I promised you a ham for painting bombast, cremating all melody fonder. 
 

That would be indoors at our new place.  
 
Until then  
I’ll have you over when life and death crack automation...  
 
Waiting for you know who,  
I hope you’re feeling great. I’m not.

but we have to smile
                                   The emptiness that was 
one fine day... 
                                    A uranium-brimmed scree 
insubstantial to dawn ‘disappeared’ 
into the leg o’mutton of oblivion : 
Voices in funnels, a trickle down of their futurity, 
Dropping your sights — now rising  
— the fastest way to earn points. And yet 
We’re surrounded,
writing poems for protégés  
(if not progeny)...

I promised you a ham for painting bombast, cremating all melody fonder. 
 

That would be indoors at our new place.  
 
Until then  
I’ll have you over when life and death crack automation...  
 
Waiting for you know who,  
I hope you’re feeling great. I’m not.

62: No remedy surmounts heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots a whole series, bright, tanned & then defined by sympathetic parody & indeed praise, contrary to less gracious remedies.

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

I flash to a new place. And I’ve never been more uplifted, more unnerved by a microscopic chamber piece somberly floating in fun here and there, now audible signs of history, of intention, preparing us for a fixed melody with renewed power.

Unless there is anywhere else.

Early nesting process stuff. Ketchupy. 
The coast is never clear, fat boy...   
 
A whole new side to nuts & lightening bolts, narrow & hollow in the center,  
along with holding on 100% — inflatable as you lay back in a blank whisper,  
clearly in the nick of it, spoiling for everyone.

At a new level of storytelling that hang-in-there ideal is on your side, time sick. 
 
It goes with a backhand irony like pigeon guided missiles or extra guards at the gate.  
A free coupon! No, the front gate won’t front  
As there are centers of wishing beyond your closed doors.   
 
All batteries are charged (that’s the feeling). I’m pouring  
Molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with microfiber  
— I’m about to walk the spiral and more!  
While chestnuts stand around in verbal hoards  
Coupons expire.

Emily, a Hoyle in green dress, leaned 
In her hetero-inclusive manner  
Against a far wall,  
Perhaps not far enough, as  
She seemed distracted —  
Distracted, one word bringing pressure  
Into 4 fingers, my right hand  
Fidgeting with her necklace  
Which at that moment I coveted more than — sing it,are  
You trying to interfere ..  
& she was staring in the mirror — looking  
Not at me but past me, into some space  
— or slot of a zonal precipice  
That might be filled by someone nice,  
A successful televangelist no doubt, yet  
To come, fully, still on a gaseous journey...  
(journey, my roughshod term for predation & warfare  
Which could lead to fuller, calmer scenes thru the mirror..).  
This was years ago, according to Hoyle.

At a new level of storytelling that hang-in-there ideal is on your side, time sick. 
 
It goes with a backhand irony like pigeon guided missiles or limited offers at the gate.  
A free coupon! No, the front gate won’t front  
As there are centers of wishing beyond closed doors.   
 
All batteries are charged (now that’s the feeling). I’m pouring  
Molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with miracle microfibers  
— I’m about to walk the spiral and more!  
While chestnuts stand around in verbal hoards  
Coupons expire.

30: Losses restored?
Often there’s a new thought of a precious friend — I think of you — the words we had or didn’t have — all our words forewent consequences. Our moaning sessions went bad. Bad as in woe like grief, since we know nothing sweet summons up grieving remembrance of things past, wastes of time.

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

Got it, I’m wordy-terse 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.

There was a boom in robots once.
It all came about back in 1st or 2nd grade.
And if you invest now, daylight garners one
several that breathe, toting examples of published cook
-ing ontologies, whatever they alleged. Memory has it we
don’t have the brains to achieve an open enough peace
next to sleeping people staring through the ice.

Is this bluff for real? one asked with good reason
before the ice scissored out the upper grades.

A fond prayer as the rain falls.

Your eyes are dark dreamy and tell me I never did anything right,

For which our shared experience goes to waste.

A poetry of slogans earns the Balzac Award..
Folk-maverick, a dark scrum. Adolescent in a heavenly sense..
You keep telling lies about me in spacious quarters to our hosts in abstraction.

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 get the idea,
an ugly feeling:
we’re dinner figurines / the aptness of the (almost any) time.

92: To my love in constant revolt, our love is false. I’m almost happy.

Love never sticks around — False to depend on inside scars. And manual labor. A heightened blush.

Worse, I was placid then giddy to have had you... were we happy? What’s a better question?

Is there one last assured state to see, to re-see or re-live and die in? glued in time to this humorless mood without you, looking for more, formally unfair and, o oops... I see nothing but the few fearless before us, at peace
happier to die in fire. 
Happy to die! — Can we take their place?

Channel whatnot.
It reminds me of a nude midstream, harm’s way.

Discordant how I was scared in the dream
where we come back to having gotten this wrong.
We’re both wrong but it’s negative matter
only to some
one hundred decors in one & Dame MacFarlane at the piano.

The endive bloats.

There’s audible glee not being perennially the other and oppressed;
the oppressed are what we avoid when we can be free

on the outside. A natural bouquet smolders
w/ the emancipatory normality of assumed dominance. A voice bouquet

in better Prada, with a louder timbre distorting the status-quo on otherworldly streets:
“Where are we going?” This or that way. I guess
so. Not particularly.
Those who still insist on fighting state power, let alone directly taking it over, are immediately accused of being stuck in the ‘old paradigm’: the task today is to resist state power by withdrawing from its scope, subtracting oneself from it, creating new spaces outside its control.

— Savoj Žižek

Death, I still haven’t figured out why I’m restricted to a life without suffering
That can’t exist.
From here it all seems a miracle;

It’s good we are now separated.

