One of these days..
..I don’t think so

Nothing new. A wrap-around feeling, you could write until you drop ...
a feeling from here buried below animation.

I’d like to pull off the half familiar,
replacing that half with reflection and
silence, an ensemble for stripping down to approximate talk.

When it comes to our speaking one on one I have to be
charmed and not worry about what passes through me from you.
Me, of course, is an expansive subset of charm, a trinket I believe.
So a redraft morphs into an urgent inquiry tho tentative. Putting it in a memo, we sleep with a relationship. It’s not an investigation but inquiry. Rough seas but you joined the service, expecting these long hours. You know how we leverage missing you, talking about it. Happiest procrastinating, I’m indexing suspicion and objurgating..

Publicity is the soul of justice. 
That’s a great question.
117: What’s virtue? J’accuse thus: I have to repay all bonds as punishment for my willfulness and errors.
Whereto I recommend free time with ex-writers, video vignette makers, engineers, others unknown, indistinguishable from applied scientists.

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

To which (given time) ‘should’ = ‘want to’ = our gusto is waking proof — scant proof without you, dear, dragged, transported far from your greatest 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.
The once conservative apparatus of worship is over. 
A wall of calm then put up. 
Love your synchronized neighbors. Ghost writing adult ideology is pure brinksmanship in disordering political parroting and consensus. It’s not known why parroting caught on. We’re redistributionists for sure, youth symbolically living to do it over but scale it better. Everyday politics practiced by young and old in useless anger, bruising rhetoric, forcibly asserted. 

Public obligations shape who youth are, a late phase of withdrawal from a deadlock in eerie nuance with our future attributes.
Guess what, there’s a thru-the-night ring when a section tumbles out of mind, leaving a hole
open to irresolution,
fingers suspended, door ajar.

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

At least there was a chance for that and that was in this new section for a while. I forget thinking like this lets counselor affidation barge in, forward and backward passing thru the 1st position of pleasure lost.


Traffic turns reflect the city.

Making a turn with our heads in the clouds strikes us as too liberal. Our guards are up. I’ll keep turning.

Why make so much of political origin or of schrapnel-blue Audis or of so few bird enthusiasts or their fragile ambiguity?

Our questions and responses are the end-of-day payload we can steer home. Happy, bonny home.

Ouestion: How do traffic controllers threaten an antecedant on so and so page?
In reponse, there’s dumb honor mining homilies and off-color
copy, imitating / replicating Dionysius for the evening drive.
No foes, no spite — 
Sing: Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment cut back! Getting 
Back there uproots a retro series, exalted then stiffened into parody.. 

Reminding my love of a few contingencies we picked up from a tray 
Of bright boomerangs that tantalize in what’s feasible, wanting nil and showing 
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.
121: A friend writes, assurance from dharma augments the very sport of being. Then again human beings attempt
to reproach general evil & vile absence : I am &  most men & women are not that bad, not that adulterated 
If we reckon our being accelerating just pleasures, & ok — 
straight, rank feeling has a point & I see how others see it. 
Count your own abusive blessings, bevel-ers.

I may count on my thoughts, not others whose eyes seem false —
I think it good I maintain who I am.
The grounds for guesswork know what regulation is. 
If we’re lucky, Euro notes guide our larger theory of commitments.  
Like pounds they bear full imagery, shiny 16th- and 18th-century ideals.   
Debts improve wasted sunshine through enticed labor.     
Don’t plan on debt-free development.

Finish a stretch and economic clouds get confused. Confused as   
A rusted barge dries in sun orange. Or   
Danzig is the Wallace Stevens of evil urban clusters.. 
Ok, these grounds are not in Danzig, exclusively. Proven  
True or not.
But theory is something else.
A portrait should be backdrop in this. That one of you in the back. Undressed — except for slacks — bordering annonymous yet ungeneric like Updike. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back —

Not out of caution) — I now know this will be ok
I find it too tempting, untested, untried, nothing better within its reach. It = your grasp, my central aggregate.


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

Hell, like innocence, wrongly revealed, concerns ethics, not intent.
Adoration had had a lilac scent. Still has.

Reputations get worse preceding character, even when an act of apprehension remains
Deferential. One fifth of my survey turns up marriages within conditions in such unreasoning reprieve.
Who will advocate toward peace, for the tranquil
To empower mergers & exchange?
19: Innocence evokes late afternoon devouring day, burning like a lion’s hummingbird when lions could play with fire — or even phoenixes plucking keen teeth from a tiger’s jaw if allowed.
Taping together both your hands..
Adding grease-pencil trompe l’oeil anywhere. Please.
Innocence attracts guilt among a heinous group. Those sorry on earth devouring their own brood, against beauty’s pattern but with beaucoup success.

Others who stay young, untainted, long lived, you’ve all gone wrong. I forbid it but I know you’re happy.
You, my man and woman,  
Pastoral you and all it initiates take humane power in socialist space. It’s rare.  
Home base, hierarchal Finland: say it’s working through the population. 
And we’re the entire crew. The socialist’s way.
A poet’s prose nails her reputation time and again. Elizabeth Bishop, James Schuyler, Edwin Denby, to speak of the dead. Are we examining a ‘real’ voice, or are we merely more at home with the subject-verb-object flow of normalized speech? When Gertrude Stein adopted plainer or more standard prose for Autobiography she became a pop sensation: “she took Alice’s voice, her acerbic, lucid style, her declarative sentences, malicious asides, quirky jokes and regular punctuation” (Diana Souhami). Is that it? we can more readily stay with sentences even when they’re overstuffed (say, with personality) so long as they are conventional, making sense, well punctuated?


In order to take on a galactic stare,  
Occasional intoxicants  
Every 10 yrs —  
                      A decade goes and still you are unattainable!  
Say you’ll be back. A vertigo blast of cold air 
With a whiff of wet exertion 
Stoked by an invasion of intimacy.
We just saw (a few feet minutes from now) 
your address changed. We could have done it differently before  
you discovered our abuser charts; the parent company was yours before you took over.  
You’re not going to be delirious, meow, are you? 
Just for a now... good for you  
taking me from sleep where I rewrite chain letters you refuse to answer...   
Good for you!
42: What do you need now and for what?
You may ask if I loved you.
Is that my bravo question?
Do you test, tease, defame always to get the best?
I ducked his punch, closed the distance.
My loss is my love’s gain for my sake.
I told him, no don’t, I have to bolt.

Loving offense more, I excuse you both.
Ten or so
gulls kick it off, running
over sea bass.

Ripping in mean
swimmer’s blue,
in a non-numerary mense,
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta
more down surf, startling
partisan swaps
That swell
the color skit among removed strata.
I have aged for you. You may have noticed I’m on the side of folding in meaning with no purpose, just alto.

You want in? Try eye accessing cues, carve out a rafter at top. A name for emphasis could be imagined.

A sobering noun
along with a method to share.

A fluky relay planted these thoughts.


1 enclosure with no pulpit, without dogma...
breezeways to enter then exit with self sponsorships
spreading out in willful overloads of language design —

Skilled decor de-simplified as notional contracts
in contretemps between science and who knew?
ironic technologies without precedent —

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

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

nothing much and — hey! — metaphysics.
An eerie self-eating metamorphosis.
No one would presume elements were strung together out of desperation and a deeply
ingrained exposition to de-mark the unknown. Much as technology funds science, random
sentiment attaches to most liberal singularities.

