Two highlights from June. I can make you happy when you pay me.
I'll do my drugs in the bathroom. You'll never know.

I’m a big baby. That’s b for balanced, red-and gold baroque, tart, measured and vulnerable steering gizmos, exploring the dilemmas of my duality. I’m the same baobab in the harness of the founding circle but worse. I’ve lost my drool, a rough double, double, no toil, all trouble. Offensive-enjoyable lowering the genome, relining the stitches to glaciers, the watchwords hence.

Scrounging but equipped, I’m putting in a bigger, more intimate brain and body. If I have Barbie I have to have Ken in my hotspot, the Lots-’o-Huggin Ken headlining in safari prints and short shorts. Then a second sequel for taking summer breaks not like a computer, a dolly doll on her tip toes churning in rose patterns and dance.

I live in the swansdown of DNA. Soon I’ll be comically dead — that’s married to a duplicate database — a seamless reiteration of Mr Picklepants with a flat floppy build that determines the forest and wilderness and my behavior and movement, charming, polished, emotionally shot with depth as a thespian-rapper rounding off contrasting demands of elaborately flimsy seriality and sequence.

Clenching-tight, I’m on a distorted guilt trip that begets a higher indie profile, the size of a blood cell, shafted by the viability of conquering death with abundance.

Gottlieb and Timmons this Sunday, 4:00 @ Unnameable Books, 600 Vanderbilt Avenue, Brooklyn. Free. Read more.

Holy mackerel.

Define something painted more; degrades arfs after sunset: it’s
smears, sanguinary as solvents or dissolvent making lock up
toxic Danish for sleep, a stream of thought dislodged as propellers
molesting a din for decades of fear or accounted to explaining
there exists an interchange with a mug net to cheek authority’s
familiar rasp off tie-backs lodging the unqualified breeze in part
belief and energy; (2)

Define a language with no kids, stolen, seeming

handlebarred fish at war, bird properties degrading
quite none like an innate masking
shaken to a grin brink quart-like oops.

A poem is a picture. There’s a Shrek glass of water over here where — you were sleeping — I read madras pea coats, some kitten crescendos and ball shrugs (waffles), etc. What is seen annoys the fuck out of the robot deposited by blood. Drown me out, speed bag, eavesdropper, slipshod potty compiler. Drown and kiss the cleft. No questions, now. Stink into blahs of scenery. Sleep I say. Self-funded and auto-toned, we’ve already won.

This smooch packs a lot of predation, rose shui, soccer crap. And so

I met a needing apparition with firepower to prelude my ideas, descending in scale,

Easy-to-wool. It’s with a heavy appetite I held her for conniving to carpet silence.

Honesty we used to say or almost say is the best practice for platform control and thumb fitness. Recursions set in. They go back. Soon we relaxed our balance to parry reviews of something or perhaps two small things that once were clear enough, but not now. We went into this. We went over the accord, for instance. The 20-60 split seems marvelous for the evils of the present. Funny, I may call upon your balloon or coupon wrinkled into an octagon. The music pickles. I dreamt with you.

Big hearts unsuss southpaw disproportionality.

Temptation orders the jigger mnemonics of the bummershoot.

Thieves are beside themselves devoted to their next palooka.

Butterflies have rabbit ears.

Smelling morals jazzes a decimal of pablum.

Logging a spigot startles the system.

Muscle worship (zero-to-zero) between infant births used to stick to three dimensions, like hydrangea in labor (staging nightmares). We chose our parents. Then came a fair day and fourth magnitude cloaking hybrid terrorists. What were proportioned over time became harmless, weather-beaten from kitty pestilence and verbal pitchforks. Surely what was past was swinging but stopped somewhere to empty the horizon. We got used to the beat.

That’s the short link to Stony Overlook where I’m a lingoist and a vibrator. (Like my sisters in the collective I dislike anamnesis.)

Key is I borrowed broken toys for hours at a time and got to oscillate with many a stamen. I’m guilty as Sinn. So here’s what I admit: the liver meets the brain halfway, slanting the blurred promise we had or we don’t know in the aftermath of the hiatus, dying down.

Into the inversion children cast their farts, smiling of threads.