Runners or any racetrack type can’t win. 
A tongue in your ear  
loosens noise from the pioneers and their
‘second’ cousins in lines of duty.  
 
It’s a composer’s tradition intractably complex, 
A two-mate cabin five steps down.  
Sleeping with you, blackmailed looking for
a waging mnemonic to store in a palindrome.

The Conservatory’s always nothing much minus common sense. 

Come out and play, practice, sample finding out 
the masked hostility and indecisiveness of trickster culture  
backed up with inexact and multiple scents of honor, crooning sounds  
from what we were doing before [give me a sec..] took hold,  
instantly endorsed as projection.

Identity and hardened m.o.’s from silences and retakes 
and feral feelings immersed in a prolonged project lesson. 

Runners or any racetrack type can’t win. 
A tongue in your ear  
loosens noise from the pioneers and their
‘second’ cousins in lines of duty.  
 
It’s a composer’s tradition intractably complex, 
A two-mate cabin five steps down.  
Sleeping with you, blackmailed looking for
a waging mnemonic to store in a palindrome.

145: A fiend’s tongue taught me to greet each day with nothing woeful, nothing sweet — Once I don’t hate you 
I find mercy to renew argument and sing.

For your sake, I hate hate.
I see chidingly day follows night...  your lips’ gentle breathing, a languished state, still explosive.

And still today I saw your hand in saving my life ... a great thievish sound altered and flown away.. I’m totally saved, heavenward (back from hell), flown straight up to your heart, Jezebel, never to hate, “never you.”

In this bronzer age of cliché
Men and women are spangled genetic machines. 


We know that. 



Taking chances put genetic lines of us in a lissome interpretive state (birth).
Function varies widely.

So our utterances are for sale. I’m intensely delighted, taut-
But-relaxed. Meantime I’m exposed, unspooled. Thus this is not a test.
I could see up to their clavicles, Marines and the police
Were wild one lane over, so I was arrested.

Puissance of a quick jolt sort, holy body of music.

If you got close enough to Talking Chimp’s cage, she’d throw dirt, food
— anything her baby paws could fit around — while her companion, Rudy [Ekornes],
made loud sounds that resemble what some call a ‘raspberry.’

Talking chimp did all her own stunts.

She was the featured beast in the movie Barfly.

Upon her release Talking Chimp left the industry and went on to Oxford.

Talking Chimp was seen with a lot of gentle creatures wearing jeans and racing through the wood, building paranoia.
What if we put the talking chimp away for five seconds?

“Let’s not do this, let’s not make hurting each other impossible to resist,” the real talking chimp enjoined, unable to stop herself.

Unexpectedly, she took me home to meet her family.

I’ve crossed out lines. 
Relax, beware. Certain branches of law aim straight at us.
Avalanche, a pronoun, embodies unnamed subjects, overwrought.  
 
A starry equity or neurons? Words are beta fields  
Heating up while fertile at the edge yet a lost cause.  
And titles cost. Avalanche.. Virus.  
Cherries Hamlet.  
 
Broken final thoughts, giddy up, dead. Gone. 
Today I face thunder — how to pay homage...  
My instinct when asked is to inch back  
 
To the moody raw reflex jettisoning any  
Civil use of half-soothing words  
On top various legal points  
Of looking into what we broke.

67: Smarts don’t matter. You had a wealth of smarts. Advantage achieved?
I’m laying myself off. Shall I? (Not that I’m smart.) I’m imitating an exchequer, an evolutionist of avarice — loose ends everywhere giving wind upright advantage and an inflection point — long since moot — wherefore roses in shadow seem false, laced to fine society. Out in the open is where wind and other loosenesses keep their youth only on the gain side, impious beauty and true presence forward.

And that goes for the lively sun shining with its blush-to-blood over the streets, bankrupting grownups.

Re-examining my savagery…
doing what Pessoa said.
In another version I admit I enjoy teaming intersections. I’ll be taking sides, I told them at calisthenics. I’d prefer not to watch from the grandstand and de-harvest illusions of atmospheric beauty. But doing it I miss what happens. Walking away then burns more calories. Better to get a coach or two to work out with you, pretending they are you, friend, covering your lips with my gloved thumb.

There are subtitles, various languages. You are epistemic staying awake, translating all you expose, the back of another dreaming.   
Nothing accrues but there’s a lifetime of waking thoughts.  
(Sleeping on nothing to do with nothing.)    
You can exit the profession at any point, humming inside; you meanwhile can add features to nodules, as in rote ed like foundational philosophy.

Nolo contendere, so it must be spring, just one daffodil stands, 
Gothically lonely contexts & forsythia’s juvenilia, pancake brown.   
 
No acid red, no sulfuric brown, no browns in hidden rounds  
or soft stems.   
 
I’m not sure it’s inclusive or scrambled enough if we differentiate among drams  
 
& besides, why be preoccupied with elastic peculiarities?   
 
Nobody has to talk to me about me.
I see what no means. This island, 
the water rosy cast.   
 
Poll these opinions. No contest.

If you know rhetoric 
it changes feelings;  
it changes behavior,  
especially within poetry.   
 
Poetry changes  
writing now,  
writing you’re reading at another  time coming up now.  
Benji, stop that! (Strange dog.) We’ve decided to beat it out of you. (Benji.) 
Say something! We’ve lost your spirit and pulse.

95: Hidden pretext has taken over. A story of dispraise and ill report but in a kind of praise per the report.
What would be less fantastic? A lovely enclosure of stainless vice. A full shelf of great privilege with lascivious plans.
Naming your name tells the story. How sweet — your deceit and sin, widely preached against, seldom commented on against hard odds, for shame. One spots your pieces of sporting nonsense, beauty’s manly tongue losing its edge, verbs rounded off randomly, veiled, knifing my love out..

