Mobs and their terms of justice, um, I’m ..
I’m thinking of upgrades. For anything more cautionary and uncool we’ll have to shop politics further, into the deep steam of entrepreneurship.

Since you brought a pizza —

What about these machinations to effect scandal involving us both along with sociopaths to raise your stature, fabulously?

That aside —

My sexual preferences now are for art business and cosmic history.
I really don’t know what I’ve bought.

I was sideswiping beside you, beside maples and different offshoots, no contrivance or Schubertesque opposition. It felt like what heats up under prehistoric pressure; our roles were to fill this in, lengthening ancestral menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus language, thought, attrition.

So I have put back late drafts of infectious provisos and integers-to-be, no rocky shores to fix. Schubert had blond hair, you know, and rimless spectacles, no concupiscence and no comeuppance.

Crime: The noun to which much is given. 
Can you spot the q and a between shorelines?   
While in the time-motion garden, a parallel door banged thru the night.   
Next morning I hugged rugged trees in the upstart foreground,  
Our encampment after, ridiculous, your guess.. juxtaposed,  
 
Anglophone, atonal.. fuzzy. It’s so. We know it when we hear it: 
One expects a clearer message for individual crime.   

24: One perspective: My eye sees art. Good work for you & me to look through
a whole school of ’em
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 returns both physically & 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.

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.

I thought we wouldn’t get back to sleep.

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

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

Which are no more
Swept with visual certainty
No matter how we change in love.

Mercury is wow! pensive, coming back, back... no..

There is no personality, so why beat anyone up? We can read back over found work but never go back to walk the innocent-seeming turret and loggia built by another’s labor, overlooking our exciting first game together...

Funny place..

Sonnet 38: 
Damn, can’t complain, when my muse  
left we had a subject..   

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

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

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

And you give out light outliving you and you and me  
rehearsing, calling us, bringing thanks to you.

A buffered work force manhandles indulgence
— wait, I forgot why I’m texting you.
We’re 1/2-way there.
That’s when the alien suckers evanesce.
Their loneliness and excruciating pain
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing
basin, weeping ... You try piling on debt, ok?

I went to hell with you.
You gave me hiccups back on floor six. Now my senses are restored. The unoccupied mind is long overdue.

And I’m back in my vertigo seat, reading over and writing my disciplined boilerplate, my editor’s marble thought structure swarming with pleasant memories.

I hugged rugged trees in the upstart foreground, our encampment after  
Ridiculous, I guess.. juxtaposed, dative..

One will need a clearer message for individual agency. There’s no humor in discretion. So forget it

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

Complaints and sworn declarations,
I forget meeting you.

What is curious style?

There’s a cool but thoroughly staged oral tradition that’s like trail mix, so rhetorically honey-sealed and narratively palatable anyone with a few years of good high school English can come in. It’s clear long jumps and pull-ups in tone signify irony and distance about food prep and galley stainless. The gestalt is to flare up yet relax a while, stay nearly offhand and sound normal, not ulterior in any obvious way. I’ve been saving a few hours for you. So do hang in.

18: Allergic to verse? I believe a temperate art is set to make more mistakes, too many rough comparisons to too hot this month or one that’s past. I’ll say, all summer you are more than nature’s change in course, growing, untrimmed — owning the day for every moment — and knowing when to shine, to seethe.

And when you see how hot eternal summer is, you start backing off.. ah
Whew. After, right away we find you trimmed within all fair poetry, an art
as fair, as far and for long as women and men can breathe.

It’s a privilege to be singled out 
..once there was a C-class ..  
 
We stay onboard  
 
Suffering, complaining, 2 out of 3 observers let off, depleting the shipment.  
Surnames are ..oh forget it, huh? They’re randomly conjoined.

A new problem set:
Work through naïve discourse —

Keep methods observable as everyday mayhem —
Call this ‘transactional’ force
Unlocking — on sight — your pervasive hesitation.

Make it personal then bring your breathing back up from
the deep... smiling as an art of life.

We just saw (a few feet minutes from now, however)
your address changed. We could have put it differently before you discovered the user
charts; the parent company was yours before you stole them.

You’re not going to be delirious are you?
Just for a stretch of disdain..
Robbing me from sleep where I rewrite chain letters you refuse to answer. Good for you. (O boy..)

Good for you — Making up a to do list! blinded by periodic breakthroughs, 
Tho pragmatics circumvents the conscience to mend things — 
The focus is on nothing we won’t do..

20: Like voices & solitary genius in any workplace (seaside, e.g.) — smart, amazing particles sleep it off thru traffic, shifting hues up to the rolling bridge lattice. On you
& by you, nature’s face is warm & bright. All hues charged, painted brilliant to the eye — adding amazement & new purpose with pleasure, not needing love, except when it comes altogether!

Thereupon one controls some handiwork, less false than one’s life, almost like passion’s master mistress gazing on one’s passions now.

Everywhere there’s fog off your chokehold. I give up, nowhere better!  No ripped off melancholy, no lecture / rap / blues, no shelter against the curious. I’m lying.  Part of what I do here. Throw up my hands!

The loser’s contours are to look urbanely offhand and sound normal, asymmetrically curt.   
  
Pulling a change-up tantrum repurposed into conceptual deflation.   
Psychotropic bios are commonly diagnosed as parallel as contractual adjustments.    
  
Now one concentrates on the next available thing   
Until one like me goes broke; summarily I’m screwed.   
I then center on perception (whether beauty or wit), sustaining losses out of causticity.

You and I go over some Spinoza graphemes. I also was thinking it’s hard for us to get foreign sports equipment or a new o.s. without indices of suspicion and objurgating.
If you agree, I’m happiest procrastinating. We have a pleasant sencha. It strengthens our attention for doing nothing much.