A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
the air.
I look for my shues under my bed.
A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
I grow a beard in one day.
I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
talk to me.
I empty the garbage on the tabol.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewritter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
bacon.
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
blue beards.
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
bullet.
I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
of life
All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
fresh butts.
My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
look up at my window and see nobody.
So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
then I do?"
Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
my gay jubilation.

— Peter Orlovsky
("First Poem," Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris)

R.I.P., Peter Orlovsky.
R.I.P., Louise Bourgeois.

Leslie Scalapino, R.I.P.

I know where I am going
gawky, rattling my cage.

I know where the caged bird sings.
I shop in Brooklyn.

Shy of seduction
I worry about the family.

Like Clint Eastwood I was shifty.
Once. What was that all about?

It’s 2020. Dada has won. Suddenly. There’s no Wall Street Journal. And it’s hot. A life listening to rock is the seed performance indicator for pot growers and for me and my casual nonacademic friends who fall back from confrontation. We like seeding before dressing. The dubby-drop is the wow a welled, ironic smile equates back when we had everything going for us near the Baby Dust Charter School, exposing every last Wiki ovulation date in our calendars. (Damien’s or Chucky’s seeds grow into a tree if you swallow Kali’s mist. Chucky’s a hot regular. Damien is a bottom sprouter who skips his seed walkthroughs sometimes.)

We’ve wound up in a Rhoda Maxwell clomid forum, no income but we don’t need cash when we got a one-pound seed popping out. That’s our praxis. I’m writing from that position. I am writing from the feminized Chias (with my regrets) who take up dork-asms and get demolished, loosely. Flamed sunrays secure their bikini resins then cross the floor of the wading pool. It’s a gluey sperm-friendly cervical mucus hue, like an old bag of maple seeds. Tomorrow we’ll find new ones, and a new rock that picks this up.

A tree in the wind.
How is it lit?

Tall with liquid arms;
another is hit and run.

They’re parts of the chad deity.
That’s what led you child rearing

to a showdown at the riverbed,
immersive. Impulsive.

It’s back to work.
Show’s over. You go ahead.

City center aria, a dwindling
sea brook, the best toadstools,

supreme Styrofoam
in pursuit of what follows.

Mind and body.
I was hoarse for a week.

Here’s an idea. Addiction is improvement over quasi-production of enormous chagrin. I think that’s the script and structure for the loss of a teardrop. We’re milquetoasts inside. Yet for all appearances nothing lurid is due at signing. Luscious hills, gleaming grains. The American Songbook has motors for this. Bukowski’s fall is a hissable warning, gone monochrome in uglified loveliness besieged by entertainment.

Have we ever done anything but tamper with the weather? Oh, who knows? You seem so fake-excited in the sprayed periphery, staying in balance inside a soft radical vapor of anathemic bigness. Is that the word?

Mid or large, our body fat is worth $60,000 a gallon. Nukers take responsibility. It feels like a palate cleansing (to them). Your hair is beautiful now, so much for redemptive infinity, you and your public are blotto-dreamy.

Embarrassment can be interesting; never vice-versa. Bog shoes come to mind. Filing oddly abstract word strings in my back pouch. G’day. Or a sobering up between courses. Between jewelry making and language learning. I failed at both so turned to landscape arch- and tin-work, keeping the breakers honest by the faltering dunes, bogs and cliff houses of cards. The surf came up and made everything a heavenly mess. The mechanics are all there. Scales, secrets, s.v.o. As for the shoes, people look at me funny. No arch support for me, thanks.

Alan Davies and I will be handing out Faux | Other titles at the small press book fair organized by the Segue Foundation 6-8 PM today, Thursday, at Zieher Smith Gallery, 516 W 20th, NYC. We'll be sharing a table with Segue / Roof.

(My mood is in erasure.) I’m an agitator but Neil Young on Skype is agitator in chief. (Elated I am.) Red, green, blue, that’s how things worked out. His comfort food backed up. Jonathan Demme, cool as a Boise-minute, I can see you! (Now.) “Dude,” he says, “I can see you.” There’s struggle to housesit too much information. (Eden. Foliage. Strangers.) Whoah, way too much, and beyond, they just crack me up; my head is cleared. (Have to go.) On. Up.

