Rain drowns you in the best ‘hosing.’ That’s a pet name for my tongue.

Surely as there’s a heartbeat to math there are light, oblique truths gaining access to felt qualities.
We’re tart. The new job title, urgent. More pets romp on, ahead of sober ai redales w/ no clawback motives. But I’m underhanded getting to an axiom we can manipulate: No amnesty?

or / & like crustaceans we give in, to forgetfulness.

This rain surrounds a weather balloon holding impossible jerky.

Sobriety, not mine, makes the case for / against boredom in composition, that is, in the poem-making venture. Boredom? Blame it on near-relatives, the empire-prone who ride escalators up and down the Radisson nearest you.

Sociologists are stepping up and nodding off
Under the influence of futon cramps at home and similar familiar faces
Transporting pouti debs and elephant men,
Dostoevsky wrote.

127: C.V.: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating ravenous yawns in fair use praxis, and there’s some age old false connection to an eyesore we dreamed up, borrowing a face beauty slanders. There, inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying nameless, profane, counting inventory, keeping faith from their esteemed orientation, mining the richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday, they think: So many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs they flare up into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer! Blocks we’ve been party to after a late lunch. 
Hitherto ethos susses southpaw disproportionality, so lovers per lifetime meet their lucky doubles halfway, borrowing a face here, slanting a blurred promise we had there or we don’t know we had, in shame letting it almost die down. 

“Devils were seductive, once motivating me to seek their darkness, 
Pick up the guitar & write more songs,”  
Talking Chimp squealed like a talking dog.  
 
Lean, fluid, sleek & balanced, clipped close,  
This daredevil is fallen into a state of confusion & loneliness  
— just to feel cloud patterns about being no one. 

You were good to give us storylines, battle scars, vanity, thrills, sky 
to laugh down compliments from insurgents binding heartache.
The sparrow’s wardrobe above, beaten but he’s breathing. He’s on our land, 
his way to degrade-ultimately-destroy capital. 
Otherwise, there’s only perpetration and fortune to hide. 
After homesickness, there’s profound inebriation 
running a tab, also a little suffering moving in with your 
parents (a sunroom) because they like me... 

I just don’t worry.. your eyes breaking into immense mist clots .. hard 
to reformulate .. (It’s up in the air.)

The property goes on while.

Your movements go by a few names, still coordinated but hidden in.. hardly underwear.

Not dreadful but low, classic, easy, unforgettable elements surrounding a presence (for now) then taking them off — your panties — quiet and respectful in everyday nudity.

For nudity, it’s always a swing dance in practice, a whole new side of narrowing expense and becoming hallowed thru the center, handing over your hard currency and coins.

A lot of Dutch people go Dutch.

Love, A cool looking Japanese acrobat slow-motioned to me to go for the moody and unexpected.
Doesn’t it freak you when categories are givens you don’t need to work out? Some of you has given in — there you go, retreating, emancipating solitude, more sound-oriented than dance.

But that reminds me, your draw is immediate, overwhelming, terse and of a Castilian order. A hundred decors contained in one = you at the piano. Leafy veggies tossed for George Balanchine.

Your movements go by a few names, still coordinated but hidden in.. hardly underwear.

Not dreadful but low, classic, easy, unforgettable elements surrounding a presence (for now) then taking them off — your panties — quiet and respectful in everyday nudity.

For nudity, it’s always a swing dance in practice, a whole new side of narrowing expense and becoming hallowed thru the center, handing over your hard currency and coins.

A lot of Dutch people go Dutch.

102: You’re the matter at hand merchandized within rotations from green hues perpetual to earth.

You’re asking a lot.

Still our love is new.
Well, most of these “notes” are literal, based on trying to sit down [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still the matter.”

The access air of inevitability around more advanced codes shattered. I hold my tongue. Shattered seemed inauthentic in a merchandised sense. You are more than a song of sex. You’re holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. This.

We are ...We Are So Sorry  
Thesis Study Group — writing in 
Extremely quick intervals (about a tenth of a second) and short distances (about a billionth of a trillionth of a centimeter) — just as our dads, quantum fluxes, drive through terrestrial ideas of up/down, day/night, before/after, you know. 
 
Cinema likenesses are profuse or would be if we probed more Nippon mirror dudes.  
 
That’s why a good workout is a terrific poem.  
 
Usually. I still haven’t figured out why I’m restricted to a world without suffering that can’t exist. 

Adam made 10,000 mistakes — and can’t ‘correlate’ the enormity of it,
since evolutionists even now are running back to his antique bedside to dig up more about causality —

Yet the context’s unlocked, to no ideology hewn, I say. I’m

Eve, off our boy’s rib, a financial planner ahead of my time, always.
I’m still not finished, she says.
We can spot them both as atheoretical elaborators, since they spoke out first.

Your looks, my cooking ..

An imperfect actor converts expectations.


Stage fright showed his perfection is error.


To misappropriate is to provoke rage in absentia, unoriginal, merely sly



while the ephemeral actor triumphs, wearing socioeco white gloves.

A burst of daft tone substitutes timeframes. 
Wait. There’s nothing. A blank referral. 
No tone, no daftness.    
 
And rightly so o I know  
I lower the volume to closest approximate parity   
and we have the yard puffing, bearing poetry sounds..   
 
.. I see your potential; don’t wait, time is temporary; eternity  
Later... it’s not much.  
Get your share,  
knocking any love-moment down with small talk, unscripted, unpredictable:  
Some standards.  
Shined asides.   
 
We pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,  
Really a vase,  
 
Set it, let sunlight pitch in its foam. Infer  
Poetry goes thru many drafts.

4: Unthrifty = extravagant; nothing = nothing.
To traffic in deception, record your writing. Take fast notes
.. and I’m being fra nk, beauty lent to you
will oppose given facts of previous loveliness gone unused —
a perplexed legacy taken outside why or what’s acceptable

to audit profit and thrift. I’m lending you
my saddle for your extrication from delirium ..

Love whom else? Is it largess for me or you to go free? In a coin flip, we

traffic with fog to bequest lilac-dark in the air
spending upon you and me
so great a denatured octagonal gloom
by our own natures, sum of sums, we must take our notes alone.

It’s come to our attention a proposition digs into science or it does not.
It was amazing to meet you and your idea. Anyway


it was amazing to meet your funky penumbra, to be influenced by street life needlepoint 
and other class resentments.


I was astonished to communicate with inky musculature evoking nighttime.

Oceans then deserts.


‘Quoting’ here. I can’t stop. It’s my job.

That’s what it seemed.

Well, our early faith promised us immortal lives, backup roles that made us teen idols, central forces in an improvisation we lost track of.

I gradually began to buy things in no order, branched out a little finding a passion for saluting a nation that apprehends my experience like no one else.

At a new level of storytelling that hang-in-there spirit is on your side. 
It goes with a backhand irony like a guided missile or extra guards at the gate.  
 
As there are centers of wishing beyond 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 jobbed hoards,  
coupons expire.

What’s a bleb? It sounds small.
Jumping ahead. A decade from now no one’s big and famous. 
We’re forgetting nothing moves the needle. This argues for problematics.

*

Should we have 
a message?  
 
Possessive self-possession. Without a bleb or title.

