“Here I use my shaken my voice..”

First on wrong, quaint, then drenched though slackened



Janus was proud to sponsor Janus 



shaking this neap vapor through no shadow weighed, no 



ten or more fears on slopes 


meeting above the steps coincided with their light. 


A high-clip to the final base



atmospherics, their blast patching the thaw 



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

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

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

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

46: Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand intangibles
like unforgettable elements
within sight, touching and holding the
moment, dividing it with
illusions of taking off for an un-
known, a mortal war
spinning or spun /ups/et, out of control yet
just outward parts of how our eyes impanel freedom and my rights
to your fair appearance, to your quests and thoughts, my inward heart.

At speech therapy you wear wet marks under your shirt — 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 New Jerusalem 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.

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

And I’m back in my vertigo seat, reading over and writing disciplined boilerplate, fond of mnemonics. Why worry over explanation?  
 
To explain is to run up against narrative: actually a proxy measurement, one affected by all other expressions of interest over future time.
As the future holds, I’m lying about the lies we’re telling.

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

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

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

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

A disheartening work pile supposes its completion. A muse speaks up, tho, in dialog enhancer
mode, increasing the volume a good amount.
We have to stop adjusting the margins for your meadow voice, 
for giving up missing your skin

...a good amount ...meaning?
That would be as far as I get
with you so solid a wonder, ending our aversion to near infinity.

Remember about now we compile devices with motives, in effect, soft flickers of syntax, rather than comments — good (half-)thoughts spidered into hind & arm pins and something more. Get to resolute joy nodes, a punching bag of well refined tricks, compressed — holding you in my super afterthoughts. 

Check the front seat glowing with our golden characters. In other manners, hold your breath. 

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

Bruise will be stopping by later or presently. 

79: How it may happen
On a byway, patrol lights 
— Security vans flow in aid. Further uphill 
Hauling “rays of virtue” — stolen beauty, yours.
You can afford it.

He rubbed your lips in his sweet travail.
Your position / your opinion count, an easy argument
Made worthier— he praises you, cheek to jowl. 
Then you hand it over to him & have your way — 

you thank him — &
Pay him what I owe.

I’m dating other cast members while I go thru systems
as in your own speech act II.

We’ve gone over this.
You look great in text, available when I promise not to rewrite.
Before I’m never to see you again of course there’s a way unfolding since the Enlightenment to take you out, shake you tamed,

Dart

Blackened windows:
We know we don’t know 
Facts are a marketplace,  
A rendezvous to encapsulate sleights of tongue.    
 
I’ll have sherry Pepsi. And just the sardines.   
I’m sorry this happened. I was going to stay   
from the moment we set the stage squinting within representation,   
getting some miles in, taking them on board, putting them in mind   
of a menial photorealism. 

Tensions were apparent.

Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to a co-op, wrapped in steam.

Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague exchange, like our national plebiscite ... maybe better to pump out to fog’s grasp?

43: There is your dead-of-night agreement to let me in. Iron clad. Like on 1st base at 1st touch.

Urgent, dizzy, all agreements come down to time on earth in earthy dreams, darkly bright, best seen darkly directed.

The more you put on earth, you know shadows, their colorations, shades are imperfect (un)seen, but blessed (more adhesive) and happy when I’m looking on with you.

It’s much clearer in light. Yes. That quick. This is a speaking animal heavily asleep, remembering regression —

all days are nights and nights bright days. All time’s up.

What’s curious? 
Casual dishonesty &
Engineered simplicity hold altho 
Taken whole:  
“Give in, stet it.”  
(There’s a new policy to highlight deletions.)  
I’m waving on stet’s behalf,  
Taken your lead. Word processing in Palatino sans 
All the time, staggering onto nonfiction.  
 
Tomorrow I  
Tap out more deletions, quote, I’ll forget to close —

Hardy fell into swelter in untamed aromas 
that led his black olive dogs to you, making clear    
 
He’s in a blouse, His blank stare =  
a blast furnace expending heathen disgust.   
 
Hardy pulls the curtains to reveal a narrow street, dog-permitted 
hauteur, tho, eastside where pet people pass by in walk-on roles.   
 
One doesn’t know any more  
if there are good times or not ahead of gunfire, murder, rotten prelimns, pr.

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

31: You remind me of lovers gone. A morning crew, weathermen
Waving arms over their hidden forecasts in endearing naked patterns —
This was their 1st stab at tantrics, due many now.
They merited love trophies — yours alone now, all yours.
You have all of mine,

My tears buried viewing you. They’re inside you,
Removed, disguised as glare hung from all-in loving you.

Holidays again. A violet mist.
This is prison.

(You have the evidence. Ugh!)

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

We drink to our mistakes.

I swear while we continue and travel further
Even as soiled oceans rewild deserts
All our props are dextrose contingent.
Or I was
Wondering about invention of the planets, sympathizing
With a numbers guru also a director here — one of them.
Often that’s a normal baritone and determinative section to sing:
Spencerian, stranded leaving war to the professionals.

The cosmos in Part 2 is unwilling to go far from the service corps in this heat. 