Compassion goes into theorems.
Maybe I can talk to your teachers. I can debate with them.
I can’t reason with you. I can’t even talk to you. No one’s there. While others don’t hear clearly
when one’s “voice” joins others’ to deepen ultimately anonymous expressions of empathy.
77: Blank careers contain these mind games refereed in shade. For work, we look to a future far outside realia (but always at ‘work’!) or at minimum, we should feel enriched, taking our joint profit as clear if vacant progress to eternity. Vacant. These precious minutes uncommitted, often both urbane and in bad taste, I whisper to myself, falling for your acquaintance.
For work, we were enriched mostly within glass buildings. When you’re on my mind I see cubism and social apps, empaneled or at minimum propped up as official progress (taking all sides). Blank leaves in our journals, we know. Learning gives us memories, too many minutes wasted, mostly overrated. Let’s show how we commit to your book, to nurse your brainchild delivered as a time share of your stealth, your voice,

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

on our agenda? Near the teary top we crate
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.’


I’ll do what I can. It wears on me.
Smothered abstractions take time. Another day, slim odds. Almost hopeless, yet different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me for killing the moment. Paranoia’s audition comes up if I let go assuming no authority.

Evasion tho provides a lanced style, state-of-art restraint — clinics closing gets unexaggerated.

Take it for one day and the next to recover losses mid-grin.
As my own work composer I got full tattos of alter-egos,
asides, and decorative indeterminacy.

Love memorials are cooling
while the smitten dissipate from pleasant job memories.
62: No account surmounts heaven where detachment finds a natural pool for leg worship. Swimming here uproots the whole time-out, bright, tanned & then sympathetic parody.

We have functional emotions, I think, grounded by that love of yours & this choppy lexicon of worthy affects. There’s a pity falsetto, too. Shields are up. I’m reading the last place you feel true, here, in thru my heart. The last place I read you, stay with you. I’ll never stop.
You and I will lighten free speech, replacing ideas with clean-dirty order that rules in silence, a kind of stripping down to the over-exposed stems of aroma-exoticism and quote-end-quote unspeaking.

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

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

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

Ange Mlinko

Coffee House Press

Ange Mlinko monitors weather, follows people, abides children, walks in gardens, takes in architecture, monuments, libraries and brownstones, reads in cartography, genealogy, and travels. Jeepers. I’m seeing epiphenomena here. I hesitate to say I don’t believe in ghosts, unless they’re a "bear hug of smog” or “beans infusing the cream,” as Mlinko wills it. And before Starred Wire I hadn’t imagined that a mix of imaginary landscapes and brisk realism, typical only of Elizabeth Bishop, previously, could be pulled off these days (2005), finically, urbanely, that is, with requisite erudition cavorting against chiffon-like strokes of a painter’s light, as in “Everything's Carousing”: “Even the Baroque get lost in it. / Grass vests the dirt lest wind, twanging the skyscrapers // that merely sleeve the elevators, as we go sleeveless / except for the atmosphere, file it under ‘oceans.’” 

As Bishop had her New York moments, her “Varick Street,” her Brooklyn “cloud of fiery pale chemicals,” Mlinko has Dear Soho, Riverside Park, a “Secret Chelsea,” yet Mlinko is entirely tuned to New York pacings and sensual logics. This is never more so than when Mlinko speaks of other places like Boston (her former hometown as well as Bishop’s): “Venice must be like Boston, on the water / north of things’ center…" She advises, “One can make the room of coincidences the bedroom” which she assumes is “Like that secret rose garden at Harvard” (Radcliffe, actually). More urgent, the New York qualities we most could do with suffuse this poetry: the worldly reference — “Boolean chastity,” "Taoist gestational how-tos”; the crazed simile — “The winter trees look like Catherine Deneuve”; and the nuttier conceit -- “You’d have to hair-spray a dragonfly / on its way to the Faerie Queene”; along with the crucial, appositional everyday data reminiscent of NY’s first generation -- “Logs are crossed in the fireplace. / The casserole is put out on the porch to freeze. // They invite me to sniff the new freesia body bath set. // ...The subdivisions age.”

I return to Bishop, though, to underscore Mlinko’s world-centered, life-transformative accomplishments. Early poems of Bishop’s were marked by non-soporific, precisely illustrated reversals of figures and facts, a “Man-Moth” whose shadow “is only as big as his hat,” vistas turned upside down “Sleeping on the Ceiling” and “Sleeping Standing Up,” a preference for the iceberg with “correct elliptics” over the tour boat. Mlinko similarly arbitrates between ghoulish realia and imagined alternatives, recognizing, “I could...be original every time, for the conversions / that inspiration is. A phantom face value haunts me, / but the inverted library; candles at the bottom of the pool; / these are the ghosts of the glass house designed / to be invisible in a wilderness…" Mlinko adds, simply, “life is a thesis,” and she seems almost to mean it. It’s a set of theses, down-to-earth, which she also calls dreams where “there is communication between interior and exterior, as they say of labyrinths.” She traipses through all these “adult doldrums” despite a “cortical wrinkle” or two, “cognomens spilled from burlesques” and “the slumber of driving,” because, among other secrets, she knows the difference between “Transformation vs. Encryption,” between “false rich and the false poor,” between socialism “on the firing line” and socialism “on the railroad rainbow,” a practical acknowledgement, in short, of “a glow on the horizon / that is also my sunburn...it's too late to be meteoric, silly.”

There are several poems without precedent, even as they pick up theses from elsewhere in the book. “The Intrigues” is one instance. I have already cited some of its text (“phantom face value...in a wilderness”). The poem accelerates with prime mergers of metaphysical and practical inversions, “shadows feint across paths fallen trees.” Here Mlinko reaches semantic dissonance of a tall order. “If it is spiritual to have applications to make, / dogs patterning imprimatur, let flowers grow always in defiles / gluing flame to flame... These words are part of another transformation in which “thinking the landscape...is the true outside.” Enough is omitted to beg for greater “relations in light patterns,” the design that is unseen but implicit in the pressed horn and brake of “spiritual” and “imprimatur.” Rather than attempting a language that is more knowing, Mlinko leaves the full figure out, only to assert her applications toward its end and a “nicer noise.” Her aim is modest and affirmative, to see “a kind of painting / different ways around the park,” bleaching and blurring with life, “not to be trapped in a dream.” This is said as Mlinko raises the taboo word, “ghost.” She observes that the ghost “goes about with a movie / playing on the underside of my umbrella” as it “devolves into dew blobs and whispers / of the lawyers..." Returning to the lawyers conquers the problem of gravity and of taboo, an unfeigned way of sharing a life of different ways around all that.


A gentle love’s spilling bourbon over my a-line, all thumbs to keep our game up & running. Likewise I’ll write about it. As poet / jewel thief wearing a dress, I might think it profitable to string my sentences together just like paste rubies & artificial pearls deliberately mismatched as in the déshabillé of John Waters’ suburban flats, adroitly inexpensive & passé. Each sentence would go on to shine in gloom as ends won’t match up with beginnings, not quite, each sparkle dulled into an afterthought containing falsehoods but cinched by faintly plausible, recognizable style — sparkle double-dulled-down as I drape my next dress over bowls of Chesapeake crabs & rat traps, a near accident or an accident-in-the-making.
My U.S. idiocy pledge — I hereby ...
I’m holding hot and cool scrims of mist and water balloons floating over a lap pool, views down hallways into stairs cut apart and fronted with metal rock, waking in hazy brightness without a clue how we got here.

