A cynical swarm steps over and above battle monotones. Our direction shifts as our nervous systems distort exchanges in love so long as the sexes are divided. I’m so a wielder of a goaded identity. But if you or I decry how compromised I am, we miss the point, generally.



Time to release the affinity shapes. I think I’ll stop before that.

(On the other hand, I get kind of overstimulated by bland generalizations .. I wouldn't know how to come down on many everyday issues with start-stop disputes.)

There is nothing but an emergent zone of autonomy to find a prosthetic like lack of despair. Big except. Except when you think it over.

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

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

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

At arm’s length.. There were dimensions an hour ago enabling 2 events in one plot we’re part of. Tenebrae, we said. Let’s return to the olfactory sketches, in which the cosmos is left and right, unexplained. Constant and converted. Incandescent, then, our ardor comes back to choke a human rocket sidelined by a braid worn as Lars’ necklace, a burning space distinguished by diffuse vitality. What about Lars? We didn’t kill him.

You may have noticed I write over your face, a kind of praise,
fuzzy & lovely fragrance of roses, choosing you out
of many then forwarding you as backdrop for my dear heart’s old face 
We reach some element (full sail) within the (verse) set where perfect
touch is unleashed, and by either/or the scenery is
suddenly beyond diagram while the crew calms down. It’s approaching nightfall.
There’s a dual nature of ghost anonymity that makes what’s inside us
disappear, a bright pulling apart at the summitry of our escape.

Either/or? My/your silence cheats at hearts —
unless we’re in love to win over sparkle to figure it out?

16: It’s hard to do a mock-up & care. One idea for you, keep giving yourself away.

You have no better nor sweeter skill than to fortify my grasp and rhyme-on on me.
Girlfriends, boys, gardeners, all “outward fair,”
Nothing less! No less and still another idea for you. Only a wish.

To have you stand on top of a flowering garden, happy, alive in the eyes of those living now .. only an outward idea, yet unset.

I can’t tell you I don’t care.

There’s too much junk in triangles. (Composers have to know this.)
That’s how I got to live alone anticipating mind control as
disingenuous. As

my own job composer I got a full canoe of alter-egos,
asides, and decorative indeterminacy.

Love memorials are cool if they’re your own.

The smitten dissipate swarming with pleasant memories.

Condition blue.
Ten or so
gulls kick it off, running
over bass.

Ripping in mean
swimmer’s blue,
in a competing mesne,
inseparable in another, a gnarly magenta
more down surf, startling
partisan swaps
That swell
the color skit among removed strata.

22: Inside you

the mirror shows a raiment of my heart — therefore
so long as your beauty & youth cover me

— praise & the opposite grow acrostic, seemly rife, stirred by your love
for days. I tender my pen to write down what you bear in your heart
(washes of shadows, unrehearsed, at your will)
— how can I be dated, the elder of us two —your breast lives in mine and mine in you,
fixed in air, we stay in love, nursing love. Expiators.

Ringing again — a prism on top where you can point to the horizon that’s both magnified and revilingly askew. If you admit you rejoice in tricky intersections you’ll have to skip lunch. I told them not to watch.

I should be collaborating, writing this down.

I’m seated back in my studio, dressed in un-despairing perceptions (and reading) of what won’t be contained — o Swami, nothing to discredit nor disbelieve.

There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.

Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.

I lower your voice to approximate the closest parity.

Somewhere.. what’s a sociopath?
The truth is a manifold vacuum. And we’re feathery.
Shorthand abstractions like these comprise unforgettable totems to our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off, spinning or spun, upset, out of control.

100% our touch.

8: Music to hear? Truth is we seem sad and feathery, as tho speechless, self-killed.  
 
Only short distillations where unions are made for a time  
like this mutual ordering to our touching and grasping the moment, now surrounding it with songs of taking off for the unknown, spinning, spun,  
 
upset, out of control yet  
 
that’s how we fasten sweet music we hear to move around objects. 
 
100% our touch.

The music brokerage remains in aeronautical space.
A month ago a morning flew by.
My closest amigo is my
most carnal ally. It’s sea cooperation.

I was hit in the face when he turned himself in.
I knew I am unhappy and similarly, like most everyone, I am not —
The 1st few words take on destabilizing character. I’m trying to clean this up [snip] have to leave enough ‘intent’ to keep me pleased, since after I’m finished he’s finished. This is an exemplary yet limited procedure, so I’m framing it as fun exercise, cutting straight through its own restructure creating more choppy patterns to abandon ...