55: Nor aside, a period sonnet doubts purity and softness but addresses war aa well as enmity  
for a living record. Yet the fun workout once was of a full soul, a soul with a berserk tone.  
So why am I dwelling on our bloody ending like some warrior groom?  
My lover’s eyes shine brighter than all that, still brighter than the wealth coming to me thru this poem...  
 
You and I find our own content, oblivious to all posterity, others dead are uninvited — their statues overturned, and we bring our own guests — our memory and our passing. I...   
 
Even closer now to death... I burn with quick flame for wearing out war and death’s sluttish velocity — I’ll not speak nor ask (or shall I ask?) more, should I?   
 
War wastes time, a powerful judgment now at rest once at work.

Not to arouse hearsay, your wellbeing was my concern. I can’t forget. 
Not even a tenth of a millionth of a second. 
And that does it for this free frame. Proud exclamations have put off even the most uncomfortable of changes, advancing a lighter viewpoint, the world as it is, pressing ideas with multiples. Many observers.

Poetry can’t be blamed even tho it’s part of civil discourse engineered by dogma. Politics & the dignity of appearances don’t mix. (The pacs industry is just kidding.) Nothing personal, here’s your speeding ticket, Mr Trump. Trump is the sustained concussion version of national charity... I also give a lily for what’s not available, a big cabin in the launch, etc. 

Government is economics, an engine without a message, with no news about identical instances in parallel universes.

I flash to the fresh writing space. And I’ve never been more uplifted, more unnerved by my desire somberly floated in a fun orrery, just a display except for the impossible, now audible signs of new history, of mixed intentions, preparing me for a fixed response with renewed power. 

Surely there’s no rebounding beneath the social parasail of poetics sequestration. 

Reset emphasis belongs in the verbatim over 

-supply. That is, which lexicon will be appointed most enabling.  
Ellipses point the way out & will continue — how we express and re-express ideas, simple or not.  
 

Big, multiple ideas are broken down or/and up.. discrete yet continuous 

constituent, subordinated input emerges, important as key testimony, simple or and not.  

Simpler the better. Poor poetry yes, scansion none the less.

We’re cruising at altitudes of theorem. Quack probabilities dim until we restructure our credit history, nail it to live data. Where does the political economy have us put it? His-her terrain — also yours and mine, since we’re all for one as subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy.. 
Let her go, let him do want he was elected to do..  
 
Sorry, not tonight...

74: I agree to our bail. Security should have conducted a more scholarly pat down.

We are still under arrest but you’ve lost nothing. You’re mine.
Ten to one, better parts of our street cred show up in literature and dossier tracking. Faint Milano opera on one speaker in memoriam.

When you have a chance for review, I think all this will be due you. Layers of my spirit made yours & any remains will have no other life to leap to, no death, either — carried away then having some interest in what’s going down on this wretched yet contented earth, all it contains, even this one line.

Our odd moves, strains...
I'll write a few postcards, pour over them.
The periphery picks up my solemnity —
I’ll look out from the attic rooms,
Watch others work, sounds they make,
Steeples, chimneys, cones and thin masts over the gloom
The town burns to stay awake maybe.

A uranium-brimmed mojo now a whiff.

The School of Nobody takes 8 lives. 
Nobody wins in a debate over no- and not- distinctions: 
for incorrigible voice matter is always interesting  
& moving to work for meaning in no stages. 

Politics is the gene expression omnibus. 
Each of us is one viral video from partisan fame.     
 
Vanity is promotion.   
Amen to showboats opposing simplicity...  
I don’t mean rampage in a civil sense,  
I mean surgically knocking other chanters  
Off, throwing knives, wrecking them  
From the inside, slicing up! I was kidding I’m not that religious.

Our last owner had an understanding with multiple staff. 
His happiness washes up in our candy bar and cudgel DNA.   
O we celebrated, beaten but breathing in what’s next.   
We have a most advanced gene distribution system.     
 
Try to look better. 
Flames stink up the place. Hay on fire. Let’s dump all this way in the rearview where we can’t see. We will be leaving footholds in town, doubles of blurs in dizzy luxury, punching thru colorless straw and spheres in embers.
 
Hay savors just punishment! — regulatory propriety could care less, looking to nominal trivia — exactly what we recoil from, summoning logical defenses to explain a Hail Mary pass and your first entertaining containment.

82: Sing:

I swear..

...I’ll say it again, there’s dedicated speech to overlook, a high-five as you whisper this is a second emphasis, both natural and gross.

Adorno says strained rhetoric is a precious jewel but even untrue words have always been devised.
And therefore there’s no escape beneath the social parasail of rhetorical infighting. Plain speech commits us, forces us.

And so does love. You are as fair in speech and knowledge as in hue.

Devised in love, that’s the plain worst case, and, further, here we are — let me give you a hand.

Dear, naturally you know you’re a misfit for an assignment like this. 

Monetary policy calls for a quirk of sculpture in a spatial recession. The joy of employment  
 
Is no less spontaneous here, now than when a think-tank answers to its dark alter ego; tho, the specificity is easily lost. [Get this, a think-tank that critiques itself, as a supposition. .] 
 
Take info, then, about, and in, form to bullet your ideas, sweet, grading your results.

We can take empty form into perpetuity where I’ll subsist in attrition finding and picking up “encircling purviews” for travel — a shore in maneuvers pitched way up like mores with infectious integers-to-be. 

A buzz keeps my eyes open when I am (or was) looking misplaced or miscalled, taking dictation to wrap up sleep.

I’ll copy Creeley singing to Wieners or it could be vice versa.
Both old masters
Who never spoke for backwoods, briars, chaparral.
Not equipped 



To weep.

Who is? 



— here you are on a brassiere stool overlooking time is money plaza,
Neither you or I could express feelings about delimiting botanical time.
That everything once alive is precious; time is priced high as it’s an art space.
That “Having no space to spare” comes off as counterfactual in a pas
De deux we do apart
— slipping on pieces of tracing paper after ballet
Making a racket
Even as we withdraw from thickets of saying nothing, the wicked deep.

My winning lottery payout.

The carbon steel of all day dimmed
Second after blasted second.
If you don’t look directly my way, into my face —
I can’t give it to you

64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced. 
It increases its store with loss, tho, done in by time’s fell hand, 
— the cost of grief & openly, proudly expressing it thru American English. 
I hope we can let the language of grief go..  
 
Time will come to take our love away, leaving me breathing, no form — 
Structurally I seem sustained only by a lofty hypothetical force — 
But I can’t go on without some 
interchange — a new episode within your camera-readiness. &  
as we walk together, it will make no language difference what we believe,  
what the soul is. 
 
I’m just ruminating on having you. Always a slave to you & I fear losing you. 
My soul’s inscription reads you’re my state in the eternal state, my business.

In a nonlinear way, every right wing worm thinks / every owner of a worm is subject to restitution 
even as most tax experts evoke cuddliness w/ breeder values clad in odd mute colors..
I’m here too, waiting for someone I can’t stop waiting for.  
 
I live in a container house near the city  
 
and wait with sustained focus and innovation in nowhere equivalent to an unmooring of consciousness. I won’t do it, nah, many thanks.  
I work in text, that do? .. I’ll grieve later on,
turn to pen and ink for human voice breaking glass in an r v drowning out the dog track.  
 
