I’m right beneath my shirt. Sort of a theory laden species.  
What if there’s a non-theist way to prepare, provide? & what  
if we’re both wrong, but less wrong than who?  
 
Let’s keep to federalist motives, far from fashion simplicity,
& let’s live together at night while we impel  
 
malfunctions that blurt out permissions extemporaneously,  
licenses to re-authorize no god’s sorrow over death.

72: When love is missing, shame is worth nothing. .
You devise virtuous lies (dear love) .. I picked that up, false, smug, cute. .
a braid of welts around your neck. .
My name is buried where my body is. .
the body I pray you love.. ..
.
I’ve just noticed you’ve imparted nothing, haven’t praised me. . Gabby. .
Let’s pronounce your true love untrue. But make it count. .
Tho even in this I fear sarcasm.

A nonreligion of eternal cold, a High Service
Sung along both coasts:
Our people are what makes us / great.
Love and heritage go down together.

The last nonpoem eases down the dress code, a bolo tie display on 2 thru 8
For a race of giants (giants are made up pieces of one another in other names).

Love came up short for a few and drove them to forgery. Then shatters.
The taking of whatever works to swat the hand that feeds them,

Sharpening endurance,
Risking focus.

I like it when pros of song dig in and flail. 
That about covers it.  
( It’s that emotional core between personal and pro.)
Becoming free is a moving and intimate aria. (Like “Summertime.”) I got joy. I got sun.  


Gotta run, pros.

146: I’m talking to you in no rebel-speak.. 
 
Our savior went missing. No more dying then? No lie, I watched us dream within a.i. economics, weeding and planting over a creamery’s radius, destabilizing outside temperaments for molecules eating itty Taos. Body losses. Our Taos. Looters and rhombus-gatherers, all doing their time respectively — great work for the power preserve. Cuts straight through molecule restructure, taking up more chopping patterns to put down key words. Our largest source is not Asia or other spaces, but time, on lease, epic sums of slender, sharpened cuts. The runway along with 21st century humane instrumentation reduced to off and on combat. (Gulp.)     
 
Don’t know. Not going to lie. (Ideologues get stuck on last lines.) 

We just saw (a few feet / minutes from now) however
Your address changed. We could have done it differently before you discovered the user
charts; the parent company was ours before we stole from 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.


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..

— I haven’t slept a wink — Try sleeping pills. 
Yah. Well, that’s a good idea.   
 
I know I’ve been deceitful, but I had my reasons.
Maybe they were dumb reasons, but they were reasons.  
 
I never said I was the best man in the world.  
 
Give me a little credit, will you, credit for being someone...  
 
who tried to love you the only way he knew how.  
 
I know that speech  
 
— You do? — pantaloons last April...  
 
when Devon met Bolt’s empyrean nephew.  
Oh, God.  
— Get out — Please try to understand.  
 
The measure of all histories remains constant
— No need to use that language.   
 
Get out! Now!

13: Son, father, if we were only ourselves
we’d bear up against cold instincts..  So
                              hard  
to put back in the valise, bare love. We pirated the code.   
 
I can’t say we did it willingly (signing our leases through dueling storm gusts). In honor? None! 
 
No fuller determination, love, you love no longer than your life in full.
Others like you, mere semblances to me, hold to the same lease.  

You give me sweet forms of love against a certain fall,  
against coming death and barren winter, my love. O you now —
 
Surely you know each of us ‘should prepare’ 
For none but life and love, holders for a full life, eternally in love.  

I can put a prayer this way.
The color of the spine goes ultimate, high and low, austere yet foreseeable.
And the evaluations are in.

You are part of what we hold.

It’s an argosy of what’s evolutionary before it gets more uplifted.

I like it when pros of song dig in and flail. 
That about covers it.  
( It’s that emotional core between personal and pro.)
Becoming free is a moving and intimate aria. (Like “Summertime.”) I got joy. I got sun.  


Gotta run, pros.

115: Devouring you and reckoning.. I love you best. A doubting part of my fiction holds. (I could not love you more in the course of altering my accent.) I have no clear incentive to divert, mindless of taking chances, since I’ve already changed through fierce blunt talk — too much talk and I’ve raised a toast to loving you too desperately... The junk madness of it, as my judgment’s grown less certain over the course of a million accidents (how angry rewrite gets) and how it makes your tan beauty (and me, too) enflamed for pale, poker-faced poets like Rene.

Fact: eye contact is mostly on the defensive but our strategies around the eyes are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense. This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making a pattern, to and fro altercations sited within a figure-ground colloquy.
“‘In a way’,” he said, “‘nothing saved me until we ran the gauntlet —’”

I feel socialist. Validating market snapshots, optimizing
The practical center
More than any 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 realize
We know now — now less than nothing...
a view down a corridor of great numbers.