... you’re right.. your whole throat pivots from joking around a ringing of attention-grabbing hysteria.

The cosmos in Part 1 then is unexplained. 

In the mental part, covert specialists use tightly wound divergences in expression to gain advantage for incriminating thoughts. Their goal is to march with humanists halfway — paternalism indulged through wisecracks.
Inky smoke up next, releasing a genocidal collage of screens, like 
thinking in agitated waves, reproached, disappeared 
in drumming opinions and worst practices — 

Tho the corps we request will go off the board.

Sex is a sardonic comfort with a sober edge.
Time’s up. I have to guide this girl back to her tapestry, a big beldam of friend with a visual cortex attending what’s neat in the future, and she finds me attractive! At arm’s length..

There were dimensions an hour ago enabling 2 events in one plot we were both party to. Tenebrae, we said. Let’s return to the olfactory sketches, in which the cosmos is left unexplained. Constant and converted. Incandescent, then, our ardor comes back to choke human rockets like us, sidelined by a braided chord worn as her necklace, a burning space distinguished by diffuse vitality.

109: Mind and body worship seem vicarious, false of heart before conforming to a belief system to qualify. As for my soul, I’m with you, rose.
But I like meeting new people as well as having you — that would be progress, the sum of good times — not only when our exchange occurs with the preposterously good but also with frail kinds of blood, and others, the sum of us all, all my life changing loving you. Hoarse for weeks.

‘In a way’, he said, ‘nothing saved me until we ran the gauntlet —’

Condition blue. 
Ten or so 
barks kick it off, running 
over one ocean. 

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

To be objective and lack will. 
 

An incident unveiled as ambition.  
What are meta-resonators for but to effect command over and about objectives we’re uncertain or we don’t want to get that serious about / over? There’s nothing but an eyeblush of this over and about on the one day willpower seems a desperate measure, and in reckless hands.   
 
Feeling a depth charge covering your lips with some game, an un-despairing I can’t contain.

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

to breaching cultural ergonomics — all of it.

108: Admit you miss smoking, drinking boy.


You miss that first drag. Have you heard,

Taking other lovers you can become multilingual

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

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

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

What now to register?
Stop waving that grape drink.

You don’t even have to be interesting.
T hat doesn’t sound right.
Always repeat what appeals to you.

I’m captioning this Token Austerity, sleep-laden.

Copy-fitting is more profitable than deep discounts.
W e need to see everything before it’s retouched out.
This is a new policy to block deletions that go missing.

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.

Let’s feed the appetite that picks up from nature “to express things ... as they are when one sees them without remembering having looked at them.” Committed to formal blocking thru stagecraft, maintaining an indomitable temperament. All seniority evaporates as a text refuge where nature, our last line of offense, draws attention as an ironic condition, a peripheral attraction. 

Sonnet 3: 
 
Now is a long time.  
A fair image & posterity aren’t everything. Same for dying. Stop Pis cean disdain.
Face to face,
Mark self-love as no fond option. Unearned.
Yet thru clear windows, a firm face April will renew — another golden time taking form, 
Beguiling as light flows. “Could you be more specific, my 
Episteme?” April in its prime calls you, repairing you,  
Your ears, your face, lovely forms of golden April, fresh, remembered.

In text design every utterance is for sale.
For a long time now. I’m delighted in my forties and fifties. And after, I’m intensely relaxed, everything exposed as muggy air filled with puzzling results you can pin to your lapel like tendrils.
There’s a low threshold for unlimited text space and transfers, however.
It’s better when I wake up we’ve just landed.

Volumes in the sun sound great. I started at the top, what was there? I just stood, a little off, then a few rain forest elements incised to form solid bands connected to now-text or a-moment-from-now text. Also, it’s easy differentiating the two, but not for long.

Dear foundationalist,
I’m thinking of a color — no name.. an antsy-ness 
running everywhere that’s off — waiting for some big thanks 

there was nothing & then a voice  
went upstairs & locked the door. 

                               A voice with cavities.

Dear foundationalist,

You’ve been expelled for a month, next week.. experimenting with yourself.. 
leaving a sneezing grid with rectangular doors opening to violent sprinkles & irresolution...

Been reading about accelerating destruction in the Amazon. A chunk the size of Rhode Island or larger burns down yearly. This malpractice yields rich farmland that’s productive for about four or five years. After that, the soil turns into dust and sand. 
Carports for farmers, then, are an interim step. Dust when it rains becomes haze and steam, the color of moist illusion, a slow-growing crocker field property bordered by brush and gnarled cooling trees, bubble-like. 
 
You were in the settlement.  
We were sitting there.

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

You’re asking a lot.

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

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

I kiss the air. This.

To protect yourself from a wrong-headed (naïve) build-up and still call your portrait “transactional,” limit data to expedient production from self-contrived ideology. Bleed into history. Kindly avoid defining parts that are obscure or complex. 
Or maybe not. I admire a text of contradictions. By submerged glaciated valleys Neanderthals constructed runes in two rings of deliberately broken stalagmites, 400 per ring. 

An elegant sleight to impress their Icelandic hosts by workshopping them into volunteer flotation gear.