Let’s not. I proposition you.  
Empiricists map folks for amoral purposes, we know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n caprice.  
I will follow conventional physics, tho, and change nothing empiricists fall into.  

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

(The Chief of Staff so responded.  
Suspiciously correct.)

Rough framework: A giddy notation to a story.
Visuals like tenured blurs formally at odds,
split seconds in a bigger, frank understanding with no data.
A bog of cloudburst capsizes, disabused of clouds,

blending in, no longer exterior to land

untrusted and abstract, a heavy rain

snapping into randomness.

There are procedures for mourning. There are a slew of them. 
I can’t say these things. These same things. Page one, no one, page 101. 

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

for Ted Greenwald

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

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

The jug’s just a backstory anyway, mordant or
morbidly overstressed around the speakers’ bureau.
The bureau deploys Aristotelian systems going forward, systems extremes
that cannot be overcome by or within synonyms.

There are procedures for mourning. There are a slew of them. 
I can’t say these things. These same things. Page one, no one, page 101. 

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

for Ted Greenwald

96: This is weird. A focus group from the groom’s side picked us both, agreeing w/ flashy media that features young candidates, lower right, with your lips, center frame, moving up and down, sport documentation, more or less:

The groom was in a close up, being led astray...

Here’s the stumper.

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

We open our front door and see what the state’s strength translates to. The shortest path ignited by havoc, honest and exhausted gazers. Geezers. From it’s-not-the-same-now all the way to a nanoscience of celebrating perfidy and betrayal. Sort of addictive.
Wanton anthropology won.

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

Any ineptitude from continuing motivates our family plan, a ceremonial prank, an outright lie living on others’ good graces: A.I. ‘living’ in sin. 

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

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

Yum-suffused shortbread has some regions, ancestry
In brogues. So it’s really something and nothing

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

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

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

No sweat on heavy attainment comes up next, avail. in this rough version of Recently Used
English to wish you any and all the full pleasure I withheld. Damn!

Geometry respects the brain.. 
operands like to piggyback...   
 
Preliminary findings we said,  
knowing it’s going to grow   
 
— I just drove all the way  
from Hawaii.  That proves it 
genius-like, it was  
lighting up my senses   
 
like just before you’re shaven. I’m  
noting how your chin juts into mirror form —   
 
Your neck’s more formal than that — really  
a splendid animal halo front to back.

Yum-suffused shortbread has some regions, ancestry
In brogues. So it’s really something and nothing

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

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

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

No sweat on heavy attainment comes up next, avail. in this rough version of Recently Used
English to wish you any and all the full pleasure I withheld. Damn!

Sonnet 86:

The future reaches full sail bound for higher intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to surprise ourselves and grow ourselves, that is, write estimates of verse.
I thought of you giving us cohorts sweet aid, other fair gifts.. Astonished, we see our pride flies away along with others’. Out of control dreams work around a crowd of familiars whom we teach to write.

Once our brains ripen, we won’t concede — neither to calm of victory nor to fear. At night, tho, I lack a precious affable character beyond my mortal self.. both that and a familiar’s ghost-morality strike me as too precious then — like enfeeblement, like death, like filling this line.

Next question, true or false. Is the last part more than ok? Technology keeps humming to utter fulfillment. The cigar and its plantations. It’s a manageable stretch from there to when you left, even while I ruled what went between us out. You hadn’t left a name, either. And yet, I stood closer, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. Utmost to misunderstand.

Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads. 
The contours.

Singing into one’s hat is like shooting for triumph.
Otherwise, sung language has a light vegan sexuality.

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

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

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

A Pythagorean hat for which there is a beginning,
There is an end, don’t fix it.

Singing into one’s hat is like shooting for triumph.
Otherwise, sung language has a light vegan sexuality.

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

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

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

A Pythagorean hat for which there is a beginning,
There is an end, don’t fix it.

68: Flowers shorn off bowers, what beauty was —
I’m losing my head over you
as if I’ll inhabit my death head before you die or even around you now sill alive..
‘Without all ornament,’ I stay abreast, knowing whether nature’s
bastard signs are still vital, not recreational, charting a map of nature’s full store.
As if before golden tresses Arvo Pärt appears chafing: making no summer of green, of flowers, reborn from no second
life — oblique as the antique you ‘of yore’— now I myself, truly in attrition, missing both Pärt and you, composing as tho I am still around you.
Your beauty stays alive and new to me.. a second life, new as roses, as ‘a second head..’

Given to temptation, she reinvented herself. A sum of herself, she’s erotic with no social conscience. Lantern jaw. Not a jaw, but a chin that extends a fuzzy glow like a lantern that shines onto flab, a short neckline. Right. She’s got a weak chin. No jaw. A double chin.

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

Switching face dyes, she sat in the dark waiting for all the colors to fold. The occasion seemed sado-obvious and frustrating her pursuit of prophecy, a number of them.

2 quests.. Just who are we to say we should attend to what I am doing? It’s love like ours that pitches English to prioritized claims. Are you sitting in the sentence while listening there? wearing nothing but a motive, eager to do what we were afraid to be?
What does it mean to work? I don’t know that either. What I know is how to belong, stake out territory and bust heads, maintaining an atmosphere of trust.

There are statements of facts
And those of law. Their truth
Levels go down or soar — depending on
Outer linear order and your age.

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


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

In today’s federalism we’re feeling besieged and called out
within the meaning of no revolution now.

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

Don’t know why the ranch stands there still in no summation after the transaction but before I turn away, circumscribed, all hat, no cattle.

5: No remembrance now. Of your beauty. Of your confounding gaze where beauty dwells. 

Once I played a stealth painter portraying sweet, breezily dressed women and men. Subjects were mostly strung out on sofas — big, jaunty shapes who swaddled their inner pooch — gentle work but yes I loved you better frosty / lusty!  

