Sorry, I have no association I can share. I was held up at work as songbirds flew in from everywhere. I don't know why. When I was alive I stuck my fingers down my throat to empty it. I am yet to be reborn and am thus a saint.

A saint in this new age of now or a minute from now learns to kiss her life goodbye. After the credits an aggressor opens with a right cross. I usually fall asleep before the plane takes off.

Moreover, I am the American winter-spring. It’s better when I wake up I’ve landed. I counter with a methodical roundhouse kick to the leading leg. Once I was rooted to things but got ethereal after that. The songbirds in the sun sounded great. I started at the top, the left knee was just there when it was there, then a left-right in a series with only a few elements incised to form solid bands connected to reality. I could see up to the valley. The police were wild one lane over, so I was arrested while I keep asking myself, how can I sleep better and not get caught.

Men and women are spangled with sugar, genetic machines.

That was at the start. I know that.

Taking chances put us in this lissome interpretive state (birth). Function varies widely. Lilac is my favorite zest.

After aging it’s fodder beets, realistically unreal as a freshly poured sidewalk.

In design every utterance is for sale. I’m intensely delighted in my forties and fifties, illicitly relaxed, everything exposed like vexed ribbon, along for the ride.

I suffer from shaving in a symbolic realm.

A head transplant brings on the knowledge effect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower. I never understood insinuation. I never misunderstood it, either, a civilized divide teasing my attitude 2%.

All the shavings are just fine. You can go right in. They have an open table.

Akilah Oliver, R.I.P.

[After Pessoa]

Too many ideas inside — I’m,
You know — I can’t — when I think
Who’s thinking, maybe I’d,
It’s just me locked in place
Where things think on their own

You know — maybe it’s more than me,
Things, myself, lots to hide
And whatnot or not, and I’m me too
So I could give a damn
Because when I speak you go on

Stirring up more ideas
About what I feel
I think I feel, oh,
Women! You’re telling me
Nothing new here —

A stupid thing, wisdom.
Re-examining my savagery,
Italicizing my failures. I’m prosciutto-
Handed attempting satire,
A snooty, freaky queer.

Traffic is light. Hai. This may burn a little, William said to his dark alter ego; oh, the specificity is lost. To save life (a), a blur of messianic pronouns embodies subject matter (b) that’s fucked over and run through social filters. It’s moderato, brooding, and it adds up to a cobbled blow-up (b) with dubs of braying rant and a bundle of complaints in lollipop snatches. So forms of address change the ideology. Modesty is unimpressive. And you like epiphenomena, I suspect. I speak English and (a) can switch to Taiwanese, but yeah. (You might infer lack of taxonomy.)

There is no personality, so why beat anyone up? We can read back but never get back to reconstruct the innocent-seeming turrets and loggias, the ones built on foreign capital, say, overlooking the exciting first days...

I’m just saying meritocracy’s plaint is chilled with no sympathy for phantoms or their emanation, which is a specter brought up a peg. And to clear things up, there’s a scent of acacia and soft frangipani but our neighbors in black culottes could care less, squandering the opportunity — fulfilling their lives seems to require alternatives to the puzzled trot, backed up with ample incentive oh, and the smell of one’s being real while being in a movie from every progressively self-deprecating angle.

From simulacra these chimeras are as distinguishable as global nomads. No pieties held. Oh, here’s one from last night. Don’t sign it.

I speak with self-knowledge, your holiness, relax and beware.

Let’s feed an appetite that picks up from nature “to express things ... as they are when one sees them without remembering having looked at them” and then to chew the scenery, committed to formal blocking in stagecraft, maintaining an indomitable temperament. Climax evaporates as a textual refuge where the natural draws our attention as an ironic condition, a peripheral attraction.

To be objective and lack will.
An incident unveiled as ambition.

The dharma of the windmill is monotonous.
Reënter the Style You're Sick Of. Concision or hue

in the detailing of method is a catamaran of process.
Example: dreams of Lubitsch films

exist — here we go — appreciating in value
discourse running late — this is my youngest

scouring moment favoring the objective.
Sun up, Fra Angelico,

girl, you’re a mess.
I’m going to grab you.

Shall I mark you as another chill
in the former layers

of highly varied chroma
guessing the wrong

hand through fog sorting the dots’
congeries of texture?

I turned and asked again.
It felt unwise.

Furniture, lighting, underground.
We work for the same carbons.

Research suggests that the road to popularity can be treacherous, and that, in particular, poets near the top of the social hierarchy are often both perpetrators and victims of aggressive behavior involving their peers.

I picked this up from the past. You’re a person of interest.

Styling.

You sit languidly on the other side of the room. You’re locked tight.

Your party last night was great. You like to dwell publicly on differences, on crispnesses in whispers in the air. You may already be a laureate.

You’re the single most important thing for me. You chill the sorbet and warm the surf. Your sleep is like a language recognized by NASA.

Mercury is wow! pensive. It’s coming back, back... no..

No to grim ball-bearings. No to tempos of glyphic turmoil grounded into torpid incision, no to prophase. No!

No contusion of the spheres.

I dislike insatiable shine.

I’m saying no to kitsch first, no to virulent, callow graphemes, a stance cover and mongrel humphs. Cut the skull-like crocus, low opinions and bloodied mesh. No aplomb in nature, please. No chiastic haunts. And no golf property for now.

I have no interest in hull cathodes, none. No ilk of valid colloids — simple? No mimic measure, no ceremony “plinthing a drumbeat.” Also, no dyscalculia, no hindsight bias, no rose-flavored gum.

Knowing what I do, how could you?

If I put a question mark after feeling genreless, it becomes a pick-up line.

What is it about nether?

The tallest paintings test the humor of the height of pretense.

Painting ideas.

Painting had heard maggots have to eat über-paintings laid out onto canvases of different sizes, gloomy jigsaws, severed-head paintings, sticky placards of painting wasted, emaciated paintings. Painting images of junk and emptiness.

Painting you again. Painting double quotes.

Why bluff your way in painting, pretend canary? Getting closer I see you’re a liver schmeer painting. A schmeer, painting. Run for your lives, liver of others’ lives, dick entendre, runner-out of thought but settling into deadly mechanics of painting, taking notes on the streak of breaching the speed of wonderful lies in painting. I’ve weighed your volatility and come up with the graphic score: you’re attenuated in painting, vanished.

How far is it to the autopsy in painting in waiting areas?

Painting formalism.

It pulls you into painting along with lab wonks, murderers, lesser rogues, crazy robots painting the same painting old and new, painting different action hulks who celebrate painting overlapping a six-year-old offering his sister for a painting. Painting the overemphatic and vague. Painting the land mines. Painting casino archetypes.

Silent movies in painting, three or more faddos about painting attempting authenticity, spoken text in painting, tense and alive paintings, high and low painting the platinum blond’s flamboyant offspring, painting two men, painting the farewell.

Painting voice, the glass house, painting utopian disaster. Painting is a rare sight on the dance stage painting. Beating somebody up paintings, paintings that pour coffee that makes us cry. Painting multiple data fields of malaise, painting sexy fasting, a disk of stunning extras in painting, painting supported by a partner in painting corroded pizzazz in paintings, painting pulp in painting the ring of convoluted painting propaganda, in paint.

The city is a consuming intellect giggling like Zorn as Berlioz in a Mars invasion; then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it. Again. Astringing nostalgia like perception and algorithm coasting through the long view.

Next, chimes sound mad as an earthquake, round on the bottom. Right, some of this is half-insane and sinister for its own sake. John/Hector, say when.

It’s here. The helium released, the admonitory tableau sponged in saliva — thrown in reverse it’s ecosystems without hotshots to bang the triangles, collisions playing junk ballads within a migratory pattern. The justified, 24/7 hoax is emotionally wounded, one point... brain-body fiber pierced, two... sherbet dolloped. I’ll be right down.

I’m a neo-accepter of things, making and being particles of objective misnomers. Eating and breathing them too. Like butt hustle, there are rips in the smooth rhetoric of space/time whose details burgeon in vibrating blobs to exalt over a spool of hocus exports and officially sanctioned conjecture. Ergo rising winter. The evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family of affixes and addictions to risk. Come here often?

Intervention before the fall. This is a hill job. Gardenias, gigantism, Lotto. Ginza air is doing better. We were dangerous, once. Your voice is transparent. It’s too late to make it sparse. Even your restraint is wishy-washy, a lake in your basement doubling in a maze of honey pits. You’re too qualified and thrifty to feel anything. Angelfish enjoy their revisionist’s view, unobstructed, puckered in ab exercise.

