Tonal jumps signify charity in a spatial
float off...

repurposing one’s alter ego, raising stakes
according to odds makers for daring.

A man in drag wearing a gown you tie.
Your cool red bones,

A cold star, partly the wind,
Your superb gall

And me, I’m my feelings which move in time
While this lowest button erases...

There they go
When you say

Well stay well
Where they rang.

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

(You might infer lack of taxonomy.) 

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

We have functional emotions, I think, grounded by self-love & this choppy word list of love’s close affects. Also, there’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I’m reading the last place you are ... you’re open wide, here in my heart. Shifting from heaven’s iniquity to self-query, I read you.

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

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

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

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

Unless there is anywhere else.

33: I may not be deep enough; loose alliteration masks that, only maybe — maybe I’ve got a thought altering ‘mentalist’ landscape up my sleeve. ‘Heavenly alchemy,’ your words. My love is the sun in the morning .. You have a roundish face, green eyes and a slender yet blunt nose that hardens your otherwise sad, unrecognizable features and sovereign eyes. When I read about contradiction and ‘splendor’ I keep wiping tears from my neck, but I never had read the sun in the morning as your love before I met you.

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

A fond prayer as the rain falls.

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

For which our shared experience goes to waste.

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

Sing: I love it when prose or song digs in and flails.
That about covers it.
(One’s destiny is that emotional core between personal and professional.)
The larynx becoming free is a moving and intimate narrative.


Got to run, prose.

Got it, I’m wordy-terse but I feel what I think.
Words are our feel-
Ers. The river purrs, purls — not its sound
But ours, so I read this
By me and not me, us.

98: Smothered abstractions — Absent from you in spring, I think it’s winter now. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams drawn after you, dreams that forgive me for holding the moment too long — for paranoia’s trapping us both. Summer’s story, flowers’ smell sweet, lilies white, roses vermillion: The sweet spirit of youth’s hue and odors. These are your abstractions, all these pattern figures drawn for and after you.

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

The Conservatory’s always nothing much minus common sense. 

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

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

Fun time. Is it time or times?
Personally, I maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic, one at a time.
The fun colony is firmly democratized, sir.

Slightly pitched voices from the wraparound porch reach to the sky.
The season seems and is interpenetrations of parallel scenery
et al running this.

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

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

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

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

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

Talking chimp did all her own stunts.

She was the featured beast in the movie Barfly.

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

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

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

Unexpectedly, she took me home to meet her family.

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


We know that. 



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

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

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, fearing losing you. 
My soul’s inscription reads you’re my state in the eternal state, my business.

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

It’s open mind month. Didn’t I show you? 
Squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one off color equation 
of a deceptive simplicity 
in love as well as proud, duplicitously.  
Creationism = one boyfriend better than others, believing none.   
 
Separated from a source of meditation, let’s call all creationism, all duplicity, you’d be sad too.  
The source is not sad. One separated from the source is.   
 
Or of course openness’s obvious.  
Sadness is beside itself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(The Chief of Staff so responded.  
Almost and suspiciously correct.)

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

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

Here’s the stumper.

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

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

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

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

for Ted Greenwald

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

I know this, at least I know I see what I mean. Why drive to a new place where they’re cooking imbecilically? Why waste time at what could be a late lunch, spilling coke over a glass table.. because you can’t feel the buzz, checking your Apple watch, seeking immortality..

82: Sing:

I swear..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writers freely consume their own slapstick
when there’s a conceptual contingency to max, along
with requisite ethical structure to examine anyone’s taste level.

Now you know what to expect.

You can’t put limits on free-lancers’ exuberant leisure
within a theoretical commune of blood vengeance..
Smart money on the solo stiff up against her writing board.
The staff on ethics sit this out, mood-soaked, shaking

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

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 as we held 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Each generation gets through the pass, those that would,


Externalizing struggle beyond their years. (torched , like in the renaissance.)

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

Thanks to strong interference we accept multiverses.
It’s like saying pardon me to a wave doing micro macro transitions —

A warning looms to live on 
to next season, the most indivisible of 14 — 
I’m thrilled by our principle’s

often-quoted exponent. Proud of pride.
Our will bending lives. 

I never imagined keeping count of waves.
I need to ache in their lather and intimacy.

4: Unthrifty = extravagant; nothing = no thing.
To traffic in deception, keep a record of your writing. Take fast notes
.. and I’m being fra nk, beauty lent to you
will oppose evidence of previous loveliness gone unused —
a perplexed legacy (taken outside why or whether acceptable

to audit profit and thrift). I’ll lend you
my saddle for your extrication from delirium ..

Love whom else? Is it ‘no thing’ for me or you to go free? In a coin flip, we

address fog to bequest lilac-dark to the air
spending upon you and me
a denatured octagonal gloom.
By our own natures, sum of sums, we must write our notes alone.