This sentence has not improved. It’s been set; 
for all appearances nothing lurid was due at signing.  
But I am confused, sin  
-ce claimant to the photogenic vitamin to stop bleeding  
is not a complete sentence, lacking some nouns, transitions, useless  
as a future maxim in dissent tho settling in  
in meaning in a way — like a raincoat of moods — no rain.  
There’s only my arrigato for your setting me up for your assent.

My statement is enclosed. 
I use two-way ideas, to scale.  
The scale keeps rubbing out features. I have no modesty issues, say, none detected, fewer and fewer policy goals.  
 
Soon we relaxed our balance to parry something (or perhaps 2 things) that once seemed clear enough, but not now, here we are...   
 
like 2 radical vapors... untitled moods.  
 
Speaking of "like," make your counter statement universal to upend a generalist like me.

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


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

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


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

Lived to breathe your epitaph? Or do I lie?

“Satan was seductive, motivating me to seek his darkness,
Pick up the guitar & write more songs...”

Talking Chimp squealed like a talking dog.

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

It’s probably a head cold. 
 
Unhappiness breeds from abundance. That’s about it.  
A common cold means at least a dozen things or more.  
An embedded satire about too much, just too much, and 

You know what I think?  
 
A physical being hears what one wants, has a fever and takes in a lot  
Guessing this was a sample.  
 
And service areas are where we drive satire home and choose.  
Our upper hand is no joke. Correction, our lassitude is.

In a mean (like now) perspective Mr Hyde reached for 
the moon. How is that helpful?  
With your brand one constant, you cut the rest off.   
 

It brought down the red curtain, with a curtain rod staff.   
 


Having it, you hobble   
 

Away like a name dropper.   
 
Emotions where they don’t belong.  
Blues by Corelli.

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

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

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

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

Without counsel, full consent is a slog. 
You trust yourself by age 600 — satisfied  
Euclidean space holds the blueprints to make home ec more efficient.   
 
That was before you were reborn or uninvented.   
 
Lack of novelty set in. You had no modesty issues.  
You have none now, none detected, and fewer and fewer policy goals.  
You change your shirt, put your weight behind an outline (a study)  
— on one on one galvanized love that escalates knowledge — utter   
 
Formalities therein document the self-styled mind’s eye,
so fine a point kept on balance / in suspense —

An artisan’s voice drones on — if 
allowed. Read the outpost inspection. To continue,  
there’s asymmetry in her blowing glass. Especially when it rains.   
 
Glass takes finial shapes leaning more, only to peel off  
solving the perfection problem, but not remorse.

One of corporate’s donor’s places resembles a Marine camp with sweeps of property edging a subdued enclave.  I’m thinking beyond this camp, of all the varied and fabulous pieces by new pianists I wager they are bursting with Euro personae — because of what they rock to, also because many exuding confidence have gotten past graduate school, a sister corporation, a breakthru investment in the company.

116: One’s {most-
ly random swagger looks on the edge of marriage as a catch-all to crush self worth — tho unknown to
one’s } naysayers: The nays encourage sampling —
Never coerced by an alteration of stars or human forms, fixed on this trademark: Love is not love;

No one, nothing concentrates like our love in doom. I’ll believe you more as I’m a fool, never loved or unloved...

But let me take our partial love’s temperature — your true will bears this out —

What are we fixing up, hitting a few heights in only a few weeks, but only for brief hours as naysayers find softer, more musical alterations. Marriage? Alteration? None for us...

Love is no half-way fool. Love goes off the boards like water lilies kicking off their boots, women coming to rule. Snipers crouch, removing

Edge to their lips and cheeks.

A dead friend had helped me collect house tropes. Am I nervous?
It’s a fashion wife swap. The house is

scented with a feeling that’s recreational and someone’s fave.
So no, not nervous. Back to you, friend —

Impersonators write in that fraught cycle of ceaseless panic.
Not yours, happily. Ma'am Verbose.

We fail to clarify after political glamor there’s poli rant along with new protocol (old manners) watched over, even policed nightly — many topics in mind so a few words take on character, a wince, a tilt of hat.

Current government gives a glimpse into events shaping war or “The Owl and the Nightingale.”

The passive voice was made for you to prove your anger; propositional semantics =

key [snap] decisions, arguments, further jibes, shaming within a sub-class of invective, a face-off to persuade waverers; Julius Caesar, Juliet, “Much Ado About Nothing,” “Battle of Maldon,” where Saxon to Welsh sat on decline benches, threw slurs across the Blackwater banks, add flytings of Skalds of Old Norse in Simone’s Droplaugarsona Saga, as well as the Scot Dunbar et al, “Montgomerie et Polmart,” plus vomitous insult at one another from Middle Normans freezing progress for the Republic of the Nightingale.

It’s closeness ahead shaped by time gone just like that.

Sweeping reductions were next. 
One pleasure then is borrowing sentences to cut our rent.   
 
The previous owner told us to cut it all off, upfront gave us cash  
and that led to holding our share of a volatile   
 
augmented beyond constraint, driven  
by the smallest shift in feeling you all over me thru the core.   
 