There is no wrong answer. I told you I agree a little but not a lot. I forget what you sound like, the plotting, lackluster, the barge chorus suspended — Mayday! We’re recalibrating the same interface between reeking havoc and gathering money. You’re really this tall?

Promethean winnowing = Noh fat.

Short video and commentary from David Larsen document his being assaulted Friday last week near the July 26 Bridge over the Nile. LRSN has left Cairo and he’s now in Dubai. From Lihn Dihn’s blog.

Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises.

I’m late for the prom fitting, weeping inside. Outside, I’m in a pickle,
impetuous, I’m from costive stock, unflappably happy and brusque.

I somehow floated here; the toys are asleep. I voted for change.
Injecting their blood is just crazy but I won’t go off schedule.

Time to stir the batter with a respondent spoon. Back to the bench.

Tank smoke releases this sour collage. Molotovs are elevated. Cairo, the oasis, fills with swill.

Reporters agitated, reproached, disappeared.

A crackdown fabricates its essence, otherwise normal police on the roof, smug and at the top of their game, which is synchronized, written over from scratch and genocidal closure.

The knack has been gotten.

It’s snowing like Monet. There’s a touch of time-travel to that bathing in calisthenics.

If you admit you rejoice in tricky intersections you’ll be taking sides.

I told them I’d prefer not to watch from the grandstand and de-harvest illusions of atmospheric slop. Better to get a friend or two to write for you, pretending they are you, falling mute, covering your lips with my gloved thumb.

Like conceptualisms, Against Expression: An Anthology of Conceptual Writing reads better when it’s not read but shifted around like a produce of propositions, left to percolate, to seed ideas.

We anthologists often fool ourselves in the company we presently seek, but editors Kenneth Goldsmith and Craig Dworkin reach far back to stack the deck with winners. Against Expression might also be titled Stop Making Sense, Once More or Situationists, a Prequel. This is a momentous and bald extension of Goldsmith’s charming a second tier of the academic mainstream via the same historicist-halo-effect stratagem that he applies to ubuweb: Gather artifacts of dead avants to mix up with contemporary production from friends and affiliates. Hey, I’m certain William B. Yeats is grateful to be in the company of Vladimir Zykov, designer/programmer with a BA in visual studies.

Dworkin, Goldsmith and I reject 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, sirs. That’s why it’s not at all embarrassing to collect only friends and near-friends and call them the conceptuals, along with bona fide pioneers. I jog to burn to speak up on your behalf, your lack of equipoise. It’s tonic!

For too many, tainted instincts and restraints pose problems, forcing adjustments in esthetic observance. Again, we anthologists can seesaw in quite a fix, hungering for the faultless signature seacoast with just the right vibes and trays of perfect drinks. So. I’m still wanting to fine-tune hundreds of anthologies I compile in my head; for two or three of them I’m shoulder to shoulder with Dworkin and Goldsmith leading a band to render old murder ballads. My emotions, I’m certain, are definitive.

My shoulders are hiked nice and high. I love concepts. My fix, my ocean with hummingbirds. They seem to be singing our radical opera, so I’m hardly alarmist coming out in this axis of abiding intimacy, creating a vogue for Against Expression, an ocean of air.

[This late into the authenticity pat-down I’m after just one more thing. One good Micah. Is that zoo-feeling-obtuse?]

Living to 100 is complicated. You forget to clash.

[Surely I can steal from myself to make something up and call it mine...]

(hoch self-torment)

[...there is no outside [...] only what's already here [what I drew] inside, which is perpetually immature, disgusting, and repulsive...] [and]

nothing is copious for the obtuse

[...can’t stop it...through language [how’s about] [...] cheesy time lapses in which [traveling backward] speech and narrative continuity become incrementally[?]

...we want [...] to explode [...] free of the [farthest from the wiki edge] metaphysics and misery [...] stuck inside us, as it were. Happily, after one more midnight, two weeks or so into the narrativ[ity], 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.]

[...]Psychic healing. Unpolished youth transformed into the next thing.

[Ref.: Paranormal Activity.]

As noted still, the long, busy street is night-blinded. It wanders, reaching into the wrong fake reading and reception. Every sweet young mood is high on the periphery sampling product to stroke. Gummy and purple condiments, galvanized pastels. Bad pups.

I’m not just doing something like that. I’m mouthing off about getting on with you, how it’s scripted by infantile alienation. Again. It’s not too late! Optimism pays. We’re both being blackmailed over the boinks spinning up to the surface with no message. My wrasse is fried. It is but canapé.

So there is nothing to represent.

Pedagogy is working it through. Those words we had and didn’t have are the consequences. Learned good is bad. Bad is good. Show up invisible. This unspeakable libido constitutes a knowledge module.

I once went sideswiping in the acer maples and pines with no contrivance or opposition. My role was to fill them in, lengthening their insipid menace while coddling the wetlands.

Since I wield affinities like crayons...

I like zoning.

That’s an aggressive don’t; don’t do it. If I had a camera with retouch I’d subside in attrition, better to find and weed out pleasure. And if I had notes to video I’d capture the polyptoton of “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings I have composing subjectivities in footage I can’t pinpoint or supplicate.

So I have returned to rezone what looks more and more like a suburb with a shore in bad translation blues and stock blacks pitched way up there toward infectious provisos and integers-to-be, no part to fix.

Two favorite c-words show up in poetry at Shampoo: concupiscence and comeuppance. (They're almost interchangeable.)

Harold put his finger on the container during a retrospective we may now never attain.

Time’s up. I have to guide this crone back to reality, a big girl with a visual cortex attending what’s neat in the future, and she finds me attractive! I don’t know when I slept, referring to that earlier point she and I worked out together. I began forming my crew when I was only 12, albeit none the worse for any sobering acts brought on by the failure of a few ‘hacks’ I was perpetrating. On top of that there were dimensions then enabling two events in a plot we’re party to. Tenebrae, after all. Let me present these olfactory sketches. The cosmos is unexplained, parts one and two. Today I speak only to sports authorities with pride and cynicism while astrologers stand there from a famous unsavory line with nothing to give back, struggling within taxonomies set in weathered deco, a bonny font for obfuscation dimly lit by the lackey overflow. The spasm of mesh is brilliant, seeming hard. No time for a giveaway, inside or out. I’m the one who knows computers and conjectures about digestive inclination and fears of drowning in capital. Covert specialists use tightly wound differences to gain advantage for incriminating thoughts, the goal of which is to march with different cause-ists and humanists halfway: Overtaken by slivers of moony sky, paternalism indulged through wisecracks; but most of them, the humanists, we render as divas and idiots in the minority and they take the bullets before it’s too late. That’s within hours. They heard about us in structured query. It lasts a moment. And you’re right, this isn’t the mammoth for me. Barefoot and blue-belled, she assures you. Incandescent, our ardor comes back to choke the first hook, a rocket sidelined by a braided chord worn as a necklace, a burning space distinguished by the interval contained.

Adhesive behavior, speech is understood as extra
sensory anger, sometimes a polite form of the hole-
in-the-universe, a beaker installed with promising

Storyline prototypes, fish, battle scars, vanity, thrills, sky
dogs, paint, & sex under conditions that surround our desire
to adapt a range of compliments for insurgents to bind heartache.

That’s how to hang staring in the mirror names don’t balance
until you think away the best part, mating:

Ma’am, it can whip you up, call you back in the moment of
— of unitary joy that nails us onto a box of light heaving below

informality — stress & refined inelegance.
Doo-wop's creepy; let me through;

Sort of gifted, ok,
house arrest.

I have a work permit.

The place has been wiped clean. Au revoir, perks,

I made an inappropriate shoe choice. Au revoir!
I never liked you half-silent to forego the advantage of a contemporary Kleenex.

War is unjust when there is only one state to wage it.
There are no more communities. And yet, we can rubber any room —
For exploring ideas stick to the sentence.

I’m an angel investor in spontaneity gleaned from what it is,
strictly, deliriously business, self-realized adventure under the sway of...

                                   as I fill in the questionnaire a natura morta
raises vegetables about abutted space.

Aren’t we supposed to feed the bad dogs? Yes but summer, winter?

Minutes after the work is filed, dozens stand in line for a treat,
                                   free rein over the company-owned oceans.

On the bright side looking out you can see the streaks in the glass
Oh baby I'll be right over.

Man, she is weird.
So I urge the tobacco board (I’m bad at focusing)
...so much crap in my head, your under-the-tongue spray

Never bites. Except at night. There are newer urgencies
then management would feel desperate
so exposed it’d feign ignorance, aimlessly...