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

It’s nothing personal. Hands up.

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

A heyday of hands.

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

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

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

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..

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

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

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

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

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, in your sight...
pursuing you in peace, all or nothing, with you alone.

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

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

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

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

Then that

Rolling out of bed far off across

You and yours, just dreaming it up

putting you in mind of an imminent photo realism.

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

58: Deserting the beach — god forbid

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

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

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

This is spring history.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 stillness) 
Of your eyes nagging me for more .. Admit you miss late modern jhushes & doing away with text devices. 
You miss the first drag. You miss rendering 
 
Mr Juice wearing new credentials 
Your entire inner being (when others would give only their lives...) 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Annexed to you, a purple violet seems grossly dyed, your soft cheek
raining havoc for lilies.. marjoram, my love’s breath, your breath. (Uh.) Here’s where you and I lose the scent. Ever


-yone does. Clouded (ouch)
flames ennoble the sky to blush through


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

Trust an old memory,

Corporate design is a sable coat, still.

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

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

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

For then no separation point emerges. Harsh.

I can’t take vicissitudes. We’re staying in.
Appointment thru haircuts.
New wilderness outdoors traces
a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed,
cuddling escalations in bod movement, your bod, your ledgers of faces.
Lucky you and I live on, fudging abasement
in clean confinement serving a purpose within
supernumerary states of being (confined). Nevertheless
gastronomy is to breaking the ice as ‘fucking / sponginess’ is
to bacchanals.
Hereabouts.

Sonnet 86:

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

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

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

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

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

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

O yesses encompass in advance  
shimmer  
— crash. Al-    

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

of all maps...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today, my beliefs go unchecked worshiping neutrality (plain v harder) w/in the present gloom of purgatorio as good possibilities blow town, including the best halo effects and feelings. They’ll come back like sight for the blind in the dark. It’s nice finally to shake the physical world’s geometric hand covering our breathing. Geometry is of nature and sightless throughout. Today, every day open censorship is tangential to being here, right over here, filtered, unfiltered as long as it takes.

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 our 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.

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.

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

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

Psalm, make me sorry.

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

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

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

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

Hi cute girl in black hat that works here, your body copy looks great. Fieldworks in evolutionary niche construction.
De-processing text between paragraphs v bullets — guess who’s won and wins?

Tiny, simple copy, the better to clobber you in short iterations. That ze plan.


All of Holland Tunnel v one garish tulip brocaded with energy.

You are woman-y crisp, a color too blush orange for dimming the lights.. it won’t happen if you insist you care.

114: I say.

I say drink up.

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

But now it’s after all that.

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

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

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

*

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

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

It’s anonymous either way. 

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

Idiot sparrows, terns suffering rain, finding new things to lose, Unleashing each other — They enjoy themselves when abroad. Who’s sick over us and who questions any vulcanized backlash? A last payment received. No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless: The future would give more / so close. Thanks, laughably... no thanks. I still thought of you.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Attention, drudge. 

As you advance, there are four surveillance cultures from which to plagiarize any response, while materials become more complex, building on what’s been put on record. 

Is that all you’re having for dinner?

Stan the man, a legend; it’s “OK” Stan explains, we’re all Buddha’s fault. He isn’t kidding. More than a god, a three-in-one pet, a god’s pup fills in quantum entities on a not- fully-occupied terrain, terrain, I repeat, “on pause.” This is spacetime — Whew — you think of puppy paws as your head fills up with the stickiest most adorable pup gifs piling on celestial dissonance as street lights hum and flicker as …… well as emotions Stan aims to lay claim to and defend as his own. Soon. Or later than that. At once.

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

Bad news, I was 
struck by an intellectual property owner. You know,  
plagiarism done in loose quotes.  
It’s cold indirection (sangfroid),  
but my metabolism really took off, along  
with emotions from a huge songbook  
I’m defrosting,  
 
‘quote’ watching text warm up with hellbent pleasures  
refined by distance; since  
it’s none of the above ‘end quote.’ This could be for you now.

85: It takes substance and breadth; the going price of unlettered, rank desire

(a rare cigarette case, may I?) looked after in polished forms and
No thanks. Just piano and voice. Piano and your voice. Words come hindmost. Let’s
Practice being still. (The high meal.) Inductions to other habits — hearing your breath

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

The golden haze drags down sculptures of floppy wool

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

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

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

Massively cool but no gracias. This is tomorrow.   
 
Rescinding our directive, we constitute the flown-the-coop  
group taking part in I-hate-new-calculus speech acts ..   
 
We win door prizes in the periphery   
 
if we let politicians get wild   
 
losing the meaning moving sands over topsoil and forgetting about it — 
Tasting shale, we met tomorrow’s firepower to prevent further questions.

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

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

There’s much history.

Shadow sensory awareness, one chosen medium.