I never use that word now.

23: My agent is in a rage. Imperfect
actor whose shortcomings balloon in ‘harmony’ & use. 

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

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

your clear refinement where character offers libation, a rite
to love you, and I act on my own so to speak —
Speak from your eyes so I can call for love. Can you hear me now?

As assassins we do not impinge on feeling fine /

10 gallons of the Hirsch, please,
W/ the canonical crescent tartelette, ah..
A pipeline of death operates far across everyone’s casual monotones.
Everyone’s direction shifts as one’s nervous system distorts

Changes in emergent systems over time..

‘We never make judgments about people we shoot.’

Falsehood is an actuarial stat in a more subjective state, a quality of embelishment in progress, not an elevation or height. 

This is a true/false dance question. Fibber Perseus v radium Dana (his mom). Which are ya? 
In one draft you as Perseus can usher in big futures, taller mouthpieces enter the salon rolled ‘into’ burbles [picollo, B flat major], Dana’s tendencious pedestrians, 1st- or 2nd-years, tall but sweating lead colors. 

Dana can’t help smothering her loved ones. Varied birds are mute.

Starts out as an immaterial change 
in orientation before we hail it in a book.  This
 
we fill in with letters twisting dirty words around closed circles.  
It’s raw data for symbol systems inside the purer alphabets  
helping us speak to other books & spreadsheets about sub-content  
& meta summaries in even newer physics w/ fresher markings.  
 
A steel door stays open. Here are the last letters of bliss.  
We best defer to the sharpest models to differentiate ranges. 
Deep blues, silvers in biological shades to form vowels;  
 
consonants have already taken shape from German models.  
 
This organizes 5 minutes infinitely without saying bless your heart.

68: Flowers shorn off bowers, what beauty was —
I’m losing my head over you
as if I’ll inhabit my death head before you die or show up dead to you, now, no way alive..
‘Without all ornament,’ I stay abreast, knowing whether nature’s
bastard signs are still vital, not recreational, charting a map of nature’s full store.
As if before golden tresses Arvo Pärt re-appears chafing: making summer of green, of flowers, reborn from a second
life — oblique as the antique you ‘of yore’— now I myself, an auditor truly in attrition, missing both Pärt and you, composing as tho I am no way before or after you, both of us alive.
Your beauty living and new to me.. a second life, new as roses, as ‘a second head..’

Geometry respects the brain..
somebody wants a piggyback...

Preliminary talk we said,
knowing I’m growing

expensive — I just drove all the way
from Hawaii. That proves I
can smooth your hair then comb
your cheeks, your temperature would

lift
lighting up my senses

just before you shave. I’m
noting your chin juts into form —

It’s deeper, more formal than that,
a perfect animal halo front to back.

The drizzle stepping over water, balloons floating
In a once swimming pool.. spurts of views down
Hallways of stairs set apart and fronted
With music waking in dimming brightness
Without memory of how you got there, you.

We have 9 pm poems and 4 am. Ever notice? 
I’m staying cool with it like a statistician.  
When information is relevant to sanctioned policy, communication goes private.  
Like now when decisions should be centralized within a single metaphor, along with good caffeine.  
No personalities, please, only one writer / editor apiece
left standing in rain assuming the sun is still out,  
nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual waiting. 

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.

Waves (all the best of them) beat my eyes off. Don’t care, I still can see and lie about what I believe is fact, clinging to both structured improvisation that takes a volume of time, only it’s a civil leave now coming back to bone substance.

Like The Inferno and Nerves and every shined thing since, we are collectively involved engineering the tide of speech desire.

One doesn’t know any more
or if there are good times ahead of war.

Marriage makes me horror-struck 
 
Aghast in wake of our previous melancholy. 
Blindfolded angels thinking in the past —  
All mute waving back  
 

Protecting us from our known pasts and predicates,   
 

Taking on more physical pain, taking many more onboard, putting them   
 

In mind of us affiliates, at last.

A monk asks,   
 
This is why I hate you   
 
and keep loving you under wraps?  
Take care, and take more time. Acts of omission are presorted, so they are numbing, so like fixating on someone’s shoes. You can do this, feel free, cadet. But don’t expect to fill mine in my avoidance of frontiers, rejecting anarchism. 
These were the funniest jokes, you know, the baldest too. I don’t remember laughing so much. Ever. And I can’t recall being as excited as I am.  
 
Total ThankYou Member.

111: Before I turn into another cure of yours, yours for my sake, i.e., I assure you a corrective hand long ago took away anything too crafty in my nature... I am more receptive to work now and subdued from harm.. at last ah! nothing bitter, I’m your willing patient (almost). Fortunes, manners, means, everything doubly correct, far and away subdued. Pity in that sense our infections and bad deeds, guilt, nothing else — the die cast.

We are a color of cunnilingus. I noticed, though, you and I applied for pharmaceutical assistance, an oscillation gelatin called Sparkling Affront.
Nothing was more or less than arabesque, forgetting our place in the secret order of failure. We once left a lavish record of the male-female hush from hand to fingers to mouth: in epic hock to our hips. 