Let's rewrite “Biotherm.”

I fear the sarcasm.
Sex is a sardonic comfort with a sober edge. Bologna,
they leaked a take-off economy against your highlighted blush.

Smoke circles your face. Homonyms assimilate.
Admit it, you miss smoking. You miss Joe Camel.
He imagines you wearing his reflection.

You miss the first drag. The smoke takes you in its stride.
Your eyes inside are all red. Bologna.
I’ve just noticed you haven’t said anything.

Quickie reflexive summary (they call it a haiku review) of Michael Gottlieb's Memoir and Essay today at The Huffington Post. Peter Frank suggests, "The real power of the Memoir portion of Memoir and Essay... is in its portrayal of New York itself at a moment of physical and social collapse..." The post includes a cute photo of Michael by Tim Peterson. Michael's book can be ordered at Faux Press.

A blind man kind of dumped on me. (It’s a remnant from philosophy's show-and tell, a truly bloated enterprise. Many see themselves in it.) I never dump back. I hope his loss helps him become a better exaggerator and public intellectual. Or I wish him better gurus.

Planet Earth is Taoist hell ringed with grassy estates where he and I can tiptoe or fall further. One observation is easier than the rest. Tag, you’re it. And before you can wish for more you need to excite. Gracious and conservatively dressed, we choose to move comfortably in the upper levels of insightful society, etc., absorbed in desire to sleep with anybody great.

But a lot of these crises pass. In a future of interdependence I’ll write him into my will. Perhaps.

One or more dingbats are affianced to life in different ways, to love always, always murmuring to the lightning thereof, and beyond.

When struck the lightning rod emits a light dust and after that a solution, a chemical substance that recuses itself for a moment and returns as a cognitive coloration, a hint that is a small commotion of something the matter. Like one loved.

Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing our real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” the dingbat says. He was staring at my clogs, wondering how much they cost.

An ephemeral sign of intention or “gesture,” like the hushed, hard-edged dolt in mysticism, can only resemble or be in the manner of -esque, Stevensesque, hardly ever belong to, be part of -ian, Stevensian.

We had stumbled upon a larger issue. “Think about it,” I am laughing again. “Some of those dingbats were hot.” I learned enough to give capsule updates. And there was something else: I wanted to share one with you.

First question, true or false. Is it the gaze or maleness? Technology keeps humming to Aristotelian extremes. The cigar and its store. It’s a manageable stretch from there to when you left, even while I ruled you out. You hadn’t left a name, either. And yet, I stood closer, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. To understand.

And I should know. Something after was pouring out, dazzling the social dashboard, moving forward filling empty monitors on the table. You were bound to organize. And you were thinking about. A fetish against transparency. An interim for you, pushing up and out. There is little point to cremate its fixed melody unless there is nowhere else.

I am a non attorney spokesperson.

Silence is tinctures or tints, much as the will to power is the flip side of fleeced. It’s an argosy of what evolutionary good was before it was not.

And I’ve never been more uplifted, more awed by a silent chamber piece somberly floating this fun stuff, waving inaudible signs of history, deals in decision making, impressing us, preparing us for surplus use as if we’re looking for something with renewed power, something cavelike or gluten. (The full text is online.)

Jim Carrey as a felonious gay ham traumatizes his fans who, I think, expect more (in a purely straight-acting manner) from their clown. You have to go all the way back to Sacha Baron Cohen’s Brüno for as big an embarrassment, as bitter an affront to the fan base. You recall the closing riotous scenes when the hillbillies in the audience started throwing beer cans and pork bellies onto the ring at a man-crush event; all those who remained inside the arena, males and females, were incredulous, brought to their feet as they watched Brüno fellating his opponent. In better times, somewhere in the Netherlands, Belgium, Canada, Norway, perhaps Sweden, innocents like these will be handed marching orders by so-called inclusive taste makers, sent straight to the boiling cauldron or a life of enforced tolerance brimming with elitist superiority. Today in Boston we slip into the Kendall Square Cinema for an hour and half of cathartic boil. I Love You Phillip Morris stars Carrey, the stressful entertainer, as only a semi-fictionalized Steve Russell, a singing cop, family man, ex-cop, single man, con man, con, ex-con (x4!), and in a too-late-to-look-away voiceover, self-outing songbird in the first rollicking sex scene, “Did I forget to mention I’m gay?” Carrey is aging pleasantly as the top, indulgent predator, and manic breadwinner for Ewan McGregor’s saccharine Phillip Morris. Switch the age differential and anyone can readily imagine Carey as gun-running Rimbaud to McGregor’s pallid, campy Verlaine. Except, unlike Russell and Morris, Rimbaud and Verlaine did not meet in prison; they broke out of one. As with most things queer in a service economy, I Love You Phillip Morris plays out to its opposite affect, wandering into disharmony when Russell is caught for the nth time by Texas authorities impersonating a lawyer trying to free Morris from imprisonment after he, Russell, had succeeded in faking his own death from AIDS while incarcerated. Twisty-turn-y. We’re told by the movie’s end Jim Carrey’s character has been put back into a Texas jail for real for life. He had embarrassed then-governor G. W. Bush in one too many scenes. A life sentence for causing a ruckus.

Call me when you are ready.

I planted the escape.

I also grew.

I broke a gnome.

All in; all for one; one for all is magical thinking. Left to its systems and devices, occultism is dull intrigue and romance, equipage of the half- or self-taught. A slice of a childhood domain. Ta ta.

My head is growing. I fool myself everything is merchandise. And I believe in highlights and gravity, the mimicking hidden force. You guys go ahead.

I’m going to take my inside voice and ...and turn around and walk away, that’s the best stunt.

Tantalizing in the feasible, wanting nothing more but to jerk the chicken and throw out sleep, trust, and nimbus-wet telepathy that bears accounting —

And this is what I didn’t want, as my animator picks up battery fluid

— torchbearing shadows —

“Absolutely,” Professor Mulholland replied, when asked if friends and neighbors thought he had lost tenure to genealogies of a sworn declaration to the commercial minutia...

Then I thought about shying away from sharing the room, but I was aware I could look spoiled like food left to twist in the hot leafy acreage. What with ethics, I pledge you a wholly hidden idiom of renderings, highlighting of themes out-of-focus, a lovely coffee table-sized read!

The cracks should be bridged with glass fiber.

You were most impressed by the firelike creamy centers.

You also liked the peach flash and the witless dialectic. I liked your ice-rink smooth skin.

The view outside, pears and Fuji oak, null passages in fog; a cow’s moo of approval and forehead were evident. I then removed us to the rubber towel, leaving everything to chance, a luscious, noiseless bonding that smells like 25 years ago when your parents planted their feet in wax.

Now there’s only their grip and direct perception breeding hope, repopulating the mirror bees and vapor in a stream of gasses embossing our conjoined tattoos. Outdoors the again-feel of an invisible roll call gathers around neighbors’ brightened archways. Beyond us, beyond them, 4% atoms in tiny wriggling strings, hidden, 22% of the tug, dark and unknown should we have no one around me.

Face it, Harry, you’re every guy’s bride-to-be, and look at you, dressed in fishnets, carrying on like a slut. The cold guard's stylized obsession deemed — o let’s not get caught up in pointed expressions. I hope you're happy. Self-restraint and an occasional intoxicant are my only recourse in the face of enemies of detainees. No matter what, you and I can always bottle dreams and watch them lunge for more and be completely at peace.

Music up.

I promised you a ham for painting bombast.

Dean, advise your assistant to receive my phone call; I need to confirm the ham’s anger has hatched and cremated all chance at melody. I’ll have you over when life and death are what they should be, augmented with bouquet, a full deck of historical fantasy, and hyper décor that cracks the lobes of automation... After that, there will be nothing coarse to grab at, but thanks! we’ll stay aghast in wake of our previous melancholy, our own vindictiveness, and horror-struck, I’ll still want to get married in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?