Nah.

Poetry, jettisoned and as you wish, there / not-there letting it go, sky,  
river go, also — let people behave all the sharp, sudden ways Ute    
speak to, looking around, starting to rethink we’re  
just getting started, still using our 1st language! Short iterations carry  
sure signs. Dreaming in bed deploys influences — keeping it all in mind or frames — far output...  
You can exit this field, burning at one muted  
end then add features to nodules like in finer arts.  
Meanwhile, your eyes fill with unmeasured disassociation.  
 
Your hair’s on the brink.

Adjunct Pavel, the most cinched at the waist of our trio, interrupts Murf while the cheater Zoubek jumps into a collaged kitten mural of plastic abridgments joined by static hangers in back. 

First up, an acrobat for the moods Pavel evokes like watercolorists also emerging for enhanced abandon during and after pressing and spinning hate. 

Ouch! buckets of rain coming down, undistinguished and going away. Someone has cut the grass, no favors, that greeny, wettish smell is everywhere. Hay. Optimism. 
Remember to slam the parentheses behind you 
) bang and ) bang and ) ) double bang 
(to be on the safe side). 

— James Schuyler

A burst of daft tone substitutes timeframes. 
Wait. There’s nothing. A blank referral. 
No tone, no daftness.    
 
And rightly so o I know  
I lower the volume to closest approximate parity   
and we have the yard puffing, bearing poetry sounds..   
 
.. I see your potential; don’t wait, time is temporary; eternity  
Later... it’s not much.  
Get your share,  
knocking any love-moment down with small talk, unscripted, unpredictable:  
Some standards.  
Shined asides.   
 
We pick the bests of show to set the timeframe for a prize bowl,  
Really a vase,  
 
Set it, let sunlight pitch in its foam. Infer  
Poetry goes thru many drafts.

70: I don’t blame you. Much.
Alone in your ‘kingdom’ flying backwards. You’re facing the street, passing it... A science fiction flushed hollow, cankers along with buds look prime outside and you’re still passing thru, unstained by ambush, adhering neatly to nothing, just passing. Yet suspects’ approval always ornaments tacit impurities of state. Heaven’s sweet hush.

Who are they who might envy you? Slanderers, even wooers — and such charged discourse! Don’t hold it in. Talk to me, shatter me, touch.

Simple and poor, that’s a major violation. Earning 

an unclassified face 10-to-life... 
leaving it to other investors who might stay offended, or  
probably not —
 
(The violation is estopped as lines of Malthusian housetops bob and flicker under
phosphoric conditioning, alliteration by Fenwick of Taiwan.)

Making love is war. It’s not just money: 
I’m afraid it’s a Little  
Dipper: Emma, You’re handsome!  
Hold on?  
..membranes are functional! It’s an open   
 
Darwinian algorithm to bring back more  
nano-proposals, say, walking in, “hey..” 
 
No excuses, now 
make this a rite and glistening of the wild...

I’ve lots of parts going in, a series of vignettes, monologues, whatever comes w/ writer’s block undiagnosed. An intersection of an un-demarcated self, motion in patterns, math as therapy and fear of validation. And another thing is a screenplay called Alone, My Back to You about a homeless guitar sampler befriended by a yachtsman who hides from the world. They head off exploring Taoism so there’s a lot of take-out food. For a documentary short it's a bracing swim. The guys bond fast and the plot revolves around eating, watching tv, taking long wharf walks, suffering — all of which figure in my earlier career, another inbred pattern I hadn’t even realized! 

I follow the rules about Nordic weekends along with a more palatable wardrobe. That’s if hit by what you feel in the a.m. 
 
I believe in you. Evening you’re different.  
You give me a big temperature, a fine spray of messaging cavils.  
What are we fixing up? I’ve discovered squeezing you around your hips brings up more meta-activity as superstitions based on fact —  
A cult of dance per se sharpening endurance, risking focus..  
Hermes masks, a precondition as two satyrid mayflies pop up, heath ringlets who advocate for peace. Their reputations recede but their early apprehension has held sway even before guns were worn.

51: In motion, no excuses — war is unjust when only one side wages it.
Gleaned from what war is, my desire keeps pace.

I’ll be an angel investor in spontaneity, no need but love, for love.
This is strictly, deliriously our business, self-realized adventure
losing daily battles, no excuses.

What time do you get off work in poetry? Should I know?
Speeding up when swift extremity can seem but slow

I hastened to run toward you
as though mounted within the wind before even starting ..

So a redraft prompts special inquiry tho tentative after all meaning of structure. Putting it in a memo, we sleep with a relationship. It’s not an investigation but inquiry. Rough seas but you’ve been out here long enough, you know how we leverage missing you at a time when it’s least expensive. I’m happiest procrastinating, indexing suspicion and objurgating..

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

No UFOs.

True and lost — complex gangly, mostly mute yet histrionic, not cruel 
-ish. We apologize for the inconvenience of modular adjustments.  
Tons of special forces in silhouette .. polished from water .. on day one we’ll ..  
 
We’ll correct everything near the top filling in with capacitance-assistants, eventual
Theorists of a visual world culture (camaraderie).

Quiet room in the West End near the ferry. Shared kitchen & bath.
No calls. Text name, recent work history.

I’m talking in American.
Not going to lie, I watched us concoct a new economics affecting the radius of birthday cake, like the present indicative, destabilizing everyone’s temperament.

Looking into the camera makes this a document.
Which you are you?

The survey said I made it to the 2nd challenge, now
a winning session in crude instrumentation.

Looters, rhombus-gatherers doing well, respectively; great work, cuts straight thru the tea act, baking more cake to abandon.

The indicative becomes a popular racetrack, in effect. Feels like about time, epic sums, new slender totems, new business in one rotating ruse whose subtexts you know.

More federal $$ for new walkways and more lethal instruments..

39: Sing how in your absence, thoughts on love hint of sour leisure and torment. To live in deception seemed brilliant manners far back, before today. Thought of that now is divided but pointedly, singly alive.
One difference as you sing — you are the better part of me who changes — I’ll obliquely praise you then praising me.

Even divided we’re the same. We live to entertain others thinking back to our love. Still there’s the separation. I dream w/ you alone.. as you sing.

Matins in 4 scary minutes: 

Capitalism never hesitates beating then shooting the innocent into space but each victim goes broke, sighing take me, pluck freely and find me — O outer knee —    
 
This is done — 
Never doubting...ew... there’s enterprise in victimhood, each higher up will agree. There’s only one set of problems.

Reversed decisions, rotating surf, mercurial quanta. 

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

The catch, a fading ailment: 
Ten or so
gulls’ kick it off, startling  
over brown trout.  
 
Tearing in mean  
swimmer’s blue,  
in a supernumerary mense,  
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta  
more down surf, slaughtering  
partisan swaps  
that swell  
the color skit among removed attributes.

Start writing. 
It’s easy going out and doing things you don’t know. No repeat parts.  
The charge is here, thrill in peeling back from nothing as well as failing to  
remember the (mission) exchange. Or extra charge. 
 
