Something to do with chant? The amount enclosed...
All this repetition is an interdiscipline ahead of patterned, glimmering haze and murmurs surrounding powerful folk, also there’s dating converts. You know, the level of smart self regard here is high, covert. Notwithstanding we’re open to self derangement if all we do is seduce and note conquests. We lose austere joys, our own cloud dogma perpetrated out of a wiry, scentless comfort, breathing over the skies.

Scentless discomfort, too.

There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.
Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for a sacrament.
I lower your voice to closest approximate parity.
Somewhere, who’s a sociopath?

Finalists, top achievers have quit general practice.

This is not a means test. It’s blues. But who can tell if it goes well. 
We’ll leave it at that  

in case there are higher trending hoaxes.
At least the place was democratized even with trial mechanisms.   
 
The mechanisms blow decorum of law...  
Also, it’s beautifully easy for you, suddenly, brief minutes from now, to have less to eat to soften the last interruption keeping the consonant hoopla around your throat.. as often predicted, that.  
 
Simple to say. But how many spirituals of parallel scenery can we communalists invoke?

151: Our berserk contacts squeeze topical structure into gentle shadows that are too numb to know what consciousness is.

We learnt lightly, love is too young. Yet triumph in love is slathered over all of us, even the poor, soon excluded. Axioms and other memes are what we are deft w/. So the poor-excluded type doesn’t count? I can’t tell, I wouldn’t know. Who does?
When social scientists and the proud struck their alliance, we thought this is a gross 2nd prize although ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspirations became more footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.

A private-public distinction, extension 8. 
That dichotomy no longer limits outcomes for a buffered work force.    
 
Keeping my writing up  
Besides giving empathy, suffering distress,  
I write on my agenda,   
 
A vapidly laden ship of ‘fortune’   
Once I launch it —   
 
I got married however without knowing the side effects   
— wait, I forget why I called.

I weigh your music, your great granddad’s piece about

Bang you’re dead
Average / self-guilt along with bland lucky tones, a problem. No gist, too popular.
So relax thine form here.

Everything dark-accented inflates 3 dimensions into immense mist of

Taxing yarns. Poor wee sparrow’s beaten yet breathing

True to form A.

The unequal in luck float more already. I hope they’re happy.

The cosmos in Part 1 (about hard-ons) is unexplained.

In the mental part, covert specialists use tightly wound, remixed pairs in expression to meet their incriminating goals. Chief aim is to march with humanists halfway. The other and better half are indulged through wisecracks; but most of the wayward humanists, the originalists, we render as divas and idiots in the vulnerable minority. And they take the bullets; why?

Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” Mr Dolt says. He was staring at my teeth, wondering how deeply they cut.

Let’s rewrite “Biotherm,” he says.

In this I fear sarcasm.

36: Repetitions. There they go. There you go. You get somewhere then it stops. You’re not alone. I cannot acknowledge you. You’re not fully mine. Entirely a shame tho, since we honor inner living love as it divides in light. I confess: our two loves are shamed into love’s altered effect — Your love, mine — separable remains of a nervous system that distorts public kindness and both our loves radially.

Your snobbishness killed us. 
No monks wrote the inscription for our ashes. It reads: Just because we’re not there to floodlight what we know on swimming exhausted doesn’t mean we weren’t Bodhis / each physique w/ a hammer in hand. Nailing our souls together takes a moment of our lives that we don’t have, don’t love, don’t hate.  
 
Whatever takes substance and breadth, we’re not doing it!

Should we have
a message? I repeat
We’re talking to what must
be figurative breakpoints with fate.

Fate makes this factualist. 
Make my mind avoid our bohemia.  
Recover the masterpiece.  
Destroy and smooth sailing.  
Imitating kills, quiets  
the system.

On the closing date, only a scent. No contrivance or Schubertian opposition feels like glistening bouclé heating under pressure. Our roles are to fill this in, lengthening Schubert’s insipid menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus attrition.

The wetlands work it through. Words we had and didn’t have consequences. But not if there’s a chance. Seismic shifts are unseen and as unspeakable as libido constituting a knowledge module, aimlessly blowing in news of constant unitary joy...

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.

122: The longer I live it’s right in front of me, above all, beyond all, your gift within my brain.

There’s a glow in seconds before razed oblivion, fun .. and explosive. Wow.

Or much like staying in the now, yielding thru nature to receive you more, more of you.

An idle life abandoned. I’m forgetting about it. How?
You and I remain beyond date and time in my heart and brain. I won’t be funny or make a stab, score or tally... Every day I’ll subsist to import your love into me .. Again.

Our dual cosmos doodad self-inflates as a product injector covered by cultural exertion, just like weather bombs wearing Beirut postwar colors, pebble and pale, lucent grays.

Colors go up all right, each color of stone seething with a claque inside, giving access to haystacks that we call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.

I might happily have thrived at another crossroads
Painting in oils in neoplatonic archness. A patch of white zinc
To follow a flightpath out /

A green thumb trying to paint and cover

A chocking space with dabs of marine titanium, dabs that dilate
Blurring the root truth of setbacks for over an hour —

A genocidal collage of screens, diversions
Rocking to agitated waves, reproached, converged
In drumming opinions and science-y practices — How the world is!

To a chapel goer

A warning looms to live on
next season, the most idle of 5.
The fiscal thrill of your sorts.
Your will bending lives.

I never imagined keeping count
but it’s on my list. My list of lists.
Lists cover all bets. Scars are luxury goods. 
Drapery, French, Italian, English varieties, completes these sentiments. Yet never over stays.    

What’s next? to find Fra Angelico innocuous you’re as blind and innocent as any promise keeper who goes to chapel.     

A stupid promise keeper that housebreaks into almost any sentence ..    

.. that’s a bad idea of particularity. Like unemployment among household heads, subsequent foreclosures = the largest causes of forcing children into poverty. Which is a complete sentence that feels incomplete.

I have no name now but my ass is all into listening. 1st Crusoe, the boss, and Friday then Jessie, Natasha. A small party turned into a lost colony as the fete dispersed for seminars on eon comparisons, fact-rechecks, back formations.

While we’re at it we’ll talk about process. Then add neural linguistic products with teal / aubergine edges to render our new squeeze pages. This, this is the ballad of how your bespoke guest room became the office.

Sonnet 119: Software permeates adolescent philosophy. This madder hell points to asphalt perimeters, why error messages commit to wretched structures (applying fear to hopes)
:
:
building up un-manacled distraction so amor in the head is amazing, far greater, madder fever!
:
:
Some ways syzygy rounds this off in latinate Greek — evil still made better — for amnesia’s fixed width, blessed never, rebuked to our heart’s content!
:
:
And ruined, we kept losing, true, losing you .. spent, shaken, damn.