42: What do you need now and for what?
You may ask if I loved you.
Is that my bravo question?
Do you test, tease, defame always to get the best?
I ducked his punch, closed the distance.
My loss is my love’s gain for my sake.
I told him, no don’t, I have to bolt.

Loving offense more, I excuse you both.

Credo:
Misery looks a lot better. Go. Fees balanced. Get out!

Staring at trains’ inhabitants at South Station —
Our blankness fills in family trees offside. After.. there are instrument
Channels (word flares) for composing love. We never saw this before.

Burn,
Suffering coincidence.. you’re leaning into expression muscle, undressed
To hit the meaning of just whose future is come..

To admire oneself, one’s distinction,
There’s a lot more ahead.

Poetry goes thru many drafts.

I forget ephemerality, I forget narrative. 
I’m drunk on the environment, 
still a working temp, a role promised Malthus that threw him over the cliff.   
 
Now suppose a perfect Darwin of heavenly fury,  
searing, puffy, relaxed and succinct.   
 
Now an angel, let’s run some #’s.  
To pass out when we wake is ample.   
 
I’m at your side placing puts  
on the evolutionary table, petite in wanting you (I do).  
I forget farewells.

35: Your slightly shabby rooms are elegant.


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


You’re triumph.

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

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

Good-bye everything.

Filming at midnight — kvelling schtick is a tactical concept.
And today’s laughter protocols could not be ‘more serious.’ Except...
It’s been remarkable to gauge how sneering, vaporous, obtruding personalities —
A loose term — proceed un-amusingly
Or even uncivilly in opening salvos. Seems a rehearsed practice, perhaps.

By salvo — the first three or four minutes of monotone in character, in talk and in poems.
You can’t do that up in this film.
So much slobber invested from the start, forced discourse, along with any oomph, runs dry.

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

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

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

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

Complaints and sworn declarations...
I forget meeting you.

64: The soul is a belief system, which I have seen defaced. 
It increases its store with loss, tho, done in by time’s fell hand, 
— the cost of grief & openly & proudly expressing it thru American English. 
I hope we can let the language of grief go..  
 
Time will come to take our love away, leaving me breathing, no form — 
Structurally I seem sustained only by a lofty hypothetical force — 
But I can’t go on without some 
interchange — a new episode within your camera-readiness. &  
as we walk together, it will make no language difference what we believe,  
what the soul is. 
 
I’m just ruminating on having you. Always a slave to you, fearing losing you. 
My soul’s inscription reads you’re my state in the eternal state, my business.

                  Far as we got any night they enter,
they appear as though they are with us..
it’s amazing how “they simply pass”
coming from the history of laughter, demon-puffed before they got here
                  proceeding within, under a bust of John Wieners..

Louisiana, East of Eden: That time of year with smarter definition. 
How’s that if your electricity is out and nothing works?  
We needed smarter drywall too, to excite dusk in the   
ferns and moss growing another way after sunset, every-   
thing about the yield blowing in its news  
of recurring unitary joy...   
 
that must expire.  
 
I liked getting you to this point, finished off by you. 

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

The terms are, go settle down through the evening, finish your addenda
at gunpoint. Perhaps heartbeats get covered by a shroud that frays
and unspools to gain advantage spreading the plan.

Without license, we impart numeric dicta slathered with platitudes —
with all the conviction of a third episode —
century-old middle ground (the themeless module) where we stay sleep (wavy
fields of inaction) and continue playing around vulgar innuendo to bear being
kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating me not to rule you out, generously.

Folks from a gridded compartment have decided
most perfectionism is out of step
while playing us as aficionados of the vulgar

to provoke both nature and full disclosure.
Those organized under their strong gestures have to triumph.
Those compartment folk know this and tap
all our communication, born of grid necessity. Our own dialog reflects
highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence.
Oooo we’ve discovered our voice.

44: It was nice once to have known you. If flesh were thought
A word would count, even remotely, calibrated by the ruckus-like paean within a large-scale dialectic —
No matter, despite the farthest limits of space and time I could be brought before you if you think it over.

Will you think of me?

Folks from a gridded compartment have decided
most perfectionism is out of step
while playing us as aficionados of the vulgar

to provoke both nature and full disclosure.
Those organized under their strong gestures have to triumph.
Those compartment folk know this and tap
all our communication, born of grid necessity. Our own dialog reflects
highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence.
Oooo we’ve discovered our voice.

The sun is gray. Divided and confused.
The system is not perfect. It’s an everybody
movement with that living-unlocked smell.
I set the controls; active ingredients are
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.

Noonish.

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

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 dive, I could say

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

I can put a prayer this way.
The color of the spine goes ultimate, high and low, austere yet foreseeable.
And the evaluations are in.

You are part of what we hold.

It’s an argosy of what’s evolutionary before it gets more uplifted.

