Teen to older person,
cornered (not to say conned).

Hold to your decoder status that’s forever sparkled quo vadis,
meandering within ordered appearances unraveling optics —

I mean to say high birth, career orbit
mean very little to vocal fervor.

Either way is a fractional
infinite in the context / e.r.

OK I mean
I’m done.

122: The longer I live it’s right in front of me, above all, 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 remain beyond date and time in my heart and brain. I won’t be funny or make a stab, score or tally... Every day I’ll subsist to import your love into me .. Again.

I hear your inside voice, binary to binary autosuggestion.
When it gets dark it sounds fast.

We wanted to go to
This point in real estate, stabilizing our new office — over the ocean
w/out ‘swelter- or personal-contact.’

Should we take 
a message?  
We’re talking to what must 
be figurative breakpoints with fate and fate’s consignments. 4 walls for examples.  
 
Empty messages recall nothing of detached  
sensory esotericists.  
  We’ll erase their message. Also 
Politic display of paranoia recommended for staying stable in an emotional tri-level.

137: Lovers are blind fools among the true and false. You never see what they see. You’re wide awake thinking this through until a subfocus gets lost. You can’t see and you grow accustomed, so to speak, directly oblique : but pointedly there’s no one name escalated or united w/ the width of what beauty seems, and is! And where love lies!

Bon équilibre, someone else will choke (and in a common language at that), one a 2nd person, you comprehend. What do you say? Why of falsehood, tell me — speak to the wide world where several are over-partial to love’s judgment. Why should my heart do anything more?

Yet I give up my weak words thinking they seem right-not-right. I’ll hack at better reasons, try for more with the grit of fairer and fouler understatement, neither the worst or best.

And you know, that’s what’s wrong then. Over-partial over you I too can’t see what the world sees..

I hear your inside voice, binary to binary autosuggestion.
When it gets dark it sounds fast.

We wanted to go to
This point in real estate, stabilizing our new office — over the ocean
w/out ‘swelter- or personal-contact.’

Should we take 
a message?  
We’re talking to what must 
be figurative breakpoints with fate and fate’s consignments. 4 walls for examples.  
 
Empty messages recall nothing of detached  
sensory esotericists.  
  We’ll erase their message. Also 
Politic display of paranoia recommended for staying stable in an emotional tri-level.

Sonnet 135:

To commune sounds spacious, un-calm, bent to boot. In the same call you vex prerogatives, that is, your voice does. (I’ll table the large difference.) 
“The sea.. all water” 

— Your message is mixed but never better aligned for an abundant way or a will of mine. We’re rich together in our acceptance of death — death will be our hideout, learning the ropes, perusing scraps and hopes of coping. 

The unoccupied mind long overdue. The you 

I still reference in primary season. With your suitcase. 

I’ll pack for the gracious aftershock of your going ahead, reading, lifting, adding and reflective or reflecting? you in the foreground, all water. 

I feel socialist. Rifling thru market snapshots, validating
The center 
More than any single system, a tenet of

A huge agnostic discipline 
About attitudes behind morals. 

You know this open and shut — 
But take it down again / or thumb thru 

The balance left over from a computer breach
Of pure tides. Inhabit the tidal brim 

To the point you don’t have to know more yoga than 
We know now — nothing, less than nothing.

114: I say.

I say drink up.

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

But now it’s beyond that.

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

Psychotropic bios diagnosed as bare truth- 
Stratagems: Siphon starters. Add the rank  
 
I confer to the next available beauty, living and perhaps dying with one  
Until our love goes broke — summarily I’m screwed of what beauty was.  
I center then on perception (for another purpose), sustaining losses out of free irony.

Sonnet 119: Software permeates adolescent philosophy. This madder hell points to asphalt perimeters, why error messages commit to wretched structures (applying fear to hope)
:
:
building up un-manacled distraction so amor in the head is amazing, far greater, madder fever!
:
:
Some ways syzygy rounds this off in latinate Greek — evil still made better — for amnesia’s fixed width, blessed never, rebuked to our heart’s content! Tears.
:
:
And ruined, we kept losing, true, losing you .. rebuked, my eyes sphereless.