We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. Miss you.. There you are! What’s the matter?

To explain leverage inside a more collaborative framework..  there is the physical sound of a frame along with the framework. What’s matter..

Nonetheless we’re adoring you reflecting our status wanting a moral politics where leverage follows its bliss

(returning to duty)..

We’re released into the water supply. Globe-trotters. Kissers, both cheeks. In the heights curls are coming back. Bells in heaven. My eyebrow arched and I gasped. In architectual years this is an old crisis, fallen and liberated by the carpentry of sensory input as the doctor’s tongue worked in circles. Then he darted in. I realized tension was flying from my face, dull and throbbing.

There’s a container for every passion.
Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off
economy floatable within, once
regarded in wholeness, its contours
beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough
though meaner beyond its whereabouts..

It? I guess us.

For practice, renditions of this altogether. Take care, and take some time, since to censure another’s progress is groaning effrontery and off the mark, much like not approving a pianist’s shoes. You can do this, feel free, but don’t expect to be asked back to the next marathon. Likewise, avoid rejecting criticism, keep your catnip under wraps, knock down with a glance, nod, and inspire small talk while keeping everything surveilled. Mad Thief and you look great together!

9: No form of you
Felt anything but used, average.. a spent, destructive sort of blandness. Also a problem.

Your world consumed less with guilt for political experience / current status / winning outright =

Hey here I am! Staying married, single you and I may change our minds!
I already forgot to.
Could ..ah! you and I are loved by many. I’ll commit, in sleep ...
We are watched over and settled into a kindly already new shifting
Still enjoying practice, wailing, banging triangles and drums ...
Your private voice as wet as many eyes we can sleep with. Look.

I wake [Ah!] — My own voice a bit hoarse
..a life talking with you,
But not a spec of you tonight.

The Japanese are fascinated by pottery.

Any dark ceramic with asymmetrical tenets is tacit

but could be looking up at a source of light, feeling talkative..

maintaining maximum restraint
to engage another’s psyche.

The normal exec in an expanding field by a highway will grow up, in a flash forward, and work for Strategy Foundation Japan, a company that parses pleasures around the world. Pleasures, not dreams.
Not any more. One exec becomes an energy therapist and keeps rabbits. You see virologists learn how to say what no one ever wants to hear. “You sure of that, doctor? You sure those were your rabbits?”

To be unmarried
Where the sky went:

There’s a benign debate — where brightness bore in, grateful
Prenuptials stampede out,


Drawing bonds along dark zones of propaganda.

And owing to your interest... this won’t constitute a holy day, merely a
First draft.
Or only one of many noted by a crowd of flutists aft.
My terms are to settle down through the evening. Our proud examples
Gain longterm advantage when hell freezes
Imprisoning refinement only for the self appointed until.

Like Clint Eastwood I was shifty
Once. What was that all about?
I know where I am going gawky, rattling my cage.

What happened? Diagramming conditions of jitters and others’ sentences, I am anonymous either way.

Thank you, cohorts, for cartoons and commissioned videos shrieking with what I must bury.

44: It was nice once to have known you. If flesh were thought
A word would count 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?

This one is what then? ‘“One’ more piece of funded solidity.” More, not for those who have no more.

My quandary repeats another wish never fulfilled as you and I round off contrasting demands of flimsy seriality and sequence, conquering death with abundance.

The last emperor had sex with multiple staffers.

He had one of the most advanced distribution systems.

His agents were crazy for the fuller paradigm of aftermath.
An aperture opened up and a lovable perspective was achieved soon lost. He disappeared, and he had children and they disappeared.

Skepticism was blacklisted by sharpened anomalies.
E.g. there’s nothing left of an emergent zone to secure a prosthetic like lack of despair.

The one-act was mostly about ticket holders with initiative winning the status quo from the beginning..

After the show folded we were never serious. Toys are another good idea until they cross us. We weren’t the first to do what we like & hold onto it, so it would take the future to adjust how how began.
That’s a rough outline.
Preaching to altos is an art
practiced by Art Farmer.

Or you can stand by & have what you are looking for reappear
as an entire practice. Suddenly

there are no stages.

There’s always looking out, up, through fitful silence & a humane sense of feeling cornered in music practice. Enough, enough men & women are deaf to their ruin

wherein love rebuilds their smirks pressing on — drizzle would hurt if they could see but it’s only visible as a short, stout white truck rolls under haze, Kia-like, choked in a soft, fluffy Dior.

Sonnet 3: 
 
Now is time.  
Image &  posterity aren’t everything. But they call you back. Same for dying. Let’s stop Pisces & disdain. Face to face, mark self   
-love as no fond option. Unearned. Yet thru clear windows 
April will renew another golden time taking fresh form 
As light flows, now. “Could you be more specific, my 
Episteme?” April in its prime calls you, repairing you,  
Your ears, your face, forms of yours remembered.

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 expired soy containers suspended from a branch bow: cowslips
& top limbs drooping synthetic due dates over your chest ::

When stairwells mesh & go nowhere either side
between you & our affection, let’s hang in for a while.
Hang our names in artificial druthers.

“Devils were seductive, motivating me to seek their darkness,
Pick up the guitar & write more songs,”
Talking Chimp squealed like a talking dog.

Lean, fluid, balanced, clipped close,
His inner daredevil is fallen into a state of confusion & loneliness
— just to feel a cloud pattern about being no one.

In my canine illusion
of minimalism
I scored my first wormhole on schedule. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down
& got lost and scattered trying to remember.

Being used as part of the audience seems offensive.
You pass over that and ask for a 2nd date with an audience member.
Soon after loggerheads are avoided with grit, understatement.

What do you say? Bonne balance, hey my.

You grow accustomed, so to speak, no name
gets escalated until the focus is lost.
De rien and thank goodness.

Leaving the June-July beach
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs as the wagon sways
with fellowship. Love in the future, a handshake spreads the rain,
flowers, rain, flowers. (That's it! The moat-house for the wagon
then some new wagon shirts we can walk away with. A mighty wine
origami and the wagon yard for our widows. This is spring history.)

The no-fantasies plan, weeks running backwards
After the announcer’s ecstasy — there are no water edges or dikes
Yet with a rush of civilized dichotomy.
Music filters out hearsay against the grey sky.
All the airports sink back in black and white fjords.
Day to day sometimes the sun’s light goes for more,
Going to be here as long as it takes.

153: & so. I find I’m ready.  