Random influences could fill in our cancelled checks. Filling in on smart hills, cute and cuter butterflies having at butterflies, why?

37: ‘Feelings are empty’ .. still / they’re
entitled − here’s where a few more motifs help.

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

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

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

Shall I continue to enjoy our dinner

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

How people talk?

Just because you feel nothing

You’re leaking results before ‘thinking it over’;
IF I have no idea that holds you,
THEN how does an idea
Of idea an

-ticpate stipulating proofs for missing the ‘and,’ ‘or’ and ‘not’ of binary practice?

Spacetime. Slash pauses.
Totally never-in, our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice /
not while evangelic angles of light are making a fracas on our way home.
Vaccinated, I have a merciless itch.. what is this collapsed satori we travel into?
Other instances of ourselves / Passing the “casting

of cities,” thinking past us. Way past.
A normal 2 years B-4 messing with U. Why wait?

Realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio”
I am touched by everyone now alive,
softest jazz, lower right, your lips moving up, down,
talking design shit. Someone’s naive mirror sale, for example.

Someone’s book is staring out the window, saved-up.
So, with regard to static and its ovular window, stasis —
it’s not who grinned first that counts, but also where
and however. That’s my middle point for the interim,

realizing my dream performance in “Fidelio.”

34: I have a base feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in a way —
Together, you and I define arcs of ironic repentance but worked out in a series of tear-shedding disputes. Just so, we’re still cloaked in loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal my storm-beaten face but not the offending wind smudging our wounds into a double-cross of rotten smoke. Why?

It’s not enough I lose, ransomed to disgrace. I’m scared; ah, no relief as such. Not yet. I don’t travel well in new grief. I hide from your face even as it’s shedding dry tears, breaking promises, still breaking me.

For a recap, 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.

A valid socialist government is not that hot in Slavic labials.
Apparatchiks perform pilates for motives, eager too, speechifying shyly  

With rabbity, squeaking voices, sounding like biblical  
French — French is just plain meaner. And they negotiate cash for
Rapprochement. Keeping one’s posture simple on the corner of utterly out of space.  I

Am still there  
As well. My views are not incompatible with theirs.   

Only there’s a redo for the first republic that we fail completely, openly.

Some witches stand way out in a group, my mutt  
& a star couple born of passion, sparkles  
that go the distance without going  
against my finer inner pooch whose lion’s share of  
derived practices crank open to show  
neurotic coherence. The mutt’s  
face loses color; she’s hoarse  
& as dog-eared as Caligula.

Sonnet 7:

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

Copenhagen interpretation:
Our active models are you & a perfect sweep I can live by w/out being 
sequestered or bitterly charged for my own shortcomings 
distended in harmony around some parts of sky 

I understand as profuse clouds. Understand like take in. 
Huh? Is it fire? Up in sparks’ glow 

the moon made indispensable for smearing its light 
that travels down in a tiered border-like scrawl?

Fun and determined, senator. What shall we dredge up today?
A friend notes, 

Tonight’s salad won’t contain much nor belong to much itself. 

Or 
tho its taste promise is delicious to us, to tell it so to its face = sucking up.. 
taking nothing for granted 

..we’ll leave the d.r. to taste maligners = our foreheads are void just thinking that way, why? — as if adapting to a contest among decentered pests! 
Dioramas later, 
soaking up positron equations I might short out 40 days, lent to us (our hobby and bent!) disabling us to commune midstream freely by the humming fireside. Yes? 

Yep. I’m not picky. I’m trashing political-foam-bearing puffiness, that’s all. There. Chucked.

Over the summer construction advances.
Uncivil also true, summer advances, supreme over the construction.
Everybody goes!
... inevitably constructivist and supremacist impulses are joined.

121: A friend writes, assurance from dharma augments the sport of being & being extends
to reproach general evil and vile absence : I am &  most men are not that bad, not that adulterated 
if we reckon our being accelerating just pleasures, and ok — 
straight, rank feeling has a point & I see how others see it. 
Count your own abuses, bevel-ers.

I may count on my thoughts, not others whose eyes seem false —
I think it good I maintain who I am.

Caspar continues, 

I’d rather not trouble you with my impressions of resource hoarding, so dependent on flow of daytime into night. Shades at midnight can ‘almost’ whisper faintly but I botch capturing even a fraction of their directive. My willingness to keep watch through the evening keeps up only to find your granting me permission to maintain my distance. I’ll let you go then. I knew you would understand.

Whom will we discover? How? 
Do you both laugh? Per rules,  
regs of sounding it out  
it’s overdue.  
You’re back in vertigo  
 
yielding authority with no proxy.  
 
Like a minimalist practicing karate high noon  
: any of your remedy gets exaggerated, desert marsh = a bespoke presence...  
What’s this the (x) about?  
You say yay (for x). 

55: A living record, a period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity — nor can we outlive this, against death, advancing slowly.
Not marble nor rhyme so move. Dropping my nor mood... the fun workout once was of a soul, a tone cucumber, a hue not seen here nor in Lyon.
So why am I dwelling on posterity like a warrior groom?
My own lover’s eyes shine brighter than all the color coming into the poem...

You and I find room in this prospect — oblivious, uninvited, I bring guests — death and memory, statues overturned. I...

Even now in our eyes, we find fire for wearing out memory’s velocity — ask (or shall I ask) shall I?

Nor wills posterity rest.

The French have other words for inversions. See what their friends are playing. Find friends.

Absence of thought rules for higher authority. A busy, cool thoughtlessness that’s slimed over again and again, maybe. 

It’s a fact eye contact is defensive but our checklists and strategies determine most of the contents. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane senses. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) 

This is how contingency shows up in texts, making sense from alterations that are situational within a figure-chicken / ground-egg round robin. 
I retract my falsehoods. At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice projective geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.) 