Patches of Lowell, Massachusetts look and feel right in the new depression era, though the story takes place roughly 15 years ago. David O. Russell, director of The Fighter, sends up atmospherics of blue collar New England, run-down housing with boozy/crack-head denizens lounging on ugly sofas, bars and gyms smoking in slurry accents, really bad hair. Mark Wahlberg is less particularized, least accented, speaks the plainest, and keeps his head low as “Irish” Micky Ward, once a welterweight in his 20s who comes back to boxing in his 30s to fight and win. His body looks half-out-of-shape for most of the film, but gains its form when it’s pummeled in the ring. This is one element in Wahlberg’s object lesson with The Fighter, to downplay scene after scene, only springing or twisting into new life and renewed commitment at the last-possible moment, similar to how Ward fought his way into contention and triumphed in championship bouts. If Wahlberg’s encryption of the lowkey contender appears mighty obvious, it subordinates untentatively to other strident characters in the Micky Ward saga. Melissa Leo, Micky’s thin-waisted manager mom, defines a Sansabelt woman of a certain age who infantalizes ten children for life. She’s a monster star. Micky’s half-brother Dickie is channeled by Christian Bale. Thanks to a clip of the real Micky and Dickie inserted as a sidebar during closing credits, we get it that Bale has picked up the gyro physique and gonzo lingo of the champ’s brother, once an ambitious boxer himself. The subtext to Micky’s story is that the lower key is all that’s left after mom the manager and brother Dickie. Christian Bale blows himself up for almost every scene he fumbles and imbibes in. He’s the inflatable-shrinking, ten-fingers-waving-in-your-face thief of the movie. He steals The Fighter.

My stuff now in the sneaky previoo.

Shit. Ahem.

Teaching can’t be taught.

Poem on Super-8. Another mild one, one and all. Let me pull an invisible to the eye hair off your blouse to increase the speed of our nation’s speech.

When a bitch writes she finds her living. She’s a social creature. Capable of complex communication. Traveling in large groups or schools.

I’m most terribly sorry my absurd politics scores you the mother of vinegar.

I’m a funky ass focused on the bourgeois, breastfeeding, research. Well, 2 out of 3.

I hardly know you. And will never know you. I’ll give you a call.

Terrance Hayes is a nice enough spokesman for poetry as normal mild-mannered activity. His verse is in fact mildly appealing, garnering the National Book Award, with pieces published by The New Yorker, Ploughshares, Fence, a mainstream fellow through and through. In his interview on CNN Hayes holds back on any ratio or relevance to poetry vis a vis politics, much less the influences of modern political discourse and strategy on poetics. Hayes acquiesces to his interviewers’ boilerplate that poets speak only to other poets, while politicians lack the gift of poetry. Of course, since the Parker Spitzer program is primetime cable news, the interviewers aren’t interested in poets, only in Hayes’s assessment of politicians as ersatz bards.

This is a huge topic, eh? Let’s throw down a couple of propositions to work on later. If we start with rhetoric and invention, political strategists are at the top of the poetry game. There you go again. Tax and spend. Death panels. Toxic metaphors infuse ideology and organize perception. Political samples predict behavior.

Like mild poetry, poll-taking is largely implemented rhetorical solutions.

After editing, reediting, last minute adding names, changing our introduction, widening the circle as due dates slipped past and gnats flung themselves...closer. Poet: you live within politics and practice warfare to engage another’s psyche. You are the last person I thought would do this to me.

Bafflement is tentative, one mountain clinic after another. Though wigless following its bliss. All of the above, and herding cocktails we sleep with a relationship. Rough seas and heck, you've been in this game long enough, you know how superstitious vampires get.

We leverage the social graph to miss you. How long have you planted thoughts without a gender balance? Maybe it was a mistake, collaborating on the spinal, the oatmeal on the ground...

Like all of the above and people going in and out of buildings, climbing stairs, you’re one hundred percent normal running up debt to keep devotees heartbroken.

A rubber duck’s victims assume a moral duty. If you’re not buying it, take a look.

Though there is irony to my lecturing a square insult comic dissolving in wind sheer, freed into puddles of nudist delusion that swell and swell

            hi and lo

the young bodies keep moving, the elders seem alienating...

clouds part and the aerodrome rushes toward litmus introspection, snug, sotted with the urge to fit nothing in.

            Slapdash.

That’s how it works.

See this pigeon? It’s a true albino. Incandescent.
I was thinking it’s hard to get foreign sports equipment
or the meaning of structure, a table for the counters
along with the varmints in the shortness of thought
that indexes suspicion and objurgating.

I’m happiest procrastinating. When stairwells mesh to go nowhere
            majorly
between you and expulsion, the hole is closed. Turn here,
there’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, knitting your own perks.

Woke up to 'blog is deleted' message from blogger today. Discovered you need an 8-character or longer password to gain access to your google account. Fair warning, I recommend changing your password if it has fewer than eight characters.

In Del’s preview, aka sneaky previoo, two experts, so far, apply the word “moraine.” Both women, no surprise.

Metadata are available. And though there is nothing in these that is difficult to value, notice the area marked “mountaineering” deploys words that were originally compiled using an interpolated resolution and, more, there are no concepts to get run over by, secondly, no back to death of art's behind theories that may have been treated as if they were integral to the original notation to confuse you. The dataset, of course, has no intellectual pretensions, yet women continue listening to both sides of it. Love under these conditions is purely expression in which the writer (I was going to write wirer) broke his ankle getting to it — if he did break his ankle (and if male, not footless) — along with the mixed feelings of the author who could be some distinctly other entity than the writer (or wirer) based on my defined instrument and set approach — the “my” referring to me, the person showing here one kind of instrument and setting a course to you now. If I take another step (there is a gap in the data here).

Differences associated with biological sex should not be construed as genetic sleep. Love is all about communication. Altitude to altitude. A love dataset appreciates and values you as the parcel on the mountain it celebrates the triumph of, a tearful alchemy of lore descending amidst the conventional pitfalls and thus calamities — not that there are such today, our calculating the routes we could take, saving the date, knowing the weather; feeling refreshed can be avoided or otherwise subsumed into the data which have so few lines, and fewer words, and so fewer arrondisements than the downfall tree has forks in its path to count now. Each line (you could say every word) and all syllables perform as in one spin of the ‘compass’ between the two (of X), both a physical point and a point in time when the two evolve as if into one, and when you think about it, it was right somehow, and symbolic. Technically, I agree, oh yes! Historically, no! there is no good because I’m with you, love. Below a hundred thousand feet or more from here, readers would each lose us in a pathless scrubland interpreting the data in any manner and derive the same message (sorry, there’s another gap).

This set, like all good slices of the avail, tells a story but what does that mean? It finds self-mastery even in those spiteful moments — was it something to do with me? I don’t think so, you see, women like small cities on the West Coast focus on only one side and block out the other, even though, apparently, it’s instinctive to develop both. Do you admire a life that the other shares with you? This question represents the hope for a surrogate that will not turn her back on what a para-glider would undermine, that does not think it’s better for her than with someone who screams back, “no, it was something to do with me!” that is committed to a foundation in pop culture, like hedge climbing, shouting “I have no dogma!” Fair enough but it follows there is absolutely nothing fashionable in not. So it says I may as well switch back to what it says.

Coda

I remember Dad with his tenets
looking up at the sun feeling talkative.

“You know what gets my flashbulbs hot?
Some famous name negligees!”

A branch can be a sentence. There is urgency in ideas.
I live in a debt growing country. Of how

the version-2 pressure is scents diffusing
the air has the outer sky above.

During the break we reached an agreement. Big
thick crazy quilts the sun buildings

marshaled over property wings,
the bubble places the blue “Great but I’ll just hold...” matter

a level over. Is the ‘new black’ of terraforming
not enough? — suggesting I send you some?

I put my finger on: Not really, she said out
ahead how I was supposed to know.

I’m addicted to carob.
This was the first time.

Coda

I’m always wrong
to prolong my appeal.

It’s a great country, just don’t get sick. Where
else can ballplayers call their mom Ai?

I have nothing to wear while breakneck tempos bed-hop through streets that lead to the slopes. Translation is a ski accident in waiting. An a-frame is supposed to be up next. The Norway spruce. Was that you?

I have nothing to wear tonight. Your nose looks finished beneath the stopper. A smell of Black Ops to see the look on all the faces and allay boredom. Not ours, theirs, along with ages of apprehension arrayed in dance movements. Unshiny, imperfect, not held in place — nothing you know is like these long phials of sulfuric fern. Fougères, the Germans say. (The name cards are all the same.) “We’re watched out for like a celebration over adding the bill up. We’re surprised you took us here.”