Ready for these proving grounds in which I solve: 

1. Love god heart inflaming new fire: Steep ground, unwise yet wise  
whilst love-kindling abounds — as well as — as coincidental as I love golf & entered golf school.  
2. New heat every time, your eyes — no cure for a month —
your eyes are the beginning for me as my swing improves in their flare. 

3. We’re teed up for a trial bath, your eyes — 

Heated inside each word I borrow or try on —
Syllables fall in a ‘Cupid fountain’ of steam & desire,
curing us & others with love, sick withal. 

Another time, we meet in this version north of the town offices 

shaking tidal vapor thru no wait, no  


fewer than ten seconds off the slopes  
 


meaning above the steps coincided with the light  
 


clipped to the powder base patching this thaw  
 


— spirals discharged, wind heats the ground and trees open.

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

The carbon steel of every day never dimmed
Second after blasted second.

You or I can’t copy Creeley singing to Wieners or it could be vice versa,
Both old masters
Who never spoke for love,
Not equipped



To weep



—
Who is?



— even on a brassiere stool overlooking time/money plaza,
We could never express feelings about delimiting time. Cash figures are tart.

That everything once alive was precious as our talk is precious, that and cheap.
That “Having no time to spend” comes off as counterfact in a pas
De deux falling apart
— we interns slipping on pieces of tracing paper after the ballet.
That’s our racket.

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 hair sprouts 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.

63: Hours..drain..blood.

As I am now, Max Planck fellows are running off with radical research incentives for a frontier in vanishing unboundedness: Cramming organized treasures into small packages, tethered particle immolations. The dignity of boson appearances, confounding cruelty and love, alike, fed from memory and sight. Cutting with little or no motive, the sky foregrounding processes of mere appearances, stealing our ‘just anarchic joys,’ all of them, always.

I’ll hold back. Not go down. 

This is in response to the commerce-vectors coursing through your brain drenched in pop concepts. Thinking like yours brings unique comfort to support our position in the food chain, which is always in dispute. 

I adhere to the same late-filing rules as you. We are keepers of years each night. 

I’m a novice enthusiast. And.
Art is theft all right. Tonight. Years from now. 
Then, inscrutably I’ll never break down and cry.

The drill of local news, temperature, hours of indebtedness, mayhem, a fascinating stack of known challenges — locality reduced to the economy, co-rejecting isms that are not concentric. Centricity & challenge influence perception; both engage what leftists & the right make up as sources for so noted middle ground. Nothing but themeless modules. Nothing to uphold.
No to Bat Masterson & Hamlet,
Gothic non being, lonely contexts & Goethe’s juvenilia.
No good instincts, no ephemerality, no hidden rounds
or flexible spite.

I’m not sure it’s inclusive or scrambled enough if we differentiate among them, & besides, why be preoccupied with peculiarities?

Nobody has to talk it over with me. I see what no means.

I have felt your voice,
followed your craft —

One touch,
one orated note.

Sleep has more ideas for here and now
where everything is a right turn;
we made contact then for a time
inspired by my taking your course.

No plan, we thought about speaking,
better than keeping you out —

Watching you spin like sentience
“refined by distance” since that was the last of

casual contact \ spectacle,
putting my life together but keeping your drift ..

I am citizen physicist to an inner antecedent. How drowsiness may be my great escape or I may walk it off, forgetting I’m oblivious.

Your face, the trains I ride, it’s all good. And staying casual definitely has legs.

Come midnight Mr Deadpan had a big smile. Anytime I teased him or cuddled him, his four appendages went as wiggly as a frog, silly, a smile across his whole face, black button eyes on top of his head because the night is not over — all smile and eyes in front, green in the back. When I held him he was a jumble of cuddles and inertia. His legs flopped around until I stopped.

That way.

76: In flight, a framework could be told on telling. 
How can varsity spend their tribute? How spent? Why?    
 
This café, I think, is going to elaborate these points & help me stay dry and not get lost.   
I know the framework of my notes craves attention, that’s why I write of you.   
Why I finish a stretch and new and old lines get confused, showing their new birth.
 
Fuse the way they
Continue as light rain. My argument.

We think on our feet like animals brushing up on ideas...
Condition blue. 
Ten or so 
ululations kick it off, running 
over one ocean. 

Ripping in mean 
swimmer’s blue, 
in a competing mesne, 
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta 
more down surf, startling 
That swells 
the back light among us.

A parrot’s vocal cords give way to multiple hunches. You’re really that tall? There is no wrong answer. Your current salesman voice sports a mind blowing pedigree, meh, too late to make it sparse.

Even your restraint is watered down pat. You’re too qualified and thrifty to feel anything suspended — Mayday!
You and Boy Marisol, I told you both I agree. Enjoy your revisionist’s timeshare, the afterlife to the future, unobstructed, puckered in ab exercise.

I’m having a pitch dark
obvious brainstorm
so why stop

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

O yesses encompass in advance
shimmer
— crash. Al-

so let me see..
dreams get advanced —
Comatose, I'm yours.. returning the favor.

A blue feeling about a sweetheart is breaking over the lazy and dead. I’m still not awake, a bad idea. Ideas with particularity, again. A feeling for the bread before it rises stuffed with blasts from space, our fond way in,
praising doom on our own dime.

I’m that slaphappy-proof to diffuse your eyes from posterity. Where your eyes go is the whole body cool from so many substitutes for meditation we can’t breathe.

92: To my love in constant revolt, stealing away... 

Our life together won’t work. I’m almost happy, I guess. Love pours a 100 proof — intramural scars, a heightened blush, hard labor. Staying power we dread the most, having had your love — now... what’s a fair question? ...is there another, more thoughful stage to live through?
Depends on you and me, always. Yet I find lifetime love is formally difficult and, o oops... I am reading others happy to die are on fire. 

Happy to die! — do we take their place?

After lovemaking, performance: the words and rhyming systems for pride and license.
Once you think about it, think it over in a narrative, to execute thought is itself recursive — beside the thought, working it out.

There will always be a poem


I will climb on top of it and come

In and out  of time,

Cocking my head to the side slightly,


As I finish shaking, melting then


Into its body...


— Jim Carroll

By caution as usual one could also mean caution around the Koch Bros.
Hence the political surface is blood sport and games, what some call discourse as action. Caution is exercised to preserve the constructs protecting access to the oligarchic core. The equation reduces to politicians = mascots.

Breathtaking.

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

134: Knocked out by sure bets and unassailable vote counts. It sounds like utter intrigue to the self-illumined or half-taught —

An inured slice of childhood domains — all to attain another, future time.
But back to us. 
Now and then I may have liked primary grades more. I later picked up romantic couplets —
Lost in bromance, wearing nothing but motives for aching to keep doing what I feared, our lives in usurer love? So he’s yours? 