Doing composition et al. change
While our frayed honeymoon was a pleasure, felt normative.
Pleasure gets exaggerated but there are three pleasure substitutes. Here’s one, an itch to borrow sentences to raise your consciousness.

Another is coming up with filaments like attrition of affects (watching your Apple watch).

Third, after a honeymoon deflections accrue.

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.

In a mean perspective Bartok reached for
the moon. How is that helpful?
With your brand one constant.. you cut the rest off...
Remembering you forgot your killer monologue.

Taking your curtain call anyway, you hobble

Away like a name dropper.

Emotions were something else, they don’t belong.

Follow instructions — slippers, noodles make us warm
‘As rouged scholars of what’s next to us’ repair to an adjoining perspective.

Been holding our tongues. That’s how it works. 
Non-interference takes charge, under which an authentic kindergarten language of crawling gets raised & siege is forcibly asserted. If this were true, working against deadline would shape the last steps of withdrawal from our deadlock with future attributes.  
 
Meantime you targeted a fan like me because of familial obligations to ageless platitude, your camouflage in plain view, the focus of stiff winds over centuries-old middle ground. 
 
In midlife I once had an idea today was over. I forgot, man.  
With less & less destruction of evolution, we constitute the Odds-on-Group taking part in the co-ritual to outlast time.  
 
Over & over. Today again. 
 
Limb truncation covers about half the winners & victims in crossfire. How you handle questions & answers — anything you come up with will stomach fair use doctrine — what the privileged young play by. But the next elite resurgence is an elaborate gerrymander where all ambiguity vanishes for a seeming long time.  
 
History is old as mutt. 

39: Sing how in your absence, thoughts on love hint of sour leisure, even torment. To live in some deception seemed brilliant manners far back, before today. Thought of that now keeps us divided but pointedly, singly alive.
One difference as you sing — you are the better part of me
holding back — tho I’ll obliquely praise you when praising me.

Divided, we’re the same. We live to entertain others, thinking back to our love. Still. There’s this separation. I dream w/ you alone.. as you sing away from me.

Another moment soon to stare out the window, a flood lamp over my shoulder to herald the swindle in wind farming. Craning one’s mien goes on in this vein, time passes — comments from barbers on stale movies, political lies — freedom takes off at many a midpoint. It’s personal, e.r. managers tell me this ought to be.

It’s almost sullen to write enflamed birdsong and comb back your hair at the same time.. Can you do that? At the barber’s? To sound like your own critic stay light with a spooky edge.

Life is short and good grooming rakes you all over. No victims.

During the break we reached an agreement,
so the ham’s anger has hatched.. while no choice
enables the passing tourney among tense Fu dudes
to nuance 3-in-1 innocents to proceed.

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.

In order to take on a galactic stare, 
Occasional intoxicants  
Every 10 yrs —  
A decade comes and goes and still you are unattainable!   
 
Say you’ll be back. Speaking of which, you remind us there — blasts of cold air  
Stoked by an invasion of intimacy.

37: ‘Feelings are empty’ .. still / they’re
entitled − here’s where other 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, and poor, the despised will have
none of it.

Not a one 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 any 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?

This will be a short ride. Largely harmless.

For this is how the spring fern dropped over the aura of the photogenic vitamin to have stopped the sentence, fuzzed it. Yet one lacked the perfect raincoat, one’s self-reconciliation for past, stormy springs.

So you get it now about dualism, you make 4 walls the rendezvous, along with a winter roof, lounge in queue for more motorcades. You can’t predict what you are going to do sometimes, and there aren’t enough seasons to go around to encapsulate your suspicions. (for RR)

82: Sing:

I swear..

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

Philosopher A says strained rhetoric is a precious jewel but fake counters have been high-fived thruout English.
And therefore there’s no escape beneath the social parasail of rhetorical infighting. Plain speech commits us, forces us.

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

All devised in love, that’s the plain worst case, and ...here we are — I’ll give you a hand.

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

..next to nothing.. also a barred finch  
flew off, raving — we took notes 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.

