2/28/25

So you get it now about dualism, you make 4 walls the rendezvous, hang a roof, lounge in queue for the motorcade. Your ride is brief —

A ruse, tho, can be your generic, long-living object that looks transparent, emerging as sleep. 
So you’re still in danger within the same maize-y wait time. 

— How do bricks 
hang through the duration? (Waiting is the easy-hard part.) 
Ruses ride by themselves.
127: C.V.: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating ravenous yawns in fair use, and there’s some age old false connection to an eyesore we dreamed up, borrowing a face beauty slanders. There, inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying nameless and profane, counting inventory, keeping faith from their esteemed orientation, mining the richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday or so they think: So many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs they flare up into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer! Blocks we’ve been party to after a late lunch. 
Hitherto ethos susses southpaw disproportionality, so lovers per lifetime meet their lucky doubles halfway, borrowing a face here, slanting a blurred promise we had there or we don’t know we had, in shame letting it, almost die down. 

2/27/25

Our last owner had an understanding with multiple staff. 
His happiness washes up in our candy-bar and cudgel DNA.   
O we’re celebrated, beaten but breathing in what’s next.   
We have a most advanced gene distribution system.     
 
Try to look better. 
Flames stink up the place. Hay on fire. Let’s dump all this way in the rearview where we can’t see much of anything. We will be leaving footholds in town, doubles of blurs in dizzy luxury, punching thru colorless straw and spheres in embers.
 
Hay savors just punishment! — regulatory propriety could care less, looking to nominal trivia — exactly what we recoil from. We’re summoning logical defenses to explain a Hail Mary pass and your first entertaining containment.

2/26/25

Feeling is feeling. It’s official.
Then it’s repetitive, suggesting emotion has gone too far 
& some at all levels will be disclosed, then not spoken of, 
climbing into casual spectacle, ritually putting 
our lives together & whittling wry self management into grift. 
55: A living record, a period sonnet doubts softness but addresses enmity — nor can we outlive this, against death, advancing slowly.
Not marble nor rhyme so move. Dropping my nor-mood... the fun workout once was of a soul, a tone cucumber, a hue not seen here nor in Lyon.
So why am I dwelling on posterity like a warrior groom?
My own lover’s eyes shine brighter than all the color coming into the poem...

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

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

Nor wills posterity rest.

2/25/25

No futures present new phenomena —
I have a tiny soft view of holding to their path, a core harmony purring yet often put aside.
3-D models are mindless taking chances. Anyone we can engage in transparent secrecy is charged by mental concision.

Rationed compliments ensue and float
several kinds of math.
The math is fascinating, I think, to squelch actionable conditions for surplus misuse as power we might have had. Had the self taken itself un-nostalgically?

— an idea to perform w/ just one note in the future perfect.. where any disrespect feels like eavesdropping.
31: You remind me of some gone. A morning crew, weathermen
Waving arms in endearing hidden patterns over their forecasts —
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.

2/24/25

Early nesting process stuff. Ketchupy
The coast is never clear, fat onesie...   
 
A whole new side to nuts & lightening bolts, narrow & hollow thru the center,  
along with holding on 100% — inflatable as you lay blank in a blank whisper,  
clearly in the nick of it, spoiling for everyone.
146: I’m talking to you in American. 
 
Our futurist savior went missing... No more dying then? No lie.. I watched us dream within recuperative economics, weeding and planting over a long radius, destabilizing some of the latest molecules that eat up itty Taos. Our body losses. Our Taos. Along with cooters and rhombus-gatherers, all doing time respectively — great work for the power preserve. A ton of cuts to molecule restructure, with chops on key language turns. Our biggest ideas — not from Asia, but from over time itself, on lease. Enough time for epic sums of cuts along with 21st century instrumentation reduced to dust whirls from open combat. (Maybe some new futurists / feminists will clear the air. Gulp.)     
 
Don’t know. Not going to lie. (Ideologues often get stuck on any ending with a make-sense line.) 

2/23/25

Fair haired singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to interminable, amorous sex. 
Learned consensus becomes early performance; both nonpareil
in a persistent sense, the deep pitch shows up invisibly,  
 
unspeakably, as libido constitutes a knowledge base, glistening aimlessly.   
 
Candy later.
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 jhuzhes & 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.

2/22/25

Pollution control. This medicine causes confusion.
Yes, we can fudge an alphabet from a dirty grid of numbers and circles.  
We can whip up an alphabet of symbols within other system alphabets  
helping us read from grids, other notions and more homonyms  
 
as well as take on upgrades for discoursing in colloquial physics.  
Yet a steel door stays open. Here are the last letters of bliss.  
We best defer to the upgrades to shake them off.  Back to the distracting alphabets.
Deep blues and silvers with biological shades perform as vowels;   
 
consonants are shown with senior upgrades,  
slurred with what is everpresent.
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 jhuzhes & 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.