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

An obtainable conspiracy, perhaps, surely no hoax.

What does it mean to work? I don’t know that either. What I know is how to belong, stake out territory and bust heads, maintaining an atmosphere of trust.

We can demolish only one artificiality  
At a time. Not a toy, not you, not me. It’s an example of enterprise.  
One doesn’t love you or me. One loves what we do.  
One’s a learner but more a skater lover. We intervene only once. 
Remember, all our troubles disappear.  
You’re almost naked. You’re my business.  
 
There is no circling the rink, tho.  
No complaints or sworn declarations,   
No closure nor irresolution —  
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;  
We’ve lost your 名刺 and your 名前.

53: A substance note:
Suspend suspension of all illusion — 

All kinds of nebulae. Curved and hollowed. 

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

You appear in every august shape we know.

The status quo models verse as living matter re-involved with impulsive energy coursing around flecks of ideas, 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.

Yes, I’ve recently incorporated; makes me feel, yes! you are more melted into tomorrow’s borrowing from high, mighty simplicity. As a killer leaves a traceable pattern to teach reform, (s)he pushes a path open. 
 
Pull it together, a life that’s sustainable you can just make up. (You are under no obligation.) This is a real company. We call her Cathy.  
But this has nothing to do with  
walking on or burning more calories.  
‘Mountains feel empty’ / they’re  
rude − here is where which card you play helps.  
 
And there you go, retreating to that panoptic middle ground where you disavow some 10 variations. We still have to take part in our landing, staying cool to outlast time. Then, it’s tomorrow.

I drink to downsizing false negatives
off soulful atmospheres of displeasure
then falling back and breathing while your
rescuers get authenticated.
“Great I’ll hold...”
2 out of 2 observers were cut off. Pretty please on a wet
highway.

And during the break we plunged into a new arrangement.

It’s forbidden to talk now. It could be ethics,
since authenticity acts against self interest.

Stealthy climaxes based on nothing.
Claymation teeth marks leave an elegiac scent.

19: Innocence evokes nighttime devouring day, burning like a lion’s hummingbird when lions can play with fire — or even phoenixes plucking keen teeth from a tiger’s jaw if you allow.
Taping together both your hands.
Adding grease-pencil trompe l’oeil anywhere. Please.
Innocence is guilt among a heinous group. Those sorry on earth devouring their own brood, against beauty’s pattern but with beaucoup success.

Others who stay young, untainted and long lived, you’ve all gone wrong. I forbid it but I hope you’re happy.

A fond prayer as the rain falls.

Your eyes are dark dreamy and 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 dark 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.

Mind control is a big order of alter-egos, disingenuous.
Can you place our names? A crux?
Destroy and smooth nothing.
Pantomime killing seeing
the system.
Make my mind avoid our bohemia.

Let’s knock off a masterplan for truth value, of much wider scope.

You know, I once had an idea today was over. I forgot, man. Over & over.
And this is what it means to have a muse.

Classics are for romantics like the Raveonettes.

I digress: y+z (1-x) is a blind patch of petit point. Kissing is sick. It’s bad for you but wasn’t as destructive as the filching of imitation.
Anyway, kissing where you are is so blatantly filled with what èlan spreads everywhere completely negating its purpose.

So why does it get processed in your eyes through history?
Maybe I’m a critic who’s decided to blab about all the wealth we have coming.

14: In my judgment
what little I know of truth and beauty comes thru your eyes.
Except not tonight without you: Newer urgencies
for starry prognosticators pointing thru rain and wind,
pointing to each other, so exposed they feign ignorance, aimlessly...

And yet bad luck too when their lightning rod flashes while, lightly,
its chemical spark thrives for a second more then returns to stars —
doomed like cognitive coloration, brief astronomy, all matter.

I drink to downsizing false negatives
off soulful atmospheres of displeasure
then falling back and breathing while your
rescuers get authenticated.

Everything I do is sin. One after another, piling up.
Yet the nuclear self lingers thru the year, that fellow (and a fan, even now).
We grow. “Absolutely.” Them.

Nothing’s more authentic than having unadorned communal assent.
You’re holding me, middle of a welding
Machine-of-light, until our vertebrae burn. We grow. Them.

Experience is impulsive, according to unrigorous physics out-evolving pretexts for no plausibility in the future of the past.   

No such writing experience for gaining access only to weather bombs in a manifold vacuum. Algorithms      

Would take you on and over and winning, and willing to keep or junk your composition.      

Algorithms are that vicarious. I thought no way, no ultimatums to rephrase, no immoral aspirations — nothing but work slathered with work!

54: You’re back!

Truth is, we cave wantonly to your lovely odor (fairer in our forgetfulness).
O wooed rose!
Before they were living within you — and like you — perfumes were of dark matter, unmasked buds that distill a civilizing beauty far ahead of summer’s space

Filling our eyes with sustained disassociation.

We’re fidgeting to mind our semiotic manners,
lit by mid-lunch clarity, sporting, Floridian...
an enclosure with no pulpit, without dogma...

spreading out in willful overloads of language design,

Skilled decor. De-simplified or notional contracts
in contretemps between science and who knew?
ironic technologies with no precedent...
a corporate hold across a matrix of manners and adaptations, restrained praxis and hermetic syntax.