Virtue for now is farfetched. / Let’s consider what might outrank Zen. / Your  
dialogs sound libertine laced w/ Frankfurt School brio, some science  
fiction   
 
— all right, let’s start in the open air in complete command of nothing.  
Wearing a wigless wig is 1 method and standard model.  
Measure = unbending contradiction, full, official division in one’s mind and 1  
other, you!

The catch, a fading ailment: 
Ten or so
gulls’ kick it off, startling  
over brown trout.  
 
Tearing in mean  
swimmer’s blue,  
in a supernumerary mense,  
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta  
more down surf, slaughtering  
partisan swaps  
that swell  
the color skit among removed attributes.

22: Inside you

the mirror shows a raiment of my heart — therefore
so long as your beauty & youth cover me

— praise & the opposite grow acrostic, seemingly rife, stirred by your love
for days. I tender my pen to write down what you bear in your true heart
(washes of shadows, unrehearsed, bent to your will)
— how can I be dated, the elder of us two — your breast comes alive in mine and mine in yours,
fixed in air, we stay in love, nursing love. Expiators.

When we single ourselves out, we get closer to feeling guilty formulating concepts of exclusion. Ya, you are important to me. You had a free hand, still there are holes in our discourse. Our language hits inference-blasting registers, theological as Lyotard would have it, but our argument is plainly empirical — Only cash in small bills in exchange for a free ride, we mean it, tho, let’s discourse, subject to chance .. make that change ..

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

Secrets of satire have to float free
Finding an informatics of doors opening (bassoon music) & structured
Lasers & nanoleaf hexagons (& deep reeds for all-holds sex).
Are you healthy enough for consummation in a gridded environment?
A mold of our dialog brings up others impressed, even as beauty’s struggle over time gets too slippery.
Or peach-dreamy, subverting history & waxing satirical, as the poster read, ‘time’ encircled on beauty’s behalf.

For a circular time those impressed with strong gestures talk that way.

I’ll say it again, there’s a method to share but it’s overrated.
I’m high-fived as I whisper to myself, falling for the tautology.

Sonnet 7:

Outgoing at noon, attending on what? I’m not going out. I’m about getting on (mouthing off) with or without you. Just look how my sight’s scripted by high pitched infantile alienation, falling over you. Again. It’s not too late! New optimism apparently pays gifting you burning head. Another way we’re both blackmailed over there is nothing low, nothing sacred.

It’s a classic knife-in-sui-generis.

Parts of the world face streets whooshed by furbishing impurities of state.
The carport reflective of this point is perched high above subatomic
attitudes of state, people using facebook for subject matter, like us.

There’s an end note for people who are sweating their attitude.

One polishes the text and hands it in.

Dispatched for
chaos

yet
subjects of desire in another sense, an echo
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible
light (initially fungible)
Minimalist
and suddenly just theory

awing in a wolf’s regime,
There’s brush
fire toward mosquitos — shot
through the throat, asking too much..

“The French know it’s summer. The rues de Lille unravel.
— a puppy, Golda’s aid

disengaging emotional ties to higher purpose.
The goal is to savage any foresight —”

Henry James is a crazy bâtard. He hangs and continues,
“To my donor offspring ownership will be sweet.
The goal of foresight though is to i.d. another’s
sexual boasts, never far from the surface.

Freudian documentary airs
our loudest commercials over 10 decades.”

Something came up. 
Little.. no, nothing. There’s so small  
 
an exchange to transact, no tangibles, only  
 
exhibitionist’s subtopics, within a power den (conscience),   
 
proving repeated effort is self plagiarism.

Sonnet 61:
Simple enough picking up a pen . . . our land and those living on it have material functions; similarly I see you.

I watch your synthetic imagery through writing, the vigil and force applied putting your youth

into a piece, since the grown man does not come by himself, regardless of your beauty — the river bank plied by far off

metaphors and substitutes, one at a time — less formal, too near home it’s like taking your dictation, taking after your love of my love of you.

No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for singularities ahead until there’s no threshold. Matter persists, no dissonance, no disruption with a new status quo: perpetual and sparkled amid twists and perplexities that are ordered appearances gone dormant, nearly, or running off with fresh incentives for a backcountry of more unboundedness. Opinions unravelled in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.

I am a visual person. Always have as I see you admired you. Liked you. 
A month ago I took no umbrage, bloated out of proportion, 
any umbrage hurled as a term in frustration. But now. 
Non being in an octave, lonely as un-filmed pretexts & Goethe’s juvenilia. 
Good instincts aside, no ephemerality, no hidden rounds 
Or inflexible spite. I see what no means.

Sex has nothing to do with nourishment. 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.

Absenteeism:
What can be done to language? Never again?

Lethargy is poor experiment, our supervisor said; and that’s what we wrote down to snap out of it — lightness, joy, eyes-open dream. And a 3rd cousin once removed to dream. Knower and known are clean osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the suitably flared frontier. 

Time I guess to air-lift over my future eagerness. I’ve been a floater of cynicism in relation to almost any concept I sever. (It’s hard for me to take credit.) “It’s always about dying,”
Btw, I consider myself a neurolinguistic product manager. Never removed.

Sex has nothing to do with nourishment. 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.

97: Before apologizing, late winter is fantastic, like pre-summer for wanton beginners, a civilizing pleasure messing up eternal categories, removed by you. Your absence now offers a waiting room (decoherence), libations & it supports how I feel within. & speaking of the pure land, it’s freezing. Barely recognize the place.

The soul is a belief system..
I hope you can let this go..

I’m breathing without commodity or form; structurally I’m sustained by hypothetical force —
I can’t go on without driving your car, then an amble — an episode in your driven telegenics.
When we walk together, it makes no language difference what we believe, what the soul is.

I’m just commenting.
The soul’s inscription read it’s good I have the keys.

Think of our courts and cunning missing bail. 
Everything you expect waiting now in wistful   
 
landscapes, hum-vacuumed.  
What’s the worst that can happen?  
Um, ok, yes, I bet. Open the curtains.  
And de-peopled points trip up our not speaking for months  
(critical moments you thought),  
 
  finding my direction as I thought of you —  
So it never happened.

Follow instructions.

We got in surrendering our fingerprints

humming to each other. Our hums made us a windfall. We

toast anyone else entering first grade


w/in one’s center, letting the adult night slide.

What is the difference between imminent and threatening? How do you pronounce annunciation? As atheist or decision theorist?

Act gathered. 

There’s personal glamor that can only end in a draw sustained by two getting up, stretching for an hour.    

After action and glamor there’s power. The virus is already inside us, theorist.

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

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

We contend and confound — in the main of light crawling to maturity
set on the rarity of natural youth and beauty.

Each changing place against slim odds.
Almost the same as hopeless in times of hope
Yet younger guardians that follow grow tired of interruptions and self-
reflective outreach; wherewith their hold on the land is late
and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.

When? as soon as today.

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.

Our sonneteer writes: We have to know about the nose and its utility in poetry. One question, does the nose intuit (hold) more lyric than the eye, know more than the throat, or even our ears? The nose makes the mid-alphabet pronounceable in English — M and/or N. And if the nose makes it pronounceable, it’s hummable, too, and that could just be the sloping tip of the nose’s lyric purpose. Hard to hum what the heart may be ‘saying’ — we can’t tell without sizing up other body functions, humming from the nose.