2/21/25

Avoidance with a message sounds personable, calm, also passably awkward. In the same call the proxy reverses prerogatives, that is, the voice does. I’ll table the difference — a mixed result but along with swift powers two kinds of physics have never been better aligned. I’m altogether devoted to the happiness of most proxies and then all our tech people in the call center. The firm gives me focus, serves as my hideout, while I search for a motive, working the ropes.
Sonnet 26: My life is charged by your respect. A merit so great
I don’t sleep much, but I'm given an exemption, I hope.
My thought is tottered, all naked but mostly fair. 

Dear you,

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

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

Un-reproved, how I love you. I do.

2/20/25

It’s open mic. Didn’t I tell you? 
Squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one off color equation 
of a deceptive simplicity  in love as well as feeling pride, duplicity.  
Creationism = a lone boyfriend keeps faith  
better than others, believing neither.   
 
Separated from a source of meditation, let’s call it, you’d be sad too.  
The source is not sad. One separated from the source is.   
 
Or it’s obvious.  
Sadness is beside itself.

2/19/25

Achilles, what can you do or not do? Are you sitting on the floor 
listening ? wearing nothing but  
eagerness for a motive to  
hear what we were afraid to be?
Foundational bias underpins Achilles’s argument for or against not being sure.
A signature concern throughout the night is deformed experience. The bigger the better. Peculiarly, one other point — so many writers simultaneously figure out the brute’s forefoot and heel, studying nature and truth in the misprision of writing within supposition and guesswork. Achilles becomes enamored of composers turning toward stage experiment and utopic closure.

For then no separation point emerges. Harsh.

2/18/25

Simple and poor, that’s a traffic violation.
Work through naïve discourse —

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

Make it dorky and intimate.

There will be subtitles, various languages. You may dream while staying
awake and translate the exposed back of another dreaming.

Nothing accrues but there’s a lifetime of waking thoughts.
Sleep has nothing to do with nothing.
36: Radical repetitions. There they go. Altho each seems the same, 
you’re the one, almost mine. You get so far and stop. And you’re not alone.  
And so you’re not my only delight — for neither of us is solely the other’s. It’s a shame tho we honor our inner lives, love dividing us into blotted hours, alone. I confess — or let me confess here — we are separable here, each shamed into taking up other loves of one sort with altered effects —  
 
Your love, mine — honored remains from our nervous systems that distort us both, it seems, set to break in two (but still don’t), both borne alone repeatedly.

2/17/25

The grounds for guesswork know what the regulation is. 
If we’re lucky, Euro notes rule our larger theory of commitments.  
Like pounds they bear full dealerdhops, shiny 16th- and 18th-century deals.   
 
Debts improve wasted sunshine through labor. 
(I don’t mean that as deeply before we hand out labor over 
by your leave.)   
 
Don’t plan on further development.

Finish a stretch and clouds get confused. Confused as   
 
A rusted barge dries in sun orange. Or   
 

Danzig is the Wallace Stevens of evil urban clusters.. 
 
Ok, the grounds here are not Danzig. Proven  
True or not.
But theory is something else.
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 mortal war
spinning or spun /up/set, out of control yet
just outward parts of how our eyes impanel freedom and my rights
to your fair appearance, to your gut quests and thoughts, an inward heart.
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.

2/16/25

A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable
— a stream of gasses embossing conjoined tattoos. Outside the feel of an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brightened ways w/ brays.

All our neighbors are mirror bees. Are we not ones?
36: Radical repetitions. There they go. Altho each seems the same, 
you’re the one, almost mine. You get so far and stop. And you’re not alone.  
And so you’re not my only delight — for neither of us is solely the other’s. It’s a shame tho we honor our inner lives, love dividing us into blotted hours, alone. I confess — or let me confess here — we are separable here, each shamed into taking up other loves of one sort with altered effects —  
 
Your love, mine — honored remains from our nervous systems that distort us both, it seems, set to break in two (but still don’t), both borne alone repeatedly.

2/15/25

First movement:

Beginning to see the picture. Beyond some blanks
you can follow love making progress toward endlessness:
Our love (a winner .. have a look!) is a time share in calligraphy.
Joining you, me — my hand learns & flows with others’ sleights — committed to your tongue tho, delivered from your brain,
nursed on your beauty’s signature.
Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one variable taste no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled. 
Thus, Chickee is my guy.
92: To my love in constant revolt, stealing away... 