All attempts to grow God are disproportionate. [A misreading, not deliberate]

I’m on lockdown. New beliefs and old factoids, nothing much, attitudes struck, days in spirals, an undulating façade. I see endless tunnels, gadgets and lightning that interconnect the music while I wait. My fingers board the apologetic apparatus, some of it; it’s thumping on the screen. No room for unprecedented speaking of which feelings out of the world meetings within reach.

Don’t argue with the shipment.

Glee outshines pizza.

keep me out / of mind — Anselm Berrigan

Last call to save with the prepublication deal for Faux | Other titles.

Trace Peterson's account of the Tendencies event last Thursday is a good draft of what went down. In the q&a that followed Stacy's, CA's and my brief papers, I know a few of my claims for the influence of science on expository prose are fundamentally noncontroversial among historians of English composition, both its development and pedagogy. At crucial junctures the authorities who have lasting influence on rules of grammar and exposition have been scientists, best typified by the the Royal Society founded in the 17th century, charted by the crown, devoted to disciplining English prose to convey scientific methods and findings. I don't hate English as CA may have gathered from my truncated comments; I am ambivalent toward the science-y aspects of good prose style — brevity, for example. I follow the rules in my expository practice, but I can't say I subscribe to them without feeling these now-ingrained stylistics pulling me away from more discursive, more digressive, more potentially productive inchoate forms of thinking and writing in prose.

Poetry of course is another matter. A jumbo alternative.

Here’s the intro to a piece, parts of which I’ve rehearsed here, titled “Repeat after Me.” I’ll read this, along with CA Conrad and Stacy Szymaszek, for the Tendencies Series, curated by Tim Peterson, 6:30 this Thursday at CUNY Graduate Center 9100 (Skylight Room), 365 Fifth Ave., Manhattan.

A regular moment can become romantic. Gods v. Medusas. I drive my gods, dudes mostly, off a bridge on purpose. As a comedian I’m kind of open to prohibitive structuration. Take two texts, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Gertrude Stein.

    If they were not pigeons what were they... If they were not pigeons on the grass alas what were
    they. He had heard of a third and he asked about it... (from Four Saints in Three Acts, Gertrude
    Stein)

Gertrude Stein is ours — she’s in my pocket and she’s mine over time. My wild Cricket.

The figurative is splitting at the seams. (I don’t know who you think they are.) I’ve been pretty well behaved as a gay. But but. My erections taught me swears. I let this sink in. Today thanks to Eve I put it together.

In a dialog on love I enact Eve and read Gertrude-Cricket. I am almost an outlaw. Social formations and roadkill are on the menu.

A life is charged for care.

Before the night is through I want to look at what Cricket said as lingo and allegory.

Forget verse. Cricket says we are physicists to inner antecedents, the deadpan Medusas. Medusa One is not about sex or figuration. She’s a nihilist in and out of societies and their formations. Do you work for a living? What a waste of time. As a stand-up I say everything is urgent. We have to reassign all the workers inside us. Cricket will forgive us in the future.

    It is understood by this time that everything is the same except composition and time,
    composition and the time of the composition and the time in the composition...

    No one thinks these things when they are making when they are creating what is the
    composition, naturally no one thinks, that is no one formulates until what is to be formulated
    has been made.

    Composition is not there, it is going to be there and we are here. This is some time ago for us
    naturally. (from “Composition as Explanation,” G.S.)

The allegory goes to Cricket’s houses, lingo, cheapskate punks, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. Notebook open, wallet shut. An Everly Brothers disc is still playing but it multiplied like a crisis in its own category. Irony-sincerity voted best....

Roadkill is on the menu.

I am physicist to an inner antecedent, deadpan Medusa. My chaps are reeling. Drowsiness may be my great escape or I may walk off, allergic to the set. Either way I laid the animals of the world. The power of the carcass. Lemme go. Your face, the trains I ride, it's all good. (Ugly directions.) The front salt is a kind of equipage inherent in spice squads, the blaze enchanted by the stars. (Coffee head.) Any outrageous claim here that hits it out of the park? The Mastics are breathing. Contemporary argyle.