Feeling is feeling. 
So it’s said repetitive motion has gone too far  
and some at all levels will be enclosed, not spoken of,  
climbing into casual spectacle, ritually putting  
other lives together & keeping nothing.  
Trained staff encourages sampling,  
eyes sharpened, feeling a moral duty.   
 
That was the life of the party speaking. Highly attentive,  
morally camouflaged. A gun fired.  
 
There! you get it now about dualism, you can make 4 walls your rendezvous, hang a roof, lounge in queue for the motorcade. Yet the ride feels small —

Discovery entails voicing new speech from old, 
 
Knowitall.  
 
And [...there is no inside [...] only what’s already here [what I breathe] outside, which is continually immature, impulsive...] [and]  
 
To observe what’s streamlined and compressed, aiming fast —  
I’m scared. Good night to write up an accident or two that don’t matter, made tactical as we circumvent voice commands, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.

Terry Eagleton’s formulations re text and production can be less daunting when edited to their central premises. 1) Production is the key. 2) Text is a production of ideology. 3) Text and performance are “analogous to the relation between grammar and speech” – a production of a production (such as a theatrical performance of a text, his example, or critical interpretation of a text, my example).

Speech is a product, not a reproduction, of grammar; grammar is the determining structure of discourse, but the character of discourse cannot be mechanically derived from it... In studying relations between text and performance, then, we study modes of determination which are precise and rigorous, not accounted for in terms of ‘reflection’ or ‘reproduction’. We are examining, in short, the conditions of production.

An empirical analyst accounts for the double performance of her enterprise.

91: Who owns property, names, anything under formalism? Boasting of birth,
of skill, we grew up 20th century, years before joy in mega-wealth
became the measure for every day, as adjuncts measure it.

Some glory still of hawks or hounds, pride to a category of leisure. Yup. More? Your love is of more delight than dreams of pleasures


that can’t exist — here we go — our love zooms in value.

Love’s body force is better, richer, prouder, to the top!
You and I own one property having love, finding this joy above the rest.

En route to the dogs, there’s the apocalypse within; pushing deeply.
Our lot’s in a hurry.

No future arouses chaotic phenomena rooting for any singularity ahead until there is no threshold. Matter persists, no dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo: perpetual and vital amid meanderings that are ordered appearances gone dormant, nearly, or running off with fresh incentives for a frontier in more unboundedness, optics unravelled in dissolving attitudes behind all the good times forward.

Lilac is a favorite zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. 
Here we are, talking about it.
I feel so socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing the center: 
More than a single system, 

A huge agnostic discipline 
About attitudes behind morals. 

You know this open and shut — 
Take it down / or thumb thru 

The balance left over. Inhabit the brim 

To the point you don’t have to know anymore yoga than 
We know now — less than nothing, the inside of zest.

Time runs out. 
I stay in position, authentic / inauthentic;  

I model your attitude and your facts  
yet  

fear overextending them if  
or when —  
This is when —  
Huh? Now you know I did it.  
I wish I hadn’t / I wish I didn’t.  
Poetics, a subset, off that, of monolingual epistemology...

143: Kiss me, skull.
Paying attention is the field call haunting the future.
Be kind, then turn back —
More for the retina to unscrew internal hysteria pouring up, breaking away, embarrassed,

Losing both death and life in pursuit of other business. You’ll

Look how I feel.
No plan is perfect.

It’s hopeless, my life like my sweating over you, nondestructive, unextreme. I crack up when someone mentions reincarnation, but next time you’ll pick a family from a line of tenured scientists in the non-snickering future. We on the left are depressed because ours is a classless de-corporated shtetl — no need for socialists? time will tell. Tho, maybe there’s no option? 

You’d still love political verse, but with reservations because of the dirt, all the skid marks and resonance of decay, “refined by distance.” I made sure you could tell.

Stacked tonal aspirations. 
Not a problem — for a relief pitcher staying blithe in the win column, changing into a tenebrae-stitched uniform, eco-conscious and cool in response to one’s frantic cells. 

An outline of foreign service starts at once, as its top ashes flow upwards, looking sketchy as well as appealing to tastes abroad. I hope all are happy. Don’t be sad. Bag a good one. 

My foreign friend flicks on the sunlamp
to countermine zooms.
Her neck and collarbone are burning
to show their softness. Her hair seems partible
emitting an innocence that lasts.
That’s an outline. 

There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.
Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for sunlight.
I lower your voice to closest approximate parity.

Finalists quit general practice — re-up for industry with no honor system.
Actuaries unmoor. Affection looks like vicarious advice. Vicarious isn’t strong
enough. Inner, outer merge in our skulls, an emotional syndrome that’s broken

down, yet a lost cause. I’m driven somewhere then by love
to sketch sweet totems that “look pretty close” with my eyes closed.

There’s transactional friendship, as well. It’s a slog like sloganeering or craft (flashing an observable sign to consciousness). To postulate, craft is to slogans as sport is to kicking down signs (see above). Don’t get me yakking about today’s news. Uncertain, odd sounds are cool, and we’re all for them and against impingement unless they mess up our transactions.

41: An abstract, pretty temptation below gentle laughter: Ay,
Beauty for your years .. Ah me.

Ah blizzard.

Together, you and I follow a twofold point of wooing / forced absence, but I’m not that far from following your lead and therefore, like you, assailed. Y. Dating youth is tantamount to body snatching, another point. Tempting but false equivalence even there: Y. We chide the other’s choice — where this follows I cannot lead, leaving me in a riot of liberty where you are.

The status quo models verse as living matter re-involved with impulsive energy coursing around flecks of appropriated ideas, especially when it comes to appearances, tones and language use itself. I might call this artful transmutation of intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t a history of folk enslaved to procedure.