The small of his back sends me packing.
Sulking with a hygienic view forward.
— On an Old Testament.. I pledged a wholly hidden idiom
Of renderings, spotlighting what’s
Missing!

The cracks should be bridged with the view outside, pears and Fuji oak, null
Passages in fog, moos of approval. Lots.

I then bring us over to our original towel, leaving what’s left to chance.

RNA itemizes tasks.
Do you like winter’s dares? Winter sports?
Or do you like being bubble-footed in dark briefs!
None of the above!

Nonfat, never satisfied, we live on the edge, they say,
we come from creatures far back, slowly calmed
by disquiet... we were of a kind they were to others, lacking
redoubled patrimony and finding-it-out tools. Just ask

distribution adjustment — they have those to spare..
The slew tasked down from behaviorist beliefs.

82: Sing:

I swear..

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

Philosopher A says strained rhetoric is a precious jewel but fake counters have been high-fived thruout English.
And therefore there’s no escape beneath the social parasail of rhetorical infighting. Plain speech commits us, forces us.

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

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

Semantics in space. Pleasant yet odd.

Stanford-Benet mentions a handbook (or its conception) for encapsulating syntax to denote spacetime, uniting archetypes found in even more complex disproportions that achieve higher cognitive value than meaning itself. 
What have they done?

The small of his back sends me packing.
Sulking with a hygienic view forward.
— On an Old Testament.. I pledged a wholly hidden idiom
Of renderings, spotlighting what’s
Missing!

The cracks should be bridged with the view outside, pears and Fuji oak, null
Passages in fog, moos of approval. Lots.

I then bring us over to our original towel, leaving what’s left to chance.

Taking flak, but unwilling to signal afar, this gong or that, neither hindsight advantage nor a flying object in future time. Leathernecks develop their own future humanism. I’ll grab my own cover and scramble over here toward STEM skills, since my brain runs on a thin network promoting our prowess as we pivot from jokes and deals to an attention-grabbing ring of hysteria. 
Our afterduty sketch begins

82: Sing:

I swear..

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

Philosopher A says strained rhetoric is a precious jewel but fake counters have been high-fived thruout English.
And therefore there’s no escape beneath the social parasail of rhetorical infighting. Plain speech commits us, forces us.

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

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

From the moon — the world becoming flat and falling across  


The telling  


(instances of)  


Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic  


Streaks and — weird! — high wails of titanic fog, sifting down from  


Rain on ceilings (of)  


The snow. The snowing. The across (falling), 


It is (falling) across

Morton Feldman.

Reprobates — with a kill-agenda — are tickled into corruption.
With them, here is the place you and I may detect a language driver, untidy and young, deliberate despite the foundational rule of no rule

And speaking up without permission. In other words,

Sin gets somewhere then stops spreading. The wind withers our good looks.

In the held pattern we grow inner living language over — to pillory hindsight.

39: Sing how in your absence, thoughts on love hint of sour leisure, even torment. To live in some deception seemed brilliant manners far back, before today. Thought of that now keeps us divided but pointedly, singly alive.
One difference as you sing — you are the better part of me
holding back — tho I’ll obliquely praise you when praising me.

Divided, we’re the same. We live to entertain others, thinking back to our love. Still. There’s this separation. I dream w/ you alone.. as you sing away from me.

The focal point of early versions is the entity with many comforts and drills. Isn’t that a calling?
*
It was at the rational start. I know that. Taking chances put us in a lissome interpretive state (lissome as a turbine at birth). Function varies widely. Scent of lilac is the geyser of zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.

In a mean perspective Bartok reached for
the moon. How is that helpful?
With your brand one constant.. you cut the rest off...
Remembering you forgot your killer monologue.

Taking your curtain call anyway, you hobble

Away like a name dropper.

Emotions were something else, they don’t belong.

Follow instructions — slippers, noodles make us warm
‘As rouged scholars of what’s next to us’ repair to an adjoining perspective.

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.

A fop sur la route is a Parisian invention, an essentialist’s incarnation.