In the mid 1970s Alan Davies edited 40 issues of A Hundred Posters. Among those whose work appeared were Ginsberg, Wieners, Eigner, Weiner. The importance of the authors published makes this CD reissue a solid indication of poetic directions for the present & future.

Initially a spoof of John Ashbery's book-length poem "Flow Chart," my Post~Twyla: Reset re-emphasizes daybook metonymy, lexical captures, & graphical meta-commentary to upset the "flow." Cantatas for experimental instruments, jubilant disparities. Alan Davies calls P~T "unremittingly Burroughs-in-bed."

The New Old Paint is Susie Timmons's second poetry collection. Alice Notley noted in her first collection Timmons's "naked" train of thought & her "wit." The same applies here, fully resourceful, totally unexpected, "Hello, I am your American flag / I know; hard to believe, / a talking flag."

Jennifer Moxley on Memoir and Essay: "A bright young poet arrives penniless in a resplendently decaying New York where he finds a group of like-minded writers. They join ranks and set out to challenge the establishment. [Michael] Gottlieb makes this old story new with crisp prose and thoughtful personal details."

Pre-order here before publication, $13.00 each (rather than 16.00) or a full set of 4 for 45.00 (limited offer).

announcing...






Faux | Other releases (at special prepublication rates). A limited offer.

Hustling all the time, awesome! But let’s pare it down. New York, like Antwerp, is filled with air. And staying casual definitely has legs. The inscrutable commercial lupus-vector coursing through the pop concept. There’s nothing like it, a memoir that’s more a self-memoir in wide release, an everyman (remember that fool??) happy as in somehow scraping by. Timeless like leg warmers. (But this is July.) Both Antwerp and New York, which back then was like Antwerp now, were sprinkled with men unwound and found to be children, their affection not unexpected, hungover, yapping at the top of a lintel of plankton. (How did that get in there? Publicartscape, a biodatum to add to the authenticity of personal double insider points.) I’m coming back to New York in the early 80s.

Art is theft all right. As I said I’m a novice enthusiast. Ever since I was bullied when I was a kid I became a circuit bear. (Didn’t know I was in the running, a total surprise.) A memoir is like one shoulder hitched higher, naming names but allegorizing what happens before we finish the painting of the sky. O boring even as we pass one another I intuit a little space and eat multimillion-dollar cheeseburgers.

(The above interlude both wanted.)

Froggie had a big smile. When I teased him or cuddled him, his four appendages went wiggly. He’s silly, a smile across his whole face, black button eyes on top of his head — all smile and eyes in front, green in the back. When I held him he was a jumble of cuddles and inertia. His legs flopped around until I stopped.

That was the way.

As I was saying, my memoir(s) could begin around 2000, celebrating a gaping yawn in praxis (goodwill and dynamics). This is our yawn, college-bred, localized — concentrated in 5 or 6 cities with exurbs, getaways and summer haunts — long in the making, one I’ve been party to. Party is one word. It felt so good to close down a wide sector of the critical imagination, ethos, and move nowhere collectively, a function of a huge leftist irony-software & aggregation corp. The year two-thousand in brief is an egg-hatching moment, kairos, and from then I can move forward and back to connect the times with the ideas and people that encompass my naïve expertise.

I break down and cry.

My problems, based on an unremitting infancy, began decades before 2000. When I first came to New York, for instance, my agenda was oversimplified, to practice poetry and make love to poets. I slept with killers. I started a long poem of denial. Two or three poems, and I grabbed as much sex as I could but didn’t and couldn’t and so I fell in love with two or three ex-poets and found their dearth qualitatively posthuman, and that’s why I am alive today but tomorrow I die thinking about those I forgot to lose.

Just reward, Rae.

The good Rae.

You could say my memoir kicks off where Memoir and Essay ends, dreamy-alert Manhattan, old and renewed before 2008, a bulimic bulking up on soaring rents and the zeitgeist of downsizing. There are swelling cadres of unnerved writers like me (I’m not in Manhattan but at that moment I’m thinking of moving back), writers who are breaking with theory, desperate to stay on some young end of organizing things. I’d start with the last decade of the 20th century, technically the first decade of the 21st, the unpronounceable 2000s. It’s a throwback era (and of course in 2010 it’s still got a hold on me) (and us?). As I switch speech patterns from two-thousand-and nine to twenty-ten, there’s hope twitted in the streamlined names of years (hope here is only a symptom for a stopgap in decline). It’s a depression, nonetheless, a time when we settle for throwbacks, economically and esthetically. So I’d start with the ethical and epistemological disorder that emerges from the blind side in large out-of-control events.