To be unmarried
Where the sky went:

There’s a bright debate — where eager heartbeats bore in, grateful prenuptials stampede out,


Drawing youthful bounds along dark zones of propaganda

And owing to your interest… this won’t constitute a holy date or sacrament. Or only one of many as notated by back-up flutists.

My terms are to settle down through the evening. Your proud examples
Gain longterm advantage spreading the plan. Imprisoning refinement.

I’m just saying theocracy’s imputers are icy blokes with no sympathy for phantoms, emanations or specters brought up in an ‘alien’ language. And to clear things up, there’s a scent of acacia and frangipani coming from their smart landlords, the ones in black culottes.

Oh, here’s their release from last night. Don’t smudge it.
I speak with doctrinal knowledge, your holiness, smudge and beware.

106: In love, a practice of counterclockwise seems like not much at all, only sustained focus, innovation of hand, foot, lips, of eye, of brow, nowhere expressing all your beauty ...

Nope,
all right, I lose. I’ll open in complete command of nothing, no skill to praise you.
From the outside the sky hints of hinges, bolted prophesies that you master —

I can’t waste time — we’re tethered here. Mostly.
For love we’ll ingest all of you, prefiguring present day,
inflating while we info search, I could say

exhaling descriptions
w/ eyes to wonder on the full worth of your beauty making beauty.

The vulnerable and maligned muses were not held enough as children on a moonscape of beaks. Ever notice? Certainly I wasn't. Now I have to make excuses for friends of mine buried below their own livelihoods with no heirs.

They’re donning synthetics, and only half familiar, and just too intense, plundering the transport of their ambience. 

Hands up.  
There’s a beyond just passed an easy show of hands 
beyond orgasm overdue an hour ago (one mild altercation took it 
into a shade of de-constraining tease). 

A heyday of hands.

My drink — or your aftershave — is lime Fanta  
Leaving me in an atomic infinitude.

My head turns, divided by leanings pertinent in several ways at
Once. 

Clockwise = my 2nd turning flushing two or more rationals into  
Bobbing subheads. 

I’m fifteen. We can do the roundtable math rather well, yet not entirely. Free-range sunlight in the clerestory of our lair... where elements of bloodthirsty aplomb are obsessively off-key. Safety in timing carefully disguised as bright and furious, knowing the advantages waiting a beat.

I’ve good news in bed. (But) I’m getting ahead.

Can you clarify why? For what party in sleep?

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, and hard labor. Staying power we dread the most, having had your love — now... what’s a fair question? ...is there another, more thoughtful stage to live through?
Depends on you and me, always. Yet I find lifetime love is formally difficult and, o oops... I just heard others happy to die are on fire. 

Happy to die! — do we take their place?

Traffic turns reflect the city.

Making a turn, heads in the clouds is too liberal. Our head guards are up. I’ll keep going.

Why make so much of political origin or lab blue Audis here, only a few bird enthusiasts or their fragile ambiguity?

To respond is the payload we’ll steer home.

How do corollaries threaten an antecedant on so and so page?
There’s dumb honor mining homilies and off-color
stuff, imitating / replicating Dionysius for the evening drive.

“I heard talent, beauty, money come by their own right;
by your putting them to the test they take ‘full effect’.” 

We mean knowledge puts up with wandering, finding things out, 
Unleashing each gene —  
 
You enjoy yourself on weekends when abroad. 
Who’s sick over us and who questions any vulcanized backlash? 

No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless:  
 
The future would give more / no more 
Than thanks, laughably no thanks.  
 
I thought of you.

Top moment — I saw your approaching motion
my once satellite du monde in real vacuum.
Now you’re smiling, shhh — more observant, with a more observant love.

Still flush — yes, feels.. not useless..
It feels impossible.

Likely, that point becomes welcoming
hands that boss

parliament
maneuvers. Point taken. Explanation intact.

Sonnet 10: We lodge now (holding evidence of physics-oblivion) 
like headless pedagogues hammering out Bo Diddley —  
Sap repairing top figureheads top speed. The murder option more centered per theorem.  
 
Panning back fast to grant your audience your evident presence, the love you bear — as your beauty grew  
beloved of many. But tampering w/ these modern thought experiments.. you love no one? Not me or him?  

We think not. It’s a regulatory equation = hating him =  
ruining yourself feeding on non sequiturs as kind-hearted concepts (only a few 
repairable through nominal trivia and fresh paradox).  
 
For you change your mind repeatedly. Your changes of heart, so many — ruinously, murderously possessing English poetry so you can be taught .. (a disgrace — a conspiracy partaken in by such impassive numbers for centuries, all of us.. so many!)

Nice, brushed off the immense highway.
A moth / its one rule for flight is mostly uniform.

That is mostly a stmpede for a bolt out of cloth.
Never defined by dressage (quantum mechanics).

Wind angles down, shaken nice.
It was nice
That changed a lot.

The questions are mostly the same,
Em, I’ve misplaced em.

Sonnets are sizably ok —
Let’s get through
any ostentatious breakout from pensiveness.
Your lab door is open.

Lab animal overboard!
Freaked by what lunch with you
meant and does, you’re under whose
thumb? Handsome, on the other hand
your partial mind is a floating
weapon. That’s why this syntax
can relinquish human polarities
as sonnets set traps..

throbbing red traps, another the color azure, bright, digestible.
They just coincide.

I’m not afraid of showing the much simpler, formless inexact I wave and dissipate into highly animate raw munition. My hands are supposed to cohere in what I cull from hearsay. Raising one hand exudes only passion, which if you allow I agree with, with intertwined wilderness — raising two, an opportune misdeal.