I was framed by approaching you in summer, distilling pulverized, liquid dots
— a pointillist prison. doing time, 

never resting, pent in by tyrannical daylight that still excels in leading us on —

The Globes

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

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

Spectacle, desire, necessities at The Globes. When I find them in another, I know we’re getting close.

How did Auden begin? Green song of ourselves...
The dumbfounded rush in when he’s around. It’s not their fault.

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

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

All this time the dumb and dumbfounded are different.

How did Auden begin? Green song of ourselves...

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

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

It’s nothing personal. Hands up.

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

A heyday of hands.

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

56: Lament —

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

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

To go along continue needing more riches, sharper appetites as it were.
Rare thanks for the view.

After vowing hate I bear you love.
& what of it?
I’m like everyone else who grew up refusing novels, a nutshell of a wonk glaring, boasting bragging rights over inexact outcomes, crayon-ing over lucky, boundless love non-judgmentally!
& of course I did time w/ “live people...”

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

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

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

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

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

76: In flight, the framework would be told on telling. 
How can varsity expend their tribute? How spent? Why?    
 
This café, I think, is going to answer that & help the weather from getting lost on me.   
I know the framework of my notes craves attention, that’s why I always write of you.   
Why I finish a stretch and new and old lines get confused, showing their new birth.
 
Fuse the way they
Continue as light rain. My argument.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then that

Rolling out of bed far off across

You and yours, just dreaming it up

putting you in mind of an imminent photo realism.

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

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

58: Deserting the beach — god forbid

— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your beck and call, a handshake spreads the rain,

flowers, rain,
flowers.
(That’s it! Do what you want.

The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we
can walk on with. Hell. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our widows.

This is spring history.)

The once conservative invention of worship is over. 
A wall of calm thus put up. There are no facts in the future.
For now, love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing adult ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering political parroting and consensus. It’s not known why parroting caught on. We’re mostly redistributionists for sure, youth symbolically living to do it over but scale calm up. Everyday politics is practiced by young and old in anger, useless bruising rhetoric, forcibly asserted. 

Cultural obligations shape who youth are, a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance with our future attributes.

How could we let this happen? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

84: Partnerships were counterparts, 1st a little lunatic, more than most...
                Even worse, hotly culled. And who can say?
Let me copy what’s clearly writ, how writing lends some small glory, substituting for natural praise
                — you’re admired everywhere! Fame dignifies your story.
Adding no curse, I lower my voice to approximate parity.

To such immured an example, who can say more? You alone are you
                 As your story goes. And you let it go.
Rich in style, but fondly penurious compared to what is writ in you.

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

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

I model your bifurcated attitude  
yet  

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

Trust an old memory,

Corporate design is a sable coat, still.

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

The native whereabouts on loud speaker as it were, the workspace, the top percents of it, can hear,
feel its sweet succinct stages striking noon after dark.

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

Trust an old memory,

Corporate design is a sable coat, still.

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

The native whereabouts on loud speaker as it were, the workspace, the top percents of it, can hear,
feel its sweet succinct stages striking noon after dark.

99: Stay on the hunt, tough to please, speculate (ouch)

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 (ouch)
flames ennoble the sky to blush through


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

I can’t take vicissitudes. We’re staying in.
Appointment by haircuts.
This was a no-no but we always will.
New wilderness outdoors traces
a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed,
cuddling escalations in body movement, ledgers of faces.
Lucky you and I live on, fudging abasement
in clean confinement serving a purpose within
supernumerary states of being (confined). Nevertheless
gastronomy is to breaking the ice as ‘fucking / sponginess’ is
to bacchanals.

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

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

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

Achilles, what can you do or not do? Are you sitting on the floor 
listening ? wearing nothing but  
eagerness for a motive to  
hear what we were afraid to be?
Foundational bias underpins Achilles’s argument for or against not being sure.
A signature concern throughout the night is deformed experience. The bigger the better. Peculiarly, one other point — so many writers simultaneously figure out the brute’s forefoot and heel, studying nature and truth in the misprision of writing within supposition and guesswork. Achilles becomes enamored of composers turning toward stage experiment and utopic closure.

For then no separation point emerges. Harsh.

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

Sonnet 86:

The future reaches full sail bound for intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to surprise and grow, that is, write estimates of verse.
I thought of you giving us cohorts sweet aid, other fair gifts.. Astonished, we see our pride flies away along with others. Out of control our dreams work around a crowd of familiars whom we teach to write.

Once our brains ripen, we concede neither to calm of victory nor to fear — at night, tho, I lack a precious affable character beyond my mortal self.. both that and a familiar’s ghost-morality strike me as too precious then, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling this line.

I’m having an up-
pitch dark brainstorm so obvious 
why stop  

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

O yesses encompass in advance  
shimmer  
— crash. Al-    

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

of all maps...

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

An organizing force under command matures into familiar splashes of anesthesia: Takes my place being places (an event in tropes) — Meantime, ping. We’re here for discovery via inflection in lap pools of condensed matter from excursions to aquatic worlds. The named oceans are dated, right, left Pouting, getting better! When they come to — there will be perorations re- framing rainwater within fairer scents rimming sunlight in suspension, ripped, Amputated chutes! Grape vines burst out, lackluster. Though I love grime, the force’s guilt- making — carryies me thru, unphased: Guilt does this to deplete me of hope. 1st choice for a sonnet is to solve for x. Be funny and coalesce. Dear multiple choices from eternity: Send a message I can wolf down. Convey a sense of urgency when superfluous. Then put off all force.

Through evolution we may have had an identity crisis
when who knows how they’re doing this

to our agenda? Near the teary top we crate
our handiwork, cover it with a power tarp, drain it of weight.