For the first time a round of Faux books, due earlier this year, will be late but not too late. Michael Gottlieb’s, for instance, Memoir and Essay arrives in a couple of weeks, just in time for looking back at what his cohort, chronologically my cohort, has been up to, foundation-wise. (X-wise was once and briefly slixter’s usage, ’k?) Esthetic foundations back then, the 60s through 80s — to arbitrate a wide span that intersects with other key time divisions, postwar architectonics, say, the broad-shouldered non-hip late 70s / early 80s, shared trauma post-May 4, 1970, etc.) — are symptoms of tightening and slackening moves in poetics. (Those same moves are very much still simulcast. That’s why they’re so engaging.) Michael’s almost folksy narrative operates as an emphatically socio-demographic basis for orienting us to time and places back when Brooks Brothers was a register rather than a brand; a last time neighborhoods and the accents they foster mattered beyond kitschy nostalgia purposes; who is working and what is done for work were paramount to writing and to mundane choices, like the building where you live. For sure, earning a living feeds text even today, but the working-to-work scales are, simply put, different now — in Michael’s New York you certainly didn’t need a $million in prospective earnings or from others’ resources to prop you up.

[I’m cutting off here but will be back, still in a memoir mode.]

Blogging is not dead. It’s back where it started.

I agree with Alli Warren tho: blogging by poets is fun to read, like shoe polish.

We need to be done with Arman Karzai, say all the media, time to dislike each aspect of his unctuous weather vane of presiding over the few square meters of Afghanistan he breathes into, commandeering a chamber of opium. His tailor is a dressmaker. We’ll send him back his dreams in a hiatus-shaped containment vehicle labeled pine box.

In amateur land there’s nothing like a push-pull full press. Except in teams.

Back to poetry, back to told what to polish and following how others do it, ex-bloggers are falling in like girl scouts taking on the regalia (cozy affects & stretched limits) of the classic Black Rock, headquarters for impressive market-share analysts, sweet haters and subscriber-entrepreneurs for e-lists and twit-chains’ thinking huge. Huge and floating, a beautiful menace from outer space. A girly homecoming.

Don’t sweat it there’s nothing too forbidden that can’t be magnified in poetry. (Ok, maybe not Karzai.) But if you accept Black Rock analysts’ frames of reference you’re in, and may be invited to fake your next orgasm. A teardrop of powerade.

Back to poetry, in my next life I affiliate with Butler U.

...cross-pollination of English and psychology is providing a revitalizing lift. Try this new skimmer inferring I’ll assume you suspected I know you know I know. It’s in the literature. Now even empiricists can map it. I’m in sympathy and shrinking, too, while my hair pops by a couple of mental states in the monks’ apothecary — ah ha there are great and pure benefits sponsored by broad-shouldered believers grasping for governance! Wouldn’t you know they’re in an infinite series catching the gossip. (Or from another angle they are the series, dead and history.) (You know.)

It’s been a while since they’ve grabbed a bite. I suspect their budgets have been cut with style. But nothing is forgotten, since distraction matters for the next table/angle. You who.

All our mistakes stand at attention but warded, show-offs.

There are centers of wishing beyond closed doors. Being pavement I started listening. When I spoke of rubber, sex and violence I can’t know I said I saw snakes sliver through rifts that never were, denying a problem no one asked about.

We need dialog about clockwork and stagecraft and we need it now more than ever.

I don’t like Mondays, Tuesdays or Wednesdays. C'mon, there’s no spike in sadism but some surprises. So I want more trashy muscle behind the push. I’m a paragon of ballet. My batteries are charged (that’s the feeling). I’m wearing molasses on track pants sewn of micro-fiber. And I’m about to walk the spiral stairway and more! Ladytron is carrying this note of irony to bounce back to my pals.

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.