57: I watch the clock. Being your slave, what can I do? 
I wasn’t just orphaned, I pursued other interests  
 
all at once. Time’s precious, 
save I feel and still show absence of move ment from inside,  
absence for hours — a sour dare to expend ...  
and to question my jealousy ...   
So it’s taken this long to read the gospel of wealth and service.  
I dare not think of desire diffused at any cost to render your mouth a world-without-end, a sobbing, precious mess.  
 
On the outside how happy you are ... are you? Tho this may be amiss, I think no ill. Adieu.

A note on aging.  
 
Smacked down by a coordinate from outer space,  
 
Keanu Reeves isn’t reckless, iniquitous or anatomically complex, 
though monotone to the gills like a slower yet more self-subtracted Rod Serling.  
 
We reach elements within erotic catalysts where touch management is unleashed. But Keanu is suddenly out of the diagram while the crew calm down. There’s a dual nature to visual depth that makes thought disappear, a bright pulling apart at the summitry of escape. 
What’s semiology? unless we undress affects to figure it out?  
 
(I don’t remember whose or how.)

Follow instructions.

We got in surrendering our fingerprints

humming to each making a windfall. We

toast anyone else reaching first grade


w/in one’s center, letting months and years slide.

This is a formlet of pathology — 
 
I’m doing ok 
standing in waves stinking of near-pleasure — 
a dream of immense peering through  
as if I were an action figure that couldn’t meet with your approval 
 

yet whose estheticism enlarges. 
 

Diagnosis is a mystery. For you.

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

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

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

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

At speech therapy you have wet marks under your shirt — there you go — sent, 
Slotted for long scream divisions raising heads and  
.. bright debate  
 
Drawing boundaries along dark areas of youthful propaganda. And ..  
Our dual-cosmos line of argument self-inflates as a weather injector, fouling the atmosphere into Beirut colors, pebble and pale lucent grays.  
 
At this point, colors burn up, each measurement raging over acres of matrices, giving more access to haystacks you call the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.

Captain your thoughts
then opt for a safety
school. Push shyness aside,
spiff up & sign the skee-ball of smog-
sniffing affirmations.
Regulate an embrace multi-nationally.
Es geshah am helichten Tag —

Never feel sorry for the diva
who has brains and eats
them.
Hypoxia — poor make us sick, The.

Stacked tonal asperations. 
Not a problem — for a relief pitcher staying blithe in the win column, changing into a tenebrae-stitched uniform, eco-conscious and cool in response to one’s frantic cells. 

95: Hidden pretext takes over. Your story, a bad-will report but a kind of praise, per the report, re: habitual wants, billing inquiries, etc.

What would be less fantastic? First, an enclosure of stainless vice. A full shelf of great non-privileged, lascivious plans.
Naming your name tells the story. The softest will lose. How sweet — you’re every blot and sin in one, preached against, but seldom commended against ill odds, for shame. One spots your pieces of sporting nonsense, hard beauty’s humanly tongue un-negated, but verbs regularized randomly, veiled, knifing one’s love out.. out..

The light (you’re sensing) 
failed every midterm before —
too on edge over invisible proofs. 

Income bulking from your dad’s 
condo? You move 
to become walled-in there ..

Check out the view — baby flights 
of gleamed birds in the rough .. 
enough! 
Enough is not idiomatic enough in condo years. 
Too much room freshener for today’s estimating: 
still, seeming seasonable as subterfuge supplants higher
dimensional hindsight, requiring autonomy to hold off. Dig in ..

Edens of chiastic inquiry .. into no word yet..
how yet even now no such word impedes coincidence in love.

When blood types were fresh no one faced blame. Now I am bleeding to see or set up the 1st position, be shown the dissolved needle and my as it were haystack with no frontiers, knocking the moment down with glances, nods, inspiring small talk.. yet keep it under wraps.

Deep-rooted. Soft-voiced. How now, my anapest.

Blame for his mockery — Orpheus thought a musician would deeply apprehend radiant, interactive forms (also defects, among a few variants) — soberly, his having liberally looked over ornaments of beauty, alert to surface details, part of his work week. It’s all hideously exciting if you’re fair, unstained and the sweetest. 

Justice for all is as the crow flies only made to look uncalculated, seeming so it’s said. Liberty with caution, minuscule, unexciting.. again. 

Sonnet 94: We can’t go on without thinking it over.
If I had had the foreground I’d be subsiding in attrition as it were,
I’d have heaven’s grace to weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken fewer notes I’d have less power to hurt
in expressing “you,” “me” & any unclenched feelings

which we can’t pinpoint or supplicate, my lord, husband...

But may I live & die if fair ever turn sour
or our summer fester rather than show summer flowers with no pitched provisos
& integers-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none.

Your immaculate body becomes numbers and detached frequencies.  
So “pronounce” it —  
 
That’s good.  
Now draw the strings. OK.  
— what do you know!  
Mayhem  goes off softly  
So hard to shovel, soft to fall  
White, rose, pale red —  
 
A roving shadow feeling like  
A thermometer — legends say,   
 
Crossing fingers blood standing’s  
More feeler than hand,   
 
So it shakes the nombril ray,  
 
A maneuver crest high just dimming the drowned thumb,  
A sculpture with a cup.

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

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

How the cosmos is unexplained, parts one and two. In the first, taxonomies are set in weathered deco, dimly lit by the affiliated overflow while astronomers stand there from a famous university with nothing to give back.

In the mental part, covert specialists use tightly wound diversions to gain advantage for incriminating thoughts. They march with different cause-ists and solons halfway; paternalism indulged through wisecracks. But most of the others, humanists, are reformed as divas or idiots stuck in the minority and they take the bullets; why? 

[We’ll be right back. ]

113: Replete with you,
I chose a rogue anime — you with failing vision in my mind,
unwatching birds, creatures.. even mountaineers.

True, since I left you I’ve gone partly blind, yet I tell my mind I see you day and night.
All untrue. Mostly.