Steer clearly. Highway safety — bow, I love what we do altogether


Like switching work bags, mixing it up then. We should be mortified, not impressed.
(This siegecraft apparently works.
For a drive, I’ve hired a fop strategist.)
We call that yeah
Parentheses to explore..

Self-barter, a potential volt in a then-this-is-now domain...
Just praying.

39: Sing how in your absence, thoughts on love hint of sour leisure, even torment. To live in some deception seemed brilliant manners far back, before today. Thought of that now keeps us divided but pointedly, singly alive.
One difference as you sing — you are the better part of me
holding back — tho I’ll obliquely praise you when praising me.

Divided, we’re the same. We live to entertain others, thinking back to our love. Still. There’s this separation. I dream w/ you alone.. as you sing away from me.

This will be a short ride. Largely harmless.

For this is how the spring fern drops over the aura of the photogenic vitamin to stop the sentence, fuzzed it. Yet one lacked the perfect raincoat, one’s self-reconciliation for past springs.

So you get it now about dualism, you make 4 walls the rendezvous, along with a winter roof, lounge in queue for motorcades. You can’t predict what you are going to do, and there aren’t enough seasons to go around to encapsulate your suspicions. (for RR)

A binary grid decides most perfectionism is out of step while we roll on...

to provoke our gendered natures. Box 1423. Those organized under capitalism shall shake it off. Binary frames hear this and tap out our next communication, a dissonance born of our trafficking through long alleys of seduction and violence. Oooo it’s discovered her voice.

58: Deserting the beach — god forbid 
 
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways  
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your call, a handshake  
spreads the rain,  
 
flowers, rain,  
flowers.  
(That’s it! Do what you want.  
 
The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we  
can walk away with. Good. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our  
widows.  
 
This is spring history.)

We’re released by ourselves into the water supply. Globe-trotters. Kissers, both cheeks. Up toward the heights curls come back. Bells in heaven. My eyebrow arched and I gasped.

In physiologist years this is a star-quake, falling and liberated by the carpentry in reading sensory input as the doctor’s tongue worked in circles. Then he darted straight in. I realized tension was flying from my face, dull and throbbing.

A beautiful writer is stunning, front and center. When
distracted, s/he hears “Continue − to enter the contest area − Continue.”

Some say, not going to lie, both of us botched a radius of this, destabilizing
‘oppositional’ temperament. On our side, we’re doing well, considering.

            To consider the green wooded radius is greater work, cuts straight
through any restructure, throwing out hyper-nonliteral depth w/ gutsy, landscapist abandon.
The budget cuts (last line) are background to double-rhymed ambient scores.
Entire sectors feel it’s the end of capital, epic sums expended in slender career arcs.

            The floodgates and instrumentation get redone for full
combat. We wonder about other churning bits of our lifeline.

It might be some freedoms are on probation ...
according to decision theory now. / Not only for continuing,
but the problem has been how.

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

A binary grid decides most perfectionism is out of step while we roll on...

to provoke our gendered natures. Box 1423. Those organized under capitalism shall shake it off. Binary frames hear this and tap out our next communication, a dissonance born of our trafficking through long alleys of seduction and violence. Oooo it’s discovered her voice.

9: No form of you
Felt anything but used, average.. a spent, destructive sort of blandness. Also a problem.

Your world consumed less with guilt for political experience / current status / winning outright =

Hey here I am! Staying married, single you and I may change our minds!
I already forgot to.
Could ..ah! you and I are loved by many. I’ll commit, in sleep ...
We are watched over and settled into a kindly already new shifting
Still enjoying practice, wailing, banging triangles and drums ...
Your private voice as wet as many eyes we can sleep with. Look.

I wake [Ah!] — My own voice a bit hoarse
..a life talking with you,
But not a speck of you tonight.

Something came up. And what’s not mentioned expands underground.
This is unlikely as lightning gaining on fog. Lightning understands

it’s disassociated. Has nothing to transact, no tingle or lasting appeal.

How is it falling with grey streaks that look glazed or remedial well past

the exercise and expense of

the seas.