We 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.

To that end, I’m more of a slowpoke when it comes to animal power and subjective transcendence, but I’m still not doing any penance with you. I’ll stay free of hell swallowing hard.

The complexity is engineered simplicity, both as affectation and prerequisite, since you have to give license to upper boundaries that annoy others. And magnets lying flat on the horizon seem very passive-aggressive. Internal ‘gears’ enlist nausea for personal advantage (ugh), which I waive anyway, as if / as though indulged opposition were some urgent treasure I can share with anyone else.

Falsehood is an actuarial stat, a subjective quality of the frieze in progress, not an elevation or height. 
This is a true/false dance question. Fibber Perseus v ‘radium’ (his mom). Which are ya?  
In one draft Perseus can place big futures and puts as taller mouthpieces enter the salon rolled ‘into’ spools of their opposites — tendencious pedestrians (1st- or 2nd-years} sweating lead colors.   
 
They can’t help smothering their loved ones, the dying. The bluebirds are instantaneous velocity.

They were just here. (Too late.)

44: It was nice once to have known you. If flesh were thought
A word would count, even remotely, calibrated by the ruckus-like paean within 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?

No!
No contusion of the spheres,

dyscalculia, no, no hindsight bias,
Fra Angelico, sun up,
girl,
you’re a mess.
I’m going to grab you.
I am a visual person. Always have as I see you admired you. Liked you. 
A month ago I took no umbrage, bloated out of proportion, 
any umbrage hurled as a term in frustration. But now. 
Non being in an octave, lonely as un-filmed pretexts & Goethe’s juvenilia. 
Good instincts aside, no ephemerality, no hidden rounds 
Or inflexible spite. I see what no means.

I’m listening to Sonny Rollins’ Blue 7. Choosing a next word, like deciding music, is a significant event entailing parallel yet soon defunct experiences unmeasured but hypothesized in a quantum construct. 
Choosing words or choosing most anything — an extraction process merges quanta, happenstance survivors plucked from a number of now-dead parallel event objects or topics. “When a word is selected as a ‘vivid detail,’” Wm. Empson insists, “a reader may suspect alternative reasons why it[’s] selected.” You’d think a given detail had been spinning either as two or many more meanings finally resolved (finished up) as confusion collapses, and one number or topical mood pops up and out, anecdotally at random. The rest are put to rest by now.

Big guns Fric and Frac. Remember them?   
 
Fric just called, admitted “We were swimming naked, a word I often use to characterize our government and binding. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed Frac by the throat, moved in. I felt something strange but familiar. And I gained social capital, among others.” 
To bring this up this late in the morning is fiduciary. 
(I fell silent and wrote it all down.) 
 
To reverse Frac and Fric would switch from intractable to insoluble.  
 
The split couplet, a principle that cannot be considered in words 
like suspension of liberties and financial slaughter.

I’m listening to Sonny Rollins’ Blue 7. Choosing a next word, like deciding music, is a significant event entailing parallel yet soon defunct experiences unmeasured but hypothesized in a quantum construct. 
Choosing words or choosing most anything — an extraction process merges quanta, happenstance survivors plucked from a number of now-dead parallel event objects or topics. “When a word is selected as a ‘vivid detail,’” Wm. Empson insists, “a reader may suspect alternative reasons why it[’s] selected.” You’d think a given detail had been spinning either as two or many more meanings finally resolved (finished up) as confusion collapses, and one number or topical mood pops up and out, anecdotally at random. The rest are put to rest by now.

132: I’d like to bend rules to wipe temperance off a finger painting 
while we dress soberly for the pityiable sky out west — 
It’s so cold here. A place for mourning w/ subdued heartfelt pain,
along with rare minerals that turn into tree colors back east. 

Your eyes I love, and they torment me most
where full stars usher both of us by your grace — 
not half the sun nor half the glory from heaven 
suits me more as two morning eyes become your face.

Meredith Monk’s Falling causes injury. ‘Intimation, insinuation, deep innuendo. 
Perhaps glissandos.  
Perhaps on lavish nights, like this, something you ate.  
 
Boo hoo. Obsessive intimidation..  
Not quite theory, string conjecture (sleeping thru zoom)  
W/out inference, compressed from a postdigital “fount” of contradictions:  
A piece of research asks, Why gestate palpable beauty  
In a way that feels like games?’

All meanings are the bald-faced meaning.

It’s no single fool’s doing, making it easier to borrow. Clenching-tight

I’m sorry so sorry : Can you sing that? from a reveler on a roll, keeps forgetting

What she’s rocking on about.

Then a new problem set: 
A work through naïve discourse —     
 
Keep methods observable as mayhem —   
Call this ‘transactional’ waking action   
Unlocking — on seeing you — my full meaning from the start, the only unmoving part.

How can Trix (better) hear the extreme difficulties in separating external compulsion from desire

speaking out through a trap door on top of most every word?

Trix, again, can’t care as she leaves for finishing school. She’s wearing khakis and a red T-shirt and my new backpack stuffed with graphs. She wants more than a group-regulated ethos for the manufacture of comedy and verse.

The archives are at risk.

Sing (wryly): 

I’d like to thank the Academy. 
Try to ignore X to reinforce ignorance. 

I.T. warned me of overrefined emblems and their sweeping reproach. Can I have an amen? It registers I’m not religious. Nor are you. I took note of what you like from the beginning. I had a few ideas in mind divorcing you. 

Oh, tech services, tell us more about your miserable ontology affecting checks, balances, and mantra logjams — How did worldviews crumble into poli-environmentality to pantomime the common numerator undercutting American literacy?

71: We don’t remember your life, your name, for I no longer mourn you.

Like a surly, vile freeloader / poet, I overhear captions in robotic clauses... giving warnings. It’s vile — compounded when I think you read this line into my thoughts. I’m the hand that writ ...and I negotiate cash for rapprochement after I’m gone. Hey, don’t worry, my next line is not incompatible with yours, for I love you so.

Auto minimalism (3 steps):
I don’t know any means to practice externalizing ideas to show myself off to rainfall in faint sunlight; I don’t know how to transfer any contextuals or theory dated a hundred years ago or any earlier!

I think I might keep to one or two esthetic tenets, but tenets are narrow, vernacular resins across, I think, global surfaces.

Vernacular means I’m not doing it unless ego steps ‘aside’ and we get paid for sleep.

With good optics petroleum and related interests ripple with joy.  
Slippery bosons exhale thru rainy nightfall. I reason their surrogate likenesses  
(x) are more reset than struck down. Razed once rain’s over,
prancing on the lawn, rain in light draining oil.

What of misprison in these shoot to kill syntactic schemes? 
 
Shoot to kill. In my semen so few dead. 
 
Wait. This Uncle Thing & the will. I find it confusing.  
The man was your uncle. He died.  
He didn’t leave you diddly. You’re upset.  
 
Full stop.  
 
What about your writing poetry together? Was there always animosity?  
 
Yes! Ever since I ran over his schnauzer, in my villanelle, to be precise.  
 
The “my” you reference reminds me repressively of what it sounds of, Sibelius
 
& forsythia —  uncle said. 
The forsythia is trying to warm up. Still.