Mostly my point is awfully slight — incapable of more, out and about, unkind
~ For leaving you, to my mind, seems effectually rude ~
Replete with you, even dove-forms and sea-crows pay you homage in my eye, as tho shaped by your outdoor manners.

A few, even the crudest, impart some of your features
and get noticed — but deliver no sweet part of you, true mind.

Of all the varied and fabulous pieces by new composers I wager many are bursting with personae — because of what they rock to, also because many exuding confidence have gotten past graduate school, one’s corporation, a ballooning investment. 
 
One of the donor’s places resembles a Marine outpost with sweeps of property edging a subdued headquarters.  
 
Here technology’s refined flux appears noncontroversial.  
At sundown a leftist French brain speaks up, confined to a balloon:  
“If you’re anamorphic, within measures of comprehension, flux members too often adopt overheated lingo or low-to-overheated if you like.”  
 
Other balloonists, also French, shrugged to themselves in red embers; not really, they said.

What comes of the heart’s marquetry?
A clay-toned physique returns to land 
Shedding light tints in reverse of rotating surf.

What comes of the heart’s marquetry?
A clay-toned physique returns to land 
Shedding light tints in reverse of rotating surf.

Stop waving that grape juice ...
That was sentries ago. Ever since
That inference never comes up when language gets tired.
Yet one’s eyes fill with manpower.

The climate showing my cards — a friend led me to one,
A sure bet ad infinitum.
He smiles with no doubts about my bluffing knowhow & innocence
... the rain keeps raising our minds’ oceanfront, bringing it all back.

28: Robbing the cradle, the big picture shows me my modest place. 
I’m technically adept dining in (or out) day by night and night by day —   
 
each of us like the other’s reigning enemy taking umbrage from grumpy distortion,  
fractured logic (Hex 39) and our combined morbidity.  
While I always flatter you in my long consents,  
daily, nightly I work on my music farther from you now,   
 
happy, long toil to stronger sorrows and griefs repurposed by your consent.. So both of us never sleep, exactly — I’m pleasing you thru me,
exactly, and vice versa.

Ode to the near dead (or maybe not yet).
A beautiful meal is a life sentence:
Everyone’s in place.
Food also knows where it belongs.

The stage could brighten.
But is it dark matter inhibiting our endowment?

Knowing the ropes to scale now
clearing the dining club of lame comforts,

Stern, all the food pecked over, even down
to our own place, last place, last row.

No variation. 
It had to be known to you v. you do know.
Already short of truth, analysis suggests shorthand abstractions,  
buckeye elements surround international topics, street names 
more indirect than searches show.  
 
It had to be known to you going blind.
Minor formalism otherwise holds the screen for the overweening moments, 
winning or won in an upset, out of control yet  
surrounding our aggression with our touch.  
 
Ouch.

Favorite singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to interminable sex.
Learned consensus becomes early performance; both adolescent in a persistent sense, the deep pitch shows up invisibly,

unspeakably, as libido constitutes knowledge modules, glistening aimlessly.

Candy will stop by later.

52: We’re in lock-up because of you.

Therefore we’re both scorekeepers. Ours.

I keep you among other stones of worth,
Blasted yet blessed occasions in ‘key’ to configure unfolding pleasure,
So we’re both rich, I hope, blunting your deceit for years...
The longer time it takes, seldom coming in one fine day —
Over time special instants so rare —

Until then, being had by you has been worth it as it were

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

The soul is a hypothesis, a sweet flying
iota of consciousness surfing terrestrial states,
this both to find and destroy itself.

We begged it to go faster and keep at it,
stick with a sublime subject or object, rally
for more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can buff it up perhaps you should.

Celebrity stalkers are in the grips of mistaken identity, immune to sudden desire with intimacy. What have they got to lose? 
Bags and bags of money for one, handed over to reflection in infinite battle with consciousness.  
As a result, the named oceans are dated,  
Pouting, getting better! When they come to — there will be perorations re-framing rainwater within fairer, democratic scents rimming sunlight in suspension, ripped, a lot off  
 
Amputated chutes!  

A lieutenant colonel. What a night. No problem
Expunging a storied narrative
That was normal, believable
Then
Waking up, sticky, stuffed-up nonphysical parts
Standing far off across no invitation to meet up,
Not even having hay fever as a backdrop — nothing
Hidden, nothing,
No chance forever.

Sonnet 105: We express idolatry as science. Fair, kind, true.

Amazing to meet you as well as science, two in one.



Amazing to touch your penumbra, feel influenced by funky themes, many songs.


I was pleased you communicated thru love.
Take care, and take your time;
likewise, inspire small talk between you

while keeping the sum under surveillance. You both look good put together.

You & he wonder about summer’s eternal
possessions, the buds, shade & one day
staying chaste .. It’s on the house. 
It feels great out ahead until there’s a threshold. 

By the same rule there’s too hot
a reliance on eye pleasure, a threshold as well as disaster 
Optimizing the center where death lives.

Which path did the photons take?
The answer takes more than studied ambiguity
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still.

Before the new rulers arrived, there’s flamenco.

Water worship, exquisitely handcrafted
meditation retributions.. It’s
no accident the hollow inside our pessimistic theory gets mixed up, a gossiper said —

our overlapping symbols’re way out at sea.

Our sea. Our flamenco in transition.

Our faith and consequences.

Ola Academy — 
It’s a big screen with no security or scalability, improvising anyway with a few of our shortfalls shown in the backdrop, a differential ambiguity that hangs over all ‘film’ business.  
 
Ghost anthems rise, fall. We’re dragged to the shortfalls’ outdoor awards ceremony tho, moist, so asleep.  
 