Our life together won’t work. I’m almost happy, I guess. Love pours a 120 proof — intramural scars, a heightened blush, and hard labor. Staying power we dread the most, having had your love — now... what’s a fair question? ...is there another, more thoughtful stage to live through?
Depends on you and me, always. Yet I find lifetime love is formally difficult and, o oops... I just heard others happy to die are on fire. 

Happy to die! — do we take their place?

2/14/25

Suspend suspension..

Our hesitance to go there is weather related. Some warmth riding in and a similar improvised fog going out, all but darkness offshore the day before.
The atmosphere wheezes through its pace emboldening dreams.

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

2/13/25

To chide its beauty has to be done but it’s too one-sided. 
It seemed artificially important  
The screech then was spherical.   
A seagull.  Now 
No one’s there.     
 
I missed it.
41: An abstract, pretty temptation below gentle laughter: Ay,
Beauty for your years .. Ah me.

Ay blizzard.

Together, you and I follow a twofold point of wooing / then-forced-absence, but I’m not that far from following your lead and therefore, like you, assailed. Ay. Dating youth is tantamount to body snatching, another point. Tempting but false equivalence even: Ay. We chide the other’s choice — where this follows I cannot lead, leaving me in a riot of your beauty and my liberty where you are.
Favorite restraint? = get it done / don’t talk to me.
But I wouldn’t say “favorite.”

2/12/25

A heedless apparatchik, I came to my senses later to strum the alert.
Modulating the self raises the stakes
according to types of daring.

Don’t be offended, demonstrate
a simple skill.

Self mastery begins thus,
With pencil marks across gessoed

Pearls — trance police
— I’m not sure anyone can
deal with them... turning into a

Spectacle — They’re taking dictation
put into thinking doing the math.

Space parlance & more intuition —
rhymed with situations beneath disappearing

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

Ay blizzard.

Together, you and I follow a twofold point of wooing / then-forced-absence, but I’m not that far from following your lead and therefore, like you, assailed. Ay. Dating youth is tantamount to body snatching, another point. Tempting but false equivalence even: Ay. We chide the other’s choice — where this follows I cannot lead, leaving me in a riot of your beauty and my liberty where you are.
50: A hip cast of super angels strumming harps, an encore of Zeus Arrhenothelus

Bringing up larger journeys for the stretch and preen in vigilance onward —
So far the miles to me are measured from my friends and joy left behind.
I fall back tired, breathe while new cast members come on —
They are casually let go as they finish groaning bearing my weight.

Our joy restored at a slight remove from sharp pain and darkness in grief, putting this in mind,
Since we answer to manifold waves that weigh in:

Unprovoked, a heavy vacuum still.. you are away while I am on my way at my travel’s end.

2/11/25

Start for free. Let’s call it bones to pick.. or the end of the beginning.
The front gate still won’t front. Its end (or the front end) is or is not a pity.

How does not knowing intrude on want of liberty?
Once I produce Spot, a dog.. he’ll be playing his surrogate, Spot Two.
Both their microns need a moment before emptied of vague alterations. And now, Three! In no time!

while intrusions encompass all doggie forms freely, coincidentally.

We once thought.
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 moodier —
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?

2/10/25

— Let’s be fair, I’m not sure the partnership was an accident, joining boosters of equity.
Runic, compared to language proceedings now.

It just snowballed until all frontiers on Earth were taken under one rule.

Our slogan has been restated: Bodies of formulae destroy discursive fruit until only style prevails.

(Yay..)
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, I have to bolt.

Loving offense more, I excuse you both.

2/9/25

Marxist-apparatus irony:  
I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of subjective misnomers.  
Eating and breathing them too.
132: I’d like to bend rules to wipe temperance from a finger painting 
while we dress soberly for the pitiable sky out west — 
It’s so cold there. A place for mourning w/ subdued pain,
along with rare minerals that turn back into tree colors back east. 

Your eyes show I love you. They torment me most
where full stars usher both of us by your grace — 
Alone, not half the sun nor half the glory from heaven 
suits me more as your morning eyes become your face.

2/8/25

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 low, meadow voice... 
for giving up missing your skin

...a good amount ... speaking of meaning?
That would be as far as I get
with you so solid a wonder, ending our aversion to near infinity.
41: An abstract, pretty temptation below gentle laughter: Ay,
Beauty for your years .. Ah me.

Ay blizzard.

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

2/7/25

Note: It’s impossible to separate understatement from early programmed utterance; both are newborn in an admissible sense, pitch. So that’s how pretending v coming close can be felt, my sovereign.

Next, an inevitable database advances to burn out your swing — try living on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value contingent. Warning: The underground minimizes special-purpose thinking within a dominant tribal identity or trance. The opium is waiting. What comes first on a bender is calm to recover and / or replace each close-to-noble escape route on ahead.
41: An abstract, pretty temptation below gentle laughter: Ay,
Beauty for your years .. Ah me.