The Civilian Conservation Corps formed and disbanded long ago (1933-42) but we see their handiwork in a few large cities. Parkways, esplanades, gardens.

Public works. One’s rather excited. One leaves it at that.
The places were beautifully democratized.
Justice, liberty, rule of shadowy lures...
Also, it’s easier for, suddenly, one has more greens to soften interruptions, using soft consonants down in one’s throat.. one’s holding firm. How many parallels do vowels take?

There’s no contest as every path dug from the ground by the Corps expresses a city telling jokes.

148: Denoting esthetic correspondence! it can whip you up, call you back in your cunning ..  
No marvel then how love is falsehood? love’s eye can’t be true? — 
I mistake fault in my sight and fair similes for love you’ve put in my head.  
 
How can the world say it’s not so,  
how can it say it is? No ..  
I’m mistaken in my view :  blinded watching you thru tears —   
the sun itself vexing until skies disappear  
 
— Vexing me! O You!

The air is sawed off, doing better. We were dangerous, once. 
Smooth, Marxist rhetoric is purely transparent. It’s too late to make it sparse. 
Even our restraint is longful for configurations in rage over mortality. Why not?
Marxist-self irony:
I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of subjective maneuvers, 
Eating and breathing them too. 

Spacetime slash pauses.
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /
not while angles of light are brawling over taking us home.
Vaccinated, a merciless itch, what is this collapsed satori we travel into?
/ Passing thought immortalizes the X+1 “casting
of cities,” thinking past us. A true 2 minutes before
messing with ya. Why wait?

You behind the evaporation 
 
— we owe you nothing  
 
                                                  falling out w/  
your idea of daylight and sexual theater on the same sheer precipice..  
every day events becoming ordinary knowledge  
 
in parallel ebullience  
 
waiting to come nearer to round us up
half asleep; 
steadfast in geometry we assign the horizon horizon, our whole body. 

There were chances.
Then none.
I don’t believe this.

Rain fading under a bough of heavenly bodies 
Like stars in fog on top of steam  
Adjusting to bright, vermilion bushes of mist.  
They have names now ...  
 
Tow trucks!

91: Who owns property, names, anything under formalism? Boasting of birth,
of skill, we grew up 20th century, 100 years before joy in wealth
felt better in one general way, as adjuncts measure it.

Some glory now of hawks or hounds, of all men’s pride. Your love tho is of more delight than dreams of pleasures


that don’t exist — here we go — your love appreciates in value.

Love’s body force is better, richer, prouder, always tops!
The best then is having you, finding this joy above the rest.

Ode on hold a sec. Is that how you see yourself? 
It’s a world truce out there (fraud protection) .. 

Gambling with your money, brooding of course, waking up,
Highball glasses tinkle and clink in the spirit of a pawn shop after hours.

Poetic license: so often called. Here’s my side, since you never asked. 
The moon at this phase could be the crudest debacle to date −  
merely an anagram of abstract treasonous appraisals coalescing, a typecast   
 
notarized in the spry travelogue almost as if we wrote the subject 
headers from experience. And the leaked soundtrack was not only plain    
 
ugly but to everyone’s taste!  
As a guest or resident adjudicator I admit   
 
“Progressive politics is imaginary if...” Those very words support denial of healthcare, unless there’s a risk. I feed off donors, important messages, prior clearance and everything factual.   
 
Everything if.

I got a grip on the heebee-jeebees.
Times are an outrage. Good times, lean, treason’s treason.

We’re tracking sick jokes thru cable anxiety —
for prejudice damn well plays its revisionist bias, looks like
a XIXth century habit of selfish accommodation I’m deeply not interested in.

Tax breaks for the wealthiest (owners) keep’em watching a certain cable.

To look is also

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

Here’s another centerpiece to explain how flowers are cut in plurals of progression. 
 
Iconoclasts count on progressions in a series, along with any allure of falling fortunes  
(they did).  
From the center literally nothing is granted, good as your word.   

Good as a poem.   
Now, fine timing   
Since you waited to listen, not empower others.    
  
Every misconception is in the open, living unhinged, no limits. A fact, also  a point... an ornamental one; our brain / body fiber pierced day, night, point b...   
  
Terpsichore stays ascetic, improvisatory, a voice sherbet hued like Erato’s toppling the series, voices of suspicion, hisses.

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 as yours.

Let’s hear it for the yea page!

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

Wait. Later, with or without x... it seems cold here, a waning world away...

And so like-minded so fast —
We convert yea to folly ..

The world you call yours we make featureless, barren.

Inky smoke releasing a genocidal collage, living
Thought in agitated waves, reproached, disappeared
In drumming opinions subtracting best practices —
Look for nothing 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.

I’d heard a heart beats faster waiting at ease. Wait time takes ‘full effect’ without attachment to addictive capital, arresting back.

This is an edit. That’s as close as I have to lush, less certain, too-ennobling a pulse.

Or it’s what’s put back.

The one state is jaw dropping. Suddenly government turns away from independent public scrutiny. 
The argument, from a Darwinian datum, eye contact reinforces civility that lowers game energy. Good dog.
Argument is a figure of speech, shrunk to bullet points v. heavier armor just before the death of death.

Conformity is a serious consequence and urban hazard 
And it’s well to recall that feeling inside you and me, too,  
How prominently your spritz of attention became the asking price.  
 
(End of asking)  
Solidly opposed to one further illusion of minimalism in networking — as in prostitution there is no time for fascination.

This cloaking device forestalls detection. Slanting, lost, an hour later we’re beginning to ride over borders. Borders are still porous, just look at this phonemic adventure! I need some top wipe. 
 
You’re turning me on.  
 
Reading pulp, there’s an interlude between devices where I wish you’d taken up singing of thingness. 
 
The thing is ethical epitomes go against the grain. Maybe a grain or 2.. anything too graceful. What are faux resonators for but to attempt command of natural selection and all bloodlines.  Um.. one thing more, there’s nothing but an eye blush of heat that measures desperate ‘votes’ we put in reckless hands — 

147: The impressive, impassive float seems to learn amour’s fever is a disease  
as desire is death, unwelcome overnight: 
“The float is radiant, jammed with wares,” 
 
had we anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I been  
eloquent as to the radiant as well as to the sickly, the bright
— we’d need no captions.”  
 
Mad, a lover’s discourse throughout anticipated that very base point, past cure, past care ..  
Why does reason leave me now when there’s one move to go?  
Tho vainly expressed, longing is still well fed by our appetite to please.

All experience is seriously correct..   
But what is?   
How can it if I tell you what I’m?       
 
I’m in no hurry. A life was charged    
now curled up on the menu.    
 
(Have to go.)    
There I’m preaching to your eyebrows.    
(Cave safely.) 

This is all I know, this poem. 
It’s so pathetic. 
 
I also know not to throw the right brain out with the  
 
a) baby  
b) broth  
c) plywood boards

How was it to record a full soundtrack, none of the script? Was it like jotting items down
from a retrieval search with trees of rhetoric leading to ersatz non-acculturation?

Simple enough picking up a pen
. . . land and lives on it have dossier functions, similarly

synthetic appropriation by composition, the vigil
and force applied putting some form of youth

into a piece, since prospective landscape does not come by itself, regardless of beauty —
the river bank played by

metaphors and substitutions of the time — more informal:
it’s taking notes, substituting after doing the math.