Moss alive! I could lose another i.d. if any of this touches either of us. Or ours.
I used to have a power dependency that’s reasonable to regret.
I think it’s polite to say ‘power,’ not ‘ostentatious pensiveness for hours.’

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

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

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

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

Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping neutrality (plain v harder) w/in the present gloom of purgatorio as good possibilities blow town, including the best halo effects and feelings. They’ll come back like sight for the blind in the dark. 

It’s nice finally to shake the physical world’s geometric hand covering our breathing. Geometry is of nature and sightless throughout. Today, every day open censorship is tangential to being here, right over here, filtered, unfiltered as long as it takes.

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

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

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

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

The other day I walked into a bar, the old place, saw endless tunnels, gadgets and immoral lighting that interconnected w/ music underfoot. My fingers boarded the apologetic apparatus, some of it; there it was thudding thru walls... Every eye rolled, doors slammed. After worship, there’s little but taut necks guided by the star beats. Yesterday was bright as is today. 
 
En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse w/in; pushing up deeply.  Our lot’s in a hurry. Natant decapods added vowels.     
 
No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there is no threshold. Yet another one. Matter persists, w/o dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual and vital amid meanderings that are ordered appearances gone dormant, nearly kaput, or snap, running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in more ubiquity. Optics unravel in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.

It was a sober intro
A branch could be a sentence generally. There’s urgency in ideas o et cetera.
I live in a debt growing compound and now



A level over! The et cetera of murder and hate

not enough? — are you suggesting I send for some?

I put my finger back: Not really, she said out

ahead of how I was supposed to know.

I’m addicted to ideas.


This was my first time.

110: What are resonators for but to effect command of offenses we’re uncertain of or we sold cheap. There’s nothing but our affection left, my best of love. Love’s confinement a desperate measure, and it’s true in reckless hands, yet for silent partners there’s depth to surface and mostly un-despairing perceptions (grinding teeth, to speak the truth) of what won’t be contained between us. All of the above.

High sensitivity equals high urgency.

I felt something.

The hollow inside is mixed up, the survey said;

overlapping symbols’re happening way out in the ocean. 

Your ocean. Your breathlessness. My Weimaraner

tilting sideways and holding his whisky, destroying
our bed, our bad faith and consequences.

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

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

Psalm, make me sorry.

Nothing is unimportant. Neither the bray of birds nor their sweet afterplay. Send for Fr Pierre.
He lives in harm’s way. “A transit of showdowns.”
After Pierre, a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.
Wait. There’s nothing left.

I lower my voice to closest saturnal parity
plucked out of adversative brutality ..

Finalists like you quit general practice — off to privacy
with little or no honor left, one laughed. And yet not you, your honor...

Summer’s actuaries record having a good time as vicarious, no
moving figure. (Vicarious isn’t strong enough.)
Inner, outer merge in our honor system, no shadows, o praise the light flow drawn
in odor and hue! After you.

I sleep where I work. A company like ours takes it into several physics facilities. 
We’re in the flat present tense, multiple account outlines in concurrent perception 

Reciting new slang exponents to snag and support 
Two syllables of love while we scout flyweights in the recursive landscape.

*

Prayer behooves you, it often says. Prayer for those who talk shite no longer pray. I hope all are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one. 
That’s an outline. 

114: I say.

I say drink up.

We or most of us have a destiny in flattery and aftermaths.
My eyes drink in thanks for there’s so much turning lesser sin to perfect gusto. So many substitutes. So many fat chances —

But now it’s after all that.

O I say it’s late to vocalize what my mind has sunk to, finding you only in resemblances.

Idiot sparrows, terns suffering rain, finding new things to lose,
Unleashing each other —

They enjoy themselves when abroad.
Who’s sick over us and who questions any vulcanized backlash?
A last payment received.

No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless:

The future would give more / so close
Than thanks, laughably... no thanks.

I still thought of you.

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

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

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

I work here but not much any more.
Cascading circumstances.
My travel limits are pointing to a chimera with no destination.
Striking bells, lightening round.. 
Take a test. Brightness gushes out, but colliding transmissions are roughened by the screaming. Screaming ballet is euphoria — turbulent-urges and compromises. But do you understand the point of my test?

It’s anonymous either way. 

Tho before the diagramming mist rolled in I felt your grace, holding on with two hands.

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

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

73: One will die; one will see all sunsets fade to ashes then black. 
But I’m leaving that night choir behind. I’m awake making love with you at day’s end where yellow leaves still shake blowing past bare boughs and dusk, glowing leaves, seeming content, consumed, consuming to expire.   

  Death is a nominal fallacy like twilight now: To love you as if that could be true... and stronger... that’s my late take away. I don’t understand cold fire this time of year even in the west, where the sweet birds sing, by and by sang. 

’Recursive perception‘ —
For my birthday (bleak as yours) I came straight from the agency. This text’s agility welded to my regular dirty space. This is where I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception and Action,” which seemed most everything I wanted to think of, ambiguously, in light-toned subduction.

It was everything.

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

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

Cloistered, possessive habits flatten into an axis
— tho it’s instinctive to watch who else is singing
I get no points jumping in or off.


It’s just synecdoche leaving not sharing to chance.
Calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with top notes we won’t inure, some jittery appliance in occipital brushfire, active against the ‘human grain’ under our governing bodies.

Missing him, there’s an itch from ambiguity, where
The sore goes away, released into red states —
The tide appears to notarize that; that &
We came here to our senses in subjective certainty.

Apology to my mate.

Before apologizing, advanced yoga is always for sharers,
A civilizing process to eternal categories, entered into by hand.
I’m not kidding, your certainty offers mores from within & supports you if
You have none. Too soon you can swim in them.