My own moments up for review leave both of us unseen. My gratitude, clouds of sleeping lovers in waiting — thanks — am waiting on more Henleys running out on the field. I well remember the Academy encouraged me to try wind surfing in their black and white zinc mesh uniform.  
 
Now, between reheasals, we must decide what blank is. Could I redefine it as a pleasant restraint calming my zealotry to diagram your happiness? Or let’s conceive of a spatial paradox with enough knightship transference restored, taunting the authentic equipoise of a kiss.. 

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

...a rare cigarette case, may I? A big desire looked after in coded forms and knots...
No thanks. Just piano and voice. Piano and your voice... Or let’s
Practice being still. (The high meal.) Inductions to other habits — hearing your breath,

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

The woven haze drags down sculptures of floppy appeal

Like light praise warmed over by spinning “Amens”

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

— my tongue tied crying, folding then into thoughts.

Bleating gulps, pouring vodka that swirls in an action film clip with multiple data fields and a crew of deft extras in malaise. Their theorems about pain are supported by one or another grabbing ropes, showing pain.

I’m told you’d prefer not to watch. It’s better using your own voice to ask a friend or two, pretending they are you, falling mute.

Second view, just a scent — of water and sunlight, of loss, of untitled confusion — underlies twisted (Have beaten)  and dropped topic headers (are brute).  Higher, I think, goes the max explorer. 

Hyper-manly references are scooped up from one segment of the sensate scale, motivated by an ambivert more than sexual need. Joe Ceravolo insists one follow along his line of reasoning (Supply it flowing out).That’s enforced by repetition at the end, “in this rice Spring.” Syntactical Photoshop gives the visual imagination warm(ed over) rice, in grief, and slushy leftovers of physical demands, audacious desire (Supply me), and inconceivable, hoped-for unfrozen spectacle (because there is in this rice Spring).  

Spectacle, desire — points of origin even slush ought not do without. When we find these, we know we’re closing in.

Beating rhythms in a voice for a glassy abyss of convoluted propaganda, repro-ed in fingered pigments. 

With brush and oils you can throw dirt over the charged ecology — easier to pick up, un-feed and dis-embrace after the climate forces change.  

Go on, as a corollary. Tell us about your reading in propositional aesthetics (debunked by snotty affiliates who you think are like you but aren’t). 

Jumping in, being with you seems mathematical, like having our best staff shifted or fired who come to work anyway. 

Sonnet 3: 
 
Now is time. Maybe 
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.

Failures in love are heinous, antique, never in 2 places enough needing permission, shuttered, untainted & bleak, drear & just dumb. 
Translations = ‘live serious & young’ ;
‘articles have been written ...’ = ‘long-lived, still this croaks’ ; 
‘snow falling backwards’ = up & up / course untainted ; 
 
‘the world of secrets is its own’ = dire patterns to succeeding circumstance. 

Bottoming out, your face is inside a very powerful camouflage (instructing you to use it). Your beauty and years.

There were balls of steam suspended in bacteria over our hands, discouraging others. (A boiling kettle contained prescriptions, it’s only a guess.) Better now if we not digress but file out a shade apart to trail the other copycats. 

At top the penis is everlovin-elastic to break one or more truths.

Heaven is in the heart with its egg drop of credos and documents, from which large scale dull instruments get tossed. Artificially not important.

It was nice meeting your ideas. I was reminded, poetry is science fiction or it is not. I just try for simultaneity as well.
 
 
In this one moonlight was made of lard. For it’s indispensable smearing glows.  
 

Often a partner in writing can be deliberately passive-aggressive. I’m kidding. By oneself, practice makes perfect, pell mell.  
 
What then travels down to Earth in a flummoxed packet of energy, wearing Burroughs’  
 
gestures which are precise. Bright monied eyes. 

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.

Affordable Noh. That’s both of us w/ big ways of explanation. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to spook w/ pedagogy when we meet, somersaulting in /

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

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

Inductions to your other habits —
The flying haze drags down sculptures of felted helium
A little like nerves of drones spinning in warm wind.

Noh stuff.

Collaborating on 1’s entrance essay: 1 firmly believes 1 can do this. 1 question is the same. 

Nothing will go wrong?  
 
Part 2: Question losses, excesses.*  
 
*The answer is the same. Next, 1 did 1’s homework, which was study more for a spelling bee.

Scorched & metallic, sexual dynamism... it’s a quarterback problem. What used to smoke will come back as an erotic v-neck of lurches off dotted lines missing your skin. Had 1 a next will? can 1 spare a smile of understanding?

Edens of chiastic inquiry .. into no 1 word yet  —
how yet no word prevents coincidence in love.

Our cause is edged with a distant buzz, intervention — you have the touch — tides by the book rotate out to here, the rim and pliant acreage in your hands. Emotions in gear, a snake tail in quiet we won’t notice until it eases into set phrases, foiled by moments of tact, awaiting a séance with us..

69: Kind eyes are deep deeds,   a small part of glamor all can see,   along with a backup watching you move   in tawny synthetic light.. daybreak.   We smile, neither laugh, extending our praise, looking into glamor farther than the eye..   Questions of where, when we’re all right in love.

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

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

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

Showing results for lives in disgrace: ‘You’re profane. Doing this, I offered. Just 
Report to duration centers for the rich for best pricing, unless  
Breaking in looks better. Go. Fees balanced. Good.’   
Then you told me borrowed methods will go further —   
Making money w/out reason is mass   
  
-ive. After.. surely if that’s the way we feel, there are vector   
Utilities for expressing uncritical value   
  
— national perfume! spritzed over your credit checks.

I personally maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic one more time.
The place is firmly democratized, sir. Beginning once seemed and was
interpenetration among important parallel scenery running this.

Today it’s ur-autumn & with these Q-tips I’m free to cut nothing off.
Not even a con anarchist.
Since this is still pre-season, thoughts wash over time —
For starters: Do you test, lease, defame to get the best?