I’ll sue you for disrespect, covetous of my comfort, my couplet. I lived for your peach fuzz thru witless dialectic. (Note above.)

I drank your Labrador tea. And for further research I took up free, motorized speech. (Op cit.)

Similar theories, large discontinuities. Dirge:
I can’t worry or pierce my ears further.

Cruelty goes by a few I.Ds. Not loving you down the road.. getting soaked..


Heavenly and new, classic and easy, unforgettable facts that are approaches to our revenge for taking off, fawning, buttoned up and respectful in everyday nudity. Our nudity earned, commanded by your eyes, man, a feeling, a swing reunion in comic expanse, a whole new etiquet to staying special and hollow at center, a vacuum in motion, on wheels.

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

All our neighbors are mirror bees. Are we not ones?

Teen to older person,
cornered (not to say conned).

Hold to your decoder status that’s forever sparkled quo vadis,
meandering within ordered appearances unraveling optics —

I mean to say high birth, career orbit
mean very little to vocal fervor.

Either way is one fractional
infinite in the context / e.r.

OK I mean
I’m done.

Language is spoken better where it’s re-taught. While you’re at it 
sing out and fudge your correspondence. Then get off on your  
resonance and offer joint events that promote your own ventures!  
Professor, this ballad of how especially the ivory tower  
is under entrepreneurial influence  
— it’s a hair shy of failure as a tune or concession   
 

to breaching cultural ergonomics — all of it.

47: Good turns, one after another — I turn to your good looks, filed between arterial and bitch comedy. 
Either way you could have set this remote for a sexier video — 
Why not share it? The clips you saved, along with my worship of your face have nearly expired.. except your looks still drive me nuts.. I’m in love.. famished at the banquet of love (where we fall sleep). 

Awake, I can’t move further than my thoughts, always picturing you.. while pressing buttons.. but I have my sight on you, you see? God damn this remote, I can’t change it by myself, my eyes are awake, in my heart .. 

Here, you take it.

A heedless apparatchik, I came to my senses later to strum the alert.
Modulating the self raises the stakes
according to types of daring.

Don’t be offended, demonstrate
a simple skill.

Self mastery begins thus,
With pencil marks across gessoed

Pearls — trance police
— I’m not sure anyone can
deal with them... turning into a

Spectacle — They’re taking dictation
put into thinking doing the math.

Space parlance & more intuition —
rhymed with situations beneath disappearing

Molecular
effects.

For a recap, artificial Intelligence continues to take up ‘busy work’ leaving humans to important dreams.

I color within lines. Drink? I take my latte to bed
And set it on the stand, tagged and released.
You wailed it, Yosemite. Morose I am.. and optimistic.

The crisis is not an 
object but life movement, explosions  

funneling a hegemonic pulsation — and due to substitution  
Gustave Flaubert haunts this o
 
beside your double vanity, while keeping fit ...  
 
On the run, playing with tribal goals, how funny you are..  
There are bass chords you kept inside.  
Between descriptions, silence, a periphery.  
 
No way to describe — much less rhyme — hiding on the loose.   
 
Loosely hiding? Let’s compost for a mo.   
 
Flaubert loose in the air wonders how high an apartment we’ll have.

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 weathermen pointing thru rain and wind,
pointing to each other, so exposed they feign ignorance, aimlessly...

And yet bad luck too when a 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.

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

The crisis to now: Form is not
object but double identity, an explosive
funneling a non-hegemonic pulse — and due to substitution
off rhyme gathers in the moment.

You look fabulous, a strong monster
under scrutiny from your upcoming voiceover!

Some will have heard everything.
But that’s when we fundamentally begin to wander
Like adjunct pleasure twins once in a trance, just this once.

Fact: eye contact is more defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense that’s forbidden. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making patterns to and from alterations sited within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.  At the same time I’m forgiven I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)

Donald Trump projects and feeds off the hypocrisy of American behavior,
especially through non-ironic discourse.

Blatantly careless, docile or not, seems a new daring.. 
I have no idea.. it’s handed to me..
The deliberate downgrading of the presidency 
More than fair warning — 

See ya,
Putin

144: You and I model language as living matter — the love we have re-involving impulsive energy coursing through particles of appropriated wit and spirit, especially given appearances and language given itself. Still. Never in doubt, you and I despair over synthetic transmutations of savage intelligence as if it were only that, as if poetry weren’t a history of subjugate pride and fiendish procedures.

Concision in detailing method is a catamaran of process.

This is how morning began.



Getting there we wait in long lines for Twain. The Thai are hardly speaking. I turned to a companion and asked if he was interested in how poetry’s put together.
He thought about pure things as style surrounded by syntax. All in one at once.

Pound. Confused or colorful, often gaudy, a mazed creature, vagabond within a Dutch bordello (condottiere inflated), involved in deliberately ambiguous strains of professorial fat (think of Cathay). A motley mayor to his inlet, his weeded self, a speck of a noun beat against cymbals, a puzzler over a paronomasia offered by anti-popes and holy fools who wore down the degringolades and moving tyros at the head of modernity —

In the forefront of wooden tones, EP served his victims the mystery dead hand, uncertainty occulted and shiny. We borrow from EP, tracing him down now to throw him into erumpent, latticed breakthroughs he first walked into, then over. A discolored specialist for a mendacious tomorrow, a tomorrow indefinitely remote, not new, rantipole yet superfine.

Had Pound retroactively polluted intake of the high modernist toxins that aesthetic portends? Poetry released of all responsibilities regrouped, rooted in political indifference, self-abnegation, self-defense. Poetry no longer invoked to try history.

This could have been a sonnet lit from within
visual poetry. I never use that word now.
In better versions, cunning and pathos =
appropriate flattery.

No such outsource to dispute where I’ll...

I’ll try for an overweight, imitative invention,
what some call civil

disservice for repeat intake. Talk about that word.

On one side: complex gangly, mostly mute. They apologize for the inconvenience.
Tons of special forces in silhouette .. we’ll ..
try to put into words from juked electronics simulcasting through long views. Near the power top filling with capacitance-assistants &
theorists of a visual world culture wholly populated by posturing.

Sonnet 65: 
Cultural boundlessness in impulsive concealment.. it could be a physics meditation held outdoors last summer. All night flower action evolved stronger, steelier pretexts, many out of hand.. petals and stems hold sway over an impregnable tease. 
In time you and I hold our own, stumbling upon a rare birthmark holding out for continuity as it were — trademarks of both natural and technical production, mortal yet like honey bright in value or a variable of summer either way.