I prefer a clean hotel room. 
I’m calling time-out dull  
outside regular hours.  
Looking around we need smarter drywall to excite ferns and moss growing  
Up, shiny, imperfect, not held in place —  
your nose looks finished as the stopper.   
 
Breakfast at Starb’s and we’re off wandering  
headed for B terminal,  
a legacy installation in profane solace. 

117: What’s virtue? J’accuse thus: I have to repay all bonds as punishment, my willfulness and errors.
Whereto I recommend free time with ex-writers, video vignette note takers, engineers, others unknown, indistinguishable from applied scientists.

For now, after work we non-haters should accumulate human illuminated octane wearing Ray Bans and tailored tees.

To which (given time) ‘should’ = ‘want to’ = our gusto waking proof — scant proof without you, dear, dragged, transported far from your great level.

All to the winds since our inner bonds still tie me day by day under your august love:

But there’s solitude, as confidences accumulate to give in to the desert constants farthest from your sight.

Madam read her singable pieces without inflection, 
A dissonance that plays to solemnity (“sing me, song”)  
And tuneful reproach (“play-dough of god”).  
Combing through my notes  
I read there’s a world of disputes,  

Churlish puffins and other dissension to shatter earlier continuity  

Before my exploding goofiness over lunch; of course I mean exploring. 

Dance: I was with two others outside on the steps, buzzed, dressed in a navy polo and beard. You came and asked for a drag, which I gave up right away. You had me re-light it for you. You stood around with us. 

No, I didn’t cut out anything.  

You were staggering outside the club, mate. Drunk-ish. Alone.  

By the time of the fourth revision the poem was lost. That’s what I want, not what the poem wants.

To be unmarried
Where the sky went.

There’s a benign debate — where brightness bore in, grateful prenuptials ran out,

Drawing bounds along dark zones of propaganda.

And owing to your interest... this won’t constitute a holy day, merely a stampede.
Only one of many noted by a crowd of flutists aft.
My terms are to settle down through the evening. Your proud example
Gains longterm advantage stretching the launch over months,
Imprisoning refinement, captive for captital ill.

Writers like me consume their own slapstick 
when there’s a conceptual contingency to max, along  
with requisite ethical structure to examine taste levels.  
 
Now you know what to expect.  
 
You can’t put limits on free-lancers’ exuberant leisure  
within a theoretical commune of vengeance..  
Smart money on the solo stiff up against the writing board.  
The ethics staff sat this out, sweat-soaked, shaken.

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

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

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


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

Lived to breathe your epitaph? Or do I lie?

We’re halfway there. That’s when incubation evanesces. 
The loneliness and excruciating pain  
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing  
basin, weeping .. try piling on debt, ok? 
 
My protectors are brokered by a security company like yours,  
taking it inside the parturifacient facility.

Ghosts? Zombies? No. That market is unregulated & inefficient. 
I put a new skylight in instead...   
 
My apartment, top floor of the building, a small  
Bedroom, kitchenette, barely a sitting room with parts of a sectional.  
One wall cloud patterns, washed grassland, blue wood, lemurs on paper.   
I don’t mind if I look worn or beaten up. I’m wearing  
The national costume,  
swaggering in poplin, in a trance.  
I must guard against glib enthusiasm.

Should we have
a message?
We’re talking to what must
be figurative breakpoints listed under fate and fate’s consignments.
For instance..

Just kidding. Since the launch of designer housing
empty messages remember nothing of detached
sensory esotericists.

Granted, we have
a message strategy.

A politic paranoia recommended for laying back, cool and stable
in an emotional tri-level.

Microscopic honesty — we used to say — is the sanest practice for complete thumb control and body fitness. 
Let’s go thru it again, generations of ample volunteering and worship set these scruples up. They come back. Soon you relax your balance, honest equipoise for a good writer is common enough, even now. 
We went over our defensive appearances, for instance. Keep to schedule. Key is your keeping a regimen for hours at a time before it can wear off: So never let it. Curvatures in spacetime affix to our high expectations. If they pass muster they’ll slant any promise you have, had or you don’t know in the aftermath of your hiatus (hesitation), revving up.

49: Let me hold you ... better not, I’m a defect in future law against your time.
If ever that time comes within my own knowledge, know, 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.

Our crash test is named Defens(c)e of Double Identity.  
 
Of course. You.. your desire and I were (are) habits of empire living off the clock, off proceeds, motion futures of one of each you / each of you.   
 
The world-without-end news is those who are pro-slavery rue property, nonphysical property. 
It’s feasible if you keep watching the clock on board one’s auto-bio.

Just because I feel nothing, Pessoa,

You’re leaking results before ‘thinking it over’;
IF I have no idea that holds you,
THEN how does an idea
Of idea an
-ticpate stipulating proofs for missing the ‘and,’ ‘or’ and ‘not’ of binary practice?
Let’s start then w/ an idea
Of making out
Up a big tree in Zion where detachment is trimmed back —
Just because I still feel nothing doesn’t mean
I can’t or won’t come up w/ representational songs of a strange loop, w/ jaded stretches.. Literally externalize my comfort. Externalize discomfort, too.

You’d lose a lot of the dude and preachy man... yeh.

One cause is edged with distant buzz, intervention — you have the touch —
tides by the book rotate out to here, the rim and pliant acreage possessed by that touch.

Emotions in gear, a snake tail in quiet we won’t notice until eased into rote phrases,
foiled by moments of tact, a finespun balance awaiting a lull.

Never dine — a term of 
solitude.   
 
Meantime I’m a member of the takeaway school.  
Mean something, take it away...  
 
how my twin psyche writes more conscientiously  
touching on raw parts in this endearing translation.   
 
Symbolism weighs in  
as a shortcut: Some future of the past thinking & writing as if. 
As if I stress  
we’re suspicious of wormholes, tho  
 
I never use tone shifting while throwing a cookout together.  
For what party in sleep?

29: I am deaf, “bootless” you say, never hearing I’ve been scorned, despised, all alone for desiring you...

Yet I make a fortune wishing, thinking of you when? when disgraced

Remembering hymns for love rich in hope, wealth, art, a human scope.
How all men’s eyes rise at dawn from birth, this outcast state without you, when..
Almost enjoined as to the sullen, least contented, almost cursed —

Looking for, singing from earth, thinking of you through daybreak.

For all appearances nothing lurid was due at signing. Default 
Swaps in reconnaissance at the barricades, alive —    
 
You appear ok. Lie. This was about something else. My Jove,     
 
Never weep with your pant legs up, banker,     
 
Since scruffy footwear permeated antinomy, buried love     
 
Finally & meantime —    
 
Fools at the barricades have been taking icy notes as the weather cooperates,   
 
Where reputations precede character, misapprehension remains.    
For example. 

I first forgot the fan
of his breath we lost.

Lost resolution in people mimicked from
the wrong places, a milky foundation
for ephemeral representation.

Thought I acknowledged commodities
with assigned values, in long letters.
Letters to you whose name
I forgot while some partners lost their
spell checkers and casters
independent of forgetting. They’re

raising their heads now, front and center.
And owing to your interest...

