Titles cost.

Again, I’m doing an accordion fold, an étude, a documentary-incarnation about officialdom in sensibility. The plot concerns a guy named Ethan who meets a younger guy named David with a vinyl sleeve up his tuchus. I’m just using this idea or this word as a springboard to bring my intentions to a mystical place within a rational theme of imprecise turmoil, everything recycled. As a new definition of the trickle-down we witness destruction of the blues pub and its improvised scaffolding, disintegrating like runic practices, flung out interiors silhouetted in acrylic behind a projection of glass as it screens the ‘official’ episode. However I believe that I’m past the middle and nearing the end of the cycle; now it’s late summer numbered with incidents. I’ll experience irony as homesickness without inebriation, long division, complex facticity that wounds tear open and heal slowly for some kind of urban equipment (equipment??) in the future, enduring pain and disappointment and failure, climbing uphill and sliding back down just before turning 17, biting down, gritting my teeth, growing up a little, suffering a little moving in with my parents because they like me... I just don’t worry: It’s my best work, a tight 100 pages so far of narrative casually parading as self-help boilerplate turning in polyphonic leitmotifs. It’s a cap-and-balance in Godzillian scale, reflecting what happens when melt re-ices, raising sea levels. Just hope I have the backbone. My greatest fear is going deeper into my inner trippy, conceptual junk — I’d be dragging a palm frond around at four a.m. That would kill my parents.

Your reading was beautiful, well pronounced. Perfect make-up. But boredom is poor experiment; that’s what we said to snap out of lightness, joy, the eyes-open dream. Knower and known are clean, osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we're way behind the public, our public. And I’m less affected by less meaning, un-giddy like you. The “ding dong” in “decay,” you said. I’m hoping something happens. Duly of course sounded, I cover my throat.

“It’s nice to be interrupted twice.”

Felatic.

Today's highlight from D.C.'s escorts: “You can change yourself into infinity, but still get the changes to the location from where you left...” That feels very clear, to me.

iconic breach

a charter culled

60 neurons to make a documentary

tow rim

nominalizingly scant

bud kin

xenomorph

Cy Twombly, R.I.P.

As you say, it's too late for a nervous breakdown. There are gaps we see now and through. Louis Pasteur enjoins the loyal center. The candy ass.

One in four children today lives in poverty. This is the highest rate of poverty among children in the U.S. since the great depression.

And.

It’s worth re-noting Obama and his financial team have never attempted to correct the handing over of a trillion dollars to subprime mortgage holders.

Note again: the cash went to holders of the debt, not people who had to pay it down. Unemployment among heads of households and subsequent foreclosures are the largest causes of forcing children into poverty.

Free advice for a poetics entrepreneur.

Follow the process. Tease near-misses out of what process could mean. Stipulate minutes and subroutines to withhold and then expose your meanings like hibiscus in beans without frontiers. Don’t talk with your mouth full. Process self-disrupts into phrases of process. Discuss the cut-off points where ideas can meet and turn into habits that muddle on, neither wifely caricatures nor whores. Talk about process components and the stiff, gnomic atmospheres to bring accoutrement to terms for process, and definitions of all this. Take care, and take your time, since to criticize another’s process is effrontery and off the mark, much like disapproving a pianist’s shoes. You can do this, feel free, but don’t expect to be asked back to her kitten-infested marathon. Likewise, avoid rejecting criticism, keep the smart bomb under wraps, knock the moment down with glances, nods, and inspire small talk while keeping everything under surveillance. You look great together!

I repeat, coming up next from a great new publisher, e-books that go under rewrite as you read them, that flip genres as they plug into you, that change your mind while you sleep.

Then.

To go off half-tuned as a resolution.

Mulberry scones.

Vicarious is not strong enough.

Affection is vicarious info. Inner and outer merge in our skulls, which can be broken down. Deep dish or alla breve? Equity or neurons? Talk, the walk, persons in the environment trudging so that creeks. The world we heat up is still-smokin’ yet a lost cause.