Dispatched for 
chaos  
 
yet  
subjects of desire in another sense, an echo  
understanding from Q’s & A’s in visible  

July light  
Minimalist  
and suddenly just theory  
 
awing in a wolf’s regime,   
There’s brush  
fire toward mosquitos — shot  
through the throat, asking too much 

To continue —

orphans make 1) bad syllable breaks — there should be no syllable breaks! 2) bad line breaks — just 1 or 2 short words on next line; 3) bad page breaks — just 3 or 4 lines on 2nd page. . BAD.

You’re a world-famous trance inducer. That’s it.
Montana homeland defense initiatives; ever higher heels; shallow buyers pool; bankrolled genocide; hideous poems...

Missing italics.

Sir Fric and Frac. Remember them?

Fric just called in, said “We were swimming naked, a word I often use to characterize my falsehoods. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed another human. I felt something strange but familiar.
To me, bringing this up this late in the afternoon is totemic.”
I fell silent and wrote it down.

*

The love-it-’til it-bellows medium we can write thru is about momentary truth-telling thru lies, especially. A range of conversation impressed into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences.

Proportioned asides.

A kitchen to heat pizza.
Wake up and work.

Heated inference, compressed form, along with a ‘crown’ of contradictions
veer dimensional rhetoric to here with you.
Our capital is redeemable, since our must-haves change directions and they’ll barely pertain, and why should they? What’s on our minds will be low on the must list, even lower than that. Narrative reprobates

— with a kill-agenda — tickled into corruption. 
Here is one place you and I may detect a language driver, untidy and young   
 
and speaking up without permission. In other words,    
 
grammar gets somewhere then stops. The meaning of wind withers your good looks.    
 
In mentalist rhetoric one lives language over to outrun one’s sophistry.

101: It gave me an earache when our best senses stated to cool — praising silence long truant, and overdue. No amends. Beauty needs no pencil or eraser.

I still reference both our senses, truth, beauty, in primary season.

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

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

Core harmonic structure: call back when you want

— The world becoming flat and falling across

The telling (of)

(Instances of)

Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic

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

Rain ceilings (of)

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

It is (falling) across
Morton Feldman.

We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.
Brass tacks, no essays.
The odd delay repeated.
Evasion foregrounds style, motives — the harsh gets exaggerated.
It’s been a driftwood century so far, valuing hoax.

We were used by demolition pros,
sliced, etc. Oh
You were fantastic,
an arms race in refuge.

This is the bridge.
Have you been?

Tasted great.
And after

Lilacs with mesh
without a searchlight to blemish
the vapor

Polarized as boats
keel and cover rubber planks
across their reflection.

It’s a kind slide knot. Or not. We have functional emotions and this much-traveled vocabulary of affects. 
To learn something about what you mean is to let fine fettle overcome despair, overcome entropy. For a quiet start, try zero gravity. But you don’t keep any larvae. They’re apart. Their cloying song goes out mutely and you feel a need to ache in their baby blue blather, calmly, accruing intimacy. Hey — Never stop imploring. 
 
* 
Show us your papers, fly! 

45: Sir, libido and swift words send and return messages — coming back as lighter air (thoughts) and quick fire (desire). Air and fire are both with you (wherever I am).

When I hear nothing from you — I’m no longer glad or assured, merely present-absent, oppressed by melancholy

as it were.
It feels I’ve sent my desire away, far away from me, sad for you.

Long day, maestro. I’ll phone (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 measurements
— to section our mountainous itches and engagements
— to go over, mix more with priests,
top cashiers in health evangilism — it’s called free to worship.

*  
1) 

Reading back: Defense owns — there seem — accents — these: 
such on put days, our 
moving & light, puzzling in place 
of morning winter smiles .. a chorus 
Emerges which on canvas .. 
noises w/ filled silence .. 
*
2) 

Here’s a proposition. Start over. Compelling work toasts knowledge construction — in the plainest speak — as well as finds, explains & reforms infinitesimal times-spaces. Your optimism is required (a) to keep everything open for reform; (b) to understand we are beginning the work, always. 

Long day, maestro. I’ll phone (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 measurements
— to section our mountainous itches and engagements
— to go over, mix more with priests,
top cashiers in health evangilism — it’s called free to worship.

Add your touch and everyone you touch, everything you see, good sounds and less dustup as you walk or sit along the surface nearby, fielding all pangs as well as faculties for balance, direction of toes and feet, tastes and smells, obscure motions, textures, feelings from everything so far.
Bring that..

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

The groom was in the vicinity, being led astray...

Here’s the stumper.

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

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

I was going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension
of disbelief. There’s a flipping out dance scene like martial arts, sparkling pen-


umbrae, a pro ring barnstorming topmost
dicing / re-arranging rhythms pushed to extremes,
undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.

Muted desperation, the flip side of formalism, the in-your-face improvisers hold our attention. [‘We’ = a match in perseverance.] Hannah Weiner is perhaps our most performative, non algebraic example. The young John Wieners (and I’d stress the elder as much or more). There are texts and opuses that look unplanned and freely improvised. Can algorithms be improvised? According to code, of course. The human names are familiar. O’Hara, Ceravolo, stretches of Notley, Mayer. Sometimes Spicer, sometimes not. The wildness of not knowing where each is taking us would be a common satisfaction. Today’s practice comprises the layering of plans and improvisation; post-Coleman we speak freely of fake jazz and listen for positive results. Similarly, the fake improv of atomized procedures — to point to a solid phenomenon — allows for a number of false questions — Can algorithms be improvised? — along the way to sketching a counter addendum (nachträglich) between plan, no plan, a bicameral entry to inquiry about where writer and the writing are going away.

A petting zoo cannot stand for practice?

As a curator of sorts, you have to ask. A lot.

Your space calls for more.
Defy self interest.
It’s alpine only in one direction,
but metabolism will live, all
along with clumsy fearless tempos,
a framework for rants backed by cool ceramic
wallboard, balmy alter figures.. worth keeping or not?
Swimmer:
You & everything I can live by w/out being
sequestered or charged for shortcomings.
Ballooning in harmony is good around some parts of sky,

Profuse clouds. I see them as in take in.
Huh? Is it love of fire?

I see smearing light
down a tiered border-like scrawl?

To be a stronger critic I use a true key with you (a reach). 
You gave me hiccups back then, up to floor six. Now, years in the future, my senses are restored. An unoccupied mind long overdue.  

To go on is to run up against narrative: actually a proxy measure, one affected by expressions of interest over future time.
As the future holds, I’m lying about the lies we teach.

