Say I'll be back. You never can tell.

Somewhere, what's a sociopath?

Neologism (not mine): thermopixel as in, Hand over them thermopixels.

Check the bill. Check it out. Don't expect much 'til midnight, curl up in a nice formless doval presaging puppies, chew a bund loaf, make out with bullish dolls. This is how fair hoodlums child. You can see, I'm living unlocked, a 3-4.5 billion hoarder. It's appellate Thursday (and you can't win). To 2010.

The wrong blockbuster got filmed in 3-D. Avatar's porno-proportioned figurines framed in state-of-of-the-tech snuggies evidence big-screen anxiety sheeting a densely preachy storyline with a putrid, old-timey 3-D graphemic system (overlays that almost show) to convey frontal motion and narrative flow. The only visual wonder comes with an infrequent snow flake or ember floating down to the viewer's nose level. That is cool.

On the other side of the megaplex, Robert Downey, Jr. and Jude Law in Sherlock Holmes map out glamorously rough-house and possibly new dimensions for middle-aged male companions. Downey has survived his transfusions, apparently, and jolts through Sherlock Holmes as if his brain courses with creamed monkey blood. Look. Deeply planed but inventively unwrinkled, Downey's Holmes snarls and snorts — enacting British hood-expressions that Downey's American, unconvincingly received accent could not, queue to zed. Nicely done. That. Meantime Law's Dr. Watson spends the greater part of the film off, looking away. It's the kind of off looking that intimates passive aggression that dares not speak its love, that of an unrealized poet who betrays anyone else in sight. Had Holmes's cluttered quarters, had XIXth century street markets, below, or had the Crowley-esque dungeon across town — had any of these been touched-up in 3-D, I'd have followed the tale more gleefully. I rejoiced just a bit, though, in Downey's Holmes's condemnation of Law's Dr. Watson's bourgeois aspirations toward proper marriage to a woman on the outside. In Sherlock Holmes these four belong to each other.

Here's an alternative caption: it's good to see birds feasting on dry cat food...

I told him they were starlings. — Geof Huth

Answer: (c).

Your advantage expires, ___________. (a) Floppy Bear; (b) Roomba Rider; (c) Balloon Prick; (d) Anthony Marshall.

Schools of poetry are nonacademic outfits scattered about guesswork and lucky breaks. It's always funny, you move to the city, a raver scripted by infantile alienation. Again. It's not too late! Optimism pays.

Still, the future is night-blinded. There's less to publishing now. Sixty thousand fewer jobs. Young arrivals to the city will be wandering into the new wrong play. Gummy and purple, the meat looks like condiment chopped into little squares of hypnotic drumming.

Back when, I was pulpy, one of those gear-heads spinning in perfume. T'was massive parallel handsome vistas. I learned to project smiles and grimaces. Learned good is bad. Bad is good. Show up invisible. Totally insane. Libido.

I learned a comic needs a vertical monkey bar and stage time, a star range that's speckled, plenty of blank tenderness to smolder in met colors, spoofy galvanized pastels. Best of all what I'd do worked for me. Works for you?

Everything will be on schedule now. I'll get to know you, in and out. We don't care about nuts or consumers unless they live on a palatial estate. (I'm a stay-at-home myself.) I take it like a man. Bad dog. Like déjà vu.

On the drunken cul-de-sac everyone is there, crook, athlete,
A party guy comes to terms of the century, 19 or 20.
Sitting down delivers more baubles, the video goes up
Treacherous cycles per second, hand scrolls, as well,
And now the performance capture and firelight are complete.
Principally it was shade that clawed him, I mean with you
I bet, hey! Open the curtains. Let's steal the show
One that runs down before it's wasted, then throw
You at a target, sleeping with you, blackmailed. I'm
Looking for a mnemonic to store in a palindrome before self
-regard kicks off, missing something awful and closing in.

One takeaway with immediate resonance for me from the NYT's annual "Year of Ideas" is research by psychologists Francesca Gino, Michael Norton, Dan Ariely reported in a paper "The Counterfeit Self: The Deceptive Costs of Faking It." The authors hypothesize a link between wearing counterfeits, feeling "fake" or inauthentic, and behaving unethically. This means I am in you. O Hickory. (Or Dickory.) Together we are performing metempsychosis ahead of the Joneses. (Also, from this year's ideas, cows with names yield more milk.)

[Graphic adapted from Mr Bingo's illustration.]

The 47 Ronin, Part II. It's that time of the month again.

Cocktail jazz: Nobody looks or sounds good here, and because this is still 2000-and-something there's commentary on the comments there. At the end of the first decade it's great if we bitches and pups are "all having a great time"; the gauging of laughter and cross-examining tail off, after all, into unbright corners. Highball glasses tinkle and clink in the cool of the room. Try not to look old.

Long story short, I like something or someone I can save. Kinescopes and call backs and earlier bits. I'm a tortured collector, a slob, and I have very few expectations slurping down Pease porridge upriver while the pros refine their material (which was my material?). (I wouldn't know.) Spooky like aspirin for the soul, a slice of toast flash-dances out through the mail slot but nobody notices in the past. I've watched the footage.

You were touched. Transgressive languor zigzagged down one shoulder. I had to say something. I chose any car in the aisle, because it's Olympic, and because I like to gamble with your money, brooding of course, doing something earlier enormously mysterious with time. I was and am alive with burdens. The sun is shining, nipping, filing matter, spinning nationally, capturing the dress casual of mirrored jerk-offs, meaning it but not being tempted. Facing these total strangers I had to say it again, go outside to compare apples to a sopping experience. To take on the flood zone, de-license the observers, that's the virulent point of view. Gushing is a close shave. Kenny said if you drop the itch I'll save on the next night.

Two events 23 hours apart, nearly back to back! Tony Towle and friends. December 2, 8:00 p.m. Poetry Project at St. Mark's, 131 E. 10th Street. John Ashbery. December 3, 7 p.m. Vanderbilt Hall, Tishman Auditorium, 40 Washington Square South.

Another "event" worth squeezing in now or between Wednesday and Thursday, Brian Kenny, ongoing exhibit, at briankenny.

Scenes of Venus and Dutch towns, there's a hydrangea boat and it's sinking. This is my office. Welcome. I'm writing about it, not just doing something. I taper the next new visually inevitable thing and select for gameness. A deep-seated specialist would work with genres and forms and play something interdisciplinary; I see beyond impertinence and scars. Um, ok, yes, ma'am. I've misspelled the signs. I got a procedure to make it better, sham wildflowers, a few with a weird, obscure bounce, and fuchsia spurge past the goalpost. I'm on an errand stream to a structualist's degree, undone by a commensurate for another time, a serener surface.

