The slush is dead in the bottle. (Drive safely.) Early spring is always a stickler but once there was fluency, a fluid, un-forbidden, corrupt learning we couldn’t imagine. My meek and the young, go on ahead, Isaias said. The tide itemizes all bets. The Lord God opens my system.

We can’t be sure there’s a larger field. Remember how rich Inuit were? That was some statistic before Seward tittle-tattled and won the bottle of the stars. (I didn’t used to know alarms spoke that way back when it was far-sighted to misunderstand. There’s no way not, like flowers in the attic, a fanatic — unheard — crescendo to folding one’s tent.) The omission had been alerted from the outside. That was the most correct. Besides, everyone was halfway out the door, too patent to be discouraged herding tape jerking one’s head while house pets reigned up to Elmendorf, a seat of symbolic cat-ness. Old Japanese coins with round holes were bigger back a century or two, and for casino nights they’re strung together with white gauze, used more for décor consensus than border currency. Then I slipped into something sweet Isaias said in daytime. I became a pastor. The jerk I trust. Night fell, I gazed at and am revived by the wampum about education.

Gauguin went to Tahiti.
Notebook open, wallet shut.

Occam never multiplied.
Irony-sincerity voted best.

Thomas Eliot was a flashy
Society writer, a modernist.

Oh, fine, thanks.
And yourself?

Today chintzy is lost
And terrible is in play.

Something accrues.
A lot to dote on.

You don’t know my butler.
An uptick in hard to albeit

Spare-polished
And uh-oh.

I was wrong about sacred ideas and the had-to-give shivers. And goodbye to appreciative lingo. Appreciative meaning words of gratitude or just too much or too many? I’m a novice enthusiast for all three but I got out of joint in a buzzing register light years away from published ratings. I have been the goose, I am out of joint now, I have been in no hurry. (I was raised in a crèche of decadence.) Cabs are scarce at this hour. Human debt, infants and animals, muggy places — simple squalor. A quarterly tremolo fills the ground trailing off in sparrows, wars everywhere, a cogent ho-hum. Like an early free-for-all it passes though late, quietly not evident in illusive calculations. It’s always happening in a wash of sounds and schematic petals and stems, where the mammoth goes after he leaves a thread.

I think we can say the survey "Texts without Context" instantiates the willowy, genuinely unavoidable, extremely-topical and broadly-appealing technique-as-strategy of borrowing language to generate production. An impulse to conceptualize or collectivize the strategy is fabulously auteur-like and sentimental to the core, even if and in fact especially if sample discourse products (such as poems, meta-essays, tweets) argue on the surface against individuation and sentiment. Don't get this twisted, Minxie, we like the auteur and her sentiments. Self- and selves-promotion for the greater collective (that is, her collective) are the turn-off.

Hell is too big to fail.

Tinsel was a city boy. [for Geoffrey]

I’m a starchitect. For an emirate.

I sleep all night with my eyes open and keep a diary, chastened by its agenda in a stoned vein. Like everyone else I’ve got business and new places to run, running shocked by the harrowing wind’s eek! position this month of March. Tender sprouts green and with sweat, alive, pierced to the root by a confusing brunch. Flowers by the table, fowl, half a ram (better than none), liquor and song. The sweetness outside not wavering in rain to a rational depth, I’ve got April in my crosshairs.

between memory and the memory of a memory...

Why I am a bad Boston poet. [for St. Patrick]

The bar is packed, the line for a table stretches into the night. A clinical loll like liquid swords can affect me. So I go in. How do I calibrate guys along with my heroine’s mammalian ..you know? Ask me about My Massive Iliads, His and Hers. One city dweller is Pablo Honey. Simple truth, Pablo carrying a machete is an updated classic and makes dew sounds and it’s perfect background music. He takes us to a place that exceeds my list of sponsors (the mind-god problem). Divesting isn’t always easy, but I got my hops up.

(I’ll start this without you.)

Pitching Chicago for the Olympics, sending Biden to Israel, staying with watered-down health care: Three portentous circumstances that show Obama risk taker to a fault. Gamble Number One, Obama flew to Denmark to make the last-ditch case for his hometown to host the Olympics in 2016. No go. That was months ago. This last week and this week, Numbers Two and Three. Had Obama and the State Department cleared their objectives with the Israelis when they planned Joe Biden’s visit to Jerusalem last week? It is nuts to imagine Obama anticipating insult from the Israeli government as it brazenly trumpeted new construction of West Bank settlements on the day of Biden’s arrival. This is a much more serious bet gone bad, and worse, an international affront that requires diplomatic response. This week, we have another gamble from President Obama, deploying his last-best effort to gain passage of a health bill that hardly anyone admires and most everyone misunderstands. The leftist and partisan in me will root for the bill’s success. But if this gamble comes a cropper, Chicago, Israel and health care reform will make a dramatic trifecta in the demonstrated decline of presidential hubris portrayed as courage and leadership.