147: The float learns amour’s fever is a disease  
as desire can be death, unwelcome overnight: 
“The float is radiant, jammed with wares.” 
 
Had we anticipated, not long ago, “but no, had I been  
eloquent, bright
— we’d need no captions.”  
 
Love’s discourse anticipates that base point, past cure, past care ..  
Why do words leave me when there’s one more move to go?  
Tho vainly expressed, longing is still fed by our appetite to please. 

Pantoum: given a key, you lose it
  — shifting your attention but staying in touch. 

I forget functioning ghost towns caked with tire tracks; 
I draw a blank on jailhouse interiors and decades of Tonka trucks... 

[...there is no outside [...] only what’s already here [what we breathe] below, which is 
Immature, impulsive...] [as above] 

— I forget empirical relationships the most, the visual force of 
                                       a “mottled taxonomy,” 

Complaints and sworn declarations, 
I forget missing you. 

Thru drizzle stepping over water balloons floating
In a once swimming pool.. spurts of views down
Walkways and stairs set apart and fronted
Waking in dimming brightness
Without memory of how I got there, you.

Angst toughens up indulgence. 
You knew the side effects —  samples twisting. 
We’re 1/2-
way there. That’s when planetary aliens evanesce.  
Their excruciating loneliness
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing  
basin, weeping .. piling on debt ..

24: One perspective: My eye sees an art. Good background for you & me to look through
a whole school of them
who can pick you up, take the day off,
away from hangers-on. Painters will be drawn to your skill & results — your active image.
Your glazed eye for an eye, goods, returns both physical & in thought
              winning
attention, even as more models file by in your body frame —
painters look them over to retrace your form, never knowing your heart.

3 acts to living comprise the intervals it contains minus select channels —
life like deep blurs formally at odds, one segment, 2 new episodes.
Life in split seconds joining a bigger movement in time w/ no data.
The last dialogs are libertine laced w/ Frankfurt School brio & science fiction.

Your writing here
you’re reading at another
time coming at you later yet now.

A beautiful writer is stunning, front and center. When
distracted, s/he hears “Continue − to enter the contest area − Continue.”

Some say, not going to lie, both of us botched a radius of this, destabilizing
‘oppositional’ temperament. On our side, we’re doing well, considering.

            To consider the green wooded radius is greater work, cuts straight
through any restructure, throwing out hyper-nonliteral depth w/ gutsy, landscapist abandon.
The budget cuts (last line) are background to double-rhymed ambient scores.
Entire sectors feel it’s the end of capital, epic sums expended in slender career arcs.

            The floodgates and instrumentation get redone for full
combat. We wonder about other churning bits of our lifeline.

It might be some freedoms are on probation ...
according to decision theory now. / Not only for continuing,
the problem has been how.

Can we construct the weather to circle bright light credited to seven chimeras in a purified labyrinth?
Yes, I think we can. Those seven now under the weather thrill to sleep, resembling one another trembling.

Pine assembling.

There are too many of you to paraphrase.
Favorite singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to
Learned consensus turning to early performance; both puerile in a hybrid present, possessive voice, the going song’s deep pitch shows up inaudibly
in the hindbrain, Hun, as libido constitutes foreknowledge, glistening aimlessly.

Bruise will be stopping by later or presently. 

56: Lament —

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

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

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

I am is still here, the body’s purring could not be put off. (One dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary). 
*  
Wrong. Constantly wrong was once correct. (Seriously? But what’s with identity. What about it?)
[can’t stop it...through 
language [going in] [out...] cheesy time lapses in which [animating backward] speech & narrative continuity become incrementally  
 
transformed into deep structure affixing Old Norse phonemes to nonobserving verbs. ]   
Now my head is cleared.   
 
Still if we had grounds I’d subside higher up having you weed out caution.   
 
I call all this you leaving me. 

Like dozens of others spin
-ning opaque data sets, it’s probable
I’ll never make chicken
or any designated soup for you — I never make
chicken soup but if you ached for me to
I would.
You come before vegetarian salvation.
I’ll never make
that either.

Don’t care, don’t moan, lie only about what’s really
colossal — masking your vanity becomes the tortured challenge clinging to verse. And.

To vanity, tyranny’s conditional surrenderer, 
I was thinking of god’s shoplift energy .. 
Hold on, I was handed this bag of sentences. 

And this is what I did not want to say.

I don’t know that much about you [hh.. ] but you remind me of someone
Who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far off, quelling torture.
Half a day goes by and

You are [hh.. h..] unattainable,
Hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.

Pull over, [hiccup] this is serious.
Soft fear and recurring despair, the flip end to formalism ...

Sonnet 78: 
 
Disperse my rudeness.  
Captain scientist, see what influences we’ve advanced, doubled? See what more you can do! Your eyes throw us down a hole and we keep there, cover me up. You are all my art. Learn / teach my rude ignorance. 
 
Only these exceptions: I wasn’t talking to you. I was singing on high to the fair interest of the sailing corps. Ah, same time, so often I’ve invoked you as a muse, I’m deeply afraid I can’t keep working with you looking over my shoulder.  
I hope I’ve been clear.

[adverb here] I can’t face facts. I invented the elbow railing
thru intimation, insinuation, innuendo. 
It was something I ate but stronger in [noun phrase].
Never believe quite a theory, never say it’s conjecture.
It costs a constellation or a bundle of heart, faint of. 

Planet Earth is Maoist hell — ringed with grassy estates where a blind woman can tiptoe or fall further.

A blinded poetry executrix kind of dumps on me. (It’s a leftover from Buddha’s show-and tell, a truly exaggerated enterprise.)

I never dump back. I hope her loss (me) helps her become a better entrepreneur and public intellectual. Or I wish her savvier gurus.

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

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

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

Any non empirical approach compels outsourced argument.

I’ll try for an overweight blunt invention
of the non willed state, or what some call civil

efficacy for streamlined intake. Soak up the view.

Sonnet 135:

To commune sounds spacious, un-calm, bent to boot. In the same call you vex prerogatives, that is, your voice does. (I’ll table the large difference.) 
“The sea.. all water” 

— Your message is mixed but never better aligned for an abundant way or a will of mine. We’re rich together in our acceptance of death — death will be our hideout, learning the ropes, perusing scraps and hopes of coping. 

The unoccupied mind long overdue. The you 

I still reference in primary season. With your suitcase. 

I’ll pack for the gracious aftershock of your going ahead, reading, lifting, adding and reflective or reflecting? you in the foreground, all water. 

A hobby becomes the color of dreams, silent addiction, abundance in the heart.
Does it hold the same seasonal affect looking for recompense?
I know what I need, blindfolded.