Politics and the dignity of appearances don't mix. (The financial industry is just noticing.) Nothing personal, this is the sustained concussion version. Well, I'm politicized and hysterical reading and writing for my slot on Fox owned, I'll say for charity's sake, by Comedy Central. By owned I mean kneed in the head, puked on, and rendered paranoid. So... as I write for charity... you could say... I also give in involuntarily for what's not available, for recondite sentiments, for the boink of whinnying for pleasure. Or I cry when it becomes fashionable. I credit everything on the surface without a message. I'll trade you.

In this age of taking the left and lefties on the chin, the ripe and sour, there's a new self-help book, Fisting Birch, and it goes on in just one vein, that of the hegemony of rhomboids handing out welfare checks, and above that there's a patchwork of cities, breaks in the traffic, and social critics. Ms Class Wars is the author, and she asks too many questions. To crest any divide between us I'm turning over this and that in the notes. In this she incants, "Can a straight man be svelte? I don't think so. That's why I'm eating John Boehner, within the hour, in the duplex. We're extremist soul mates, radical and best friends." She trails off from there, the smallest of minorities on top of a wide, floating head. That of all the absent-minded. I truly woke up at this point and decided there's more to liberal politics than being pro-slob.

My hands are too scared of rejection. I admonish my thin limbs. With the economy beginning to double-tier, I'm talking among summoned spoils we're scheduled to garner. It's looking like this is the rag century for risk aversion. Incoming, a mock-up animation, idiot access, and fear impressions. The worst part is our time has come, introverts.

Witless v. gutless, this is our daily fare, our salt and pepper, the full flavor spectrum to wearying political tactics and rhetoric from Republicans and Democrats, respectively. Only a few months ago we woke up repeatedly to morning news with the "up or down vote" mantra playing in the audio backdrop, chafing thematics for Republican senators to conjugate their battles against majority rule for George Bush's often offensive judicial nominees. Same senators today push for supermajorities on mostly every vote that matters to Democrats, because Republicans can do this with impunity — Democrats lack the rhetoric to reset the direction of Republicans' sloganeering, much less to counter with the up or down option available if health care reform legislation, for example, were redubbed budget reconciliation. Democrats could try this, but fear setting a precedent for ramming through controversial, once-in-a-generation reform. Sadly yet quite predictably, they are losing the perception game, perhaps the only game that registers in politics, not to mention political reform. While Democrats argue substantively about thin slices of public options and eliminating women's rights, they battle among themselves, making what they do and do not do appear petty. Republicans are seen as witless by some but unquestionably they are above the fray, throwing spitballs and a few boulders in every direction that's down. Some perceive Republicans as gutsy and, for now, that conjugates well enough.

Meantime, in concert with appearing petty as well as catastrophically dumb, the government has triggered the closing of The Washington Blade, an influential gay weekly. The Small Business Administration has taken away funds from the parent company that evidently did not qualify under SBA rules. Sister (and brother) publications will also be put to rest. Conjugate that.

As the zeitgeist has it, Kent Johnson is our on-again-off-again least-favored-by-the masses schlock detector. Exhibit over at digital emunction, Kent points to flarf, points a few times. He draws tangential lines of argument about a group (flarf is both a jelly mold and a gang, right?) of oozers of youth and cred beyond their years that, together, youth and cred, sell me they know what they do and they know better. Kent's unsold. That's acceptable to a degree. He's old like me. (I'm bald also. Kent would be better looking bald.) His conclusions attribute faults to flarf strategy and muddle the details: flarfists' rep for bad manners; flarf's derivative stature — cookie-cutting from the dada playlist, on one hand — its awful-makes-it-great (un)originality, theoretically-constructed from Perloff and Goldsmith, on the other; group equivocation toward and against any salience that might attach to achievements. The latter is ambivalent, intellectually rude, and cool. I say Kent hates ambivalence. He's old. I shall stay The Other to Kent by my consuming flarf for what it says and what it says it says, and then like others I'll blog about it to look bad, cool, current. We who follow flarf in the consensus it maneuvers are all about and over the airports of language, socked in, high up in the control towers of imbibing, ex-pilots, stewards, and passengers, dicking around and getting dicked to have a good time and to be shown one more shade in the rapture of oppression and Cartesian circumstance than one might have looked up before. Before people in 2012 dicked us, even. Most of this will happen again in 2012, by the way. It's likely the nation's next black president will be Barrack Obama. It's thaumaturgy, and it ages fast. He'll be as old as we are, maybe late fifties. A daughter of the president will age two decades, another miracle; she's now an art conservator in the global art consortium, an unmarried foil to a sensational young Obama-like black science adviser to the president. Art and science find one another on Air Force One flying to China to board a Staten Island-sized lifeboat (which is also a love boat, for them), leaving the president (her father, his boss) behind while the aged Obama presence searches for a missing person on the White House lawn, standing in for Diogenes until a tsunami, the biggest of the year, whips up propelling the USS John F. Kennedy to roll over DC, killing the president and his entire staff, save one cabinet member who is also on Air Force One and now the acting president, yet lacking the virility (and authority) of the young Obama because all year the science adviser has been smoldering, warning about the earth's heated crust and the wounds to come. The acting president is old. Has a strange, almost vampiric mien like Kent. Everyone close to the acting president, everyone but the young Obama-like science adviser, is Kent's age or older, as well. That's why 2012 is as exemplary as any time like now when younger practitioners of the arts deploy techniques like those of recidivists, speaking up to and for seniors and the old-new (awful-great) ways. Exhibit young Obama: physically showing up in India to uncover within an abandoned mineshaft the first boiling neutrinos (irrefutable scientific evidence!) to prove the earth is headed toward cataclysm — is this not irony adjured, a trope for googling within the new media to attain the data and the measure of the ancients, lexical juxtaposition and summoned lyric? Or how would one otherwise explain why the species is yet saved in 2012 when young Obama dashes from the subcontinent back to DC in twenty hours (sweat-soaked, without sleep!) to bring the bad news to old Obama that we might all be lost, news that might have been otherwise twittered in twenty seconds — can't this be construed as externalized internal strife, that of old v. new (un)originality, singleton v. collective production, strife that if left unresolved will bring about last days? It takes very little in the end, despite all the frolic and banjo-strumming that Kent resents, to see the higher purpose assigned to flarf as it goes out and about perfuming the stadium, filling the air with marauding psalms and lots of free stuff.

Find us in facebook. Then?