Ay blizzard.

Together, you and I follow a twofold point of wooing / then-forced-absence, but I’m not that far from following your lead and therefore, like you, assailed. Ay. Dating youth is tantamount to body snatching, another point. Tempting but false equivalence even: Ay. We chide the other’s choice — where this follows I cannot lead, leaving me in a riot of your beauty and my liberty where you are.
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 get composed, still we have to keep our wits about us
— looking back under whose  
 
thumb? And am I yours?
Our national leaders and their propagandists know very well liberal capitalism is an inegalitarian regime, unjust, and unsuitable for the vast majority of humanity.

Grandeur is a deluxe quest and metaphysical evil.

I’m not a model, I just look like one. (Helen of Troy)

We’re the only nation that flies into hurricanes. (D.A. Levy)

2/6/25

Note: It’s impossible to separate understatement from early programmed utterance; both are newborn in an admissible pitch. So that’s how pretending v coming close can be felt, my sovereign.

Warning: The underground minimizes special-purpose thinking within a dominant tribal i.d. or trance. The opium is waiting, for a bender. What comes next is calm to recover and / or replace each close-to-noble escape route on ahead.
85: It takes substance and breadth; the going price of unlettered, brusque desire

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

I think speaking, in effect, projecting dumb ideas.

The woven haze drags down sculptures of floppy appeal

Like light praise warmed over by spinning in “Amen”

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

— my tongue tied crying, folding you into thoughts.

2/5/25

Since we gave up on poetry, singalong vaulted to the top of the agenda. Leaving office had a double meaning to off-center the filing (filtering) system and other singularities I’ve kept versed in for years. We have no limits to affirm any retractions, feeding our reliance on illumined work, dire pleasures, majestic plans and, this most generalized I guess, burningly turning back, looking on while the wax dims.
69: Kind eyes are deep deeds,   a small part of glamor all can see,   along with a backup watching you move   in tawny synthetic light.. daybreak.  

We smile, neither laugh, extending our praise, looking into a glamor farther than the eye..    

Questions of where, when we’re all right in love.
Mercury is wow pensive, coming back! back... no..

You’re saying no to more billing days first, no to virulent, callow graphemes, stance covers for a copyist. Cut the trad crocus, low opinions and bloodied mesh. No aplomb in nature, please. No chiastic haunts. And no golf property.

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

Funny place
for a dance, Mr Baker.

2/4/25

Reprobates — with a kill-agenda — are tickled into corruption. 
Here is the place you and I may detect the language driver, untidy and young, deliberate despite the foundational rule of no rule     
 
And speaking up without permission. In other words,    
 
Sin gets somewhere and stops. The wind in time withers our good looks.    
 
In the mentalist version we again grow inner living language over — to pillory hindsight.
85: It takes substance and breadth; the going price of unlettered, brusque desire

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

I think speaking, in effect, projecting dumb ideas.

The woven haze drags down sculptures of floppy appeal

Like light praise warmed over by spinning in “Amen”

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

— my tongue tied crying, folding you into thoughts.
Here we go. I got you.
Here we are.
I got you.

Your back!
I got you. It’s okay.

You sure that’s why you’re here?

2/3/25

112: Do you like spiral staircases, scandals that strive to branch out to the un-alive, an abysm? 
Facts there are a marketplace whose figures look young and green when least derivative. Volatile objective content triumphs. Right or wrong it’s kind of a snob racket (Charles B).   
 
Our nervous system can distort music in an adder’s sense, Charles might say, to emphasize changes in people who are snakes, radial evil neglected by the super ego. B is for Bukowski. 

2/2/25

Feeling comfort in disruption is one point. Together, we define entire affability arcs in ironic laughter, a series of slippery zoning disputes. Two points or more (identical in all respects).

Any abstract attitudes are buried below our gestalt-like, collective strip-down (the whole of reality, now) to the ashen stem cells of relatively unspeaking, as tho history was a set of onlt visual realities.
Body-snatching, the third point is you and I have a multi-reality to join the others, since our lives are directionless thru Rose County. Good night, ensign.

Good night to expose an accident or two that don’t matter, made tactical as we circumvent a few exchange elements, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.
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. 

2/1/25

I can’t get into specifics,
because it’s nonverbal, a compromise.
I know I’m next, flapping my arms in front of me.

Maybe I’m afraid of being abducted.

At the top it’s shrew pink and all mapped out. So I’m ready.
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 get composed, still we have to keep our wits about us
— looking back under whose  
 
thumb? And am I yours?