Would you like me to wear my cruelty for the audition? Giving up is my bag. Finding my voice I can’t emphasize enough the importance of affection and glimmers of withheld attraction two empire states high, taking on a dominatrix. My white flag and dress come in many forms, all human.

I got a yoga fungus. It’s progressive and it shows nicely round your wrist — let me guess. Not so fast, I woof everyone. Your gas pedal bore a number. It’s nothing personal. What’s progress? Your name weeks after. I can’t live without it (it = a ticking whirlpool). I exult in thegroupapproach and takingchargelightyearsfromnow.

When hell freezes Charles Simic will do or Gerald “I am so laden I grieve” Stern. This is hell in itself, one that looming, fictive shit rules, summer bungalows, graduate benefits as Gerry has it, “underground...I say fuck you.” He borrows all his benefits casually through the ooky traffic. “Just look at you, this peaceful world of ours.” The sun shines, to paraphrase Charles who’s put up in a truck stop of a lifetime. Meantime I’m pulling myself together as someone riper, a deflationist, opens the window, my window, there’s a warm breeze, I agree, Charles, security should give us a more scholarly pat down. The ones on my street are mostly she-males with an affinity for literature and data tracking. Dark days, even the dogs. Italian opera is on the radio, the layers are too high like a witch’s cousin. Gerry’s wife leaps out of a chair, her black hair dripping with vinaigrette. You never know how boring remorse is till you loom it up close.

There are three kinds of pleasure substitutes. There are heavy deflections that itch, supersized like crotch mace or a sentence. Or sentences. A more debonair group listens for heartbeats inside a frame of ague. They find one coronary episode after another literally, melodically framed to nosedive and dovetail within a figure of speech. The last kind see two words on hold. Parenthetical.

A mandate is just that. There’s an animal that needs you. His and his... a frayed honeymoon is normative but they get clipped anyway. (There’s a surfeit of suite pornography.) By the hostel a cliff edge creased as it darted out with its song of guts and neurons, knitted together like newspapers since the sixteenth century ’til now, ricocheting through voice-over, lobbing the pinned acorns and underbrush until they too were scooped up, holding our breath, bounced, kicked and gloved by catalysts. Right about now we want some clarity about motives and resolute flickers spidered to plastic. Get to the strong joy node, a punching bag of tricks, compressed. Check the seams.

Well, good for the darling curlers of Norway in their harlequin sweats!

What can one attach to wearing leotards winning medallions. Yes I’ll be off. Weaponizing is dynamic. The interstates of German grammar is a wellhead when the armillary can mete up the fact on its own. That. Tomorrow clattered. Snow is going to keep. Daybreak comes back divvying up the ethnic accordion of the rain above the lime stench benching haze. Talk about round wedges shooting blanks!

Cloudy inheritance. Horizon 10 rooms. We behaviorally know what snow is falling. The Olympics this winter is a bowl of wrong. Appetites wraparound.

Here’s where I come down on monologs. There aren’t any. Orange beans chomping at the breast — reconnaissance, is that what you meant? Don’t be upset, urchin. I think there’s a journey for each of us, a rainbow of cycles, abstractionisms and cunning you never imagined, better friezes empty of art underground. What are you wearing?

There are bugs out there and in here as well, pickpockets on the fly, sexifying me off. I’m a party faithful, only I’ve read about an estate plan for tomorrow immersed in turbines, earth notes, and oak. Or that’s what I heard from who crossed me. I wrapped their remains in a storm alarm under your watch.

I’m ruling out getting more sophomore meatloaf. Don’t ask. It’s universal I’m already plastered with the indisputable jitters, and it’s only dusk. Cookie fortunes, you call them. (Somewhere you always could.) Narcotics have become a standing part of the cityscape, weep-sprinkled for all. They’re sublime fun and there’s no shouting down extra hallways near the cinema with the peninsula. “A temporary foothold,” like Bay Poetics. I’ve been noticing this stuff when the weather cooperates. Also the word beat in your everyday speech. Reminds me that swamps in Japan are barricades for foreigners. (They never find them.)

(And) I deeply salvage you (Tiger).

The landscape is always on message. But too much. Travel the wash of the wave. Toss out conservatives, care, trust and progressive empathy. It’s that little difference as if Obama were drugged into a neutral state of grace, overfed the turpitude of liberal political will, and, stranger than loss of empathy, longing for flagellation on the people’s lawn outside where he sleeps in the snow. Lounging in now, and for the public’s grief wedged in the snow and unbalanced due to the inflicted pain waiting on himself. Bas relief in flooded portions of DC and the northeast, his family like all the others and their social lives flounder, like so much small change and the water dogs we signed for as the landscape would have it.

