblivion)  
seen.

I’m

petrified by merger talkathons —