Rough framework, a giddy notation to a story.
Visuals like tenured blurs formally at odds,
split seconds in a bigger, frank understanding with no data.
A bog of cloudburst capsizes, disabused of clouds,

blending in, no longer exterior to land
still 
untrusted and abstract, a heavy rain

snapping into randomness.

Sonnet 61:
Simple enough picking up a pen . . . our land and those living on it have material functions; similarly I see you.

I watch your synthetic imagery through writing, the vigil and force applied putting your youth

into a piece, since the grown man does not come by himself, regardless of your beauty — the river bank plied by far off

metaphors and substitutes, one at a time — less formal, so near home it’s like taking your dictation, taking after your love of my love of you.

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

Don’t we have an escalator to take? 
 
Gavel to gavel hours and hours wasted turning the spit.  
What we do converts to personality- and stunt-craft.  
What we have to feed on is open discourse W. B. Yeats calls the bestial floor. Please.  
(This soon after a last breath, is it safe to mention Yeats?) (Maybe not.  
I’ll frighten no one.) Some of us are too profoundly false to save the day.  
Tho not all of us refuse to understand further (to meet up).  
 
It’s natural, a picnic in the wilderness.  
 
The wilds... on all floors.

83: Life with Mr Juice came up short — charm 
-ing & familiar — unfair tenderness in a paper sack. 
Hostess bike spinners & fake license & plate. 
A poet’s Chase debt.
I found (or again I thought within the stillness) 
Of your eyes nagging me for more .. Admit you miss late modern zhooshes & doing away with text devices. 
You miss the first drag. You miss rendering 
 
Mr Juice wearing new credentials 
Your entire inner being (when others would give only their lives...) you, like me, have nothing set. 
Have you read, poets’ praise & worth get ten percent of their daily 
Calories from pot smoking — sleeping to excess.  
 
Mute poets hereon become slack. 
Thereupon, as Juice imputes to me, I’m barren as I am dumb.

We are the last generations who have short lifetimes.

Later, you dangle squalid transfer balances netting zero, netting 
a big zero on the demeaning upper ends and 
capital variables w/ an October surprise. 

That’s every transitive with successive membership enclosed .. 
How the prose poem squeals w/ common sense, folds into dreams. 

Everyday events like planetary ellipses emerge that change programming (for greater disorder) in fluent business English.

I owe a debt to Christmas. 
Blindfolded angels thinking in the past — 
All mute waving back,  
 

Protecting us from our unknown predicates,   
 

Taking on more substantial roadwork, taking more onboard, putting them   
 

In mind of the New Year, at last.

112: Do you like spiral staircases striving, branching out to the un-alive, an abyss? 

Nonlinear facts are stairs to bourses where bottom lines are dizzying when least derivative. Volatile objective content triumphs. Right or wrong it’s a creepy snob racket (Charles B).   
 
Our nervous system distorts music in an adder sense, Charles might say, to emphasize poisonous reversals as in snakes’.. radial evil, neglected by its own super ego, snaps. B is for Bukowski. 

Irrational tarantulas (of steel) squeeze under the door, isolated by
an obsession with coming on, coming right in. There we go, holist.
Theory-and-forth..
Theory is the tickle place you and I may detect the language driver, a feeling you’ve won, untidy and young, accomplished and loathed despite a foundational rule of no feeling without permission.

Our tarantulas grow mute subconsciously, in dim light over and over —
burbling with a kill-agenda that’s swayed into decisions, aching to blather.

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 as 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. Except when you think it over.

71: We don’t remember your life, your name, for I no longer mourn you. Why would I? Forget about me.

Like a surly freeloader / poet, I overhear captions within sullen mechanical clauses... giving vile warning. It’s vile — compounded when I think you read this line into my thoughts. I’m only a hand who writ …. Hey, don’t worry, my next line is not incompatible with yours, for I love you so.

Having only a sec, Are you thinking of me?

I used to believe so, along w/ all the grossular and pine boxes keeping us apart opening to our former lives, winning-losing before comic, breezy violinists w/ silver hats — Superangels w/ instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge.

Time’s up.

I’ve got to hold back. Not go down.

This is in response to the commerce-vector coursing through pop concepts, bringing unique comfort to support our cushy position in the food chain, which is still in dispute.

But I adhere to the same late-filing rule as you. We are keepers of years at night.

Love is moaning all right. I’m almost a novice enthusiast.. years from now.
Then, inscrutably I’ll break down, sob.

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

The struggle, not the tears. 

I say you sign off on others’ labor — A newspaper edition, documentary remnants, penetrable databases — We occupy this clever, conceptual nook, curling up, thinking up ... At times siding with the powerful (administrators) seems deliberate as well as passive-aggressive, love’s public effect, blots of respect for undue labor. 
I’m kidding. I’m staying sarcastic — unironically. Anxious pleasures bearing pleasurable anxiety, repeating ...