I’d be lying if I said we aren’t criminals.
141: Heart to heart:

I’m dating other members while we go thru systems — I love you
thru my eyes.

Our speech acts and faux pas aside, in spite of foolish tunes, no pain, no taste, there’s always

desire.. it’s self-invited within faith. It’s inside us like sin. We’ve gone
over this. But I’m dissuaded of less tender feelings by you alone.

And most of your views look great in text — I promised my five senses, as your proud heart’s slave ...
Thus far — my gain — I am yours, unswayed by slaphappy-proof likenesses to-be, I love you
pleased, delighted, you only.
Skepticism is an exact sequence blacklisted by metonyms. Time to respect poets. 
There’s something left of an emergent zone for habitual procedures.  
Bend down.. even huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy in immaculate fictive symbols.  

You can’t predict what we’ll do with straw men and hard winds, and there aren’t enough white flags flying to encapsulate your suspicions.
All this time Buddha and Buddhists are different things.

Knower and the known in physics, all branches, all matter —
an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.
They’ll have us over when life and death crack some heads on ethics...

Further: If poetics is a democracy, evasion in poetics is subject to scrutiny.

Don’t get me wrong I think free speech is nominal, so there’s freedom to evade. If not speech, evasion is a speech act. I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend (that’s down). What’s it? There’s no workaround to the observer influencing the observed except later, much later.
End quote.


Make this factualist.
Make my mind avoid our bohemia.
Recover the masterplan for fun value and rusticity.
Destroy and smooth nothing.
Imitate killing seeing
the system.

Mind control is a full order of alter-egos, disingenuous,
trading down.

“Could you be a little more specific, doctor?”
Ringing again — a prism on top where you can point to the horizon that’s both magnified and revilingly askew. If you admit you rejoice in tricky intersections you’ll have to skip lunch. I told you not to watch.

I should be collaborating, writing this down.

I’m seated back in my studio, dressed in un-despairing perceptions (and reading) of what won’t be contained — o Swami, nothing to discredit nor disbelieve.
138: I admit I’m old. 
I knew what I always need, feeling flattered you think me young!  
I knew which subtleties are made of truth,  
how pre-December persists in others, even you..  
It’s known you lie, not to mention your subtleties, marketing  
pizzaz, “Up and running”  

simple true-false-speaking seeming we can trust  
— even in the new year you follow love’s best habits 
sweetly, obviously culled..  
(away...my days are past the best)  
Invitation only.
Holidays again. A violet mist.
This is prison.

(You have the evidence. Ugh!)

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

We drink to our mistakes.

I swear while we continue and travel further
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts
All our props are dextrose contingent.
Or I was
Wondering about invention of the planets, sympathizing
With a numbers guru also a director here — one of them.
Often that’s a normal baritone and determinative section to sing:
Spencerian, stranded leaving war to the professionals.
I’ll do what I can. It wears on me.
Smothered abstractions take time. Another day, slim odds. Almost hopeless, yet different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me for killing the moment. Yet paranoia’s belated audition traps me if I let go while not assuming authority.

Evasion tho provides an advanced style, state-of-art restraint — the harsh gets exaggerated.

One more day to recover your losses mid-grin.


Since we gave up on poetry, singalong has vaulted to the top. Leaving office has a double meaning to off-center the filing (filtering) system and other singularities I’ve kept versed in for awhile. We have no limits to affirm any retractions, feeding our reliance on illumined work, wobbly pleasures, dire plans and, this most generalized I guess, burningly turning back, looking on while the songs end.
Pedagogic systems administer exams about dominant samples. Absorbing their data is high achievement when applied.

Fine art’s epistemology has key reinforcements:

It’s all about people acting in a way.
Maintaining a skillsets bias.
Honoring gulpable power.
Sonnet 38: 
Damn, can’t complain, when my muse  
left we had a subject..   

Or next to nothing, also a barred finch  
flew off, raving — you took notes on wet bubbles just the same —    

To invent peruses the here and now / takes in um — ? 
— everything is the right answer —     

You once came up with this argument, a new sweetheart deal  
— breathing now, your voice pours over my verse!     

And you give out light outliving you and you and me  
rehearsing, calling us, bringing thanks to you.
Oh domestic servant, poet, heck, oh chanteuse — 
I’m your doorsill to walk on and grin at in anguish..  
Open up —    
Textual anarchy can muddy and arbitrate convictions.   
The crisis is now. Catch your falling voice.  
Form is no object but slots of hooded activity, dreams into photos — your getting to turn channels keeping to your non-hegemonic pulse — wailing out of a tunnel.
When I hear topical shifts forward hidden risks it’s iterative, baroque in other words —
oh yah pulled awake again.

That guy is the 1st to get a grip and hold.
Mr Peanut twisted once again to look up. I hadn’t expected it. On the other hand, what choice did he have?

There’s a term in telephony, ‘room tone,’ ordinary silence. My heart stopped altogether as I held my breath, then he answered.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Oh, em…”

“No. It’s not.”

“I would.”

“Well l—”

“You know what..”


“Yeah, I think —”

What I heard while we both waited was room tone. The next five or six seconds would matter. In an hour he would walk us both down to clear our heads. He waited a moment more, then he said, “I’ve just noticed I haven’t said anything.”


No pleasure, just a breather, but not while eating. 
The show was called; the rain spat. (I'm sorry al fresco’s so bad.)  
Yes. My voice tended toward stridency, an unfortunate strain.  
The music took off about here. 1st smelt womanly along abandoned quays but now looking sharp with canals and minimalist carvings.   
We viewed them before the high brutalism of fine dining (Otto Dix).   
A violinist, hesitant but banging it out better tonight. This starts our cuisine engines mid-grin.   
Tho evasion foregrounds our coerced motives so they sink in then.
Levitation in words has to be modulated. (The levitators wanted this.) Modulated is like coming out to play, sampling indecisiveness, the masked hostility of our verbal environment and backing it up with inexact beats, multiplying love of what we were doing before the procedural took hold.
Then we go off a notch keeping our eyes shut.
I miss you doesn’t change anything. I want you happy but be on time for signing our sublet pledge.
110: What are resonators for but to effect command of offenses we’re uncertain of or we sold cheap. There’s nothing but affection left, our best of love. Love’s confinement a desperate measure, and it’s true in reckless hands, yet for partners there’s depth to surface and mostly un-despairing perceptions (grinding teeth, to speak of…) of what won’t be contained between us. All of the above.
Landscape: Driving over taking stock of action figures.

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

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

Modern proceedings like these day after day, not stopping, not finishing
This is an impressions album. Or it was. Youth is so impressionable.

Ultra blurry, anamorphic, interatomic movement grows smug in writing it down. Large and tiny instincts proceed within mixed episodes and a school of red herrings..

Like nowhere else in space,
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the era or epoch of the perpetually alterable

— a smack of already regretting it conjoins an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ mixed brays.

Music, if viable, of bee vapor. All our neighbors are mirror bees. Am I not one?


It didn’t happen. I’m glad you’re here.

Capitalism never hesitates feeding acid to the innocent then addicting them through continuous discretion. It follows that each victim goes broke, sighing take me, kill me freely halfway through the change. O outer knee —
A Deux Magots adaptation:
Windmill robots embrace the free market, it was announced in a penetrating tone.