101: It gave me hiccups when our best senses cooled down — praising silence long truant, still overdue. No amends. Beauty needs no pencil or eraser.

Both our senses I reference, truth and beauty, in primary season.

And I’m back intermixing, fixing and lifting text, you in the foreground with answered memories. (“Make answer, Muse..” take everything.. we need nothing.)

We grabbed the narrator (we couldn’t rule him out), staying blithe in twin columns.

Stan the man, a legend;
it’s “OK” Stan explains,
we’re all Buddha’s fault.
He isn’t kidding.

More than a god, a three-in-one pet, a god’s pup
fills in quantum entities on a not-
fully-occupied terrain, terrain, I repeat, “on
pause.” This is spacetime —
Whew — you think of puppy paws
as your head fills up with the stickiest
most adorable pup gifs piling on
celestial dissonance as street lights hum

and flicker

as ……

well as

emotions
Stan aims to lay claim to and
defend as his own.
Soon. Or later than that. At once.

Dawn. I thought I wouldn’t get back to sleep.

I was going to call you “Draped Profile.”
Held from both sides.
Distinguished in feel. “Pronounce it.”
That’s good.
Now draw the strings. Ok
— what do you know!

It goes off the air base,
Hard to shovel, soft to fall
White, blue, pale
— lavish as

Intoxicating creatures but
Uncertain how they unite us in separation
No matter how we change in love.

Riddle: Struggling between rarely and (purely) descriptive vulnerability to vie for solitude, taking your hand to suspend my paradigm... I killed for you. Why(’d you bother)?

G forces gather momentum in shale.  
Midnight dining, rambling like deer in bed, shiny  
in smoke, how  
Without jitters our wills vacillate.  
Every pause in passive groans  
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches —  
opera and shush..

85: It takes substance and breadth; the going price of unlettered, rank 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 hindmost. Let’s
Practice being still. (The high meal.) Inductions to other habits — hearing your breath

I think rich thoughts speaking, in effect, projecting dumb ideas.

The golden haze drags down sculptures of floppy wool

Like light praise warmed over by spinning in well refined wind. “Amen”

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

— my tongue tied crying, folding you into my thoughts.

G forces gather momentum in shale.  
Midnight dining, rambling like deer in bed, shiny  
in smoke, how  
Without jitters our wills vacillate.  
Every pause in passive groans  
uttered to affirm fajita in snatches —  
opera and shush..

A pulse of light of precise duration = head turns, alternative explanations but none good enough for clarifying experimenters’ state of confusion.

Confusion is rendered official. Firm argument and beta testing of dogma and contradictions, transforming un-gated minds turning toward amplified democracy. Sultry outdoors folks, sailors, all on deck.  

To get back to the cosmos, our taxonomies stand tiptoe atop a few hustlers with ascendant ideas, forgetting those battered below, lined up on broken mosaics, raw necks pounding from overtime    

like ex-czars.

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

A pulse of light of precise duration = head turns, alternative explanations but none good enough for clarifying experimenters’ state of confusion.

Confusion is rendered official. Firm argument and beta testing of dogma and contradictions, transforming un-gated minds turning toward amplified democracy. Sultry outdoors folks, sailors, all on deck.  

To get back to the cosmos, our taxonomies stand tiptoe atop a few hustlers with ascendant ideas, forgetting those battered below, lined up on broken mosaics, raw necks pounding from overtime    

like ex-czars.

Your bromide is familiar. You’re gaining attention for the wrong infinite reasons, Jungfrau.
Stay where you are. Exploit the familiar, even an inkling. Glow lost, fast.

The cosmos is unwilling to plow far ahead, now or later, this way or that — what we inhabit is neither a stoner planet nor merely some plywood-dream-and-particulates object flown in time (w/ fewer and fewer true intrigues).

There’s much history.

Shadow sensory awareness, one chosen medium.

Flowers are em-poisoned by design, grateful astrochemists oozin’ adrenaline

for their audience, saboteurs of the heart.

Trust an old memory,

Corporate design is a full-length mink coat.

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

The native whereabouts on loud speaker as it were, the workspace, the top percents of it, can hear,
feel its sweet succinct stages striking noon after dark.

54: You’re back!

Truth is, we cave wantonly to your lovely sweet odor (fairer in our forgetfulness).
O wooed rose!
Before they were living 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.

Here’s my favorite.

Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises.

(That is, artisans among the audience rise, impetuous, some from costive stock, unflappably happy, even brusque.)

Somewhere I float in. I’m late for my prom fitting, weeping inside. Funny place
for a dance, Mr Baker.

Thudding airlines: The prosecution collapsed 
But we hand over our sack of warrants.   
 
In the end the evaluations are in. Jumbo on   
 

Justice, liberty, rule of law...   
 
Time to concentrate on that killer c.v.   
It’s about warrants for words, Might (Mate). Future thickets.     
 
It’s so much satori — Enablers will cooperate fully.   
For you, a love interest can get —    
 
Back to work, first it’s   
 
Urgent we go 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 fireworks will be slowly ignited   
“In slumbering gaze” parallel kill and be killed, united obliteration. 

Avoidance with a message sounds personable, calm, also passably awkward. In the same robot call he reverses prerogatives, tha is, the voice does. I’ll table the difference — a mixed result but with swift powers two kinds of physics have never been better aligned. I’m altogether devoted to the happiness of the robot and then all our tech people in the call center. The firm gives me focus, serves as my hideout, while I search for a motive, working the ropes.

I aver pollen eclipses stain both moon and sun with borrowed-spores.
Again, I don’t know much re: pollen,
I’m playing with borrowed-writing.
Any point of contention is biting now but my spores speed ahead 85 to 100;
that’s slow in a gusty chill. I won’t do much more, not even for track officials powered with centrifugal disclosure, facebooked by their past. So forget

Any legal plaudits, forget public jubilee — I should add my power gamut goes faster. My pollen instrument serves haves and abandons have-nots holding guitars spinning all ways in gelid hilly winds.