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, feelings. They’ll come back like hindsight for the blind in the dark. 

It’s agreeable finally to shake physics’ hand covering our breathing. Geo-theories are of a blind nature as well as hypotheses. Today, every day open censorship is tangential to being here, right over here, filtered, unfiltered but as long as it takes.

Our alienation has been recorded and jocularly shelved. For more cloying effects, I think one sprig is picking up and the driftwood looks epigrammatic, the downside unrelated, pale, immaculate. I’ll cut you off a side of a subplant.



I’m not about to let you starve. Marry me.


[Shifting back to pre-friends mode...]

97: Before apologizing, pre pre-winter was fantastic, like late summer for wanton beginners, a civilizing pleasure messing up eternal categories, removed by you. Your absence now finds me in this waiting room (decoherence), sharing libations that support how I keep searching my introversion. & speaking of the pure land, it’s freezing. Barely recognize the place.

You don’t understand until I do.
The if-movement (aspirations) can be thought
A saga you (any of us) can pump off & on — so on

-Coming, coming clean is another part of closeness.
Later, new police!
[old paranoia]

What can be done about a bore? I register nothing. Never again? 
 
Boredom is poor experiment, both our supervisors said. And that’s what we wrote down to snap out of it — lightness, joy, eyes-open dream. And 3rd cousin to dream: Knower and known are clean osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the suitably flared zoological frontier.  
 
Time I guess to air-lift my foolish eagerness and cover it with worn sandals and a Swiss Army knife. I might think I’ve been a floater of cynicism in relation to any concept I sever. (It’s hard for me to take credit.) “It’s always about dying,”  
Btw, it’s “never death.”

I consider head scratchers boredom managers. They hold genetic information but don’t understand that much. Much skips a generation.

It’s spooky rhyme but it wasn’t my first 

choice; the machine flunked me — burst my thought under a stretch in space sitting here, smelling of teamwork. Tho it restored one’s faith in any bonus, shod of prowess, smoking in slacks (touching my two knees behind your back), undressing. Exercises for us civilians become habits we can’t keep up for more than an hour yet the revenge police are baffled. Even on their day off from their advisory team.

Sonnet 93:

Better to live more as love may near
— supposing I’m in many ways a deceived husband. So?

A coterie of enablers cooperates fully. For both of us,
a love interest is altered to look calculated.

For there can be no hatred in our eyes.
Tho, facing true love, the early light seems to
Urge us to go out, rehearsetoo much and get wasted, frowning, growing moody —
Eve’s apple was Adam? One love’s face? Or another’s? You and I cannot know.

What have we if our heart is in another place?

At least our calls’re in the area... 
‘holding each other open’ formatting our interpretive devices to 
moan for the surface. 

There may be many areas...

Our politics are criminal. 
I’m going to try and get around this  
(the way it is).  
 
I’m going to take my inside voice  
...over here I have news to  
twist in cold leafy acreage.  
‘Come here, get out of here..  
I’m out of here..’ other poll data  
. . Out and out of mind, I guess —  
 
That’s how we want it.  
Absolute vice concerns phrasal pyrotechnics,  
no progress.

I weigh your music.
Bang you’re dead:

Average self-guilt along with bland lucky
tones, a problem. No gist, a tone too popular.
So relax thine form here,
Berlioz.

Everything dark-accented inflates 3
dimensions into an immense drizzle of forms A.

The formless, unequal in luck float already.
I hope you’re at peace.

48: One only care, a trifle..

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

Your ams tho a treasure you left as prey
For tomorrow’s falsehoods before the stealing starts.
But you thirst for it all, all arms.
I feel you in my breast, my dear care — you and I play a
Thievish long shot in comfort for a true prize: our pleasure
Outlasts grief over how we come and go.

Skepticism is boosted by metonyms. 

Ever since, one’s intellect seeks damages. Time to boost actual ideas.

There’s not one left from an emergent zone for lack of despair. 
Nothing.. even huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy from institutional fictive icons. 

These icons I believe can’t predict what we’ll face when they take over — hard winds! and there aren’t enough white flags going around to

delete utterances filling our balloons. 

Bathing in wishful enjambement, naked duty —
and ‘worth the trouble’ — called out in a tremblor voice to children who blur the terrain,
a patterned enclosure: our caller, composer, shouts,

Let’s search for reason in nature’s chaos...
No one belts out a coda like this, pulsating — it’s wonderful.

A rationalized miracle.

Feeling cornered. Blue moon as it were.
The music seems headstrong.

Everything we light on is structure for writing ..
And light always exchanges positions. Thank you.
Your mellowness operates a transferrable mind.
That line raises a lark, also structure.

Rules write themselves from .. Me? I’m
Immersed watching the light.

Then a synthetic stint, a few light chunks going someplace where
The senses look futuristic in the right light, and so a constant.