Neither dead or alive, a windmill robot in your imagination has a request,

“to express things ... as they are when you see them without remembering having looked at them.” It’s an infinite standard for an emergency lexis until who can say?
Let’s see what we have at the top of the poetry game. There you go again. Tax and spend. Death panels. Lyin’ Hillary. Toxic concepts infuse social ideology and organize perception. Political samples direct voter behavior. Joe is sleepy. Play along or rue it. You guys go ahead. I’m going to take my inside voice and ...and turn around and walk this way. Outdoors I pledge you a wholly hidden idiom of renderings, highlighting themes out-of-focus, left to twist in the leafy apolitical acreage. Director’s cut.
99: Stay on the hunt, tough to please, stand up (ouch)

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

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 lover’s veins, your hands, both of us among thorns ..
condemned for pride, proud I’m going on my nerve stolen from you.
See, is it a pigeon?
It’s a true albino!
Incandescent, I was thinking. It’s hard to pick up ornithology or disconnective meanings of jazz composition — also, a table for the counters of instinct and learning in the shortness of thought. Then there is objurgating.

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

Turn here, there’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, submitting to your own perks.
Affordable Noh. That’s both of us w/ big hanging wolf eyes. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to spook when we meet, somersaulting in.

What went around then came gasping, the more irregular the verb...

At fight camp all you bring are wet marks over your shirt — there you go — cadet-ed!

Inductions to your other habits —
The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of felted helium
A little like nerves done over by spinning in warm wind.

Noh stuff.


In zendo lighting eyes could drift as if

disrobing underwater. I see why each snail

builds a house. They stand around then tank,

like a crew.
Coltish to the end. Jacobeans.
I sleep all night, chastened by my agenda. Like everyone else I’ve got business waiting and I guess new places to run over. Tender sprouts green and with sweat, sill alive, pierced to the root by tamarisk and peyote flowers at table, ample liquor and song. The sweetness outside not wavering in rain to any rational depth, I’ve got bed then business waiting in my crosshairs.
2: We never come across deep trenches in your beauty here. Not here.

Slow, like never before, a thriftless parabola of your face intersects both of us. Parabolas come up with their own monikers (that were).

Face to shoulders, our gestures are precise, going well into your eyes, and through your eyes, the viewer’s glass.

There are proud motions throughout — answering to your sunken gaze. Warm and cold pride climb down a first, second, third hill. Falling lower — a lusty mainstream-underground

of units of successors proceeding, then, looking craven — we — some of us — avoid them. Of small worth. When asked, will

you recover some of mine? Renew my worth? how much? First, let’s renew
our blood and warmth, summed up in fair use

remembering pleasures of the eyes! neck! and chest!
Yes there..
I could live next to a place with water views. I would continue feeling deprived per diem. 
Like smuggling triplets, ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home. High tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. on the armchair that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for another fluke look-see next door.  
I watch a dying beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!
Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — hints I don’t care.  
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you how we’re doing. Force the window. 
There’s a piece of karate, a fragile backspace we erase, open it to how 
turbulence wakes... and your eyelids more active, blinking. A sign your  
push reaches a pull where time management is good hearted, unleashed.  
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting your brow.


Whew — I’m thinking of puppy paws
as my head fills up with the stickiest
most adorable pup jpegs filled out
in dissonance while street lights hum

and flicker on

and ......


emotions check in,
emotions I aim to lay claim to and
protect for my own.
Mobs and their terms of justice, um, I’m ..
Am thinking of some upgrade. For anything more cautionary and uncool we’ll have to shop politics further or some alternative interpretive search worked up into a deep steam of exploitative algorithms against enmity and death —
123: Lament — I defy you and your truth —

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

Our continual haste, our poor retention, our briefer dates give me the butterflies and more butterflies chasing more —
as 10 to the 10th more wind up as polygamists barnstorming thru
a winging-it hemisphere where I can never forget you. Not you!
Ah, you’re driving me to a convenience stop — hints I don’t care.  
Push-pull can be effortless if I tell you how we’re doing. Force the window. 
There’s a piece of karate, a fragile backspace we erase, open it to how 
turbulence wakes... and your eyelids more active, blinking. A sign your  
push reaches a pull where time management is good hearted, unleashed.  
I’m just commenting on efficacy in speaking clearly, knitting your brow.
The small of his back sends me packing.
Sulking with a hygienic view forward.
— On an Old Testament.. I pledged a wholly hidden idiom
Of renderings, spotlighting what’s

The cracks should be bridged with the view outside, pears and Fuji oak, null
Passages in fog, moos of approval. Lots.

I then bring us over to our original towel, leaving what’s left to chance.


Ted Greenwald


Cuneiform 2008

Here are the bizarre details, page 25, second stanza (of two).

                  Is it Peggy or Sue

                  I think I love you

                  Looking worldlessness

                  Remind me what's your name

Four ideas capture crucial goings-on in one’s pleasant complacency of clichéd language upended, in this case, by the deliberate problematizing of early rock ’n roll iconography, splitting chaste Peggy Sue in two — there is the shameless rhyming of Sue with the next line also ripped from an early r ’n r songbook as is the last line; and there’s the masterfully silly statement that spins our entire cultural orientation on its heels, forcing speculation the unstably-named Peggy, Sue or, in fact, Peggy Sue is not only worldless but stuck in the eerie, pathetic State of The Worldless.

Welcome back.

And if you think page 25 is a lucky pick, turn to page 27, second stanza (of two).

                  Going to make a difference

                  Greens, cooling off

                  Projectile confidence

                  With birdsong

The first line is again boilerplate, a bloated participial (or gerundive) phrase uttered millions of times an hour; the second line, culinary description or acute art speak — either way greens are consonant with the brash birdsong in the fourth line. Once more, that odd Line 3 rips the ‘scene’ open, pitching its payload our way. It’s not always so obvious that the third line re-orders each stanza, but frequently this is what happens, supporting one interpretation of the title 3. More satisfying is Ron Padgett’s idea, blurbing that 3 “takes the mind in at least three different directions simultaneously...”

Another basis for the title is that the collection has three parts. Poems cited above are from “Going Into School That Day,” pieces whose lengths alternate between eight lines on right pages and 14 lines on left pages, and which borrow “words of self-described redemption spoken by the late Salvador Agron,” as Greenwald explains on his copyright page. (Agron was a gang member who killed two teenagers in Hell’s Kitchen.) The two following sections contain pieces of parallel discourse strategy in different formats, “Anyway” with six-line verses, “Dawn On” with poems of 27 lines each. The language in the later sections is as watchful (“Looking”) for the everyday and as defiantly juxtaposed as that in the first section. Here are opening lines to the first poem in “Dawn On.”

                  Dawn on

                  As, iffy

                  Be so kind, looks on

                  The clear light         Friendlies

                  Embody the money, short for

                  Inscribe on to forever                   iris inside clasp

                  Suggestions unhinge putting something on if

                  Embody the body all on about

                  Suggestions unhinge iris inside clasp...

The longer pieces in “Dawn On” allow Greenwald to battle with a sweep of communally mediated ironies, such as “clear light         Friendlies,” and pivotal thought experiments engaging repetitions in language and implosions in meaning as with the shifts in the verbs embody, unhinge. This first poem continues such repetitions, doing it blithely, “bubble,” “happily,” “light,” “live,” and this: “Love most about muse excuse / Come across, bait and switch ... Come across muse excuse..." These experiments are not over and may never get resolved, a State of The Worldless that Greenwald nevertheless kisses if not marries, since it’s all of a projectile, a “fussball bubble / Nod happily feet many language.” The invite is out there, according to Greenwald, “The clear light looks on..."
Tarantulas of steel squeeze under the door, isolated by
an obsession coming on, coming right in. There we go, holist.
Theory is the place you and I detect the language driver, a feeling you’ve won, untidy and young, accomplished and loathed despite a basal rule of no feeling without permission.