Avoidance with a message sounds personable, calm, also passably awkward. In the same robot call he reverses prerogatives, that is, the voice does. I’ll table the difference — a mixed result but with swift powers from two kinds of physics. I’m altogether devoted to the happiness of the robot and then all our tech subs in the call center. The firm gives me focus, serves as a ‘hideout,’ while I search for a motive, working the ropes.

52: I’m in lock-up because of you.

Therefore you and I are both scorekeepers. Ours.

I keep you among my other jewels,
Blasted yet blessed moods in ‘key’ to configure unfolding pleasure,
So I am rich, I hope, blunting your deceit for years...
The long time it takes, seldom coming in one fine day —
Over time special instants so rare —

Until then, being had by you was worth it as it were

Like euphoria, proof of doubt uncovering finer points.
And speaking of solemn upper-lower class triumph and treasure,
We find others like us also keep to the survey, chest to chest, mine to yours.

Fair haired singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to interminable sex. 
Learned consensus becomes early performance; both nonpareil
in a persistent sense, the deep pitch shows up invisibly,  
 
unspeakably, as libido constitutes a knowledge base, glistening aimlessly.   
 
Candy later.

I weigh your music.
Bang you’re dead:

Average self-doubt along with bland lucky
tones, a problem. No gist, a tone too popular.
So relax thine form here,
Berlioz.

Everything dark-accented inflates 3
dimensions into an immense drizzle of forms A.

The formless, unequal in luck float already.
I hope you’re at peace.

We’re a special team. We’re circumspect.
Our sharing mechanism (absent pretext) gives no voice
to repeated wandering motifs over a prolonged silence
we back off from. Nightly


we face 10-to-life thickets of cloud & southerly winds
taking it to other investors who might stay offended,

Yet “a solid base” cited in the last run of artifice foaming dissent —

It’ll be there where I leave it — under an emblem for downward spikes in bonhomie —

When shopping from your texts I find solid proof 
Showing stunning results for innuendo: ‘You’re good. Doing this, I offered. Just 
Report to duration centers for the rich for best pricing, unless  
Outright theft looks better. Go. Fees balanced. Eject.’  
Then you told me repetitive purloining motion could go further —  
Making money w/out reason is mass   
 
-ive. After.. surely if that’s the mood, there are vector  
Utilities for expressing amassed wealth after dark..   
 
Sleep has no idea of here and now when re-ordering everything is the right answer
.. all on your check!

35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.


A scent of acacia and soft frangipani, sweet but no trespass.


You are triumph.

Don’t sweat over past comparisons. Done. Good-bye.
I’ll muddy up your love of skiing once and your playing chess against yourself, may I?
It makes sense at that, loving you is a civil war — sensual to a fault —

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

Good-bye everything.

I’ve crossed out lines. 
Relax, beware. Certain branches of law aim straight at us.
Avalanche, a pronoun, embodies unnamed subjects, overwrought.  
 
A starry equity or neurons? Words are beta fields  
Heating up while fertile at the edge yet a lost cause.  
And titles cost. Avalanche.. Virus.  
Cherries Hamlet.  
 
Broken final thoughts, giddy up, dead. Gone 
Today I face thunder — how to pay homage...  
My instinct when asked is to inch back  
 
To the moody raw reflex jettisoning any  
Civil use of half-soothing words  
On top various legal points,  
On looking into what we broke.

What’s missing is why is there feeling?
It’s a state of mind according to my heartburn.
Global warming heated a decimal of my pablum.
Where should I hurt?
Once or more. A few more.
There’s no torture unless it causes organ failure.

Baby steps fix the climate really fast indoors
for we feel tall
and inflatable as we cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

Back I said, a piece of non-advice.

Innocence wrongly revealed concerns ethics, no intent. Spinoza in my young mind moves against his own interests.

Adoration had a poetic scent then. Still has.

Reputations get worse preceding disgrace, even when apprehension remains deferentially. Creature masks are conditions in unreasoning reprieve.
Who will advocate toward peace, for the tranquil
to empower mergers & exchange?

I sleep where I work. A company like ours takes it into several physics facilities. 
We’re in the flat present tense, multiple account outlines in concurrent perception 

Reciting new slang exponents to snag and support 
Two syllables of love while we scout flyweights in the recursive landscape.

*

Prayer behooves you, it often says. Prayer for those who talk shite no longer pray. I hope all are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one. 
That’s an outline. 

66: Simple truth, our work here in the desert is beginning to spin. Like the blind we’re disabled by authorities who wiretap secrets weighing nothing in, no credit, no ripped off melancholy, nothing but misplaced honor with a substitution agreement containing you and a more civil version of you in full force, pulled at from inside..  and..
 
Can we cut to the disgraceful part?  
Relax but beware, bilaws of cause and effect are disabled as traffic pours in and aims straight at you. And the other you. Tired with this, the other you will perfect the business end (doctor-like). The civil you and I misplaced our joy since sleeping on it.. applying love to our own flesh alone as well as losing control of forsworn holding skills. Simply tongue tied and tired of all this perfection, I leave my love but attend to you and yours, of course. And.

Trading down, can you place our names? You miss the point.
We’ve adopted a decorative indeterminacy wearing our terminal degrees, while anticipating how equivocal we are about Bedlam.
Unlike the head in a head, a bad faith supreme court is traded from and through the top. Time to find fortune underground, in roundish coiffures north of here. As noted last century, there’s the rustic perp for a modern style and muddled cool.

“Could you be a little more specific, doctor?”