Fat chance gestalt code-switchers stutter trying not to..
Wordless dialectic is never strong enough. Yup, I repeat, smiling
with optimism that’s rewriting as your thought flips,
changes genres in lewd sleep.

Those organized by dreams triumph in their mind and body worship.
First vicarious, then conforming to a belief system.

And now it’s just fading maybe?

Or maybe it should.

149: Cruelty goes by a few worshipful metaphors. Loving you, or not, down the road.. going against myself.. all due to future lunar invasions!


 Heavenly and new, classic, easy, unforgettable metaphors to our surrounding others’ revenge for taking off, fawning over you / fawning under you and me, quiet and respectful in everyday nudity. For nudity earned your just respect, commanded by your eyes. It will always be a swing reunion in that ritual expanse, a whole new side of narrow and hollow at center, a spun vacuum on its knees!

Microscopic honesty — we used to say — is the sanest practice for complete thumb control and body fitness. 
Let’s go thru it again, generations of ample volunteering and worship set these scruples up. They come back. Soon you relax your balance, honest equipoise for a good writer is common enough, even now. 
We went over our defensive appearances, for instance. Keep to schedule. Key is your keeping a regimen for hours at a time before it can wear off: So never let it. Curvatures in spacetime affix to our high expectations. If they pass muster they’ll slant any promise you have, had or you don’t remember in the aftermath of your hiatus (hesitation), revving up.

88: Patriarchy expands fraternal allegiance. & you & I so belong.
We’re well acquainted with our own double weakness. Well, I really enjoy it. 9 out of 10.

& we’re both right & wrong.
What do you look like now? It’s right to ask? With all my loving thoughts I can set down our long story, bending my weaknesses against myself.

We both gain an advantage (all wrong) to prove you virtuous.

A binary grid decides most perfectionism is out of step while we roll on...

to provoke our gendered natures. Box 1423. Those organized under capitalism shall shake it off. Binary frames hear this and tap out our next communication, a dissonance born of our trafficking through long alleys of seduction and violence. Oooo it’s discovered her voice.

Childhood runs out, our taxonomies still  
unexplained as temp permits.   
 
...you know what I mean standing here, promoting pap acceptance.. you’re a diva in fact 
with nothing to give back, not mad enough, feeling too little.

Feelings, too few.

One by one
wait for it. They
seem more promiscuous than anything not there.
Therefore here.  
 
If we don’t buy this, we’re the product.

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

At midnight again Gogol, Nikolay Gogol, with a master’s degree in these matters, said the landmass of gut feeling, sane behavior, and noncriminal discourse — like mine — that mass teeters on the grotesque tattoo of a human skull. I can’t turn that down. I can’t mean only my language. It’s a tradeoff, my trade. In the din nihilism shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. A good thing. That door leads to the rescue of children and all rescue contains, all I could have told you.

We’re released by ourselves into the water supply. Globe-trotters. Kissers, both cheeks. Up toward the heights curls come back. Bells in heaven. My eyebrow arched and I gasped.

In physiologist years this is a star-quake, falling and liberated by the carpentry in reading sensory input as the doctor’s tongue worked in circles. Then he darted straight in. I realized tension was flying from my face, dull and throbbing.

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 still) 
Your eyes nag me for more .. admit you miss late modern zhuzhes & done away with text devices. 
You miss the first drag. You miss rendering 
 
Mr Juice wearing your new credentials 
As your inner being when others would give only their lives... while you, like me, have nothing set. 
Have you read, poets’ praise gets ten percent off their daily 
Calories from pot smoking — sleeping to excess.  
 
Mute poets hereon become slack. 
Therein, as Juice imputes to me, I’m barren as I am dumb.

Are you thinking of me? 
I used to believe so, along w/ the grossular and pine boxes keeping us apart  
opening slatternly to our former lives, a win-loss for comic, breezy  
violinists in quartets w/ olive hats — Startling w/ their quarter-jodhpurs and  
instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge.