Our tarantulas grow mute in dim light over and over —
burbling with a kill-agenda tickled into decisions, aching to blather.
53: A substance note:
Suspend suspension of all illusion — 

All kinds of nebulae. Curved and hollowed. 

You have some part shadow
as long as a 
-utomatism maintains a
counterfeit value evolving spring and summer shades a
-mounting to zero autumn after your beauty, a 
constant show and a 
variable now. You always play some part in this.

You appear in every august shape we know.
A fond prayer as the rain falls.

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

For which my 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 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.
Have we no will, no interest to shed our platform ambiguity?
Rationed atheism has long been a main event. High sectarian payments find a handy balance (organ music), ceiling arches in steam and rush-formatted white ‘sky’ disappearing in compatible multiplicities (plainsong for copulation). Late afternoon to others.


The sun maybe 

Burning you, other brilliant dislocations expected, TBA. Alternate forms go 
Beyond predicates fixated on loud procedures 

But in their case they look into a giddy surfeit of space.. 
A sumptuous, soilless bond, 
Angels — a happy title.. 

Maybe it’s only words, assembly, to quote you. 
They are absolute culminators, without our enzymes.
Rhapsodic justice is made to look cautionary. It’s easier to have a set of spring-summer rants ready than break our rules and brag too much, too enormous a bliss.

By caution as usual we mean caution to the core.
Discourse in a hammock, waiting for you to come nearer. Caution preserves protective access
to the core. The net equation can be reduced to healing power = unhealthy options = smoking, on fire.
48: One only care, a trifle..

Save where you aren’t / tho I feel you are. Careful now..

Your ams tho a treasure you left as prey
For tomorrow’s falsehoods before the stealing starts.
But you thirst for it all, all arms.
I feel you in my breast, my dear care — you and I play a
Thievish long shot in comfort for a true prize: our pleasure
Outlasts grief over how we come and part
Madam poet reads her singable pieces uninflectedly,
a dissonance that plays to mock solemnity (“sing me, song”)
and tuneful reproach (“play dough of god”).
Combing through my notes there’s a world of disputes,

Churlish puffins and other problems to shatter the continuity

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

There is no circling the rink.
No complaints or sworn declarations,
Nothing frilly and glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;
We’ve lost your name card and your name.
This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a Zoroaster bumblebee 
clocked into life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side.  I’m certain its lack of manners, of historicity  
are flaws like vetiver too broadly smeared over its mad parka-like body.   
Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast  
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast  
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.


The move-your-ass comment — I meant smell the juniper within a philosophy (moving spatial dimensions)
& (look inside!) a few hours forward!
Dispatched for 

subjects of desire in another sense, an echo  
understanding from Q & A’s in visible  
almost august light.  
& suddenly just theory  

awing in a wolf’s regime ..  
There’s brush  
fire aimed at mosquitos — shot  
through the throat, asking too much ..
During the break we reached an agreement,
so the ham’s anger has hatched.. while no choice
enables the passing tourney among tense Fu dudes
to nuance 3-in-1 innocents to proceed.
14: In my judgment
what little I know of truth and beauty comes thru your eyes.
Except not tonight without you: Newer urgencies
for starry prognosticators pointing thru rain and wind,
pointing to each other, so exposed they feign ignorance, aimlessly...

And yet bad luck too when their lightning rod flashes while, lightly,
its chemical spark thrives for a second more then returns to stars —
doomed like cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.
Winter. What do we know? We have functional emotions and this much-traveled vocabulary of affects.
To learn something about what you mean is to let high jinks belie despair over entropy.
Make falling apart counterfactual.
Make my mind avoid bohemia.
Recover the masterpiece.
Destroy and smooth feeling. Bad or worse.
Imitate killing seeing
the system.
A poetry of drop scenes earns dumbfounding awards.. 
you’re the counter-intuitive guest with a dark advantage.   
Adolescent, a heavenly circumstance..   
you go on telling lies keeping the upper hand over hosts in abstraction.  

Our memory of the moment wasted randomly

by desires for a wider development. A hill that’s not 
a hill, a gaze upon the sun leading to another byword 
not in this sentence.


Capitalist tactics are sustained innovation in nowhere equivalent to —  
all right.. You sit languidly, the other side of the room, locked in capitalist circumstance. 

You like to dwell publicly on crispnesses in whispers in the air. You chill the sorbet and warm the surf insidiously. Your sleep is spoken of in a language recognized by flowers from evolutionary distances. 

We’re hankering to choreograph the open air in touch w/ the outside. The sky shaped in squares, bolted w/ blips on simplex-repetitive top layers, tethered for interpretation.  
You and I ingest each square as one, at once. Blind tessellation, exhaling while we file phrases compelling investors, scientists to work together.
Rhetoric like this often dies off.
Came from outer space; was well radicalized before it got here.

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

No tweeter wants to get ‘under..an ideal.’ Freedom is personal.

And we think it could be worse.
23: My agent is in a rage. Imperfect
actor whose shortcomings balloon in ‘harmony’ & use. 

Imperfect — for love’s epistemology scampers in secrecy 
in so large abundance I hold to fiercer ideas for leveraging your silent heart.
Listen to your eyes, please. 

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

your clear refinement where character offers libation, a rite
to love you, and I act on my own so to speak —
Speak from your eyes so I can call for love and you can hear me now.
Don’t take it.
That ordered a way of not answering the phone.. poof.. ..
A command now nearly lost.
I’m bipolar from the past. You know. What?

Now like putting the call off ..
We can make a poem go mute.
If it doesn’t speak, we don’t have to pay it as much.
A world-less deaf-mute.
That’s how unclear the past becomes.
With every rallentando I feel cleaner, more nondenominational than ever
Now a little drunk I look up at elm crocuses fighting odor, climbing the trunk.
It’s air apparent. I feel cleaner with you. Clearer in noble gas and flux. I do.
Molecules will sue

You — they’ll sue us both for our goals and coral glow —
What a snit! Apart from love I am ashamed now
Breaking up with you feels like getting tested for flu ..
You and I in slow, we hope, radon decay
that stays unaffiliated yet torched with prayer.


Our cause is edged with a distant buzz, intervention — you have the touch — tides by the book rotate out to here, the rim and pliant acreage in your hands. Emotions in gear, a snake tail in quiet we won’t notice until it eases into set phrases, foiled by moments of tact, awaiting a séance with us..
Full employment. Fully refrained.
We like new taps on the shoulder in a way when they leave imprints. How I graduated from this shame, this ceaseless loss of pride

in the going battle between the sexes? (The rich won.)

Can you place our names? Or I’ll trade you. I have a canoe for an alter-ego, asides and decorative indeterminacy. With various hats, I’m reaching out to anticipate mind control as disingenuous.
80: ...cross-pollination of English and psychology wracks up a revitalizing boundless deep. I’ll assume you suspect I faint when writing this. Situationists use the shallowest fare and re-chart it onto subterranean literature. When I write about you, I’m in worthless sympathy, humbled and worse, tongue-tied while I try a couple of poses —ha — there are great, pure benefits spent by proud, broad-minded recruits afloat, ocean wide! Wouldn’t you know they are in an infinite series in the history of fame and naval bavardage. (Or from another angle they are a series of teasers as well as the teased but goodly proud, cast away.) You who.
From the moon — the world becoming flat and falling across  

The telling  

(instances of)  

Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic  

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

Rain on ceilings (of)  

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

It is (falling) across
Morton Feldman.
The skinny on tall paintings is that they avoid defining many obscure or complex wranglings.