Hold to the truth behind your lie. That’s a paraphrase of the CIA mindset unraveled in Doug Liman’s Fair Game, based on Valerie Plame Wilson's memoir, Fair Game: My Life as a Spy, My Betrayal by the White House, an allegory for our hyperexcited, distracted time when politics is a plastic art. Reorder events. Impugn motives. Leave something out. Practically speaking, who has the luxury of judgment? Bad behavior is taken in as, well, getting by. Or getting over. Getting retribution. And what is the harm? No one but the target cares and fact is no one will care for long. Even the targeted need to move on to get by. These are the pragmatics of a Pewter Age (several removes from silver or gold). The behavior in question is that of the George W. Bush administration outing Valerie Plame, a covert CIA officer. Exposing Plame was a treasonous offense undertaken nonetheless to revenge and silence her husband, former ambassador Joe Wilson. Wilson was targeted as an authoritative critic of the cooked intelligence on Saddam Hussein’s atomic weapons program, findings used to justify war with Iraq. The first half of Fair Game pounds the drums prior to the bombing of Baghdad, fast-forwarding an emotionally hooded Naomi Watts as Plame, wife, mother, and globe-trotting Agency manager in counter-proliferation, 2002 and 2003. After husband Sean Penn’s public outbursts, however, Watts is left running-in-place toward midcareer annihilation. The film’s second half follows the marriage more closely as it starts to fall apart. The passions externalized are the hard to see kind, ethical chiaroscuro, hesitations cum paranoia that give over to Watts’s rationalizations when facing Penn’s us-v.-them hysterics, two heads banging against one another, for sure, locked in mutual self-doubt and professional destruction orchestrated by all-out enemies. The battle line against a more resourceful adversary is whether to give in, move on — a position idealist Penn by nature recoils from and one Watts comes to oppose as well. Beyond the Wilsons’ dilemmas, the film fills in a narrative about how Plame’s outing compromised Iraqi nuclear scientists the US was pledged to rescue, a significant geopolitical aftereffect to Bush operatives’ treason. Before the White House turned up the heat, while Penn’s character presides over a nearly empty lecture hall, his anti-war conviction looks and feels narcissistic, small, ineffectual. But the formulation to the allegory goes like this, the government lied to wage war; this is the truth behind the multiple revisions, re-interpretations, and cherry-picked findings that gave license to killing and engendering more lies. The object when it comes to doing no harm, perhaps for another time, is to hold to the truth. Period.

[After a button is pushed]

After a button is pushed a model young theorist says hello, how are you, then reverses course. She heads upstairs to an installation in perfect solitude, surging toward marines with bats and poleaxes.

No, she didn’t. She’s indelible. Her eyeballs are all they need, not what they are. It’s a classic, botched, knife-in-the-back suicide. No, she didn’t.

What will they spell for lunch today? slender objective on a square obstacle? To follow instructions, slippers are warmed like leftovers; a rouged dog from the next room repairs to its separate bungalow.

The commissary is down in the sub-chambers, aimlessly glistening. I’m often holed up on the second level with the flamethrowers. There are major issues to have still (meaning my whole life). Before reaching a Kung-Fu high water, everything remains in hierarchical Finland that has worked through the general population.

A kimono has been entered, explaining sex without thinking, tongue in cheek.

A fragrance is found shaking our heads, wiping our brows.

The same stairs float, for good, if they could.

AFC picked up on this immediately almost two weeks ago, and I'm only getting to "Penetration" belatedly. It's off, ugly, racist, strategically off.

[After class]

After class Judith and me went back to bed and played it safe, collaborating on the manga hentai porno. I unbuttoned my supplies and pulled the first-day ‘turtle’ out and began to think of golf, wondering if I had enough saliva to give it even one full coat.

Later we went to the movies. I was wearing the shorter spring outfit again. I got it down to 56cms. Judith and me spent some time. We stayed in a nice hotel. I got dressed in my looser corset in the morning, stockings and heels, part of my mind still refusing to believe I was doing this. I woke up a bit grumpy from the death metal the night before. A breakfast at Starbucks and we were off, wandering downtown. But what makes someone ‘play golf’? What makes another man pour a sidecar somewhere ... the airport where we slept ’til around 4:30, brushed our teeth and headed to the other airport. Problem being, we were playing golf later that day and had blue jeans on.

Half an hour later all these painful moments were over, we realized: I cleaned up, got off and Judith and me left for the bus terminal (by the way, I got up as usual, exercised, waved to everybody and got dressed). Later we went to the seminar, made love, and then ate lunch. After lunch we got in the air, the pilot made great time and we landed, chopped and awed.

When we got home we were relieved. Afterwards we arrived at the links, got off the bus, then Judith and me got up, did the usual routine: bathroom, brush teeth, dressed and then slowly, very deliberately chewed off each other’s clothes. There were eight balls of steam, suspended in bacteria from our four hands that were Idylls-of-the-King clean. I was standing vertical. I was amazed that my insides didn’t fall out through the cargo-lock, knowing the air vortex, the balls, the game, and probably the season were lost.

[After syrup]

Pancakes hollow syrup;
these events seem headstrong,
immersed watching the light,
I know you. So we forget
Paul Broadnax and sidemen.

I know the down
Rx in the mouth,
the pro cloud podiatry
infantilized by a ‘yell’
banquette OK, OK:
OK.

[Après un héros]

Postulant qzJedx 18h66

Sur la ressemblance des films crissement plus loin une
vdFexq 02h60

Voyou, le 23 décembre, 0910

Jimmie voit char, Dérailler Fenton & Jennings Olives

Déclarateur 51, Laboureur Coincait la douceur échelle de l'État

Camps. Dupont Julio.

Je savais edifices le feraient fortement. Cuisses gazouillants.

«Il est assimilée
à marin ».

[After a Hero]

Postulating qzJedx 06:66 PM

On screeching movies likeness a farthest
vdFexq 2:60 AM

Thug, Dec 23, 0910

Jimmie beholds char, Derail Fenton & Jennings Olives

Declarator 51, Plower Jammed meekness Statewide

Camps. Dupont Julio.

I knew edifices’d sharply. Thighs warbling.

“It’s equated
to marin.”

[After a Precursor]

I left you off unleashed in time, leaving you at the blurb
on your extrication from hallucinatory landscape. You’re
still in danger within all the same networked venues,

the ones a macro-obscurantist spots: How do bricks
hang through the duration? (How is the easy-hard part.)
Rules write themselves for freshwater miners gone bats,

withered inside like canaries, asphyxiated or drowned
in bubbles from the water table. (Like my brothers
before, I got to now, personifying the meme in headset.)

In the past dead birds whitmanized the wayside, no-
thing on air. Nothing theoreticians blue-noted, jostling

deuterium. In Saigon or Youngstown, a new beginning,
a generic object looks transparent, emerging as Sleeping
Albert convening the frost belt. Buff leash unchanged.

Take an interest in opulence & stratagems bequeathing us our
sherbets, pot, oomphy fireside & mandatory inflows of feel-

ing great! Those brands are awesome denouncing oops, they’re
metering the troops to search counterfeiters & dig into bins.

Little wonder a spa goer’s Geigy final sectors look down
to harden corks up in the penthouse. A therapy

taken to far corners calculated in urban planning above
a new bowling alley, now vacant, scattered forever.

First I wore quadratic conditions in my smasher
area, spoke an argot cuttingly woodland. Marxian

yet morphine-ghosted by Thanksgiving's
bobwhites in the Appalachia hush... off

to getaways & then — second — a boutique
of collared, greening hospitality where Hellenic

banter might calm Kant’s havoc. Third, I’m spli-
ced as on a magnum while service precincts

rig sawtooth nakedness mauling the stubble
headland askew sundry wharves... so

doing sex here with a hen of steam, verdicts
are trifles beyond Krishna's preproduction

pouring kerosene to kindle tomography
for having brooked the Toscanini kind.

You never achieve status as a full pariah
even as Starsky and Amida exquisitely
handcraft cheesy retributions —
losers = worshippers of their detractors;

pathos = desperately seeking npo tax credits;
appropriating mauves; outsourced research;
hapless (though deceitful) green-face coloration;
dedication to ex-intimates. All these

personnel will have to be shifted or fired
but come to work anyway, achieving a seeming
bliss of the non-willed state, enlightened
ambiance like an argument lacking design

squeezed onto a breezeway, goat-gotten,
fighting among effluvia to endure.

There was a tongue in his ear driving noise
Into history of men in a line of duty. Glad
he's a fan. It's quantified.
The four-man cabin five flights down.

Opacity's a colossal how. How
do you pay for it? How is an epic life
colorless, sparkling yet dissected
as reflections of one’s self or angst

Slumped over in gaffes, so many
without pulse, how did he stand tall, pause
and brush his hair? Brush it back, men
like him looking up like flight risks say

“Exactly,” and in that miracle voice?
How do jobbed hoards of ass and clips
of soothing breath reach to enchain, knife
and subdue? How do you encounter

A faint breeze on zoom as you slip
his phone in your pocket — How against
your best effort is everything
on drugs as you go through the mail? How?