The sun maybe 

Burning you, other brilliant dislocations TBA, expected. Alternate forms go 
Beyond predicates fixated on loud procedures 

But in their giddy cases they look into a surfeit of space.. 
A sumptuous, soilless bend of the neck, 
Angels — a happy title.. 
* 
Maybe it’s only words, assembly, to hear you. 
Angels are our absolute culminators, without our enzymes.

154: Once asleep I’m sick of disarming love; I’m diseased, too hot a votary of yours.

I’m sick and so I take a vow to a better life of heart-inflamed desire — never touching you..
Trompe l’oeil I now know approximates healthful maiden hand abstractions.. (branding
..each true heart until warmed up — as hot as any brand) ..and so strong a flame we can

mind- and body-worship by your side, worship un-quenched, a general practice that perpetuates our trippy belief system. Or

we prove a chaste remedy never cools, but heats our hearts for cures..

A dictionary of Indo-European roots lists derivatives for gno = know, can, cunning, ken, kith, kin, uncouth, notice, notify, notion, notorious, cognition, recognize, connoisseur, quaint(?), ignore, noble (known, knowable), gnomon (diagnosis, prognosis), narrate (from Latin gnarrare); & these less ‘probable’ links = annotate, norm, abnormal, enormous.


Poets, I guess, know this, so someone’s dismissal of another's work by shrug / hum is unclear thinking, a mark of unknowing. Patterns of dismissal show a settlement of ignorance. Ignorance comes easy, tho, among conservatives like me. First is not reading. I won’t buy the book, if given the book, I’ll sell it. Second, there’s reading just to find a formal quality (scanning?). Can I do this? What’s the vocabulary like? This reveals a poco inquisitiveness, but it’s all about willful typecasting, bracketing in other words streamlined for not reading further. For face to face ignorance, there’s not listening or not listening much or listening to find an opening for my chance to speak (hey do you like what I do?). Hanging around enormous egos like mine is just not fun, unless, of course, there are compensating abnormalities. 

What I want are noble communities of uncouth poets who not only notice one another but stay awake & narrate Oh. If it’s abnormally sweet, you’ll be the first to know.

We have no boundaries and can go further even in unendurable weather.

Any non empirical approach compels outsourced argument.

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

efficacy for streamlined intake. Let’s soak up the view.

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.

Something like 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.

A dictionary of Indo-European roots lists derivatives for gno = know, can, cunning, ken, kith, kin, uncouth, notice, notify, notion, notorious, cognition, recognize, connoisseur, quaint(?), ignore, noble (known, knowable), gnomon (diagnosis, prognosis), narrate (from Latin gnarrare); & these less ‘probable’ links = annotate, norm, abnormal, enormous.


Poets, I guess, know this, so someone’s dismissal of another's work by shrug / hum is unclear thinking, a mark of unknowing. Patterns of dismissal show a settlement of ignorance. Ignorance comes easy, tho, among conservatives like me. First is not reading. I won’t buy the book, if given the book, I’ll sell it. Second, there’s reading just to find a formal quality (scanning?). Can I do this? What’s the vocabulary like? This reveals a poco inquisitiveness, but it’s all about willful typecasting, bracketing in other words streamlined for not reading further. For face to face ignorance, there’s not listening or not listening much or listening to find an opening for my chance to speak (hey do you like what I do?). Hanging around enormous egos like mine is just not fun, unless, of course, there are compensating abnormalities. 

What I want are noble communities of uncouth poets who not only notice one another but stay awake & narrate Oh. If it’s abnormally sweet, you’ll be the first to know.

We have no boundaries and can go further even in unendurable weather.

The no-fantasies plan, weeks running backwards
After the announcer’s ecstasy — there are no water edges or dikes
Yet / or even a rush of civilized dichotomy.
Music filters out hearsay against the sky.
All the airports sink back in black and white fjords.
Day to day sometimes the sun’s light goes for more...
Going to be here as long as it takes.

117: What’s virtue? J’accuse thus: I have to repay all bonds as punishment for my willfulness and errors.
Whereto I recommend free time with ex-writers, video vignette makers, engineers, others unknown, indistinguishable from applied scientists.