Often I sleep and dream about activated sludge given immunity. It's a horrid erotic enterprise and a pathetic conceit, but in one episode I could count my chickens on my fingers, fingers of one... Your hand got in its say, that is, to say it eliminated all that fuss, locked it inside. Anyway. I took your hand. Took it in, to heart. Not every detail was ready for the Hong Oaks section, home base, but the brass knuckles worked. You know, a hand is clueless about vertically integrated opulence, like cut-away brinkmanship set in the anonymous life deliberately made up to look boring, made up to think or to look as if it thinks it doesn't need a hand crossing The White River to skip dinner, coming through splinters of clouds and low pressure peeled back from summer, tenuous, jutting fingers into the interstate that brings you and me to Hong Oaks.

To recap, I don't think life thinks or can be made up.

And my chickens got counted despite my never getting the hang of it. I'm not worried, it gets easier.

I'm in periodic
I can't get it to
gether. Scooped out of
of about a minute
for French bashing
and the score will be set
tled, the last artifact
treated badly, worse
sunsetted or grand
fathered atonally. The
St. Pauli with bitters
in a flood of a strum
Ida... the shadowing
violet and motivated by
prodigy gracing the lost
fan magnets' wonder
ing if life as it is might
happen. I'd done the
drawing, and finished,
it's hideous, recoiling at
closed-circuit put an
ad on and shot
right back, clangorous,
indistinctly pounded
down the travel
pillow. Paddled by
a comic affair
watching moving men
reminders have that
never goes away.

My point is close
but the celebration bowl
blew up really fast. Who
is this Ricky G? Lickety
split it became
a shovelful then none,
a potato to dust,
to walk away from. G
said breathing over
raw nerves is an ordinary
perfect gift. So now I'm
defending your dissertation
from a childbed of sneaky
sang-froid. The inequities
of a flight of means
to an end of uncertainties.

Most adherents develop synthetic self-containment to face future life. It's in Order Two, by natural selection the gradual student refuses to settle in opposing viewpoints, to take local politics down to its roots, the lessons of Vietnam. For example, what, exactly, did we learn? Never let the creatures surface is one thing. Or nothing. You need to leverage the freaks to get ahead. Year after year we heal them and ourselves, each cell in the body spun out of starboard. Cells are factories and why we come back factory owners. One says the seas of government are misinformed. One says what another means which is never. We are the people running out of time.

I don't know where to take my politics. Maybe to that one in six of us. Seveteen percent and a fraction are underemployed or not working. The ten point two percent official rate of unemployment is only the measurable upper brush. Shameless, timid Dems are mostly silent, waiting for the infrastructure stimulus to rub out growth in unemployment, "Dr Formica, make it go away." Or perhaps my rant should go out to every woman of a certain income unable to choose because new rules forbid a subscriber to individual or small business insurance schemes to elect to have an abortion paid by her plan. Or better to take it to traitorous Joseph Lieberman, champion of every military spending bill since he's been in DC, who now declaims future indebtedness dubiously attributable to a public option as his 'matter of conscience' to justify blocking the Senate vote on health care and insurance reforms. I'm anti-crummy-politics today, moving on to going away to integrate other moods.

I've got goals. I'm an anthologist of agitprop. I think it's colossal. It gives me a boost as a lifelong intellectual. I'm party central when I have to be, too. But not when friends are struggling then flattened intentionally. (There is too much to go back to.) The hilly, glitter-draped lawns on this side of the divide are actual circumstances at twilight I prefer to canvass and peruse for my wine Ph.D. I'm looking for novel jitters from others. There aren't any, so it's out on the town looking for the perfect spot to brush up on my visual grammar of the assault on the deep.

Maine rejects gay betrothal. So. These are my last thoughts before we get married.

There's something I haven't told you. I'm passionate about what's right in front of me, captain, sire, I jog to burn, between teaser and trailer I'll speak up on your behalf. It's a tonic!

Look, we're all in a fix hungering for vibe trays and signature seacoasts. So. I'm still wanting to fine-tune Portland, our metropolis, shoulder to shoulder lead a band rendering old murder ballads. My emotions are definitive.

Poolside let's get the most out of facial expressions, shoulders hiked nice and high. Certain tainted instincts pose problems, forcing adjustments in religious observance. I love Maine. My fix, my ocean with hummingbirds. They seem to be singing our radical opera, so I'm alarmist coming out in the axis of abiding intimacy, creating a vogue for cold saltwater. But this is an ocean of air.

Paranormal Activity is a slick one-trick pony of pleasure waiting (90 minutes) to happen. We are one with the fidgeting self-tormented audience, substantial on Halloween night six weeks after the film's release, locked in a horrible grown-up abstraction, a brutally underdecorated three-bedroom townhouse anywhere in the suburbs, sequestered with Katie and Micah, Paranormal Activity's faunlike targets. Micah has turned himself into a player within the play, a film documentarian, poking an oversized camera in Katie's haunted direction whenever he can get away with it and even when he can't. Micah has time on his hands, having recently earned his associate's from a college annex next to Costco, I suspect; Katie still crams to get hers, and her unease about study is one pretext for the ample albeit unfocused Angst und Furcht built into the relationship even before Demon shows up. Demon is the third rail, a whiff of a character, though, because it never shows itself (as we wish it would) in skeletal, college-age, buff bodily form. Through old technology, time-lapsed shoots, Demon nonetheless effects its wickedness on Katie, making her queen bed a hellish lair and, inevitably through Katie, switching Micah's camera and Micah off. A fourth character, a middle-aged ghost buster with no "expertise" in demons, does a couple of walk-ons for comic extension, a simulacrum of the old guys and their outside perspective. Paranormal Activity argues in a word that there is no outside. There is only what's inside, which is perpetually immature, disgusting, and repulsive. Our mise en scène then is barely fit for longterm observation, deliriously unpleasing, Beckettian. Unlike Beckett, the film advances not through language but through hilarious and (obligatory) cheesy time lapses in which plain speech and narrative continuity become incrementally burdensome. Forty minutes into it, we want Katie and Micah to stop talking. Twenty minutes later we want them to explode, to be free of the metaphysics and misery waged inside a film that's stuck inside us, as it were. Happily, after one more midnight, two weeks or so into the narrative, with only a little time-lapsed hoot in the shadows to prepare us, Katie does a full-body thrust into Micah's camera, hurling Micah's cadaver right at us, doing the trick and the favor we had been waiting for. Catharsis. Psychic healing. Unpolished youth transformed into the next thing.

Iterating a pattern... the Halloween slut fest (a choir of fops) over at DC's says it: ...will lay for hours sucking his toes, love dues in flip flops. Cooper has to write this, correct?

Guards used to stand tall. United part and parcel. Now they tell you to take off your belt.