Connections we lose in reality are scarifying. Partnerships were constructs, first a little chilly, sometimes febrilly culled. When we struck our alliance back at the start, I thought, friend or foe? It’s no way to begin although our ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspirations became footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.

We’ve forgotten how to make things. It began with the airlines. Their only product is a service that dissolves midair. General practitioners stepped up but their work got converted to an industry with little or no honor system.

A product injector is the thing that looks most imprisoned these days. Its time has come but it too should stand aside (even though it’s wearing favored colors, lucent grays).

Like my peers who make their searches more social, I’m involved with a darker pool. We’ve slathered each other with near-imperatives for rationales that reformulate our fears of the excluded. So there’s nothing else? I can’t tell, because I wouldn’t know. Is taking on something without wanting it substance or junk?

Anthony Weiner got into libido trouble, and like Napoleon he slumbered through fulfillment, undressed to force a smile.

Beautiful red shoulder blades, his gainsaying oomph...

He returns to the leftist podium with his excrement wrapped in see-through plastic. Where does the political economy have him put it? “Sorry, not tonight...”

Just in time.

Downmarket tween = Poulenc.

I can’t be overdrawn, I still have some checks.

I lower your voice. Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?

I go by a few names down the road soaked in a Mars invasion.

Say I’ll be back. You never can tell. In a heartbeat I do yesterday over and pick someone else. Your movements are still uncoordinated but hidden by underwear.

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

Everyday nudity earned us subpoenas with 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 expanse of 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.

If you’re stagnant, you’re dead.

I forget remembering along with your interforce rondure ’cause I’m selfmade in spring and cairn-headed, unembowered by overnight moria. This lets counselor affidation “swish” forward and backward passing thru the 1st position of the sprout.

It’s written that was enough. O May!

Evil brings so much to the table. I remember when politics was a machine.

When the blood type was fresh no one got the blame. Visceral v. intellectual? Dopey red (Perseus) v. radiation (his mom).

A ballerina crosses Walnut St. Compare her silhouette to anyone’s who doesn’t dance. A politician acquires some form of correspondence to her, a verbal equivalence to her process repertoire.

Falsehood is an actuarial stat, one more subjective state, a quality, not an elevation or height.

In the dimension whatever it’s fame v. work that mouthpieces for ideas rolled into burbles and spools, pedestrians sweating lead colors.

Nero fiddles for the top one percent.

In the parallels between old Savannah and Wellfleet I would like to see or set up sometimes to be shown the dissolved thread to narrative, the needle and my as it were point.

I am one with the chain. That was all I felt. I left the door to the heck with higher travel personally ajar.

An idea dawns as I back into the slurry. The charge is to fail to remember the (mission) exchange = chat from my repressed side to save us from scrapping our early decisions.

Anyhow, a square shape bolted down the blips in a complex-repetitive topology for interpretation as valves ground to put me into effect.

Me first then the face of.

Let’s be fair, the partnership was an accident enjoining all boosters to nail a spirit of equity in the flux of japanned rows of platters of of.

(Face of: everything looking glazed or remedial past the exercise and expense within the detail.)

Yet I have no regrets the I-origin-point is classy-sociopathic. So what info intrudes feeding calls mystically within earshot? bringing irresolution to the climate, a stone rattle hidden like buttergrass in plain sight? End of story.

Triumph is creepy.

I remember the salad shooter.

[revised for Lisa] Who’s uncanny when our asses caress
news of the past or linger on apples / apples of hail?
Canny hoar it is, the divergence, the lack of divergence —
a blackjack of planes and volumes of ourselves
in the pure, polished hardness of gaming from which we
resign, in grace (3 cherries). To peachy, inflected fog.

Oldest life, oldest touch in the darkest casino
(someone’s quoting accounts), buckets of reds, other colors
to towns among red streets, carnival streets,
streets of wine in bottles, women and men in town
with the streets of seers in towns of air.
(That was the bloodstream whale watching.)