For now, after work we non-haters should accumulate human illuminated octane wearing shades, tailored tees.

To which (given time) ‘should’ = ‘want to’ = our gusto is waking proof — scant proof without you, o dear, dragged, transported far from your great level.

All to the winds since our inner bonds still tie me day by day under your august love:

But there’s solitude, as confidences accumulate to give in to the desert constants farthest from our sight.

Physicalism (product brand continuity) adapts to schemes (a speed-up in thought control).
Government, absent your liberty, is not that impregnable. As background, your charter is one colorful PROCESS shot. A lethal-to-pallid vassal group locksteps to your scent. You yourself clothed less formally, tame, save motives for eagerness.

And this is what I did not want to say.
There is product on the loose.

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.

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.

The no-fantasies plan, weeks running backwards
After the announcer’s ecstasy — there are no water edges or dikes
Yet / or even a rush of civilized dichotomy.
Music filters out hearsay against the sky.
All the airports sink back in black and white fjords.
Day to day sometimes the sun’s light goes for more...
Going to be here as long as it takes.

58: Deserting the beach — god forbid 
 
— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways  
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your call, a handshake  
spreads the rain,  
 
flowers, rain,  
flowers.  
(That’s it! Do what you want.  
 
The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we  
can walk away with. Good. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our  
widows.  
 
This is spring history.)

Beginning to get the picture. Your flash is surface.

You wiggle like a borzoi
w/ backsliding wipe-outs & fan reactions:
trash affects we tautologize into cattle calls of glum purity.
At least our calls are directed to one area...
‘holding each other open’ foreordaining our mobile devices will moan to the surface. Your flash.

There may be many areas, too.

A sparrow close-range, a dedicated follower,
packing a double voice range, gets into love trouble,
last blinded by the sea only this evening of the seals.

Two old seals suddenly lift in a renown wave, the same
in each. Humming back, large as the beach
staring away at the first light.

When the light goes there are too many weighted forays around.

It goes for gladness reasons. No
one you know, seals go too, mourning their sea rounds.

81: I forget so much memory is empowered by mistakes = my gentle verse.
Verse versus my taking umbrage feeds 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 am I lying?

My counselor affidavit registers our deficiency of pretexts. All the same, hunches count. (I’ve always been competing with another self.) 
 
Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for foundering within the social anomaly of treason.  
Rules commit us. Voters chose Trump. Yet this is the latest case. 
Everything I note here is integrated by law. Remember those days?

A sparrow close-range, a dedicated follower,
packing a double voice range, gets into love trouble,
last blinded by the sea only this evening of the seals.

Two old seals suddenly lift in a renown wave, the same
in each. Humming back, large as the beach
staring away at the first light.

When the light goes there are too many weighted forays around.

It goes for gladness reasons. No
one you know, seals go too, mourning their sea rounds.

Long day, maestro. I’ll butt dial (this still happens) you,
egressing. We’ve achieved very little even with our arguments intact,
noting there’s pride — I didn’t take any — pride in our measures
— to section our mountainous itches and engagements
— to go over, mix more with money types,
top cashiers — it’s called freedom of worship.

104: You’re fair doing this, my friend. Etc.
I saw both of us stop dials, reset our actual pace. Still, one..

..you and I may be deceived, turning toward the season’s
purebreds for fresher figures, good times and hot pricing, unless  

deception or envy is perceived better.
Burn for me, friend. Two, hues balance details to your green motions. 

Since.. I have seen shaken flares express fear and beauty in your eyes. 
I eyed your figure before you were born  

off perfumes of April standing as axioms for June and later — in cold pride 
you’ve already processed.. stolen for future use.

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

It takes a while. Day by day. The way 23 hours ago the multiplicity of writing today took a while. Time itself: A brainset, no doubt, occupied .. & this just in — jokes turn into dreams. It’s dreams that forgive us for everything (except melancholia). That’s because multiplicities, ‘sleeping while awake,’ get downgraded to icy normality, farthest from sight, trapping you & me inside a force field owing to our expertise. 

So there’s no lack of constancy in experimental states of mongrel forgery & our economic pull.