Happy Birthday. Chase and whet, maybe. Quo are you? starting out as a Pan. En route to the dogs, the apocalypse within, the pastoral in a hurry. Predicates round then out the group that teeters when we break to eat. There’s poor light in every graphemic sense of teetering on a trajectory from squeaks to arcs (fragile souls). Love of luncheon spinach proves hard to resist. Dutiful. Solemn. We wait until it gets pregnant with catastrophe. Back to back! The session is as practical when it’s still cold in the distance out. Your hands are small and near and I can feel their wrath. Hand wrath, people faint.

Urea phosphates couple to inspire the lightness of satire. I scramble my eggs with borscht.

Software permeates philosophy.

I use cliché to take a few moments. Not a good start. And nothing looms over Cutters Pond but tabs on your credit. Catch and release, every time.

Our lives are politicized, can’t you see just sitting beyond the last things, a flimsy ballet sheared of admission to substantial follows up, toiling lilies, piano pinks.

A painted shadow.

The brick housewarming.

Abandoned marimbas (hitchhiked).

Doily legs.

High-def Marine varnish.

A genital U-haul.

Bodega dunes (pastels).

The dum-dum rewrite.

Androgynous jackhammering.

The prodigious ruin (itinerant color).

An avant-sardonic.

A composed freakout (wide release).

The diligent pussycat.

Childish poverty (gravelly).

Marble goofballs.

I’m a point head luminary, filthy on the inside. Am making waves as an economist in a movement with deep money, an infectious subject. You got it on. I’m a serious man, perfecting my career underground. That’s my career, beer, soda, fancy shoes.

I hear the effort but there is no god. There’s no nature, only confidence in the amenable and curtains, analogs of falling water, my character’s lesson in espionage that’s become second nature, curtains and all the movement inside where it’s filthy.

[Untitled]

I’m expecting something. I’ve been expecting you. How much more if something happened?

I’m Aldo.

No, you are.

We’re a special team. You become circumspect and we leave depressed, pinched, slightly, giving voice to raindrops in long silence.

What about whoa? Is it dew, them? Singing only though they opened thrush longer, bright ...

The bath was kind to us while we take loggerheads. What do you say go? We pass over weak words smack two cops — soon after it’s chevre oxide with the grit of understatement.

The shower we move. The faster you die.

Most rainbows taste like shit, but guys like shit. That’s how the drowsy ones of a sitcom age blew up into all-star screwups and soulful, fat, self-reflective drones who call it quits in front of their women and dates. Stone Agers, they ply themselves with food and alcohol, almost corroded with physical self-disgust, shamblers chained to the trees with oddments, a new rabbit, testing, testing, putting it in a sock. Most are schizophrenic riding the subways, rollicking like Balzatian slaves who never give up seeing life as a lot of work, a lot of hand clapping, liars, everyone a gothic, chimerical punk who finds his god dizzying, perfectly formed, a master with a wireless plan for processing others’ compassion and their own verbal idiocy craving the show that must go on. Free ice-skating through February. Shit, it’s slippery.

[revision]

What makes chosen words dressed in black?
Where should I hurt?
Show me a locket grant and my brain fist bumps a few jars,
       opening one with cogs waiting to defrost.

Once and be done. A few more

fix the climate fast with lots of glass and a shining brand
like my nickel-coated dick.

A marionette’s defiance is offensive.

But you feel tall and

inflatable as you cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

[first draft]

What makes chosen words dressed in black? Where should I hurt? Show me a picture and my brain fist bumps a few jars, opening one with cogs waiting to defrost. That’ll fix the climate fast with lots of glass and a shining brand like my nickel-coated dick. A marionette’s defiance is offensive. But you feel tall. And inflatable as you cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

Views opposing yours or mine are bad enough. Delivering your opposition sneering in glaringly fake delight is troublemaking. In addition, ad hominem is a fallacy, clown, a demagogue’s tool.

John McCain comes to mind. I admit it’s hard not to slip into ad hominem with this guy; I’m no demagogic senator; I’m a peeved amateur in opposition, especially when there’s an analog to unload. McCain = Burgess Meredith as the quacking albeit enfeebled Penguin in the Batman tv series, that iconic template and easy reference to understanding what’s up with Fox News, teabaggers, Michael Steele, and others permanently, gamingly opposed to the practical, rule-governed art of argument and persuasion. McCain derides Joint Chiefs of Staff chair Admiral Mike Mullen’s view that institutional integrity requires repeal of the don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy in the services. The Admiral’s opinion is “biased,” snickers Senator McCain. McCain then reneges on his previous, reasonable view that he, McCain, would follow the military brass if they were to recommend changing the policy. McCain’s counter is that Mullen has pre-judged the outcome of a congressional review of the policy.