How could I hate neck muscle warming
tomtom heartbeats, bright debate

drawn to fresh boundaries hand
to hand in 4 arms?

No appointments today. Triumph** is that creepy*. And counter-intuitive.


*Creepy widely construed as deafening tendencies toward plundered contexts for altering the body’s asymmetrical neuropsychology.


**Triumph, group or personal, can be unscrewed from abstraction during critical Q & A’s. How does triumph threaten a referent? when going straight to the point of quasi-autonomy. Was ist das? 

I’m asking out loud for one reason only, so the receiver will sound an alarm (an autonomous light).


Merely of course sounded.

Good I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of misnomers. Eating and breathing them too. 

Ghosts roam with the panicked. (All of us.) It’s like a last dance in respect to what you guys were doing — working off a 20-year watch list.   
 
There’s hustle to market, along with rips in the divino cargo of space/time whose overnight vessels burgeon on blobby warmth, piped in like Berlioz, accompanied by addictions to ennobling risk. Come here often?

Sonnet 40:

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

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

We’re playing with new features and a few we move in any direction.
But not you.

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

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

A sparrow close-range, a dedicated follower, packing a double large elegy of values, love trouble, last blinded by the sea only tonight, this evening of the seals. Two old seals suddenly lifted in a renown wave, the same in each. Humming back, large as the beach staring away in too much sour light. When it slips away there are too many ways around it sung. The wave lips onto Houghs Neck floor filled with sour for gladness reasons. Often no one you know as seals go mourning the orchard rounds.

I stay physics-free for someone nice. 
A sunny, boyish grin.  
Winning the beginning, now smoldering.   
 
“The float is radiant, jammed with radiant things.”  
Back I said, a piece of advice.   
 
Reputations precede character, tact of apprehension remains  
deferentially. Creature masks are a precondition in reprieve. 
 
In bar lighting, one’s eyes drift as if  
undressing underwater. I see why snails  
 
build a house. They stand around, slowly tank,  
coltish to the end... Jacobeans.

Slumped over in gaffs,

many without pulse, how did one stand tall, pause

then brush his hair back? Men


like him looking up like flight risks; say


“Exactly,” in that miracle voice?


A faint breeze on zoom as you slip


your phone in his pocket — How against

containers hanging along the bow all fonts

are justified by defacing matter —

1/2 this, 1/2 that I’m sick of nice things. Whiskey.

I live in an echo of a country wayside.   
 

In the interim we had a blast. Knowhow
could be redubbed genetic sleep deprivation.   
 
I’ll admit this view is a crazy breach of manners, a plush quilt the sun  

might marshal over the property. 
I should break my leasehold, ergo. Not really, she said out  
loud, a breath ahead of how I could know. 
 

This was the last first time, a fragment.

Slumped over in gaffs,

many without pulse, how did one stand tall, pause

then brush his hair back? Men


like him looking up like flight risks; say


“Exactly,” in that miracle voice?


A faint breeze on zoom as you slip


your phone in his pocket — How against

containers hanging along the bow all fonts

are justified by defacing matter —

1/2 this, 1/2 that I’m sick of nice things. Whiskey.

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

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

Quickest migraine control:
the patter of little consonants
like in a chem lab on a sensitive night —
in it but not of it.
Landing unilaterally,
a fleet of empty airplanes
handing thrills over to sheep owners.
Staff in hand, pharaoh.
Call our reps for further notice.

A private-public distinction, extension 8, 
no longer limits outcomes for a buffered work force.    
 
Besides giving you empathy-like babble  
I rewrite over your agenda,    
 
A vapidly growing handcraft   
once I launch it —   
 
We got married without knowing side effects   
— wait, I forgot why I called.

There were missing utterances filling balloons 
w/ the enormity of what’s hooded — a dirge-y lexicon  
that cannot be regarded as tenurable  
given cost averages. One’s intellect seeks damages  
even while in concert, fired up but still missing proof.

Production through retrieval and communal ethos is a distinctive feature of the medieval era. It’s not ironic in the least digital data assembly enables our return to those earlier kinds of production and ethos. Work produced now is parallel along almost incalculable dimensions. And if most of that work is still authored, we can posit the mushrooming of art production (including poetry) over an arguably short time will totalize individual product into a kind of chillingly 2nd-tier relevance (with a few nonconceptual exceptions, of course).

89: In relation to conflicts over scale, the big guy and I want to inspect what you and others say.

Truly offensive, maybe. Like so many others, I’m fixated on war, warcraft, loss of democratic principles and governance procedures —

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

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

We can take empty form into perpetuity where I’ll subsist in attrition finding and picking up “encircling purviews” for travel — a shore in maneuvers pitched way up like mores with infectious integers-to-be. 

A buzz keeps my eyes open when I am (or was) looking misplaced or miscalled, taking dictation to wrap up sleep.

In my illusion
of minimalism
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down
and got lost and scattered trying not to be distracted.

Our last owners had an understanding with multiple staff. 
Happiness washes up in our candy-bar and cudgel DNA.   
O we celebrated, beaten but breathing in what’s next,   
A most advanced gene distribution system.     
 
Try to look better. 
Flames stink up the place. Hay on fire. Let’s dump this way in the rearview where we never peek. We’ll be leaving footholds in town, tho, doubles of blurs in dizzy luxury, punching thru colorless straw and multispheres in embers.
 
The hay savors just punishment! — regulatory propriety could care less, looking to nominal trivia — exactly what we recoil from, summoning logical defenses to explain that first Hail Mary pass and your entertaining containment.

Baby Watteau —

The empty sale window is closing and I’m on the move (or we are). Early or late, the sky’s not falling as a point of fact. Watteau glows like a stripper in spirals. Another point, harder to verify. More blessed, Baby’s greatest came early; Cézanne was late. These data still matter, in a manner of ungainly small talk — I’ve found someone else, deeper in, a thinly veiled version of a fossilized Cézanne.

The glow is hard to describe — an infancy on higher up, going blind. Perfecting for a fall. (My baby traps me.)

72: When love is missing, shame is worth nothing. .
You devise virtuous lies (dear love) .. I picked that up, false, smug, cute. .
a braid of welts around your neck. .
My name is buried where my body is. .
the body I pray you love.. ..
.
I’ve just noticed you haven’t praised me, imparting nothing, Gabby. .
Let’s pronounce your true love untrue. Make it count. .
Tho even in this I fear sarcasm.

To save life (a), a blur of messianic pronouns disembodies subject matter; (b) matter is pruned and run through demi-graphic filters. It’s moderato brooding, adding to a cobbled blow-up — (b+a) Here dubs of complaints dovetail into an opus of no ideology.. You operate in English but (c) you resort to braying tactics, but yeah.

(You might infer lack of taxonomy.) 

Beyond us, them, 4% atoms, tiny 
wriggling strings; hidden, 22% of the tug —  
 
dark and unknown predicates  
fixated on procedure, a luscious, noiseless bond.   
 
Not running, walking rapidly, I cross  
the hall where the heat transfers ....   
 
open, moving, waiting, transferring  
but hardly tempted.   
 
A rational effect? You and I can’t attempt more,  
touching on our dual roles as we reradiate consensus.