I win by surrendering my hand — fingerprints of a life —
humming to your touch making landfall, and I
toast anyone else holding the perfect suit in roshi
focus, carnival glass, red goblets letting the workday
slide away. Afterward, I leave home and wake up with a face
of a poet lost in my dream. Or a formula. Or lines.
I dream about poetry. Sometimes in poetry it’s like a business.
I could teach a course on sleeping practices, call it Meeting
Renovation Deadlines and get involved lying there
unhinging the sky. I win, I win.

Once you really had us and were all over us. You didn't have to what the hell? We told you we agreed a little but not a lot. I forget now what you sound like. I was choked up by your running out and backbiting sidle. The plotting, lackluster, the barge festival suspended — I hope you’re coming back for the slaver fertile?

It’s not likely there’s more about the future and of course less. And some things you need to follow up, us.

It’s so much to ennoble mandolin.

Iceland defaults yet its curlers remain plump and downy as a chorus evanescing into fluff. The lakes rise above affixes and gardenias. It’s here. Helium released — thrown in reverse in spring — trees light up again, everything’s on the table.

Fizzy notes soak up purviews to speak the lingo, haunting what hangs around to impeach samples from death. A wave beats my eyes off. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right, clinging to both. Structured improvisation takes volumes of time, only it’s pardon me, and still it comes back to bone substance. A sectarian I won’t forget Bolinas vibrates to memories, only now a decade earlier when I (am or) was looking ragged but in a studied, not irresponsible way, reading and taking dictation to wrap up my sleep. Like The Inferno and every shined thing since, I’m engineering the tide of speech desire.

These are extraordinary times. Where are we un, um? If that’s everything for now, we’ll switch to metonymy. Our slogan is bodies of work change the world until only a style prevails. The hand shadows what generations of fear rarely mine in slangy hypotheticals; love songs on the other hand never miss. Minutes after the work is filed, dozens stand eagerly in line for a free run of the company-owned orchard, ripe with teenagers and distress. “This is a very nice benefit,” a leisure pursuit like being shipwrecked and held for ransom. Those were the funniest jokes, the sexiest too. I don’t remember laughing so much. Ever. And I can’t recall being as excited as I am now.

Take-down décor really scares me. Take-down anything is magic enough but to specify a wipeout draping fiber nails it.

What’s next? I am a crescent metal, easy to pick up, feed and embrace after the climate changes.

My heart is breaking for almost any reason.

A sentence, this one, is a bad idea. An idea with particularity. A feeling for the bread before it rises stuffed with blood and socks.

Mick Jagger is blue in the face.

Paul Violi, R.I.P.

I have no name but my ass is all about listening. First Crusoe the boss and Friday, then Jessie, Natasha. A small party turning into the lost colony as the fete evanesces into a seminar on comparisons, fact-rechecks, back formations.

Twitch the kibosh at the door. Criticism “must take a wider horizon of use.” Our notes are fluffy with off-rhymes; the lexicon plump and downy, the epigrams wear rhetorical “skirts.”

Wisdom lies in turmoil (a title from de Staël). Bed is the new office with murals of white doves. It’s like a dance to respect what you guys were doing — I was working on it.

Speaking of spring, go on, tell us about background checks in propositional aesthetics (as in affiliates who you think are like you but aren’t).

What about these machinations to effect scandal and fabulously raise your stature? And that aside — without a theory of purpose and a gifted agency to promote your case, masking your vanity becomes the challenge.

Shoot, I’ve been put on a 20-year watch list. At this point Santa’s sled took off, powered by propaganda and formalism. I forgot yesterday. Self-indulgent and stupid or freaky consequences often go together. Joined complexities sucked up to the surface for a face off once I was fresh, chased through air ducts.

What’s the American dream? One is to thank the guys who sent me money. Another is to bawl about immanence and qualia at art school. We learn times of the day and play in the jungle of language. Stand in our process and process reception. Go for Goth video vignettes. Job changing loan frauds. Heart sutras and an ad valorem.