Yet I like an assemblage of contradictions.

Neanderthals constructed paintings in two rings of deliberately cracked stalagmites, 400 per ring.

First to impress their Swedish hosts, who were, second, workshopped into volunteer flotation gear.

The tallest paintings then remeasure your height.

Painting ideas.

You had heard maggots eat paintings stretched onto canvases of different sizes, gloomy jigsaws, severed threads, sticky placards in paints that’re wasted, emaciated planes, junk and emptiness. 

Painting double quotes.


There are three courses of action for how I hardened.
Invariably it’s nightfall when I called you Aces. Second,
in a wood some paths were deep descents, big guy,
& looking out, Dr Franklin (you) scorned intuitive leaps
that led Watson & Crick to a necessity that’s always
at the beginning as, third, everyone was telling us we're
inevitable. Further up there’s fog but it’s nice

I can’t explain it. We should be home soon, it’s just
an ingathered feeling, nearest a dry hearth awaiting us
while being googled. What if I am a drifter
responding to a new season of enthusiasms.. could
you still like me, could you vote I liked this except
for you? & lie down with me & reach through. Pardon
me. Emergency. Anyway, excuse me. Pardon.
The focal point of early versions is the entity with many comforts and drills. Isn’t that a calling?
It was at the rational start. I know that. Taking chances put us in a lissome interpretive state (lissome as a turbine at birth). Function varies widely. Scent of lilac is the geyser of zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.
37: ‘Feelings are empty’ .. still / they’re
entitled − here’s where many motifs help.

Despite all our comfort and wealth
I told the boss (after all) he should die in hell,
protecting shareholders from going into hock.

What’s a game emotion? the hang off it.
Nothing month. T’on. The determined shadows ’n
the aft lane, the poor, the despised will have
none of it.

Not a one in hock could bend, even a little. Simply phrased.
Emotionally poets think they know, a few ‘knowing
they have not made a point’ —

Shall I continue to enjoy our dinner

Missing your motifs? Any of yours? Or should I be happy how
people say they’re living to be admired..
..to have a child? And to wish they have..

How people talk?
I keep my mouth shut & I listen. This is how
One escalates with all one’s parts to inhabit received logic.
I’m retracing what I think I see but I’ve fallen behind
For concentrating on blank verse, naming names,

Pushing the most obvious among broken arts
Of self-defiance. Lunatic
Love. My blood type is — or
My drink is — as he shows now
Leaving me laughing under oath.


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

Urgent we walk out and get wasted.

The mood then passes from satire to
Constant put-downs you parrot for executive control
— Holding firm in the wilds where decorations will be slowly ignited
“In the slumbering gaze” parallel and be killed, united obliteration, festive, desolating —
A fop sur la route is a Parisian invention, an essentialist’s incarnation.

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

Like switching work bags, mixing it up then. We should be mortified, not impressed.
(This siegecraft apparently works.
For a drive, I’ve hired a fop strategist.)
We call that yeah
Parentheses to explore..
39: Sing how in your absence, thoughts on love hint of sour leisure, even torment. To live in some deception seemed brilliant manners far back, before today. Thought of that now keeps us divided but pointedly, singly alive.
One difference as you sing — you are the better part of me
holding back — tho I’ll obliquely praise you when praising me.

Divided, we’re the same. We live to entertain others, thinking back to our love. Still. There’s this separation. I dream w/ you alone.. as you sing away from me.
We are a color of cunnilingus. I noticed, though, you and I applied for pharmaceutical assistance, an oscillation gelatin called Sparkling Affront.
Nothing was more or less than arabesque, forgetting our place in the secret order of failure. We once left a lavish record of the male-female hush from hand to fingers to mouth: in epic hock, half-buried to our hips. 

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

An obtainable conspiracy, altogether, surely no hoax.
There’s a container for every passion. 
Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off  
socio-economy floatable within, once  
regarded in wholeness, its contours  
beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough  
though meaner beyond its whereabouts..  
I guess it’s pointing to us.


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

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

Atheism is otherwise the main event at the Hague. Secrets of satire float
free to find an informatics of doors opening (bassoon music) and structured
multiplicities (and an ear for sex).
18: Allergic to verse? I believe a temperate art is set to make more mistakes, too many rough comparisons to too hot this month or one that’s past. I’ll say, all summer you are more than nature’s change in course, growing, untrimmed — owning the day for every moment — and knowing when to shine, to seethe.

And when you see how hot eternal summer is, you start backing off.. ah
Whew. After, right away we find you trimmed within all fair poetry, an art
as fair, as far and for long as women and men can breathe.
We’re fidgeting to mind our semiotic manners,
lit by mid-lunch clarity, sporting, Floridian...
an enclosure with no pulpit, without dogma...

spreading out in willful overloads of language design,

Skilled decor. De-simplified or notional contracts
in contretemps between science and who knew?
ironic technologies with no precedent...
a corporate hold across a matrix of manners and adaptations, restrained praxis and hermetic syntax.
Let’s bring it. I agree if
Conditions look upper great — wanting you (I say I do),
Not out of calculation & how far & vast connivance

Take us. I’m holding out.

Daybreak now —
— everybody under lunar waxing
credited to whipsaw. Just a running joke transposed
from the window, licked, healed, eyebrow roughened.


I added frontal motion to those looks of yours that intimidate, m’lord.
Visual surprise comes with an infrequent snow flake or volcano ember
floating at nose level. That’s cool — I’m creamed just for sleeping with you, blackmailed..

wandering into the new wrong theater guild

chopped into little squares of hypnotic drumming

and massive parallel vistas projecting smiles and learning

showing up invisibly. Involuntary. Libido.
Manners of ambiguity?
To buy her lipstick.
A binary grid decides most perfectionism is out of step while we roll on...

to provoke our gendered natures. Box 1423. Those organized under capitalism shall shake it off. Binary frames hear this and tap out our next communiqué, a dissonance born of our trafficking through long alleys of seduction and violence. Oo oo it’s discovered her voice.
88: Patriarchy expands fraternal allegiance. & you & I so belong.
We’re well acquainted with our own double weakness. Well, I really enjoy it. 9 out of 10.

& we’re both right & wrong.
What do you look like now? It’s right to ask? With all my loving thoughts I can set down our long story, bending my weaknesses against myself.

We both gain an advantage (all wrong) to prove you virtuous.
The back office is an eyesore, assembly required. It
makes itself think...lets itself think...

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

You ruined everything.
A chance at a longer life.
The copy writes itself.
I pulled out a blank check and left it blank.
Nonviolence resolutions have been approved. This is the place for airborne definitions. Here you find remuted meaning, good as gossip to evade a “mixed remuting strategy” to partner with whom, exactly?

O Headwaiters..

I have a steady beat now. I have rage stamped inside. I keep it everywhere inside

everywhere. Coordinates

O rockets to further research.
— O bailiff, be this...
Sung. A first poem.