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

for their audience, saboteurs of the heart.

Often my partner sits in a compound, deliberately passive-aggressive like back in pre-school.

I’m kidding. I’m alone.  
In our farewell, as I saw it, our descendants built us a museum to spy
on us & others. They look great — stomping in genomic bloodlines. That’s their
moonlight, indispensable for smearing whirlpools

down cell walls that follow a trajectory
aimed at every atom of us both in maroon cords.

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.

Trust an old memory,

Corporate design is a full-length mink coat.

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

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

I went to hell with you.
The unoccupied mind long overdue. 
 
Meantime I was losing a fortune in darts...  
While I keep my mouth shut & listen,    
Escalating with all my sharpened implements to inhabit received logic.    
I’m retracing what I think you see. I’m   
Mastering every projectile color, finding new names,     
 
Pushing the most oblivious among motion arts,    
Tai-chi of self-watch. There. And these     
 
Steps entangle bosons of mine, yours along with everyone  
Rushing us toward long careers in revision & redefinition...  

Adoring you is a full service enterprise and a moral politics! where leverage follows its bliss.

Kindly explain leverage inside a more collaborative framework.
Sure, I’ll leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. There you are!
But how long have we been planting thoughts with no precursors, no
conventional frame for regeneration or gender balance? Maybe it’s a mistake,
collaborating on travel this close to a fault line... I grant you that.


Sloganeering is back. Join today.

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.

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

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


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

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

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

Heraldry’s message is mixed but never better aligned. The call center serves as hideout, learning the ropes, perusing scraps and parts of beauty and hope.

Pigeons pattern the exponents where detachment is trimmed.

We have no major issues just shady aftermath horoscopes.
And to think a way out, we can blur the ground and yield authority to sit and watch dogs turn smoky brown tracking vans in drizzle, tarnished from sight, playing against a stack of old storm windows, within a composure for light a blazon can’t reach.

35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.


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


You are triumph.

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

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

Good-bye everything.

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

Back I said, a piece of non-advice.

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

Adoration had a poetic scent then. Still has.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

Here, you take it.

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

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

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

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

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

An etude-like celebrity.

*

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

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

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

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

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

The struggle, not the tears. 

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

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

of grey, blue and pale orange foam and Plexiglas  

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

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

earlier — then we got orders for radical simplifications  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time ran out.

Your banter had a political bent.
I stay in position, authentic / inauthentic;

as of yet I model your bifurcated attitude
yet

everything I do is sin. One after another piles up if
or when —

This is now when.

The nuclear self, writing you, lingers for a moment or more... Huh? Now you know I did it?

I wish I hadn’t / I wish I didn’t.
Go-fund-me off that.

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?

87: Sodajerks. Their stock was luminous. Once.

Adding that phrase furthered ambition, amusing
vim shaken out from the inside. Each jerk had a skeleton curse, after all; the lot growing
fewer over time. (Youth — not occupation, no greater riches, nor better judgment — remains the determinate object of love.) Age, an emotional matter,
language models for 3 dimensional firewalls while waking you
then not knowing you. You jerk.

Male muses —

— the vulnerable and most maligned of all muses were not held enough as children on a moonscape of manic beaks. Ever notice? Certainly I wasn't. Now I have to make excuses for ex-friends buried below their own animation with no heirs.
They’re donning newer synthetics, seeming only half familiar, and they’re too intense, plundering the transport of their ambience. 

And I was musing, simple stuff picking up a pen.

Voices in funnels, a trickle down of some futurity,
Dropping my sights — now, tho, they’re about rise again
— the fastest way to earn points. And yet
We’re surrounded by a new opening line:
We write for children, progeny. So
Forward, a debit resonance favors our successors —

We’re nothing but voices that bell without ample words at the moment.

Make a difference, please, make us an offer
As Baby Wateau vanishes
& the cake sale failed — vanished out of memory & sight as I am now.

My soul (had I one...)
eats and re-mutes loan
words for yours and you
(if I had one).

17: I can’t be a second late — I’m hellbent to write you down on paper, to put down the beauty of your eyes where whole numbers enumerate all your graces (even as one ‘poet’ lies) —

Tho my paper yellows with age... by your grace you should live twice. But who will believe any of these half-touches could be living in parts of you without tangible proof, without your offspring stretching all the way into the night, keenly inanimate now tho about to live all this time.

You say no way, I only half like it, bleh! / The poet lies
...lies, but no more than other earthly tongues filled with living rights to one antique song...

Coat of arms:
There’s something to mining homilies and off-color
copy, imitating / replicating narrative in tandem for the evening drive and later.

We’ve now passed the second-cousin stage of wretchedness. You’re
good to take it up with authorities before severing qualms
whose ambiguity is settled by mere syntax
as warm-to-medium as a visual partnership queued up for sleepy play.