Nothing’s changed in the six years since I wrote, ‘As the world starts spinning, John Wieners writes Boston into his bohemia (Nerves); during his mid-career Horatian stage Kenneth Koch Romanizes his playbook in the New York School (“Fate,” “The Problem of Anxiety”). So the waif stakes a vantage but never forgets it will slip away. No what if.’ No if, what, nothing. I lost my mom when I was 15, and even now I get seething screaming this is a crime. My sister grew up spastic. I can’t give you a timeline.

Their intelligence and accidents accomplished what isn’t in sequence.

My areas are interpretive search, tone poems and head. I’m controlling and indecisive. In reprieve, the whole thing just snowballed.

All the frontiers on Earth have been urbanized. (It’s hard for me to take credit.)

I’m a floater of cynicism in relation to any topic I adopt.

To practice the surge I feel today I maintain a correlation. Time, I guess, to air-lift butter-stick eating until it looks rained-on, averse.

To qualify what happens and delay what it’s about takes intelligence. You need smarts of the sort that results in exemplary social monitoring and interpenetration among the important guys running this.

I’m reading Jean Cocteau again, watching Butterfield 8. Richard Howard translates Cocteau, Unknown and betrayed, that is a poet's fate, the and italicized. We continue, There's another slant to male deadpan, social conditioning in both its range of intentionality (and agency) and its lexical tactics. The partisan schema is subsumed by take-downs, targets stuffed with inflammables, straw men (text), clustered pellets (biodata), etc., whose immolation compels male gut pleasure. The instant take-out. You can’t have deadpan without it.

Granted, on a more personal note, I can try sweet talk, seeming to have an apolitical, even a liberal, esthetic agenda to cry-baby my way into the hearts of voyeurs.

But then I blow it by teaching someone to hate what I hate.

You get locked out, I’ll open the door.

Kristy Blue needs a foot job. I shall touch her in her cling spot. Someone once said I said that.

Language is spoken better where it’s taught. While you’re at it wedge your correspondence. Then add neural linguistic product with teal and aubergine edges to render squeeze pages; flicker the colors and offer joint ventures in which you use a marketing funnel. This is the ballad of how especially the ivory tower is now under entrepreneurial influence.

My guest room is the office.

Also there's a sweep, tattooed lads, heavy and inked. They look seriously under-schooled, still, you would like to think, innocuous. Dumb and innocent, USA's best, the future! There's a tattoo for that pulpiness, sure. Promote your event.

Spam is a luxury good. But none of this mattered at the time.

It was his hair.

Let’s re-thing this space. Climate is a tacit partner with the government. Weather is done. Look in the mirror. White on the map of el Norte is ashing snow, augmented by prophecy’s radiation. The seasons are morally exigent, shivering in a synthetic silk-festooned service center (formerly weigh station), not coming back any time soon. It’s new weather either side of a sit-around for asses who just want to talk.

This is a weather of manual labor with inside scars. A heightened blush. Far from the talking, American Gothic is under manageable stress. Its embers make fresh tracks learning to combine. So there’s one more weather slot to restage but Europe with Alsace in the middle is about to go spew, a quadruple pain, sleet dashing nowhere like boiled-down jazz, which was formally difficult and, ooops. Someone is on fire.

No, do we take their place?

I’m furious about pure consciousness, its transparency and orchestration. A conduit of expanding stops and sharps. Or is it a geyser in a box? Gimme a tummy a poke. Whoosh, the infant sleep sound inside the womb! It’s like a prelude or nano habitat exploding with party frogs! Staying ahead, there’s an aspect of covered wagons and vultures dropping eyeballs in fake vomit. It’s no to rational turmoil, dysrhythmia, sisterhood. No to our house on a cliff behind the house. It appears we’re operating in sludge bubbles where the tribal language blows. And just so you know, I love what you’ve done with place, the crumbling infrastructure, the squishy puppies and ponies boosting my performance — over here — one quarter inch! The bruise will stop by, later.