The impression received is that every motion serves a purpose. A higher purpose according to religionists hoisted in the breeze. Purpose in a word is a metonym for what is, according to boundless practitioners approaching the guardrail. Their motion, which was heading toward devastation, collapses under its own glare into supernumerary states of moves, most unannounced like minor readjustments in politik on an international scale opposite the light of my body. Every dancer stops mid-enchufla for a moment, and I feel better.

Then natives yield to the rush of the new people center stage. I'm all about the loot.

A text, and it follows, a composer, will be influenced by scatterings of sources, most unreadable. Ungainly, indifferent, unreadable texts inspire antithesis! More numerous and more frequent are atextual sources read only as prompts to become text, ontological components for thinking, composing, thinking-composing (and many subprocesses that can be observed there). Unreadable sounds, pain, faculties for balance, direction, movement, tastes and smells, motions and textures you touch or see or hear, sensual data some call them. Feelings are naturally unreadable sources. Both kinds. Feelings that are rooted from the cardinal position for most of the last century in the poetics of W. B. Yeats and cohorts, and that stretch outward into the deepest cosmetics of daydream, prize stars, parrots, and piciformes. Or wired-in feelings (readymade) that comprise marly enmeshments within a core, retroactive structure parallel for a while, now, to Ezra Pound's poetics, male confusion times female homesickness, the Chilean flamingo, appliance hints, a lifeboat, and home plate.

This note, by the way, picks up on points made by other bloggers. What I say was prompted by others. It's hard to tack a center onto perception. One solution would be to reject the ism of the center. There is a Poundian feeling and there is Yeats & Co. Both influence perception. Both are engaged in what we make up as sources. Nothing in between. No center. Nothing to hold so to speak so it doesn't.

Another solution is to operate as if there are many centers. This would debunk centrality, like the first solution, but it incubates and eventually spawns centerism or centrality-ism, because the idea of one field among a number of fields, this one field, along with others, that operates as if it's the center, that is, this idea that there can be many centers, motivates competition requiring an ism to regulate incubation and spawning, a tough call but it has to be made. Usually by a policing force.

One or two additional observations are in order. First, the Chilean flamingo, the parrot do not know they are birds, much less which subspecies they would need to find themselves within to survive, that is, to incubate and spawn offspring. Second, while I will concede that Marianne Moore is not necessarily the center of modernism, I think she found herself, through various devices, in the center of that and other isms, much like John Barr finds himself today in the center of tangled ventriloquism composing Grace.

I monitor the craft and cling to the kittens. To pay me to sin in grief is missing the point. I don't see anyone for very long; like me, Felix was a gypsy. The model peninsula put up around what's in procession, a lava tint. No surprise, it's that time of the month. Come twilight, Halloween in particular emboldens collective lament to gobble up all the wealth and zonesful of nonsense, excepting beauty's habitual use forcing a runoff. I'll be moving out soon. A wilderness gathering has been created deep inside the seminar which is an organized fraud, I say. I've got your back, familiarly strange, pleasant. I lost myself. Thanks.

Ms. Bulkhead averted nettling. I'll drop her another chum marker.

Spoof-prone or, simpler, fictitious avant-garde strategies as well as their vulnerable practitioners and critics are celebrated in a newly released film, (Untitled), written by Jonathan Parker and Catherine di Napoli, directed by Parker. In just two columns of text NY Times critic Stephen Holden deploys a massive array of double-edged vocabulary that unsettles to the gut. (Untitled)'s protagonist, a conceptual composer with a perpetually furrowed brow, is said to be tormented with a teasingly paradoxical attitude... [a] hostile scowl. The anti-hero is so self-absorbed and ungenerous that when confronted with experimental work in other fields he is as rudely dismissive as any provincial philistine. Meanwhile, to highlight the acerbic entwinement of sexual performativity and aesthetic judgment, a cheating, gallery-owning and aesthetically 'disingenuous' girlfriend shines her popping eyes like a bright screwball. Holden notes other types, including a self-loathing conceptual artist whose works have self-explanatory titles like "Pushpin Stuck Into Wall." (Untitled) goes for broadly obvious, easy targets, in other words, in a line of lampooning artist-fish in a barrel, a long satirical line that spoofs an avant-garde tradition that goes back at least as far as Marcel Duchamp's urinal. Some would-be targets are employed for aesthetic as well as comedic affect. Avantist David Lang writes the goofy music for (Untitled) and film maker Kyle Ng constructs proto-conceptual pieces, among them, a taxidermist monkey sucking on a vacuum cleaner (Jeff Koons to the second power?). Holden's review encapsulates a chapter on current aesthetic temperaments and fomented doubletalk that run for cover under the rubrics of satirical outrage and conceptual deflation. I can't wait to see the film. For now, I get Holden's picture.

Don't try to be funny, relax, specify the invisible. Ough. While the foxglove de-meadow, subject matter remains a freebie staple. Think of your audience missing bail. There is no news teaching spin. The new geography is hereby wistful landscapes, hum-vacuumed, cuddling an escalation clause (misrule) and their binomial clout, ha and cunning (Darvon and Himmel). The brilliant live over, sure enough, in vetted dormitories, always have, fudging abasement with food and drugs. Sorry concentrates.

Every time I visit you in your mascara I see the lucent everywhere, a conceptual structure subtracted from nature like the potato. The shore's also a plagiarized assembly made of torn distance in squid guns, midges, vellums, tiny Gillette letters and smaller decimals. Everything is repurposed into notions flapping motes flying from porkpie hats and more formulaic homework. It's terrific whetted by ideation! What are the assemblers selling, last rounds of an authentic vantage? Miniature schemes? A whorl of cement paintings with vistas (and vitae), for most, nothing but applesauce and shellac. Do you know how many rabbits Revlon tapped? I can't say it's emotional sailing on a molecule out-disabled in the magic, only collectively subjective, nothing but nonetheless.

Best first-person-singular lines from Friday's blogs (there are two): "I am tired. I am photogenic." And "I am not Against, but i am french." Mappemunde and DC's, respectively.

I'm a plaintiff in the recent case against glamour. I'm being taken down. Something about my discrimination in music, which is chopped and unclarified. That's another thing. I'm told nobody's talking to me. It's extremely funny, I've been sending out the lamest smiley faces, embracing the wrong diseases. Scores on fb are defriending and the phone stops ringing. I feel like Mrs. Meaty uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my fears.

Maybe I'm just mis-digesting facts. Before heading to the gas chamber it's going to be 85 and sunny, after all. Oppressed, rejected, sure, I'm in there, but personality disorder is a binding element of hip dinner party kerfuffles and drooling, perverted dalliance. The miracle is, as the assemblies grow ragged, rock stars vibrate through the bat universe playing "Heck and Whatever."