Concept this.
Your seeing life is the intervals it contains minus your presence.

Shortcuts. Step Five (ok, I hardly ever do this): One is strong and stupid with an emphasis on novelty. I can imagine a spontaneous disintegration of one’s pragmatics and rare syntax until one finds oneself in the same place here, only in a ‘half-life’ where — 3 decades later! — speech still matters.

Step Six (idealized, could never do this): One models language as emergent matter re-involved with impulses coursing around butchered ideas, using appearances and language exchange itself, varying registers. One might call this mutation of lyric intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t a folk history of enslavement to procedure.

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

After glamour there’s revisionist power, a legacy inside us. Wo- 
lfed down improv crap — we’re pre-wired or is there a fee? 
Radiance now is in a lather. Remember deliverance?  

“What if it doesn’t work. Then what?” Everything works. 
In any time and place of our choosing: Act gathered, there.  

True love brings on a physician practiced in the art of relapse.

108: Admit you miss smoking, drinking boy.


You miss that first drag. Have you heard,

Taking other lovers you can become multilingual

As the smoke tows you in its stride, in its spirit
Among the underemployed in hyper décor —

Your glass half full. Your hair’s on the brink.
Your eyes fill with fresh manpower.

Counting no old thing old,
Stay informal in no time,
Stay new so to speak..
I’m yours, I merit, and you’re mine —

What now to register?
Stop waving that grape drink.

Our place: A diminished mood will be buoyed by scatterings of photos and books, many unread. More atextual sources as fodder for your new faculties for text, new ontological components for bringing up humidity composing, as well as subprocesses harder to isolate and observe as they flood into short term memory. Keep the feed in balance for two (or three or as many as you like). Liberal arts breaks further from esthetic scholasticism, inventing new suppositions for research and intimacy. After new government, wiry empirical jolts, ambiences that comprise enmeshments within a readymade mood and control structure parallel to voc ed in poetics; appliance hint: bring a metronome. 

The normal exec in a large academic corporation by the highway will grow up, in a flash forward, and work for Strategy Foundation, a company that parses guilty pleasures around the world. She or he doesn’t dream now — 
not any more. One’s become an energy therapist, and keeps heirloom rabbits. You see doctors learn how to say what no pet defender wants to hear. “You sure of that? You sure those were your rabbits?”

Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled.
Thus, Chickee is my guy.

Psychotropic bios diagnosed as bare truth- 
Stratagems: Siphon starters. Add the rank  
 
I confer to the next available beauty, living, perhaps dying with one
Until our love goes broke — summarily I’m screwed of what beauty was.  
I center then on perception (for another purpose), sustaining losses out of free irony.

118: Kissing is poison. It’s cloying. Bad for you
but I wasn’t sure. Then came anticipating imitation .. goodness, a sort of I-actually-miss-you .. Diseased, sick of you kissing where you are so blatantly filled with my anticipating your love spreading everywhere completely negating my purpose — needing much more starlight at the edge of freakonomics in a Flemish-like world, a healthful state of illuminating my lack of appetite and my bitter departure from what is present in our original experience. Even so, actually, thanks.

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

Suggesting we’re still trembling from the  


Physical act of mowing. And now  
It’s sprinkling, a brilliant backdrop adding up cruxes  
With a so called mother glossary, 2nd- 
Order noncommercial gists pitted together as cognates  
 
Still coming to seed and adornment,  
Half-audible ricochets hitting us as if we’re part of the lawn.

And I call you privately into the moment —
Hadn’t surfeit and raised eyebrows happened a few months ago?

An incandescent unsettling,
Just look;

We have no rich uncles,
No pills or angst, no
Noble feats — Much of what counts

Is reckless footage
That seizes our space —
The beak of the finch

Hops and then the whole finch hops to
Where it plants itself.. no
Public sentience in nature.. some disgust (from competing particles) —

Often a partner in comp can be deliberately passive-aggressive like any Pilgrim. I’m kidding to scatter.


In this one my partner is disguised as a scatterer that spies on me and others. There he goes —
stomping across borders. That is his



moonlight with the look of lard. It’s indispensable smearing a glow



down over Earth changing it into flummoxed packets of energy, wearing maroon cords.

Granted on a more personal note, I maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic for one more time.
The place was firmly democratized, sir. The beginning seemed and was
interpenetration among important parallel scenery et cetera running this. Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush sopping in devotion to their next decimal of the scenery. This might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads

and let you know when.

137: Lovers are blind fools among the true and false. You never see what they see. You’re wide awake thinking this through until a subfocus gets lost. You can’t see and you grow accustomed, so to speak, directly oblique : but pointedly there’s no one name escalated or united w/ the width of what beauty seems, is! And where love lies!

Bon équilibre, someone else will choke (and in a common language at that), one a 2nd person, you comprehend. What do you say? Why of falsehood, tell me — speak to the wide world where several are over-partial to love’s judgment. Why should my heart do anything more?

Yet I give up my weak words thinking they seem right-not-right. I’ll hack at better reasons to try for more with the grit of fairer and fouler understatement, neither the worst or best.

And you know, that’s what’s wrong then. Over-partial over you I too can’t see what the world sees..

Any higher, they never snicker.
(There’s tighter discipline.
Then it’s said repetitive indiscretion goes too far
& some at mixed levels are more disposed
climbing into casual ritual, putting
their lives together getting & keeping down.)
For all my exes
may a zealous counterculture dart sweetly to life!

Hoyle in her green dress leaned
In a hetero-inclusive manner
Against a far wall,
Perhaps not far enough, as
She was distracted —
Her distraction bringing pressure
To my 4 fingers, right hand
Fidgeting with her necklace
Which at that moment I coveted more than — sing it, babe
.. are you trying to interfere ..
& she was staring in the mirror — looking
Not at me but past me, into a space
— a slot of a zone
That might be filled by someone nice,
A successful televangelist no doubt
Yet to arrive there, on an invisible journey...
(journey, my roughshod term for predation & warfare
Which could lead directly to calmer views in the mirror..)
This was years ago, according to Hoyle.

& seeing you now in your green dress stare past me —
An instrument of obscurantism, shifting
Into a place I could only imagine
Grabbing a microphone as you fled, alluvial
— each second there’s a pang
Bursting eardrums.. the yakking
As if you & I were stepping out
— eternal blasts of facsimiles in song
From a mirror where Spotify still
Rocks into an arid white room; breathless & eager
We show up for another whisky
Only to discover this late
Hey, we can do this!

Rationed compliments ensue secretly,
Honest accounting disappears like dysfunctions of context (text frame procedures) —
Physicalism adapts to amoral schemes.