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

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

After all, the water spackled remotely, 
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva. Anything 
to stay pure, immersed. Swimming 
synchronized with the bellicose you. I’m slinking back. 
I’ll leave you out.
I remember looking up at at the music itself, feeling
we live in a debt growing country.
Maximum restraint = knitting your own brow.

Then let me pull an invisible to the eye hair off your blouse. Blousy
threads & too much sex belong in one pile.
It’s a good look except for soy containers suspended from a branch bow: cowslips
& top limbs drooping synthetic blood over your chest ::

When stairwells mesh & go nowhere either side
between you & your affection, let’s hang in for a while.
Hang our names in artificial druthers.
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.
The full amount is not enclosed: So this is not the other day. And I don’t envy fair days or foul — it’s interminably raw.

Not dying is not not wanting to die, a unique semantic potential assigned a repertory. (Dying is not wanting to die and to boot waiting not to die: countering selfmastery.) But I wouldn’t envy those not dying anyway, not if it was their best day.

Between waiting, not wanting, untrimmed desires crowd out an undercover, captive thought pattern shaped through long derangement oiling up baby..

at the eye’s edge of clemency.
Childhood runs out, our taxonomies still  
unexplained as temp permits.   
...you know what I mean standing here, promoting pap acceptance.. you’re a diva in fact 
with nothing to give back, not mad enough, feeling too little.

Feelings, too few.

One by one
wait for it. They
seem more promiscuous than anything not there.
Therefore here.  
If we don’t buy this, we’re the product.


We’re released by ourselves into the water supply. Globe-trotters. Kissers, both cheeks. Up toward the heights curls come back. Bells in heaven. My eyebrow arched and I gasped.

In physiologist years this is a star-quake, falling and liberated by the carpentry in reading sensory input as the doctor’s tongue worked in circles. Then he darted straight in. I realized tension was flying from my face, dull and throbbing.
Career update: drinking exercises can save us from scrapping the mission (& face off) — Bacchantes are survivors.

Follow the process. Tease near-misses out of explosive dumbness to hole up then expose your ethos without cut-off points where ideas muddle on. (Better to become accoutrement for a mouthful of secondary definitions.) All this in anapest.
This is where I lived until I began to write on spec.
I moved frequently to exhume a favorite idea, absence of no desire, not a disease so much as hope in health, loyalty (for sale) — assuming we understand what’s not right from mission creep.
83: Life with Mr Juice came up short — charm 
-ing & familiar — unfair tenderness in a paper sack. 
Hostess bike spinners & fake license & plate. 
A poet’s Chase debt.
I found (or again I thought within the still) 
Your eyes nag me for more .. admit you miss late modern jhushes & done away with text devices. 
You miss the first drag. You miss rendering 
Mr Juice wearing your new credentials 
As your inner being when others would give only their lives... while you, like me, have nothing set. 
Have you read, poets’ praise & worth get ten percent of their daily 
Calories from pot smoking — sleeping to excess.  
Mute poets hereon become slack. 
Thereupon, as Juice imputes to me, I’m barren as I am dumb.
We invented the night birds.  
Had to. What we thought we understood  
they enjoy making ‘dumb-  
great,’ incomprehensible from the top  
terminating in celebrity stalkers, gawking in peers’ backyards —  
Following doc’s orders so conditions inflect non-criminal immunity  
to sudden desire with intimacy. 
A dictionary of Indo-European roots lists derivatives for gno = know, can, cunning, ken, kith, kin, uncouth, notice, notify, notion, notorious, cognition, recognize, connoisseur, quaint(?), ignore, noble (known, knowable), gnomon (diagnosis, prognosis), narrate (from Latin gnarrare); & these less ‘probable’ links = annotate, norm, abnormal, enormous.

Poets, I guess, know this, so someone’s dismissal of another's work by shrug / hum is unclear thinking, a mark of unknowing. Patterns of dismissal show a settlement of ignorance. Ignorance comes easy, tho, among conservatives like me. First is not reading. I won’t buy the book, if given the book, I’ll sell it. Second, there’s reading just to find a formal quality (scanning?). Can I do this? What’s the vocabulary like? This reveals a poco inquisitiveness, but it’s all about willful typecasting, bracketing in other words streamlined for not reading further. For face to face ignorance, there’s not listening or not listening much or listening to find an opening for my chance to speak (hey do you like what I do?). Hanging around enormous egos like mine is just not fun, unless, of course, there are compensating abnormalities. 

What I want are noble communities of uncouth poets who not only notice one another but stay awake & narrate Oh. If it’s abnormally sweet, you’ll be the first to know.

We have no boundaries and can go further even in unendurable weather.

— drafted 2003


By the way, every right wing worm thinks every owner of a worm is subject to restitution  
even as most tax experts evoke cuddly breeder values in brute ecrus.. 
I’m here too, waiting for everyone I can’t stop waiting for.   
I live in a container house near a few others   
and wait on nothing at all, only sustained focus and innovation in nowhere equivalent to a disc. I won’t do it, nah, abrigado. 
I work on text.. I’ll grieve later on, turn to pen and ink for human voice breaking glass in an r v to drown out the dog track, 

I can put a prayer this way.
The color of the spine goes ultimate, high and low, austere yet foreseeable.
And the evaluations are in.

You are part of what we hold.

It’s an argosy of what’s evolutionary before it gets more uplifted.
58: Deserting the beach — god forbid 
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways  
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your call, a handshake  
spreads the rain,  
flowers, rain,  
(That’s it! Do what you want.  
The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we  
can walk away with. Good. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our  
This is spring history.)
Beginning to get the picture. Your flash is surface.

You wiggle like a borzoi
w/ backsliding wipe-outs & fan reactions:
trash affects we tautologize into cattle calls of glum purity.
At least our calls are directed to one area...
‘holding each other open’ foreordaining our mobile devices will moan to the surface. Your flash.

There may be many areas, too.


Psychotropic bios diagnosed as barren truth- 
Stratagems. Siphon starters. Add the rank  
I confer on the next available beauty, living and perhaps dying with one  
Until he goes broke — summarily I’m screwed of what beauty was.  
I center then on perception (for another purpose), sustaining losses out of irony.
You like it, Sleeve. Native fluency may be floatable within, once regarded in its wholeness, its contours beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough though meaner beyond its whereabouts. There’s also a slurry kiss inside.

Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off economy was to result.

Where o where did we hide our donor workspace, the top percent of it, and who kept you from living freely?
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?
High time to define sex come of age, pleasure long- 
stood. Waking up, a new lease! Populations wrenched.  
A circus repatriated.
Ironic judgment. 
There are a hundred butterflies in perilous art. What’s wrong with watching one or two spin like happy mediums, go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?


It’s between hopeless and rebuked by evolution.
Hemi / semi —
orphaned as-is...

Photons in a neutrino cavity. Glad scene-makers or martial critics, proud old squares barnstorming career obstacles.

Failures in love fall off, away, never in 2 places enough needing permission, shuttered, untainted, bleak and just drear. 

‘The world of cardmember services holds its own’ = swift due dates to succeeding circumstance. 
Fact: eye contact is mostly on offense but our strategies around the eyes are consensual. Near-narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense. This is how contingency shows up in prayer, fomenting to and fro altercations sited within a figure-ground colloquy.
“‘In a way’,” he said, “nothing saved me until ‘we ran the gauntlet —’”
69: Kind eyes are deep deeds,  
a small part of glamor all see  
along with a backup watching you move  
in tawny daybreak synthetic light..  
We smile, neither laugh, extending our
praise, looking into glamor farther than the eye..  
Questions of where, when we’re all right in love.
Another moment soon to stare out the window, a flood lamp over my shoulder to herald the swindle in wind farming. Craning one’s mien goes on in this vein, time passes — comments from barbers on stale movies, political lies — freedom takes off at many a midpoint. It’s personal, e.r. managers tell me this ought to be.