One thing about not being conceptual or a haphazard group, you know you're outside! I always do it for less. Did I tell you? I got all the coverage I need on my tee shirt. After multi-pointed perils there's the clamor and then the imbibition. I didn't know what to say. At the Oprah Store it was back to that lifelong day when the ice tower moved outdoors, and unshaven grandparents (also conceptuals and in groups) left the ice shelters, devolved and bulgy. Next there was this other cool place or an immiscible place; we let it happen. I knew I spent my money wisely. There were hallucinations. So I've gone out further on my own and I'm starting to compose. It's a kind of conference paper. (You knew I'd have my ass whipped.) Bottomline, I've listened to the system.

A flesh-eating virus attacks recent college grads. We never forget and we do not forgive. Even tho we're too fat to have insurance, our moms have always been supportive. Viruses are like that. The wind too. Boo is emphatic. Shivers of a sigh, I made messes all over the nestling ground to suit a creative purpose, balancing running around everywhere that's off the map, the first one, getting lost and then explaining the gorilla mask as a prior condition. Then there's settling down to become human, hacking skin off the dead.

Or, I grew up in Chicago, I used to feel locked in apotheosis (or resisting it), befouling the youngest hearts and minds, collating all the splinters into a pile and resetting the fire by myself (in my head). Fortunately, my energy could be made smart. And it is. Like the wind slapping children's ears to spread sunshine in the lake or on the beach.

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

Brawly triangle. [Today's H & G.]

Doctor approved
sex toys are
a good idea; until
I went broke
I was indebted
to them. In one
direction the focus
is lost. It's scary (loud
at first, blasé and back)
yet there are comic possibilities
as dreams seem to
be saying. Another focus
is adolescence. A hippie
throws us a softball,
variously literal, the power
system centralized, closely
managed as yoga
for planets. Now he and I
are sly about casualties
and debit. We power
our own, mounting a bait
and switch to chalk up
the utility of lingerie,
discreet shipping, and soul
kings touching wood.

How is it that smoke comes out shiny and fallen with grey streaks? Is it fire? When it's ended you'll switch back. Like this is Stu. The last emperor.

Don't disneyfy pissing me off.

Eileen works through her mess, about as brilliantly as we would expect.

Your wardrobe has experienced a resurgence as beaten but breathing as a fad preview in October of what's to come in May. Anyone can see. You're a crusader and victim in the crossfire. You can't stomach the fair use doctrine or what age plays at. Where's the surprise in a seeming long time? The mutt of infancy regenerates, there's a beginning and there's an end, don't fix it. Try to look better.

Go this way. It's remarkably ambitious, it's just off the boards, like when the water lilies kick off their work boots and women rule. Snipers crouch, the idea of Burberry's.

I had sex with multiple staffers here at pantaloons. It seemed fresher three years ago, but at least I was the first to get a grip and hold on. O my decimated, I said.

An aperture opened up and a lovable perspective is achieved. You disappear, and you have children and they disappear.

Inner wresting? That word again. Kind of an inner, unbuttoned, squeegeed pain in the foot from bee stings, a dishonest hermaphroditic feeling gerrymandered in ambiguity, rendition, and ferment that after a while floats away, released at last into some newly impartial state of brittle ignorance, your story shared among sunburned strangers glancing backward as though all is well with the stats, their stats, as though you never knew the cosmos on a first-person basis or you forgot the name of the enslaved for vampiring the engines.

Either Day has been assembled so that its primary product is topic rather than text or some other nominal for authorial achievement. To paraphrase at least one of the two assemblers, you don't even need to read it to talk about it. Of course one can talk about anything, but I infer the assembler means something like 'to talk convincingly or authoritatively about it.' That claim, which strikes me as accurate, resides somewhere in the continuum between ferocious and pedestrian triviality. It dissembles to empower the nonreader who doesn't have to do anything in return to the assembly but improvise a reaction, enacting the life form of an intellectual exchange. As such, the topic (if not the sensationalized assembled datum) is contained in the one-sentence proposition or, okay, concept: Reprint one day's worth of The New York Times in a book format; call it a book of [conceptual] writing [poetry].

Meanwhile on the lagoon…

Introduction to a blurb for Handel Kent Johnson as Orpheus teacher's pet.

There's always one bubble brain in every class. He's taken a hike to nowhere too exaggerated. A vacation from straight talk, missing the point, tripping over important crowd pleasing stuff, what's right in front of the visible us! Yeah, right O

Peerless thistles, tamed pigeons

— splendor that's interesting, t...his collections of purloined purloined matter abnormally

illumined and slurping

the moon's backlash

The because everything's got vulcanized in the process (or triple-quote process), plus his work-about-work is gag-inducing (in the fun sense) underground, baring their tired innards from and meta-withered as a hare's paw struggles, forceding convulsions of self-conscious laughter from this reader's reader, and may I add in a word, Kent's slop is grueling (in the nourishing sense), also it's impelling me to give up reading reading, altogether a body of antiesthetic intolerance that folds into, and turns on, itself so it's not only ingratiating and entirely comfortable indeterminacy: it brings me back, happily, to nanny's re-embroidered bodice stitching, only Kent's you can see through and it comes off! double duty! but the textual surface (which is of course not Kent's so I should leave him alone) leaves me feeling destitute and in panic...like torture, man... so many techniques...

I just want to say, Kent, about your recent special effects, seriously, human imprint mistakes one thing for another; we're like everyone else. I forgave you. Then this.

Also, a minute after reading this gopher sandwich of yours I'm more convinced your personal battle with blindness to the distinction between socially constituted subjects that are confused while unaltered practical reason streams into fruitful accident is complete.

Read this. I did.

Introduction to a blurb for Handel as Orpheus.

A vacation from the visible!

Peerless thistles, tamed pigeons

— splendor that's interesting, this collection of essays

illumined and slurping

the moon's backlash

The vulcanized gag underground, baring their tired innards from withered struggles, forced convulsions impelling ingratiating and entirely comfortable indeterminacy: destitute and in panic…

I do not hope. Almost the same as hopeless, without luck, except hope's pond structure implies passivity discharged by shore conditions. Not to hope is to re-reference flow made out of 45 m.p.h. gusts — this is my body — a priori nil in inner life razing means to get out squeaking stripes burst ires unmeasured glaring everything unscrewed song by Jim Carroll, the names of the verb.

I'm a woman. Superstars down. I have all the training I need encountering rage and Luhmanian systems. The oasis just passed. It was more at home within stage fright and a vocabulary of deconstraining tastes stowing an echelon's ideology. Then you have another urge and we feel gorgeous encouraging adjustment in the hairnet over the situation.