I forget hints of confrontation let these other voices barge in, forward, back passing thru my early meditation.

As Isaac moves from consonance to desolated marsh,
let’s walk along with..? / Where to?

To the battlefront where nightly fingerprinting skyrockets — blasé for improvising at first, then for meeting deadlines.

Informality keeps the hosts busy — maximum stress & refined inelegance.

Doo-wop’s creepy; let us through.
Factor in visual plug-ins for calisthenics, just a load off the mirror.   
 
Artisanal resonance turns into reflections out of which you finger-point to the horizon,  
 
magnified and now askew, flaking off. So note what happens. 
Yeah? A soar sport. 
 
Soar and insert the bonus and exchange — what do you know!  
Tongues, clean up to your neck — a radiant  
 
pattern, your drain pipe, a phenomenal circumstance that can end  
in a draw sustained by   
getting up, stretching for another solar system.

111: Before I turn into another cure of yours, yours for my sake, i.e., you have to know a corrective hand took away anything too crafty in my nature... I am more receptive to bad art now and long subdued from harm.. at last ah! nothing bitter, I’m your willing patient (almost). Fortunes, manners, means, everything doubly correct, crossing each fault line, far and away subdued. Pity in that sense what’s left, volitility, nothing else — the die cast.

The sun is gray. Divided, confused. A hairpin curve.
The system is not perfect. It’s everybody’s  
fulfillment welcomed with unlocked pleasure.  A manual ok.
We set the controls; active ingredients are  
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.  
 
Noonish.

Attraction ignites thru deep compatibility
a nonaristocratic game played for low stakes.

I’m not a prose-poet, this is reportage
and what I think I believe. A good guess is a hypothetical reach.
A good education leads to the Grand Hotel
above the empty lot swept clean by Balthus.

Rationed compliments ensue secretly,
Honest accounting disappears like dysfunctions of context (text frame procedures) —
Physicalism adapts to amoral schemes.

I forget hints of confrontation let these other voices barge in, forward, back passing thru my early meditation.

As Isaac moves from consonance to desolated marsh,
walk along with me. / Where to?

To the battlefront where nightly fingerprinting skyrockets — blasé for improvising at first, then it recoils to meet deadlines.

...pleasure before horticulture, that your box?
For today’s poet / art administrator, hissy fits of modesty are supposed to impress, yet they seem too easily swept up or vacuumed from the floor.
A year of taxes and you’re a geo-accepter of excess, but then again you’re a pragmatist (pre-empiricist), viewing, accordingly, being particles of pink turtlehead coneflower, Joe-Pye weed, twinleaf, wild bergamot, beardtongue, foaming of downy yellow violet.

Omniscience is officially sanctioned conjecture. So your modesty box shrinks as the evolution of disquiet grows cutthroat, boxes of arrivistes and custodians.

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 disapear  
 
— Vexing me! O you!

What makes chosen words dressed in black?
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority.
Most rainbows taste like shit, but we keep looking. Bullied into autocracy
Hell is too big to fail.

Meanwhile the loyal opposition fast becoming influencial in the field is fired.

The ousted president drops to his knees.

Changed my mind.. Nobody can help us shorten the learning curve.
You’re always not talking. I get your point (noncommittal without the tedium of argument).
So I turn blue when I cool. I blast up by myself when you leave. And when you come back I produce a mental readout of how long it takes you to set the temperature, lighting and so on.

I can’t snicker, I’m elegant and round with a mirror finish.
The American Songbook has mirrors, motors for luscious hills, gleaming grains.
Apparatchik Bukowski’s fall is a warning, hissable, gone monochrome in uglified loveliness besieged by entertainment.

Beyond us, them, 4% atoms, tiny
wriggling strings; hidden, 22% of the tug —

dark and unknown prostrations
fixed on voices, a first luscious, noiseless bond.

Not running after, walking rapidly, I cross
the hall where the heat transfers ....

Transfers. We can call it that
adding up the lead and trapdoor time, eyes

open, moving, waiting, transferring
but hardly blasphemy. Not that I care.

An irrational lyric? You and I can’t transfer that,
touching on our dual roles as we reradiate consensus.

Spacetime.
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /
not while evangelic angles of light conscientiously make a big deal taking us home.
Vaccinated, I have a merciless itch.. just what is this collapsed satori we travel into?
Quote: Passing the “casting
of cities,” thinking past us — end quote.

I’m never sure. I’m still a novice,
numb to knowing what conscience is.

139: A poem fires up photoshop. Excuse me.

A poem is a picture as love well knows.

That your cunning lays upon my heart...

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

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

kill me outright, never through any art. So I’m defenseless.

Also I’ve saved all your robocalls to prove it.

I’m not kidding. No more calls, no pictures, please.

Follow instructions.

We got in surrendering our fingerprints

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

toast anyone else entering first grade


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

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



A level over! The et cetera of murder and hate

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

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

ahead of how I was supposed to know.

I’m addicted to ideas.


This was my first time.

A sparrow close-range, a dedicated follower,
packing a double voice range, gets into love trouble,
last blinded by the sea only tonight, this evening of the seals.

Two old seals suddenly lift in a renown wave, the same
in each. Humming back, large as the beach
staring away at first light.

When the light goes there are too many mental weights.

Light goes for gladness reasons. No
one you know, seals go too, mourning their orchard rounds.

(Someone asked me to float a tremor phonemic as old style bait.)    
  
That’s like the sound and meaning dust flecks skim from the top while our so-named public face makes its living, almost kidding and choosing your chest, shoulders and hands to precipitate full clemency.   
  
What kind of government overthrow takes bicameral 
maneuvers more lightly?

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 or might dream 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 their 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. 

O poetry is like poetry. For
Clinging to one tradition, poetry is like nothing
Else in entertainment; it reveres collectivity,
Tiered access & flavors of spontaneity.

I’m thinking of a most awkward color.
The ballroom looks
Tiled back & forth mistily
Across immense miasma. That seems useful.

“Do we get party hats,” asked one rich in the tradition.
In another direction an ex-party manager
Advised a close reading of The American Heritage Dictionary.
The poetry label can be part of a headscarf, more than obvious:
Wild-eyed, one of the top tens, one makes a preparation response
Framed like all the others’.

2 quests.. Just who are we to say we should attend to what I am doing? It’s love like ours that pitches English to prioritized claims.

In modern tongues, a truly socialist government is not that hot.
Wearing nothing but pilates for motives, eager too,

Mixing shy and rabbity, squeaking in biblical
French — it’s just plain meaner. And we negotiate euros (cash) for rapprochement.