It’s almost sullen to write enflamed birdsong and comb back your hair at the same time.. Can you do that? At the barber’s? To sound like your own critic stay light with a spooky edge.

Life is short and good grooming rakes you all over. No victims.
Looking back I think commuter bike paths tamper with green space.

Coming clean about adulthood is a neat precipice.
The surface (ubi sunt) has music twisting intellectually, pedaling in shorthand, gliding with objects ..

Duh wheels duly rounded.

Doing what I am here to do,
Does I can’t be responsible ring a bell?


“Bliss.” We were looking it up. 
A battle between two acumens  
bringing up a few others,  
times two more of those brain states from euphoria.  
A marsh is now interesting  
(vitae) for the sea. To the eye, in sun nothing but applesauce shellac,  
a varnish the sea brought in without consent, leader of the pack  
in subject matter. Not on varnish, on bliss.
Misery looks a lot better. Go. Fees balanced. Get out!

Staring at trains’ inhabitants at South Station —
Our blankness fills in family trees offside. After.. there are instrument
Channels (word flares) for composing love. We never saw this before.

Suffering coincidence.. you’re leaning into expression muscle, undressed
To hit the meaning of just whose future is come..

To admire oneself, one’s distinction,
There’s a lot more ahead.

Poetry goes thru many drafts.
59: Sonnets are ok, nothing new — going backwards here — 
Let’s vote Labour —  
an ostentatious luncheon in ‘old world’ pensiveness,  
beguiling etiquitte, self-admiring praise.  
I might say more, fool my brain, the one mended by you and your composed image but
I stay in character.  
More sure — we’re easily freaked by what antique words 
dig up and how re-inventions get composed, still we have to keep our wits about us
— looking back under whose  
thumb? And am I yours?
Don’t we have an elevator to take (to greet you)? 
Gavel to gavel hours turning the page. Hours. 
What we do converts personality to stunt-craft.  
What we act out through open discourse... W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please,  
have your way. Have your composite gods who do it for the masses.  
(This soon after a last breath, is it safe to call on you O Yeats?) (Maybe not.)  

Some of us are too disgraced to save
the day. 
Though not all of us will defriend you now or any time. Now there is only commutation of friendship.  
It’s natural, a picnic in the outback.   
The wilds... on all fours, all floors. Hours.
To break this down, I’m always explaining the place where I work.
Gateau what’s his name is done (i.e., delivered) in a tangle of foxglove as you and I de-meadow.

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


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 defense missiles or one guard at the gate.  
A free coupon! No, the front gate won’t front  
As there are centers of wishing beyond doors.   
All batteries are now 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.
114: I say.

I say drink up.

We or most of us have a destiny in flattery, avid 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 beyond that.

O I say it’s late to vocalize what my mind sinks to, finding you only in resemblances.
We already have what we ask for.

Vainly but not fast in never induce italics:
We gave it up at the Office.

Driving this point is hardly ever for the 1st time
disappearing into immense molecules like our other words, just molecules ago.

Sitting down delivers the good news, stateliness while steering already had its faint say. Now we can text and ‘drive’ over time and zeta functions mowing down hedgerows like highway dividers along an infinite axis.
Withholding time-inverse we reupholster & improve levels of comfort across consciousness / we, that is, the explicator in you & me. A chance laden balance.

That balance rotates with our fooling ourselves over variant hazards in our heads tilted 
vertically to catch some sun. Inelegant in our common way we look down on square plots of thought outlines.


It dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for generic consensus over these flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions made of paradoxical tissue.
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole sector before repro-ed onward.

Purely offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.
Dinner in precision blizzard-words, drifting,
Reversed decisions rotating in cavernous surf like mercurial quanta
Shifting soft, whispered — this could occur. You’ll go in circles digging deep, redressing
The boat’s mortality —
Say when. Pulse, how did we say when?
There’s the written form, a cool word
Clambering, feeling its way...
75: Every time I visit you in your mascara I become lucid about the fear you strike. Day by day you’re in my thoughts, food to my life. And I see your brilliance lives again, sure enough; it always has, fudging strife and abasement. There you are.

I came to poetry later than you.
Pleasure then the transportation of your soul take place about here and now.
Nothing for me. I feel I’m a pursuer of no delight, uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my whorl of cement paintings..

Starved for a look, now, counting it best if the world
see both my fear and pleasure feasting off you, on your dime, thus, within your sight...
pursuing you in peace, all or nothing, with you alone.
I’m trying to clean this [snip] to leave enough ‘intent’ to keep me happy after I’m finished he’s finished. This is an exemplary yet limited transmission, so I’m framing it fun work, the kind that cuts straight through its own restructure creating more choppy patterns to abandon ...
A social progressive is today’s depressed comedian, a big abnormal mess, product of one’s time. He or she wins all the half-eaten take-out left on the table. 40% of obdurate hardly-ever voters like you and me. And how long can one live folding up conversation, conjecture perpetually minimalist verging on filth and circumstance? Who isn’t one?


It takes a while. Day by day. The way 23 hours ago the multiplicity of writing today took a while. Times itself: A brainset, no doubt, occupied .. & this just in — jokes turn into dreams. It’s dreams that forgive us for everything (except melancholia). That’s because multiplicities, ‘sleeping while awake,’ get downgraded to icy normality, farthest from sight, trapping you & me inside a force field owing to our expertise. 

So there’s no lack of constancy in experimental states of mongrel forgery & our economic pull.
Long day, maestro. I’ll butt dial (this still happens) you,
egressing. We’ve achieved very little even with our arguments intact,
noting there’s pride — I didn’t take any — pride in our measures
— to section our mountainous itches and engagements
— to go over, mix more with money types,
top cashiers — it’s called freedom of worship.
104: You’re fair doing this, my friend. Etc.
I saw both of us stop dials, reset our actual pace. Still one..

..you and I may be deceived, turning toward the season’s
purebreds for fresher figures, good times and hot pricing, unless  

deception or envy is perceived better.
Burn for me, friend. Hues balance details to your green motions. 

Since.. I have seen shaken flares express fear and beauty in your eyes. 
I eyed your figure before you were born  

off perfumes of April standing as axioms for June and later — in cold pride 
you’ve already processed.. stolen for future use.

You turn summer into spring, one’s first guided 
tour — such a future is never old, never overdone.
We repeat there are rules to doing morning: 
Sleep in without a rehearsal,  
Coax a situation back.  
You're only human, Fu dog.

How can you care modernism, a despoiled inheritance for architecture, beguiled, diverted, is flatly unlike poetry’s pocketknife connections to the past. Apparently tomorrow is more appealing even if we know where architecture takes us. Poetry?
In a mean perspective Bartok reached for
the moon. How is that helpful?
With your brand one constant.. you cut the rest off...
Remembering you forgot your killer monologue.

Taking your curtain call, you hobble

Away like a name dropper.

Emotions were something else, they don’t belong.

Follow instructions — slippers, noodles make us warm
‘As rouged scholars of what’s next to us’ repair to an adjoining display.