Cherries Hamlet. Say it more aloud. Doctors see scars.

You have to shop politics to get back del quack. We must find the addendum in the mouth. The Citisea from poured gel with tear heart lamps and eaux fide. Ten gallons of the Hirsch, please. We’re born to achieve big things, dayment-ready, fenduc set. Also I’m the crescent canonical tartelle in the Diary of Bows.

This meter talks to you.

Ticking fuel rods......

By caution as usual I mean caution to the core.

The political surface is blood sport, fun and games, what some call discourse and action. Caution is exercised to preserve the constructs protecting access to the core. The equation can be reduced to politicians = mascots.

[What Japan Shows] The chain of disasters pounding northeast Japan is both gruesome and appalling. Any Japanese will tell you that tsunamis are a bigger threat than earthquakes, and now we can see how unspeakable is the natural-manmade mixture of a massive earthquake, skyscraper waves roaring inland for miles at the speed of bullet trains, and nuclear meltdown.

The garbled albeit processional response from Japanese governmental figures is a deterrent and demonstration to all under the sway of global capitalist politics. Even at a time of crisis or, more, especially in crisis, Japan’s one-party rule underpins the misplaced caution and secrecy characteristic of stoic Japanese conservatism. There is obvious linkage to our own one-party system of capitalism — performative politics at odds with its nominally competing wings, democrat and republican. In our system, the republican wing has evolved from overt caution into the self-operative, say-anything-do-anything cadre dreaming up diversions for the body politic (Tea Baggers, for example) while robustly opposing the other wing of loosely-affiliated pragmatists whose commonality is to plead with / for the middle class and falter just enough to keep political power a perception game. The game is on the surface for both sides. Underneath, it’s caution as usual.

Divagation is a rippled fruit. I don’t feel it yet. Sure,
I’m on a regimen.

To recap, I grew up in a football family where food is information.
It’s powerful to give names to feelings.

Circumstance. Community.
Switcheroo.

I’m not pissed you made progress
spreading lies about half-truths.

Nothing’s changed except you’re stoppable
and I’m unmolested in the middle of midterms.

Pre-erasing me was your last aha.

It’s time to concentrate on that killer c.v. It’s about people and words. We’re going to be here as long as it takes.

The political-dating scene pulls at you, brings you into its ritual. I think we can see into the future thickets, the wilds where fireworks are slowly ignited parallel to immunity’s utter obliteration. We’re of two minds, lost, for a second, “in the slumbering gaze” along with a jumbo puppet. The adhesive fruit makes us desperate for basics like too much space and a happy valet. I don’t know, tho. I feel obligated to bequeath my club to the chosen, defeated boomer generation swimming backwards, expecting a shield.

W. H. Auden, as a digital topic, doesn't lend himself to tweets or facebook fan-chat. Nice to find back-to-back blog notes here and there, notes that overflow with propositions and idea-starters, prompting the question, remember blogging?

One vouchsafed stands in shadows on the gravel path
back at work. The early light seems to

Urge him to go out, rehearse too much
and get wasted.

What has he beside his sack of parrots?
He’s snooty and sells antiques?

He was saying the skull pile is hot
since it supposes its completion as marsh

-puissance coming back as a meadow variety
of nibbling torque. Anyway, this just in:

He’s had too much toe meat.
Smoking hot.

The mood passes from desolating satire to a continuing put-down called executive control.

Your evaluations are in.

Justice, liberty, and rule of law...

The coterie of enablers will cooperate fully. For us, a love interest is made to look calculated. It’s easier to have a set of consonants in my throat than to work through hundreds of clay-toned physiques, vibrating with no sound.

Also, it’s easy, suddenly, to have fitter children to soften the grid. So while our little talks falter, I’m holding firm. How many blueberries will it take?

This is not a test. The air fills with similar results anyone can pin on like tendrils. And we can use them later on blind dates and get paid.

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!”