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

Are you healthy enough for perfection in a gridded environment?  That’s a track question.
A motive for our dialog, other expectations while class struggle gets slippery. 
Or peach-dreamy, subverting history. The poster says democracy 
But reading it in a fixed scheme subverts federalist imminence. 

Past is no guarantee of future thrum and hardly rumble, hey and whoa, how
awful, how much are you exercising to circumvent compulsory
nonprecious cargo between obsessions ..
with a smear of wet mulched chickpeas? I can’t get into specifics,
because it’s too nonverbal a compromise.
I know I’m next, flapping my arms in front of me.

And I’m afraid of being abducted.

At the top it’s shrew pink and all mapped. So I’m ready.

We leveraged the social papyrus to miss you.
How long have you planted thoughts with no gender balance?
I agree. To be reviewed is to be published.
Shit. Ahem.

Teaching can’t be taught.

Well, 2 out of 3.

I hardly know you. And will never know you. I’ll give you a call.

104: You’re fair doing this, my friend. And.
I saw both of us stop dials, and set the pace, again. Fear, danger, for both of us,

you or I may get burnt, turning to seasonal
purebreds, to fresher figures, fairer times and hot pricing, unless

your turning toward deception even when envy sounds better.
If not, burn for me, friend. Hues balance in your green motions, ever

since I was shaken by sunken pride blowing out your eyes.
I feel I have seen your figure before you were born.

Perfumes of April so stand as axioms of June — seen with pride
you’ve already processed.. stolen for future use.

You turn summer into spring’s first guided
tour — such a future can never be old, never overdone.

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 TG

Let’s not. I defy you.  
 
Empiricists map people for amoral purposes, we know.. backing it up w/ inexactitude ’n caprice.   
I will follow conventional physics.   
 
I’ll focus on pure benefits that accrue in the future. Newer inconsistencies never grasp for governance of the governed! Wouldn’t you know older ones show up in an infinite series for each day’s standardized essay test. (Or from another angle they are the series, livin’ history over, as we hear.) As you were.    

(The Chief of Staff thus pled.   
Suspiciously correct.)

I may have torn thru your text (torn only thru my mind — you
still backstroke and float around in my semen).
O ouch. I’m not sorry.
This is my first try in four dimensions.

There were more debris balls thrown so we ordered an atemporal zone of grace — w/ the emancipatory norm of curiosity —

Set it to limitless, w/ its winners & losers, a humanist quiz.

30: Losses restored?
Often there’s a new thought of a precious friend — I think of you — the words we had or not— all our words forewent consequences. Our moaning sessions went bad as in woe like grief, since we know sweet woe summons up grieving remembrance of things past — wastes of time.

Yet I take liberties wailing now… I have a dream of fair housing: Free-range light and dark in the clerestory to our lair... where sorrows end. Some of us are going there after work. My treat. Would you like to come?

Not a koan
(how could

it
be?)

— Religious type, agnostic,
both listened to reason while a temple friend sliced
off one of his nipples. It was the middle way,
enlightenment so simplified, you can spell it out.
Crooks from microclimates climb over fog. Over ravines. Knower and the known, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

A sweet industrial morsel went for all 3 doors assuming no threshold ahead where materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no interruption.

These could be and not so

as Buddha and Buddhists are only two disparities.

Getting on with creative hustle, stealth
Forces in bent silhouette disappear on Diane
Street, filling in with mind-assistants, theorists of a visual culture
Wholly populated with sulkers. XXX multi-blends.

Major mist killed most of them off before we could get a look — its operation
Never meant more than feel-good-ok applied to drug events. Amended
One-line phobias scrawled with shock talk. Alpha-One
Cement Beginner Course. Heifers of Suffering. Toy Budding. On

One hand we gave drugs up because of high fealty to fitness regimens
And wedging taxes; on the other, because it got too crowded. Then
Very warm. Am I allowed to go on? Quacks toiled for meme growths
Bringing breathing back up from the deep — smiling for their health.

Forever all night. 
Look around, what’s background?   
Barely perceptible lightning over fog. 
Homology and prudence. Peck v immolation. 
No questions asked, we work the lower jaw 
for the same carbons to put this together for refuge.     
 
Meanwhile nothing came up.    
 
You’ll need a new camping saw and hood scoop.   
I’ll invade your space then leave later,   
lately not feeling calm over you but crazy.

30: Losses restored?
Often there’s a new thought of a precious friend — I think of you — the words we had or not— all our words forewent consequences. Our moaning sessions went bad as in woe like grief, since we know sweet woe summons up grieving remembrance of things past — wastes of time.

Yet I take liberties wailing now… I have a dream of fair housing: Free-range light and dark in the clerestory to our lair... where sorrows end. Some of us are going there after work. My treat. Would you like to come?

Our position is to find breathing room, enough so we can start over.
Whom will we discover?

I’m in no hurry. A life is ..
Ten hut. What service were you in?
Bankruptcy.

Let’s now prescribe an observance of justice
for each game, for any obvious bravery.

Let’s is an imperative like vote for someone or punch me.

A magnificent evening can be given to loosen persistent counter thought.
This or any separation we call birth of the blues out of naïveté, shyness,

meaning frame and ligaments hold little feeling, resourceless.
Little feeling is not sad. One votes sadly.