Inner retreat. A grown man, I'm crying; jokes turn into dreams. I forgive you for everything. Let's encounter, at my signal, unleash hell. See! I'm awake like you sniffing around the A spots. Declining standards, my approach to intimacy is to bar we all each other. Before it was a movie it was a proem, paranoia's belated redemption, an implacable virtuoso handing over his reins to the ace in the hole.

No ripped-off melancholy, not a lecture/rap, not a spectral story nor tiny swaggering to fugue, but a minuet containing you and me in a force field for our expertise. It's taken this long to read the gospel of wealth. Thus texting is not going anywhere any time soon. We're televisionary, still, describing affable hysteria to make a mark, preferring lunacy to kissing, diffusion at any cost to render your mouth a mess of slop, and that goes for captioning the box with the receipt, and tarantulas of steel squeezing under the door, isolated by an obsession with coming right in. If I have to I'll be dressing you down to your car character, elbows up, free and easy. There you go, spiritualist.

Can a poet/artist blog get more graphically motivated than Gary Indiana's? And what about his officiating at the marriage between Warhol and De Quincey? Hyperkinetic.

The sky is in the air sort of the hue of golf balls
Sort of wiredly the air stinks ruched with fart
Hey Soledad!

I wasn't orphaned, I just decided to pursue other interests. Legacies dissolve into debauchery but I found a place in the blood. So I'm not going outside without an extra sweater or my fringed jacket. I take no liberties with literal meanings. I'm delighted to take a supporting role. Given. Someday I will have a pomegranate thermostat, an America of high quality. A deepened voice, for now the benefits in language cloak opera in jeans, a sweatshirt, and a trucker's cap.

The dream of writing takes time. I feel bubble-footed locked in dark briefs. (It's not torture unless it causes organ failure.) My tall dad's fiancée has dozens of spices, just so. I'm ten years old. Doing the roundtable quite well, yet not entirely. Free-range sunlight in the clerestory of our lair... I write fondly of fair housing. Elements of my style are excessively self-conscious. Safety carefully disguised as fast and furious, knowing race is an issue as is the waxy sheen of this little piggy. You'll see, I keep faith on the horizon that turns a wandering eye to bright licks among luminaries. President Obama appears to recognize the seriousness. (Nothing in this guy's life is normal to me.) I'm waiting a beat.

Hermitage in our time. In the hermit's words.

New titles for early 2010: Memoir and Essay by Michael Gottlieb [a history of language poetry, New York branch]; A Hundred Posters edited by Alan Davies [a CD archive], The New Old Paint by Susie Timmons [only her second book of poetry]; Post~Twyla: Reset by me. All published by Faux Other (Faux Press and Other Publications). More soon.

There will always be a poem
I will climb on top of it and come
In and out of time,
Cocking my head to the side slightly,
As I finish shaking, melting then
Into its body...

— Jim Carroll

I'm good in bed. Give full value. Part of a part. (But) I'm getting ahead.

I'm a sometimes fiend. I often have sex with an orator who is also in marketing. (Ashes to Diamonds.) Pigeon fathers pattern heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the bright series, brocaded and then stiffened into sympathetic parody staving a muleta, the thatched kinfolk.

Small islands serve as hideouts. The guys are restless. Excellent. We shall conquer childhood, read over the presentation, juggle a few heads. You'll need a new camping saw and hood scoop. I'll invade your space and just leave. Did you see weasels blow up? I'll be really conscious, sitting on your face, I was having to toolbar another.

I am inoffensive, remote, and most of the time my headlamp is on, but you know, irony for money is tainted.

How old do I look? I do insight by the numbers, a walk in the clouds, bloodthirsty aplomb, composing a baffling theory of cognition, with jaded lyrics. "Fat Asses," another high school movie about a straight crew with guns. (I overrate my judgment when what I see comes to rest.) At least I have my integrity. Pancake mixes make the best eye cream under the eye. And I take an introspective view of altruism. Guess this comes under the advantage of an insider.

We hardy knew Dionysius.

Conceptual art is portable and formulated: Language + the materials referred to, dimensions variable. Dimensions variable. That's the hard part.

Ceci n'est pas un moment de transformation.

Web 2.0's desperate bid for fame has been playedout. Find us where we're hiding.

The mailbox happens. A man's voice, handsome, calm, also nervous. Protecting dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that. Our swift powers have never been better aligned.

Scraps and parts of rope.

What I learned from you is speed. I know this sounds lame but what can I say, we were flying high. I annulled you with a hand wave the way we inspire openness and emotional shrubsoul. Nesting austerity is neatly poetic, a sleep-laden vessel of dreams, eating dog food wrapped in a buzzword but no idea.

This is for you now.

Engaging nonlinear oddball. I have no major issues. I'm one of those hoarders of history, buying and piling stuff in the garage, keeping tarnished nanowires and foreign minerals staggered like chairs. I can pick one up as if it's a bowl that's really a vase. Sit and let the sunset pitch its foam. Smoky dogs take the piss tracking flutes in drizzle, shining from sight, playing a bit far, a stack of storm windows, a weakness, a composure for flight a translator can't reach.

Both purchases are burning up.

The sea bream lifts, lukewarm and soft. The Colorado canyons splash.

Splash.

Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.

Where have you been for three decades?

The fop is a French invention but an essentialist's incarnation. It's now English of course. Le Smoking for driving and dressing on the left.

Highway safety — wow, everything has that just created smell. The Buddha Machine is on low, marking discourse. It's looping Tramp Lapping My Skull. Pointless stupid madness. The double v above his eyes means very-very dunkel. (I'm not.)

So this lack of media polish is transparent like twins missing their luggage. I should be mortified and impressed. (These strategies actually work, apparently.) For my driving, I've hired designers.

Reading Anne B's Odali$que this morning, I'm stumped by an old question: Is the search for X1 X2?

(X = content. Content, the primary noun reference for something contained, that is, not so much the verb or adjective. But the adjective and verb together raise even older questions.)

for Ed Norton: The redhead is a redneck in the Berkshires = an unaligned crank in his whittle world even the whistling stops. Ashy style, a whittle weird. Sorry we don't need anyone at the moment. Still, there's a big reach, hyperkinetic within, the fire gospel and mystical motifs = a holding paddock for the down and hungry. (I'm in the horn section, a whittle peasant.) Tabs are seasonal and the vests are talking. Spinless, the question of trees and absolutes (flakes) watch and settle during the simian takeover. They're in on the take.

Oil mistakes.