This is a quiet pace except for the plastic
containers hanging along the ship’s bow
and top sails maximized along the side.
24 hours we’ve had.

I polished the text and handed it in.

We used photographs for subject matter, like this of a garland arch by the abandoned tracks along the shuttered residences, with hetero gag men and a made woman, a vulcanized ambassadress to the gag foreground. We coax them to come across, waiting for all the trains.

Mahlerless, I find someone else, a thinly veiled version of me. The flow is persimmons even now. The mounting look and what we did are odd quirks and turns, a block party, informatics about neuroenhancers — a charitable sort, a higher up interested in robots, goes blind. Agoraphobia sets in, it’s less friendly with proliferating mordancy inflating while you inhale.

To keep up we don’t find a compromise. Vote often.

from August 5, 2009:

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

Part of the world works backwards facing the street, passing it... A science fiction flushed hollow, looking on outside it and still walking through adhering neatly to nothing, just passing, but also taking root ornamenting impurities of state.

Who are these? Staving muleta and the thatched kinfolk? ÷ Don't hold it in. Talk to your doctor.

As noted, there’re recipes for disaster. For subatomic beings, fluctuations are well understood. The carport is perched high above them, but how was I supposed to know? I put my finger there — this was the first time — “Great. I’ll just hold your lips. Down.” It was maybe a couple of weeks later I cried, “I feel like burning myself.” She poked at the remaining bubbles, not really, she said.

A thousand years ago this town was gored basalt, minerals seeped through phlox and salt marsh, more like plump meadowlands then. I wanted to suit the farmer or the farmhand along the shore, tossing his head as he stamped with one foot on the sand before he broke his baby toe, stubbing it. Next, on placemats of woven straw, eating salad, we both look up at a string of eucalyptus pods dangled from the rearview to discourage homesickness.

Everything belongs. The rest is stress related or foolishly unhinged.

There's no way now to prevent the zoo making a mistake blanketed by cloud and pointed in teary winds toward a scrim and drum rolls. A veil of ignorance rises to mete out democracy; its flatulence becomes my Ipad for which blues like ether in heaps of organization overlap consensus.

About those outbreaks of more virulent parsimonies, the depression on XM has a single coordinate everywhere, for the squirm of it, the advent, set alone.

Tomorrow, an awful catalyst takes on today. I feel a little ointment-ed by the unimaginable vengeance. Those who argue lose their hands.

I’m holding a transcript from an undistinguished gray keeper at the front.

Hi. It started again. You and they must have a connection to the same zip code where there’s this lights-out factory, an eyesore we dreamed up. There’s no agency inside, no intervention, only computers multiplying in dark, reduced to making more inventory, keeping the faith mining the richest veins, designing stalwart codes and disruptive innovation. Some assembly required from dawn to midday, they think: so many in-folding explosive arcs of competing constructs they flare up into an aqueous shimmer. Moving sands and your occipital lobe and its bandage, perhaps, constitute the Non-Group taking part in the phony ritual to outlast time. Yours and mine. There’s a flywheel effect, also, that turns the conversation over to science and greed, and the prototypes that mess up the visual cortex with paste-ins and the luxury goods that bind, ushering in an anti-life of grueling but quickened radiance they co-broke for enduring benefits.

Back to you.

It's been 35 years, and it's still news.

Like any yeoman of the cloth I write captions in robot clauses to overshare. And I negotiate cash for rapprochement. My views are not incompatible with yours, only I’m leisure-loving.

There has to be someone in charge.

(Hold on, I was conspicuously money-mad before I was handed this bag of sentences.)

Next, I was whisked in a hybrid to Boise State where there’s real culpability along with stardust and missiles to control. I made myself think... I let myself think... (It’s a coin flip.) Stagy dogs can be avoided while my Hail Mary rises higher.

Besides, to retrieve class struggle is no one’s baguette.

Porter, over here.

I mix shy and rabbity and squeak in biblical French. It’s just plain meaner.

There are a hundred butterflies in perilous art. What’s wrong with watching one or two spin like happy mediums, go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?

One can feel this mortal acquisition drinking hot coffee from a can and sticking to its roots’ metallic gleam, seething too, proportionate to the open space. The smoke gets shiny and you’re mortified with ozone.

The whole firebox is aglow. The yellow wallpaper is engaging.

The collapse of saying it better is.. no, it’s a folding cliché. My aim has changed. Sap is flowing to ruin parody.

What’s Lassie? Trash-rich.

I liked the primary grades more than my parents. In pilates, something waved breathing up. Blood and my arms apace.

For my doctoral research I followed bliss, the top two percent delusion that swells and swells. Despite the cameras, I prefer free, motorized speech voided and in divers dangers.

And I’m still here, the body’s purring put aside. (One dissipated the other.) But one continues to review the lab egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to wipe out ex-traitors and to outpace the apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).

No. Government is not that difficult. The background is a colorful PROCESS shot. Lethal-to-pale fellows lockstep for the scent of Labrador tea. And the gyrostats escape!

Are you sitting in the apparatus while listening there? wearing nothing but a motive for eagerness to do what we were afraid to be?

We DOLLY into a MEDIUM soft shapeless mass containing lurid subject matter. No, forget it, that's too risky. Not quite time.

Scary Movie was a date movie. A private-public bond like Klee and Ibsen.

“My regrets.” Switching phones, I look up to the crazy guy waiting to take me somewhere. Thinking is enormous but I practice until the call had gone out.

I’m sick of nice things.

Not running, walking rapidly, I cross the hall with the heat transfer ....

...come out the complex, take the campus walk ....

...go through a dedicated lot ....

...and into the Q7 in one STEADICAM SHOT.

I manufacture algorithmic spoons, tugboats and flyweights. I’m drunk on history, empathy, bounce.

Protection broken up by the security lamellas where a company like ours takes it inside the parturifacient facility.

I challenge myself every day. It’s what shakers do for a lifetime.

Now it’s daybreak — a few figures unclasp white headbands.

White on seraphic white.

Two more guys loiter with intent in the doorways. Both smile, but neither laugh. They’re wearing bluetooth up to their shoulders with panoptic properties extending their blood-pull orbit toward all rustles and rustlers.

Here comes my companion with his successor, an upgrade that’s on time.

Before I turn into another parabola of yours, you, I should take myself down and stay far away, crabbed and hesitant to set off the motion detector, about to fail. There were subtle indications you just want to cry, and it's not a bad smell, just sad or a slight lifting in the dimness when I wake up. Anyway, it all goes well. You and I will be taking off, though. One by one, I suppose. Reasons are weather related, the paleness this morning and a similar wash of fog coming back, lilac-dark in the air and offshore atmospheres yesterday and the day before. The winds exchanged directions, and I barely pertain, and why should I? What I have in mind is low on your list, even lower than that, off the list. It's contradictory to insist I’ve won in a runoff of longing and gratitude. Your taking time to sift through any, even the slightest, part of what I think is the spoils of coincident poses. I cherish your placing a tag on mine, yet I have said nothing, foundering and tongue-tied, handing our fortune over to the first letter of the alphabet where we live. You want back in, me too. It’s my off-centeredness alone that excuses your granting me permission to maintain a safe distance. I'll let you go then. I was hoping you would rhyme over me.

Leave the top 2 buttons undone. Fate
shouldn’t adapt what’s spindly or bang
it home. There’s something else, that’s
a distasteful impression of Mel Gibson
in red shoes. (Jewelry is difficult for
men.) A sick mind resists emotion solving
puzzles. Are you going to put that there?

Baby pickerel eat each other speaking
Japanese. Their parents want to defend
them but can’t. (They’re peach & violet.
There’s a richness to dealing thought-
fully.) I get all my ideas from social
studies, yet theatrical brainstorming
is more easy-to-sleep-w/-&-pulsate.

Instincts are mostly buried under cement, sunk talking to each other, eh? They were hard to get out of the wrinkled valise (I removed the tongue).

You know you look really psychic behind the wheel of a Malibu. Something better wants to start the engine (cherry red). Something to stop the snowman mid-grin.

It dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for consensus over these flamenco partitions (nurture, nature, frantic relaxation). I can’t say I laid you willingly. My data field comes up with blood vessels homogenized, preferring the woodpile to indoors duality, the big man.

There’s a container for every passion.
Mmmmmmmm immersive trance box, on loud
so the ambient workspace can hear it,
feel it in stages striking after dark.