Something’s fishy here, Penguin. To conduct business Congress calls on the judgment of employees in three branches of the government. Senator McCain, Mullen is doing your bidding, doing his job. Your job as you define it in your language over the last year is to demonstrate how mean-spirited, inestimable opposition can be sustained by a losing candidate, one who has lost both the presidency and his once-higher rank in the history of opposition.

Our mission continues, we realize, when we swallow a few particles of smart dust, micro-sensors and accellerometers that collect and communicate data where they are needed, living the dream, spreading the good word, kicking ass.

There will be revisions & add-ons to Post~Twyla, along with variations in layout for Post~Twyla Reset due next month from Faux / Other. Ex:

196

Asymmetry is like combat & bad writing.
       Monochrome with recent weight gain
       under sequoia representations. Too
Many shaved heads. You can light a fire
       and combatants
Pour up to the surface for a face off.
       She looked right at me.

But nobody feels like reading now.

Heavenly and new, classic and so easy, unforgettable elements in our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off in a whisper, quiet and respectful in the nick of it.

Blow hard, there's surface tension.

Everyday nudity that earned us subpoenas is balls that just turn. And that's how we fasten the starry messenger to move around objects. It's always a swing reunion in the ritual state of expanses in time where there was a whole new side of nuts and bolts, narrow and hollow in the center, along with a vacuum and wheels. 100% our touch.

On the first anniversary of their taking charge, do Emanuel and Obama maintain persuasion, logical reasoning, and measured, cool demeanor prevail over those who resist them? If so, they are by now both certifiably bonkers. The name of the domain is politics. That calls for skills in theater, sleight of hand, good posture, Simon-says-simple, conditioned rhetoric. If what's behind these skills is progressive policy, along with personable qualities and strategic intellectual constructs, there is potential for leadership. So far, with regard to Obama & Co., the jurist in me is still out.

Back to Pynchon.

First poetics essay that speaks to the average soca fan of 20-10.

When disaster is joined offshore you know (again) land ends. Your world and mine bend and sooner than not they collide inside and out on audio (mostly). What we say to one another gets overheard via logic penetrators for the ubiquitous oyster antenna test we fail to take off life support. No thing then evinced. Port au Prince, RIP.

I lower your voice. In a heartbeat I do yesterday over and pick someone else. Your movements are still uncoordinated but hidden by long underwear. I go by a few names and my mistakes get corrected; in this one dish a crust remains, gristle and bits of pumpkin.

Freed from servitude wow, congrats, I wash his hair. I can't ask for all that.

If animals could talk they'd say, what can you do? I pick national clothing by the rules? I can't get you out of my mind? Handle it. Come closer, you're scaring me. Tesla, ten-hut! (Nihilism Many a Mormon shuts the door on arousal.) Nihilism Mormonism is boring, ref. T Woods. Let's name him the silent one.

And lLet's throw a food concert for his ex-executives and their loved ones confined to wheelchairs. (That would be an incantation where you can throw food.)

I'm a suffix with capital.

His eEx-executives have organized chains that gibber and gab to one another through purchased media and, from here to there, loosely monitored convivial association. Nikes. Buicks. No drums. Discourse, for the exes, is skillful and skillfully disseminated as in $1000 wastebaskets, a nylon-string acoustic, a very confident young jacket. Bank of America, more than a chain luster's cry, granted a total allergic response of 96 permanent mortgage modifications. (It's important to keep an eye on costs.) The irony is that wWe are ecstatic. We endorse soundscapes, so-called, massive and ambient like Richard Wagner? or Richard Hell? or Richard Wilbur? (It's picking season.)

I left out where the kids can find it.

Freed from servitude, I wash his hair. I can't ask for all that.

If animals could talk they'd say, what can you do? I pick by the rules? I can't get you out of my mind? Handle it. Come closer, you're scaring me. Tesla, ten-hut! (Nihilism shuts the door on arousal.) Nihilism is boring, ref. T Woods. Let's name him the silent one.

And let's throw a food concert for his ex-executives and their loved ones confined to wheelchairs. (That would be an incantation where you can throw food.)

I'm a suffix for capital.

His ex-executives have organized chains that gibber and gab to one another through purchased media and, from here to there, loosely monitored convivial association. Nikes. Buicks. No drums. Discourse, for the exes, is skillful and skillfully disseminated as in $1000 wastebaskets, a nylon-string acoustic, a very confident young jacket. Bank of America, more than a chain, granted a total of 96 permanent mortgage modifications. (It's important to keep an eye on costs.) The irony is that we are ecstatic. We endorse soundscapes, so-called, massive and ambient like Richard Wagner? or Hell? or Wilbur? (It's picking season.)

I left out where the kids can find it.

News nugget: There are pat-downs now in 14 countries.

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!