There are different flavors, pots, sets, syrup-simple to complex, some devolving impediments of brawly randomness, others, chaos, initiations in self-similarities as well as... can't make it out, call them alloys of function routing. I've highlighted one in a box. A rolling bit of Apollonian familiarity, a Mainline ranch dressing refabricked in aromas of polycarbonate. Like a surfboard. There's this rule-of-thumb assortment with natural stenches, along with hidden dimensions in smells exploding on the roof while levitating the landscape, ultra altered.

Different drafts and stinks. I'll let you out.

Can't help it; concur with Rodney K, Eileen M, Alex B, and just about everybody else that B Brown's Brooklyn Lunch Poems and essay In Focii are inseparable from the cosmology of the big, talented humanist himself. We are in an undisclosed place, that is, in awe.

My boy is a very fine house. The spire was a secret inside. The child grew. You are now leaving a faraway land. The ballgame of slow, hissy heights is immediate and beyond your big D.O.A. umbrella. Tall men in raining birdscapes. Nothing's wrong with phobia-free mania v. boredom... two verses, a hook, and a bridge... see what you've done? Quality time can be targeted on a wet afternoon like a fondly disciplined python. And we'll keep insisting on feelings not facts. We enforce a certain look in this house. Marginal partnership, aigu, that's not two years ago, dusted up.

Getting ahead of the message. Food, gas, lodging.

Smarts don't matter. I'm laying myself off. Not that I'm smart. I'm more interested now in squealing puppets and dolls. I hate them. They're awful, I said. (You're right.) I hate their eggs. The dad puppets look at me and shrug.

Spinal wigless, they're the ones spotted with investments.

My cohort flock to benefits. It's in the evolution of avarice, loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer every opportunity. Looseness keeps young bodies moving forward. And that goes for the sun shining with its belle-lettriste metamorphosis in the street, damning grownups.

First-person motion through the leaves missing you overnight, breathing, all smiles, in aqua. Dentist removes gum. Comparison is anticlimactic. Sexual dynamism is a quarterback problem — staying blithe in the win column, an aluminum, tenebrae-filled drape in potatoland dirt colors and echoes of prosthetic fantasy, perhaps, yet eco-conscious and looking cool responding to the frantic call. We grabbed this, while there's a ladder we wouldn't rule out. Let us beguine by the window, a lamp over my shoulder to herald the swindle in wind farming. The incision continues in this vein. Time passes — street gangs, movies, lies — freedom is illusory at midpoint. It's personal. The city seraphs tell me. It's almost impossible to write enflamed birdsong and comb back your hair at the same time. Pearl puddles. Conniving backwashes have run of the view.

I feel like an editor / coach in the new bloodbath of city planning and unemployment redistribution. It's an avocation. I'm a free agnostic about most everything important, postcritical, or shaded and flat in terms of emotion and architecture. The term "free" creates clutter underlying the unfinished bike path that never ends. Giving something away like ambience, beautifully made, you'll be taken up on your offer, no sniveling over the petty fuel price. Having sex with a leader in nonprofits, will you take me as I am? I'll stay on my side, pictorially (stone and dented wood). I have a mask of unmatched value that mocks death holed up in rant.

Permission to speak freely, señor? That means you, pal. Maybe I'm foreshortened, shapeless taking up prerequisites of munificence in governance, not crying to lessen the gravity, still I'm listening and I hear a noise. It could be me reduced in size talking to you. I'd like to restore us intact. But how can we save your citizenry who more and more are losing their health care? No, wait, here comes a big glob of bubble gum crashing down. Chilling of course because it's forced. I've lost my way.

Has gender identity hit a pothole? narrator asks. Am I in some experimental state of forgery? And how do I maintain the balance sheets and my resolute informality?

Life is short and drives you all over.

Making out, I can drop the questions and shoot for addiction to craning my mien, through which everything is scattered by vintage strobes and liquid jolts emitted by a graffiti masterpiece pulling into Jimenez Station. It's filled with the Filthies and Mr. Abundants wearing income neckties. (Behind the art there's an interaction lab.)

Who is this? Nobody's first choice.

The joke this week was why did guru's cochair say clock the ice during our conversation? She was referring to a few rings won in turf wars, "Will my fortune survive?" I yawned back, on the internet, mind you, as if meta-trigonometry is forever. Security is really tight with the meta-relatives. You sick mother! Sure, I'll take the consultant into my confidence.

I smell a rat. I'm a backstage avatar with an oversized Afro. Your name came up on my snaggletooth. Death haunts not increasing value nor the dimples around the feet. Capacious, breathtaking anxiety, yes, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... I'm done. In a footloose world I've waded out above my welcome, which was special. That kind of language teaches you not to bark just the way skilled manual labor makes you (one) feel like a man. Or a woman.

The body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons. You chat up every you (one) in the room. I'm an outpatient. The next stage of trolling pillagers is fickle. Love and money go down together.

Don't hold it in. Talk to your doctor.

Say something cartoonish. I'm trying whirling strokes in roughly forty minute stints. To learn something about what you mean is to let high jinks belie despair over entropy, a quiet start, zero gravity. But you don't get to keep larvae. They're apart. Their cloying song goes out and you feel a necessity to ache in baby blue blather, calmly, accruing intimacy. Hey I'm really sorry.

Never stop exploring. Turn here.

You can always tell when they're finished. There are snakes as well as larvae swimming in pools. What do we now? We have functional emotions and this much-traveled vocabulary of affects. There's a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I just missed the last place you look.

Stay with me.

Sun pours down, unobstructed in this abandoned region. Samples had been flown in and many of us at lunch wanted softer eyes. We'd been warned to stay inside. No need to look at me when I talk, my guitar hero. There were black widow spiders, and incendiary balloons scribbled notes above the large scale nuclear reactor. I feasted on free donuts and coffee, left my dismantling section at the home office seaside, stomp'd, and put my feet up at his place, a little down, effortless, helpless. Every clanking radiator is programming this sentence. Bard of Vesuvius, I made a killing that reads lips without leaving overdrive. Magic attains a chirrup of light freshened with anchor. Why ball now? Leave it to Chagall, stoicism there, loathing here or love may be blind. Oh my god he's got... god blesses him. I just felt a shipwreck with sea monsters back at work. No sorry hold on it's just the worms we uproot. Hanging out is the art of compromise. Slurs little. To save a life you can break the law if you're poor or if you're balled up smart to shoulder perfection. I'll alter my trumpet tones, cock an eye. (Conjoined the two words are underemployed.) All business class and legs to break, pay me now and pay me later. Like a race of giants, welcome to we're not friends.

Dear Anthologist,

It could be worse. My notes say every man's prosody enacts theories of sawdust, eases on down the dress code like a second-hand bow tie that pays for itself. Context becomes a woman's e.r. Something is definitely going on.