You need smarter drywall too, to excite
ferns and moss growing inside every-
thing about the yield, blowing in news
of perpetual unitary joy...

Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off
economy could be floatable within, once
regarded in wholeness, its contours
beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough

though meaner beyond its whereabouts,
I guess us.

“Dear Hightop,”

It saddens one to inform the boss

she’s not serious, never is. She makes

comparisons during sex and makes

love checking in — whilst I live
off the equity of a third faculty
where the future holds, the one promised
Hermes that took him over the edge.

The edge plus.

Odysseus shows up, impacted. He belongs
again.

So there’s a kettle of urgency after all,
just as there’s a force of light: bad-ass DNA
and much bigger stuff. The of of infinite
interest in feeling a kill.

Let’s run some #’s.

My capital is now redefined. I have a poem
in the money issue, since I’m into gambling
connections and catering to my client.

My client, plus I’m environmentally drunk.

I work as a temp, placing a put
on the periodic table, petite in stilettos.

Hit counts on the internet are the buzz, key metric of social capital and commercial potential. The web is our era's process field for integral, recursive, exponential spectacle through and through, something Mark Zukerberg understood, from the get-go, and put into phenomenal practice as recently as only six years ago when he co-founded Facebook. Among the pleasures in The Social Network, the film about the birthing of Facebook, released last week, is that we observe some of these busy-cool processes as they get sparked; we eavesdrop on contexts and physical instruments of visual analytics as they unfold in collective enterprise to generate maximal hits, not only the coding but, as Hollywood insists, the coke, the shared genius and group pathos of collaborative content-invention and -consumption. It’s an early 21st century comic morality play about Ivy League competition and joy (in double quotation marks): young, bright elitists integrating themselves within the speculative economy, the rich, in other words, getting much richer. Twenty-five billion is a round figure in dollars; that’s the current estimate of Zukerberg’s fortune. And while Jesse Eisenberg’s Zukerberg is a dick and a sad hollow man, the further into the film we go, the more we empathize with his reticence and business acumen, the lighter and nicer the guy seems packing all that joy and money. Justin Timberlake, not quite young anymore, looks the part of the heavy character, slightly less-than-Harvard material, Sean Parker, Bay Area entrepreneur (he founded Napster) who worms himself into the Facebook inner circle through his connections with venture capitalists, but who also drops out in disgrace because of his druggy habits. The film's starboy would be Andrew Garfield, shot repeatedly in glamor-implied profile, playing Eduardo Saverin, Zukerberg’s closest mate at Harvard, co-founder of Facebook, the old pal aggressively pushed out by the communal force of outside investors and Parker and, impassively, by Zukerberg. Women factor in The Social Network as nicely-coiffed accessories. The film kicks off with Rooney Mara playing BU undergrad Erica Albright itemizing Harvard sophomore Zukerberg’s social deficiencies. That’s fresh until Zukerberg shuts her down by voicing disbelief in Albright's need to study since she goes to BU. We don’t see much of Albright after that. Brenda Song plays Saverin’s troublesome girlfriend Christy Lee who seems almost fabulous when she sets fire to a scarf Saverin has just given her. But poof, the fire goes out and Lee disappears. The film comes to an abrupt conclusion at a point when Facebook is piling up big bucks. Before the closing credits we read that everyone who mattered wins, lawsuits resolved, money disbursed. We leave Zukerberg nearly the way we found him, alone with his exploding social network. Nevertheless, we can’t help but admire what he’s packing.

Conditions look drugged — wanting you (I do),
not out of calculation, began how far and vast
connivance liberates you to oppose the other facts.

Or plans change. Pandering to take a guess, I might
replace similes and what’s in a line or two,
dash off some bull to lose my footing (clop
blips) on the oily tarp, perplexed, taking it outside
a Rubik of a different, denatured octagonal gloom.

To outtake a thing is ample. The thing that’s crap
scrunching it up is everything for breakfast.

The pond plays Schubert for a boucle, searing,
puffy, relaxed, and succinct. Like our compact.

The sun is gray. Divided and confused, I
signed up for a summer of love. The pills are
sweet, their force takes me out of bounds,
it’s interludes on the double.

The system is not perfect. It’s an everybody
movement with that living unlocked smell.
I set the controls; the active ingredients are
not now, don’t. First thing in the morning.

Noonish. I have a profane vocabulary,
a little nervous forced into the secondary
but I’m ecstatic I’m 29. I’ve been blocking
myself but now it’s over. I’m directional.

My head weighs 10 pounds.
Hold my earrings.

I can write you, “Radiance comes in bushels, refreshed
from extract.” (It’s nighttime. We’ll check out what held
you with the other heptads.) “In each house a new name
burned,” a protracted surfeit for thought before the past
it got shiny on, after a polygamist’s tocsin teaches him
to move out & not come back depleted, tangled,
discontinuous imprint of the din implement; & over
we are, now were we don’t know or I don’t; I can’t fold
gives the idea, anything that’s made had waved
to them, protecting us like anything, a prologue or
in physical pain of taking them onboard, putting them
in mind of us affiliates, at last.

I’m a fan. I could write them.

Michael Gizzi, R.I.P.

Time runs out, taxonomies still
unexplained as it permits.

I’m always in trouble. Ours starts small,
small press univ. erratically lettered then
again in weathered deco, a bony font
for obfuscation dimmed by the lackey
overflow. I stayed in position, authentic;

I loved your altitude and your facts, but
we feared anti-humanists and divas if
what w/ whatnot and covert specialties
tightly wound at the nation’s tip, a tic;
I also squandered theories and forgot
I just stood there with nothing to give
back. This is where I came from, only
you’re right, money isn’t equal
to an opposite reaction. This is when

the rich kids in jackets stand up
without overextending triumph
over the stick image... the varmints!

Sex is peroration. Old English is dying.
Did you bring the good shit? We can see the signs.
Burning talent. Lonely or not, soft
as language, the new rote is bowed to nodules.

This emphasis is officially the lush,
appointed blur. You don’t say hello? Ellipses add up.

That leaves too little for a stop.
We face 10-to-life, a thicket of cloud and wind taking
it everywhere,
the next step in their training.

I’m bad at knowing when.
A younger lover is vital, not recreational.
We're addicted to sculpture, nothing else
drives us. Here’s an apple

for the teacher. (Everybody
does it.) It’s a straightforward proposal:

These are not drawings, only a few,
they’re cartoons and vice versa.
Another puzzle, more or less, a plan
without plot is banter and luscious slurs.

No response is cool. It’s the payoff, a
round that never was and never knew
the flea was left behind,
the vampires are all in.

“I promise we won’t bean you with a bag of nickels.” Waiter,
there’s a figment in my soup. The quartet’s on a mission; higher
     up, the soup’s part doodle/part association we can void
as a hoist to operate microspores by hand,
stacking thought like fluorescent tubes that meet
     over magnets. Tubes lit & disentanglements

     mean what is not said to pillory hindsight,
& saying what is not meant targeted to rubbernecks
     seen I guess as ambiguous in pastels —
their paternalism indulged through wisecracks, piano & voice,
                                   mercury
selenide drenched in saliva chug-chugged, crossing heights
not yet surrounded by shiny wax paper: Prayer in all directions.

Smile. Shall we? This zephyr & the tweezer-length trapezoid
               power the incriminated city, warm & cold &
no further down the dun hill operating with frinking genomes,
lattices, an industrial park at the corner sheeted in quick fire,
milled cement, plywood & dust, their buoyancy wiped away.

Private ideas, still hidden, gone native, & of fine voice.
               “A voice & nothing more.”

I write in my nature/head. Let’s hold a séance! Joy,
I snare us into the Dali-esque givens to starve a fever.
Seven rooms (usually) with clay-toned physiques
fighting the relative fight to operate on one another

— everybody under anesthetics, lunar waxing again
credited to chimera in a labyrinth. A foot of snow
From the window, the surf is luminous, rotating in
reverse as if mercurial marshes return, knowing

how to purify their offspring & manage forever
as lurches of nibbling torque adjust day into weeks
smothered w/ the sphinx, then weeks into clay/Joy
says we’re home free quanta taxiing in the brain.

A chestnut vendor stands holding out to her
his coat with the fired bullet in it, effluvia.

My position is reincarnation roughs it, because it’s safe to lounge at home without saying oh, wait we did this already.

Home is a test pattern where the class marshal escapes, holding on for a protracted nest egg, dropping cupcakes.

You may have noticed I’m on the side of gonzo, zest and the construction of meaning, and one very long eyebrow (wingspan), fuzzy and continuous with the present like last summer that had no purpose, just sheer falsetto.