Leave everything : down, self.
Prune, leave less and some more:
our final night still external, vanished cloud
odor..

Leave everything :
while we go uprooting.

I have to take you —
months & years
with the slow ones.

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.

Before I turn into another parabola of you, yours, I should take myself out and stay out, crabbed, hesitant to set off emotion that might fail. There’re signs you just want to cry — and it’s not a bad smell, just sad or a bit wifty from dimness when I wake up. It all goes well. You and I take off, tho. One by one. Reasons are weather related, paleness this morning and a similar wash of fog coming back, violaceous air offshore yesterday, the day before. Winds shifted and I barely pertain, and why should I? It would be contradictory and limitlessly impolite to insist we’ve won in a runoff of longing and gratitude. That you and I are taking time to sift through (even the slightest) parts here would be one datum of coincident poses. I cherish your transitioning to mine, bringing it up to me often yet I can’t presume what we can’t express, foundering and tongue-tied, handing our fortune over to the 1st letters of the alphabet. You want back in — me too. Keep in touch.

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 some plywood-dream-and-particulates object flown in time (w/ fewer and fewer true intrigues).

There’s much history.

Shadow sensory awareness, a chosen medium.

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

for their audience, saboteurs, merely.

How could I be so dumb in bed; what a question. 
You’re the matter at hand.  
 
There are subtitles, various languages. We can stay awake and translate the exposed back-meaning of another dreaming.  
Nothing accrues but there’s a lifetime of waking thoughts.  
I’m taking you taking this from your back to the throat. (You would ask.)   
 
Sleeping has nothing to do with nothing. 
It’s interim behavior.  
You can exit the room at any point, burning, or add features to growth nodes, as in rote ed like foundational philosophy.

59: Sonnets are ok, nothing new — going backwards here — 
 
Let’s vote Labour —  
an ostentatious luncheon in ‘old world’ pensiveness,  
beguiling etiquitte, self-admiring praise.  
I might say more, fool my brain, the one mended by you and your composed image but
I stay in character.  
 
More sure — we’re easily freaked by what antique words 
dig up and how re-inventions are composed, still we have to keep our wits about us
— looking back under whose  
 
thumb? And am I yours?

We can blame fiery beaks

stemming out looking for blood, ruining our nails.

A headboard with no utility other than hooks.

Can we cut to the knowledge creation part?
And a chorus is plural en scene where our fiction holds.

I was born with Euro-spite. After success as a child, I interpreted leers in two layers of sleep relief, speaking for us both.

Alien favors percolate if you diet and exercise while relationships are budding frontiers. We want a space made up of excellence in the air between unruly manes and confabs with bookies (publishers). We’ll keep a moth-hole sweater or two as foils to new financial identities.
Are you healthy enough for perfection in this gridded environment? 
That’s a keeping track question.
A stencil of our dialog frames many other expectations while class struggle gets slippery. 
Or peach-dreamy, subverting history. The poster says democracy 
But reading it in an unfixed scheme subverts federalist imminence. 

My optimum thesis is not close to the middle or either end,  
Leaving me in further states of redefinition. 
 
This introduces the cult of the squish factor. (My  
Luggage did this to me.)

Sonnet 40:

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

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

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

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

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

I had this idea. No traceable identity. 
Not like gogo boots or a crucifix or ...  
longer eyelashes to bring your pupils out.   
 
We have a cigarette for the beach.  
What do you think of smoking?   
 
No, I don’t think I’ve seen anything like this before.  
That’s why I slept so poorly last night.   
 
For if I tell you, you’ll say  
I’m making a big deal out of nothing.   
 
You know I’m two-faced. What? Nothing. All right...   
 
We can make the poem mute. If it doesn’t  
speak, we don’t have to pay it as much.  
 
A wordless deaf-mute. What could  
be more what you are?

I gave you what I have.
In this my life had some internet.

Earth pulverized, closer to dead. And now you’re
On earth, no better with emotion than I.
A song remains where the consecrated was due
This. This

For an atom = A head turn divided by meanings pertinent lots of ways
At once. Your


Continence is still material. Now
With subheads.

Any non empirical approach compels outsourced argument.

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

efficacy for streamlined intake. Soak up the view.

Black and white French films of the 1950s —
A spiral staircase was a happiness problem, withdrawn on a formality,

Noted on snare drums.
Highly camouflaged from the past.
Going forward (in French), merciless itch, what’s the entry for time travel?
Solving for the passing

Of cities, thought past us, 2 years before
Messing with you. A fantasy sport.

39: Singing in your absence, thoughts on love hint of sour leisure and torment. To live in deception seemed brilliant manners not that far back, before today. Thought of deceit is pointedly, still alive.
One difference, greater division of labor as you sing — you’re the better part of me, covering my voice — I’ll be obliquely praising you when praising me.

Even divided we stay the same. We live with others, thinking back to our love. This ends as separation. I dream w/ you alone.. while you sing.

Freakonomics in a Trump-era post-world, driving toward departure from what is present in the original meanings of experience.