I’m slaphappy-proof to diffuse my sounding implausible. What I say is 
thought of transactionally.. 
it’s simple enough. I think I said this, and made it a quote: a dream   
 
of immense sadness peering exclusively through me promising not to point.  
 
Of course there’s a way or two out.   
 
Say we are spanking new birds in flight.

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

In the process something like an orange cloud enters the locker room of the essay. This is the middle section where Gustave Flaubert is transported to the essay’s ‘character’ to do the interfacing, theme propositions in your own words. Mis-formed as script.

Flaubert did not have a script, much less digital media, and the word ‘hysteria’ does not occur in the text of Madame Bovary. For his time, how informed he seems in connection with emerging appropriations by psychopathology. It’s an early manifest of a viral cloud in our terms. By now every sentence in MB can be re-assembled into a poem, waiting to speak out.

To wield a conceptual brush is to terrorize, even if your motivating injunctions steer clear of violence or unregulated emotion. Terror here is poetry’s swift, certain, nontrivial insertion through a hole and/or through self-negation in certitude and flatulent controversy, such as with Basho’s disproving human sound unable to transform animal to mineral, or with Duchamp’s counter-ploy to the rule, men’s room accoutrements are never foreground. 



Controversy, like injunction, comes to us commonly or frequently as back-formation, a provisional ethos after the conceptual stroke. We were constrained by the profound assumption, for example, that a play requires the tone and stage be set in more than five words. We were tacitly sure of this, marginalized more from different affects until we read Beckett’s stage direction: A country road. A tree.

47: Good turns, one after another, I turn to your good looks I file between heart and bitch comedy. 
Either way you could have set the remote for a clearer picture — 
So let’s share it. Your saved clips and my worship of your face have nearly expired.. except your looks still drive me nuts.. I’m in love.. famished at the banquet of love (where we fall sleep). 

Awake, I can’t move further than my present thoughts picturing you.. while pressing reset buttons.. but I have my sight set on you. God damn this remote, I can’t change it myself, my eyes are awake, my heart’s .. 

Here, you take it.

“Indebted” you may think sounds offensive and depraved — down where
“forgive me” and “accept me” weave around power lines, owing.

So we stay focused. Demented.
No shortcuts. Nope.
It’s regrettable, they say —
Twin Peaks doesn’t add up
under binge watch...

Not entirely, but it seems unforced holding to an ideally liberal oddity.
David L through Kyle M is an observer with an uncapped fortune,
reflecting what adolescents do when their backbones ice up,
raising all boats, all antisocial levels.

Most cavemen taste of sitcom overblown for Broadway. 
They never make it, go back where they come from,  
corroded with physical self-disgust, chained, still, to their desks.

Received pronunciation foregrounds style but
We’re both bat shit over historical fantasy, received. Well, I enjoyed it.
Bowie’s on Netflix. What does he look like? It’s ok to impart?

I admire his marked snaps of skepticism, obsequious, sharpened anomalies.

An etude-like celebrity.

*

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

Destroy and smooth nothing.
Mind control paddles a canoe of alter-egos, disingenuous.

It.. it. It. Let’s start with the a, b of it.
A shallow buyers’ pool still helps
Jackpot winners. How does it happen?
There will
always be a fee.

32: You’re reserved outdoors, for your love adds layers
And exempts us from showing up to enchain, knife, subdue.. 
That’s once reaching heights of happier men but none like you.
Satie plays, giving away what we’re better at 
— gosh! I read a generation in tears warms up today’s loving style. 
Poor from love, a class struggles thinking it’s for real. 

The struggle, not the tears. 

I’m quick to postulate I’m an 
evergreen seed  
-ling aboard a slowpoke feline brawler, heading to work — worker and one’s sprouting career all aboard molecules snared in
a semantic thicket —  
 
I’m sorry for such shoddy physics and undergrowth. Sorry pieces 

of grey, blue and pale orange foam and Plexiglas  

were pasted together.. ugh — all of it registers.. The model with seed 

hastily assembled last night, turning in bed. Such and such sorrow, hours 

earlier — then we got orders for radical simplifications  

upcoming for the puss’s hind legs and self worth (the word from headquarters). Sorry my most important 
role is undoing ugly things. Sorry there wasn’t a second more to polish my address on
our expanding broadband for the host kitties, aspirants like us.

The quartet could be on a formal mission; higher  
up, the mission’s part doodle / part disassociation  
as a voiceover to operate humanely,  
stacking ideas like alembic tubes that mate  
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.  
Prayer in all directions.

Without our cloaks, can you place our names? You’ll miss the point.
We’ve adopted a decorative indeterminacy wearing our terminal degrees, while anticipating how equivocal we are about Bedlam.

Unlike a head in the head, a bad faith supreme court is traded from and through the top. Time to find fortune underground, in smokey ransom north of here. As noted last century, there’s the rustic perp, a leading indicator for a doorpost modernism and muddled cool.

Tuesdays in timespace,
Are my hands mine?
Are yours yours?
These bring up tonal questions
Of anatomy and possession.

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

a painful victory and public outreach in your glory. A triumph! Poof...

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

One of them. We’re happy we are in favor of your love fresh from the book, also

one for the books I read and love, whose fortune spreads your joy we honor most.

Sex has nothing to do with sex.

I thought you knew that.
It’s a joy problem, love let go on a technicality,
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch

— bantams and partisans close together in calculated terror
Toweling off ready for their next bracket.
Boxing’s hospitable. No one’s that stupid.

I feel socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing 
The center.  The middle 
Holds more future than any single system —   
 
Huge agnostic disciplines  
About attitudes behind morals,   
 
Say. You know this open and shut —  
Take it down / or thumb thru.   
 
The balance is left over inhabiting the brim   
 
To the point you don’t have to know anymore yoga than  
We know now — less than nothing, which spurs practically nothing.