Words hurt. It's certain these do. And yet identifying which poems and whose, that's the Hendrick ter Brugghen dilemma, as with all flowing sperm and loneliness we contend in a post-minimalist liberal arts detention center. The dissonance and sports metaphors seem gullible, and a lack of nonsense resists interpretation. Hoarding Skeeter. Ists' opium. My Kindle blows up just trying to make sense (but I grow my colon back!) in context. (I've been wrong about half-dog leitmotifs before.) I'm just curious having compulsively misplaced life's grotesqueries, I'm drowned out by party axons that sound too streetwise for second-rate saws and gossamer voices, these, those. I fear them like tyrants. Prepare the red matter. (There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.) Auden was noised, the requisite critical faculty is parody. You know, your choice of poems sucks, the way celebrating the twentieth anniversary of botox sucks. Collaborating without you like a kotzwinkle alloy, they have to have everything your way.

Yrs,

Lefties are feeling cornered (not to say conned) by Obama. He's a milquetoast. The economy and healthcare, don't-ask-don't-tell. The government looks terrible because it's doing many things halfway. Interior is presently enforcing anti-immigrant policies put in place by Bush 2. Guantanamo detainees are shifted from one prison to another. Obama plans to keep us charmed at towhhalls, baby step by baby step, but it's hard to stomach longterm, while his enemies' operatives ridicule him and his spokespeople with anger mongering. In a democracy you need to persuade and exercise power of governance. We haven't come that far that a majority just 'gets it' about the left's brains and style superiority. No matter who's in charge, government is a problem. Try renewing your driver's license at your local rmv (serving a neighborhood with an average median income), and you'll get it. People who drive are sweating their existence and don't have time for charm. They need directions to get them through the process. Now serving nothing at Window 11.

When camp breaks we call it fl-x-x-f auto-tunes.

First nowhere, and no one is the woman behind me, slumming. Intervention is the better word search. Gang murders are cut in half. I'm not going out in that. I'm saving my homophobia for someone really hot.

She's discounted, for historical justice.

My supply chain is fatalism. An allergy can shape and twist my desire. The taking of whatever works to exchange the hand that feeds me.

Nearly sunset in coconut milk. The skinny eventude brings on fluttering waves of populist rage and dishonest folk. Goo-doggies. Outside dogs are taught to stay, screech, and force it down. Chips smaller for the memory. All in favor hold together under pressure. (Unreliable clique.) Immigrants, bohemians, blacks, gays, subjectivity in a life entrenched w/ decoration, feet first. I'm asleep now. It feels great here. I'm a grad student, on the map.

Space begins almost anywhere, no organizing principle at all. (How to write a publishable anything.) God blesses us, saying "Be fruitful and multiply." We're slotted into type as believers and speakers of Dari or Pashto, one end of the zoological drama in an up-state of perfect moms and sunburned bikers. (Equipped with dark places travel vests.) Everyone here is ready to mess up. Naked and unashamed. The look reminds where fault belongs. (I'm developing a cataract.)

Time and space feel like an institution where parents do realistic work. A heteroglossia in which one mom in three can't swim. She holds the bird a mutant to her lips. Two out of three are feints. Serenely trillions, the patients die.

In Urdu you learn to think for yourself when you're young, and if you're willful, if it's in your nature to want people behaving the way you think, right off you'll teach yourself nuanced thought processes, how you can think for others, for instance, your siblings, your parents (ghost punks), friends and enemies, especially enemies, and strangers, too, why not? Why not think for a pride of people and what's beneath them or above? Frosting on the beater. You start along these lines dreaming in bed then. A complex by prosaic arrangement.

You dream while awake and think it through. The audience follows you. You think about someone else dreaming, you walk in, so to speak. Hey hey my my. You look around and then you start moving. You're there and not there, of course, but you think to bring in a harmless grass snake (this's an experiment first thought by the Prophet Muhammad's uncle) and let the snake move over the exposed back of that first someone you're thinking about. You'll have that person decide how she'll handle the snake (propulsive or haunting). And if you wish, you'll let the snake make his moves, too, in English subtitles. You can exit at any point or you can add features to the dream, this dream in a language the other person, the "someone," is understanding. If you're willful you'll stay in control and have the person and all the "features" you bring in behave the way you want. Recycles sunshine.

Hanging on contains the universe. Whilst easily crossed, do you think? Nearby, make'em laugh, imagine the hurt.

I use photographs or double-crossed text for subject matter. Astronauts aren't perverse, it's the dress code. Not that long ago sorcery and spiritual drama attracted talent. Spinning ponies could fill in here. We once spun like them but later they were less friendly, proliferating, chasing butterflies. I will leave the ponies at home more. Small hills on poppers. A new beginning, the veteran scientologist is transparent, emerging like Sleeping Albert. I knew butterflies had butterflies, why?

We live in a cage, Bennyroyce and I. They made a nimble healthy movie about us. It's about inflating while you inhale. Just a few things I tend to dislike. Neuroenhancers. I'll admit I was curious. A guy interested in robots, the narrator, urinates on flowers, grabbing my shoulder. Rusts himself in it. About how often have you asked, Who is climbing this steaming, herded frontier, Mahlerless? What's curved with glaze? Ow, that total prick. La damnation de Faust. I polished the text and handed it in. I can't figure out our farewell let's go get a drink. From the seafloor you want this. Or gesundheit that. (They take care of anyone ok'd if it don't fit.) Vote often. A mutated protein will get restored. A bug is magnified, ironically revived! To keep up we can't find a compromise.

This is how it is. In the Truro of feelings fishermen think like salmon. The aluminum skiff's named Vessel Virgin. All experience is correct. Hidden money downgraded to icy mindset. A single male is required to post. Some ambiguity you may enjoy. Looks ugly, square, gets job done. Good eyes, quick, every inch and flounce dumb, making out in withdrawal. Rhino décor. The only thing more fleeting is fresh chucker. Sobered up, got back to weed whacking. Nothing's happened and it's hours later. The year-old quayside, mostly mixed, cool diodes in crimson, a soft spot for success. Shunt that wings. Then one day the emotional exchange began, crested, and vanished like emissions administering smack. In hard times it's the right thing to do, close to the beach.

Cute and cuter. Where does all this come from? I became an escort despite losing an arm. According to our files, it's telepathic, fathers to sons, trees to rapping patrol cars, or we never get a chance, or I could say it this way. Sit and roll over. Children with partialities end up winking at the flies in King Kong. They swarm indefinitely, having graduated sex for us. Uplift and destruction. (This was supposed to be a surprise.) I had taken prescriptions, splashing her face with water when you protest. That's when they appear, young men with secret ingredients and no children at all.

Braille Martian sex. Do it.