& the answer in a day wherever that is if ...
Is it time or times?

Sonnet 26: My life is charged by your sweet respect. A merit so great
I don’t sleep much, but I'm given an exemption, I hope.
My thought is tottered, all naked but mostly fair. 

Dear you,

I send you this. Finer aspects are lacking for a good generalist’s conceit. I’m wanting words to show I am barely half a wit. My writing addresses itself deliberately to look made up, to look as if we need a hand skipping dinner, combing through jabs and moving high and low pressure points peeled back from getting our tenuous, jutting fingers into and under the interstate that brings us home.

I don’t think driving in my mind can be boasted of only moving from point to point but it’s great I don’t worry it gets easier, better.

Un-reproved, how I do love you.

’Recursive perception‘ — 
For your birthday (bleak as mine, too) I came straight from the agency. My best wishes welded to the dirty space in which I wrote “Potential as Pretext in Recursive Perception,” which seemed all I wanted to think of, equivocal, in crayola.

Angst was everything.

I personally maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic one more time.
The place is firmly democratized, sir. Beginning once seemed and was
interpenetration among important parallel scenery running this.

Today it’s ur-autumn & with these Q-tips I’m free to cut nothing off.
Not even a con anarchist.
Since this is still pre-season, thoughts wash over time —
For starters: Do you test, lease, defame to get the best?

& the answer in a day wherever that is if ...
Is it time or times?

To a lark, 
Like torsion in differential calc,  
your obliqueness shows up around access  
to ruling authority. It’s far off if you can’t say why.   
 
Your prefixed, scavenged opacity  
fills with sangfroid riches of dark matter,  
cloaking them with lark pedigrees.

I came for the invoices.

Ever notice? No one lives in that town.

Half-vegetarian, self-colliding fog drinks only from its disconnected, treasured demographic squandering energy.
We cannot mean erasure, remember.
Our nerve infused by regulatory propriety until we get up to dance founding paradox.

Name a landscape and give birth, rename it and you bestow an ecology of resonance and history.

We’ve heard enough.

This is strictly the governor’s business.

Sonnet 27: You’re wearing a scent of rosemary to bed looking on in darkness, looking down —
I’ve been here waiting for far updrafts to work over my mind —
my eyes open wide. I see you more clearly now.

Your shadow always makes night beautiful and an old face new.

Keep secrets of teleportation to float free.
Free momentarily. Here or there are volatility models according to script, vocalism in a sense. We’re beaming them and their feelings up with known and hidden risks — a fat chance shifting their weight brings on slimmer odds for recovery.

All or nothing, you’re on your own.

To figure out how you think about others’ poetry as you review and write about it is fairly stupid, except when you turn to invention techniques that are hallmarks of classical composition. To merge poetry and prose is against all the rules, and may be another procedural breakthrough, especially for those who have been disciplined to follow directions (and not get caught). Simple to say, but the review should be as interesting as the reviewed, without getting in the way. 

I’m for a more open openness with plenty of recreation.
(Humanist discourse is that indirect.) 

I’m also out on the deep end in my leftwing brain where consensus flies around like influenza. (Harder to stay immune now.) There’s a glow in my argumentation like an avalanche that drops acid over the cognitive machine age. 

107: Even tho you can’t concentrate, you’re in a balmy place, well,
A place I’ve never been before. You’re dreaming on things to come.
You look fresh. You have on your eyeliner again.
I like what you’re hoping to proclaim this time.

Down with tyrants, their crests and tombs.
No sad augurs, fewer uncertainties.

Suppose forfeiting doom, suppose
Peace with no death in a world wide with dreaming endlessly.

The focal point is an entity with many focuses halving them into foci. 
Isn’t that a calling?  
 
I’m filming pratfalls that seem hard to manage.  
 
Let me hold us in the dark... It’s a future perfect thought  
 
as your body keeps moving, clouds part, sotted with the urge to fit nothing in.  
 
That’s how being with you works asleep.  
 
               Slapstick.

Outdoors a muted rollcall gathered under offcolor archways, 
A hazard to all paper aircraft taking off.  
 
Um sure I guess.. Don’t know why we are in this automatic summation now or a few seconds from now after the transaction but before thinking about it, looking it over, with only a few elements incised to form solid bands reprieving vice versa.

Combustion and dust spores filling avenues between half truths.

We delete any plagiarism
— but up to now they have fewer words for it.
Fielding skepticism makes money harder to borrow. Clenching-tight,
I’m in another century where hoax passes for coming close.

Wigs pick up; driftwood gets epigrammatic, their upsides unrelated, pale,
immaculate. The sky has its style, subject for constant upkeep. It’s said.

Plying attention is a field call to valuing the future. And the future notices who attends.

But it does not impinge on the field.

I can’t make it. I’m staying in.
We can’t always gather this way but we do as we’ve done.
New wilderness tracing a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed, cuddling escalations in body movement, ledgers of age. The brilliant live on in one flarfy phrase, one word fudging abasement in confinement serving a purpose within supernumerary states of being (confined). 

151: Our berserk contact squeezes us into gentle shadows that are too numb to know what conscience is.

We learnt lightly, love is too young. Yet triumph in love is slathered over the poor, betrayed, cheated, even excluded. Axioms and other proofs are what we are deft w/. So the poor-excluded conscience doesn’t count? I can’t tell, I wouldn’t know. Who does?
When instrumentalists and the proud struck their alliance, you and I thought this is a gross prize although our ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspirations became more footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.

Once a Marxist, now I’m a Darwinian. 
To let cleverness exceed incident levels   
 
we had a taxonomic relationship.   
 
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax.   
 
Some wind, just above freezing, the cat’s tongue is puffy and disheveled.