This is a fugue for repackaged oomph.

I’m spry in my motives, and underhanded getting back to catch the slapdash that comes to mind. I long for something manipulated, whipsawed and less specific and this is how it works.

There’s a method to share. Society is like building blocks. When we make out I see cubism and social media touched or felt. It’s overrated, I whisper to myself, falling for the ingredients.

An illusive healing (the method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow) and aspected by hedges, almost.

To go on we shoot back and shift subjects in compliance with bets we play by... bluegrass conflicting with breakfast and rubbery clouds, the proverbial irony.

We like to gamble, and like crustaceans we give in to forgetfulness, nothing to mend. Blinds drawn, the resultant streets fill with sang-froid and riches. The prospect ices.

All the lapses are angly in winter, no lie.

September has a preferred representational system. Floating too close, roofs blanketed in bathing suits and flyleaves, the waterfall declares amnesty.

September is being looked into. It just feels terrible.

One thing is its performance yesterday and the morning before that. After you wash off, you understand when to pause and leave it there in the reeds. You smell a rat. Its sensory predicates are pointless but you really care.

You’re not alone. There were some deleted utterances in the surface structure. The wind from the south is rambunctious.

What it represents may be playing tricks on us. You wake up and you’re vapid.

You want in? Try some eye accessing cues with your interlocutor looking to undress. A mindset carves out the rafters. What was seen trapped at the top? A noun for emphasis could be imagined. There’s a method to share.

Let’s go through the stream.

This is a Christian nation. You take the wheel. My name is Wink, officer. My sentences shimmer. While writing I caught up with mapping procedures for talking shit, hating it. I deserve this Hyundai.

You must have a sore throat, tea drinker.

We’re two faithless figures making a pass at the cosmos, and the next. Exploring integuments I reached what everyone’s looking for, uttering something in 3-D about form cum something cloud nine.

I hand it to you, there’s a badge flashed in mining spiritual homilies and off-color whackola for the evening drive.

The new persuasion rules with censors, erect. Centaurs, correct?

I can park you anywhere!

Gavel to gavel hours and hours turning the page. What we say converts to glass, personality and stunt making.

What we have to say is public discourse W. B. Yeats called the bestial floor.

Please, have your way, your fleet of stars, your options. Have your composite bracelets.

(This far from his breathing, is it safe to mention Yeats?) (Maybe not.)

Some of us are too polite to save the day. But not all of us will friend you now or any time.

It’s natural, all part of the wilderness.

The wilds...

As a news hound myself I appreciate Ron Silliman’s interest in memeticist Susan Blackmore’s TED video lecture as well as her Times blog entry, “The Third Replicator” and her response to critics. Like a lot of other PhDs who venture into sweeping pop generalities, Blackmore is a meta-Malthusian compiling a topical lexicon and broad reductions in philosophy of science (indeed these are the trend-grabbing stuff of memes from the media-academy) to sound quasi-alarms. For her, cultural activity is subject to informational analysis; it’s made of two things — memes, the second iteration of the ‘evolutionary algorithm’ and, more recently, of technology or techno-memes or what she calls ‘temes’ as the third iteration.

Genes are of course the first iteration of the algorithm whose mechanics require three elements, a) variation, b) selection, and, lastly, c) heredity or what Blackmore calls variously and slipperily: copying, imitating, replicating. Blackmore’s altered terms for heredity apply to her argument that begins borrowing (imitating) The Selfish Gene author Robert Dawkins and his formulation for meme = “that which is imitated.” The meme is illustrated by Blackmore in looser, nondistinctive instantiations = “songs, stories, habits, skills, technologies, scientific theories, bogus medical treatments, financial systems, organizations — everything that makes up human culture.” Broader still, a meme is “information that is copied.” Culture in other words is copied information copied. This is a prosaic if not entirely logical leap in Blackmore’s system that ushers in a more hysterical lexicon: following further, literally and almost slavishly, Dawkins’s gene-centered (that is, selfish) view of evolution, Blackmore sees ‘selfish information’ = the info is ‘selfish’ because it unwittingly allows itself to get copied (in this regard, why is it not unselfish? or just ready info??). Or for more narrativity: ‘when we began imitating we let loose the new creature, the replicator’ that which is ‘Pandora-like’ and ‘dangerous’ because it can be copied (what are the alternatives to getting copied? being ignored? destroyed? don’t these alternatives pose dangers, as well??).

I characterize Blackmore’s argument as both tautological and histrionic in application. She first insists we “stick” to Dawkins’s meme as that which is imitated, and she then loses not a little of the insight to be gained distinguishing among copying, imitating and creating. For instance, Blackmore allows, “Once our ancestors could imitate they created lots of memes that competed to use their brains for their own propagation.” It is unclear whether the competition is about propagating humans or memes, but that’s not the chief difficulty here. To paraphrase Blackmore’s sentence using at her insistence Dawkins’s definition: once humans could imitate that which is imitated they imitated [created??] lots of that which is imitated that competed... etc.

In “The Third Replicator” she supposes technology will soon take over: “Just as human meme machines spread over the planet, using up its resources and altering its ecosystems to suit their own needs, so the new teme machines will do the same, only faster.” This sounds smart until you un-meme yourself from the huge collectivity of noxious assumption and fatalism implicit in her received vocabulary and commonplace bêtes noires — human machines v. real machines screwing with ecosystems and planetary resources, faster, faster.

If we are stuck with (if we stick to) Dawkins’s meme and Blackmore’s more ambiguous teme, we’ll need to figure out (is figuring all about and only about memes and temes??) much more regarding variation and selection procedures within the algorithm that also attaches to heredity, copying, imitating, figuring out, and so forth. Evolutionary debate and competing constructs of cognition are two courses of study. Blackmore has sided with neural Darwinism, physicalism, and adaptationist schemes. Other philosophical views may pertain in unpacking processes we black-box as creation and imitation, much less copying.

I went into analysis alert. The regulars
bear shame? Faces change when they use
my words; plus or minus you’re so close,
for a glance we’re all about to bail out,
why are we even arguing!

Came a stage regular is a bore, found
the exchange wears down wanting,
gorged, let’s all stand around,
crawl and cover some ground.

What’s your problem? There’s
a stranger to pull thru. Hold on. I’ll put
on greenish “pallor enhancer.”

Sunken gardens with a fountain at each
corner, the color of bone. Rationed
compliments appear w/ secret ballots
that float into mathematics of situation

(sons), foam under rush-formatted steam
disappearing like factions of perplexity,
contextual effects (procedures) — more
fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella —

Have you a next will? Travel well. There
is product on the loose. The cubicle’s
in your head. (When I can’t sleep I can’t
dream.) Side effects could occur.

I saw you on television.
I saw your name written on a wall.

Untold on both sides, a grisly
under-rendered as future photo realism
or whatever you have up your sleeve
please find a way to get me that info.

You have passed the second-cousin
stage of wretchedness. You’re good
to go on & take up any theory
to sever one head from the vines.

Further out the descriptors pine
faintly peeling like spiders’ pant
legs descending into moaning
nonentities (the Ralph Vaughn

Williamses), still squinting tho
Within representation.

Justice with passion. Chains of seltzer
formed of mercury selenide. I told you it’s a bad idea.
Faith or momentum, barefoot & blue-belled, outdoors
the tubas are detouring into surf & compact surfaces

— praise & the opposite grow acrostic, slightly rife
within hours. I grab my pen and clamber over to
your tree where you’re holding on to eclipse sound-
tracks w/ pulleys over notes of civet & benzoin.

I’ll take the sherry Pepsi, & the sardines, thanks.
I’m sorry this happened. I was pumping gas
& going to say we’re all for one in suspension
making a scene like in martial arts, sparkling pen-

umbrae as in a polygamist ring barnstorming through
the hemisphere, yeast on the verge of appliance.

Abhorring vacuum, a jet gate opens to a drawing room,
where snow and sunlight close their distance. They
never saw it coming, old and new strung out on sectionals,
an untapped atmosphere of oblique pup scents and puckish

flair. Someday all this will be yours. Five hundred blocks
that lean socialist running with snappy dialog, steeped in
a plaited glow turning billows of tweets and casual reading
and living chronologically to under-simulate the senses.

My fly is open. I look thus tired and I forget big words
that suggest under whose thumb. The pink rattle
is a stretch of dark matter, and the glove puppet’s a trap
while bitter wind angles down shifting one thing at a time

into the present. Right, an icon is produced by something
heated, promoting sea plankton. Only television counts.