Mustache color or toxic gloom?

Architecturally, you’re my business.

Talent and beauty come to power in their own right, but it's difficult to conceive of them taking anything like their ‘full effect’ without an attachment to addictive capital.

It’s important to remember Lacan was reading Lacan in the first grade.

An unnamed aroma, an olive swelter to feel the tap from mañana, the idea of sex is to shoot your own apples — that’s as close as you have to lush, too-ennobling pulse.

And it’s brave to think about high art favorably, even tho it bothers some to think that anything high can be programmed. Some have a fiercely vandal-like impression of reality. One large egg yolk, 1/2 cup sugar, 3/4 cup Marsala. A solitary genius.

What kind of man lives off oil from the ground?

How was it to record the soundtrack for a sequel that still hasn’t been made? You and the other investors might get offended.

You want an open marriage.

I am thrown into an absolute — take a wild guess. Piles of cash stuffed inside holes carved out of the Earth, stacking up against one another with such speed they reflect the world as it is, advancing toward convenience stops and arbitrary stretches I don’t care about.

Oh my god — I just remembered I can fly.

Well, most of the “songs” are literal, based on trying to sit down and go [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still wearing your headset.”

Such Gothic dislocations are unexpected at the gym site. Is it documentary or fiction?

The air of inevitability around the code of which you speak has been shattered. It’s inauthentic in the first mustache sense.

I kiss the air. This.

And it’s not clear you and I want to answer any more questions that require specific, distinctive thought like that I think of a welding head, until my spinal column heats up, thinking of you.

Dennis Cooper reads from The Marbled Swarm in an interview with Michael Silverblatt for NPR’s Bookworm. Silverblatt reveres Cooper’s newest narrator as a ‘gourmet cannibal’ whose affect / effect is to use language to hide objects, a use that operates as ‘a sleeve or a condom you put over language so you are protected from what’s being said.’ The title The Marbled Swarm in one sense refers to a family’s complex idiolect “spoken at a taxing pace” and in another it underpins a fundamental substitution for an indefinable reality, through which “...one’s speech becomes an entity...” (Additional Bookworm interviews with Peter Gizzi, W.S. Merwin, Ann Beattie, and others onsite in the sidebar.)

Sex is immediate, overwhelming, terse and decisive. A thousand and one nights. Little river hotglass. The poke boats. George Balanchine.

Bellwethers and fey bloodhounds are the sub-jazz. Suicide in the instant is a big wheel.

Barter is potential order in another wedding gown. Then this is now. A domain for reptiles and their suppliers. Fat lips, usually wet. Brainy ellipsis to a turn.

It was becoming day for the night. (Couples are not the perk here.) Calvin, Stephen, John. We did one thing in complete metonymy. Everything bristled.

At times coming to tatters the town is crawling with pet shops that are erotic and circumspect. (I’m just beginning to explore them.) Their symbolism weighs in as a shortcut: The future of the past is directional.

I need me. It’s a lovely trade.

This is my deciding moment. As a consequence doors open, and I’m auto-electrocuted.

And that’s good, because I sneaked rather than snuck across the catalysts. (It’s what I’m good at while I’m wearing hand-shadow pajamas.)

All thus was in the meantime. So you detect I’m pretending to be an asshole, at your behest, intimidating death.

This is one moment with one momentum to change any episode into dissipation until every exchange comes down to a piece of work and only a style prevails. The resolve to go from there is that all our jobs be weaponized.

When I read you I thought something is pouring out like disco supplementation. Sun passeth zenith. Your house is close plywood boards in Creeps Meadow.

The journey home feels made up so I can live by myself without being alone. Like that trip to Vegas.

Re-reading you I sense loose projectiles “got thrown” into doo (implicative space). And then the microwaving began, humorless and crazily unironic.

I read you and people moved away, making it vacant.

Once again it’s that time of the month to explain the cosmos, parts one and two. On top of that there are dimensions then enabling infinite events in a plot we’re party to, multiple choice.

First question of the year, true or false. Is it its gaze or its maleness?

The more you put your finger on it it’s a retrospective that you and I may now never attain.

So you never know there’s an animal that needs you.

And I should know.

Someday the male coloration returns as a she-container with tinctures or inaudible signs from a long history of decision making, preparing us for more adhesive behavior, more speech and extra sensory anger.

Yes. It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and

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 (I’m referring to that earlier point she and I worked this out together).

We won’t sideswipe any maples and pines. My role is to fill them in, lengthening their insipid menace while coddling the wetlands. I like zoning.

If I had a camera with retouch I’d subsist in our attrition to find and weed out pleasure. And if I added notes to video I’d capture the “you” and “me” of this and any unclenched feelings I have composing footage I can’t pinpoint, a shore in blues and stock blacks pitched way up with infectious provisos, integers-to-be, and no part to fix.

One should know these rules before obeying them.

In times like today the past is brought down to our senses. It adds frost to the snow.

Our objectives are to yield fast access to obscure but just-so references and make learning ongoing and theoretical. One learns grasses by heart by having frequent successful experiences.

I’m no model, I just look like one. (Helen Vendler)

As you advance, there are four photographs from which to plagiarize a response, while the materials become more complex, building on what’s been said.

Is that all you're having for dinner?

You need a clearer message. There’s no humor

in discretion. The wind in your hair makes us sick.

We provide all the hip lingo right on screen. And when you come to a three-syllable word you don’t know, you can just look down and see the one-syllable translation of it.

The flower’s name is hooded.

I’m sorry there are blunt geometric forms,

confusion of the spheres, signing in ...

but we have to trust you on this matter. One apiece.

For us, learning about how to learn is important, because it’s a skill one needs when one finally decides to step away from the ring.

A guest ambush suffuses the grasses’ curls; there’s no one now,

my bad-faith sportswriter.

Yes, fool, you sick typist-

follower glowing with lava for brains shimmering ...

hot and cool scrims of mist and water balloons floating over a swimming pool, views down hallways into stairs cut apart and fronted with music waking in hazy brightness without a clue how we got here.

I’d be lying if I said we aren’t criminals.

Space is noncommittal (not nothing)

if you don’t inhabit what you’re saying, shhhh ...

Thanks, Geof, for the first words of Xmas, entered at 2:00 AM. Santa says let him know when he’s on the ground.

                    

I believe we fall to nature so ketchuppy-and-pink that a discreet preeminence in beauty, wit and fashion is established.

I blame the mucous.

I’m flipping out, whoa. A white screen shot. Complete white-out, soft jazz, then lower right, your lips moving up and down, talking design.

Changed my mind. No one can help me to switch landmass.

To set me up is to hit the meaning of being a musician. And it’s clear whose side you’re actually on, landlord.

It’s all been a I-hate-speech act, unfolding calculus to take our little doodles and flesh them out on a frozen earring. And why not?

Well, something above and in us is part doodle and part stockade.

Whatever the ism, this is no way to bear our para-sarcasm — with sidebars. And a tulle underbelly? We’re too busy to remember how it starts — A muddled cool from so many drugs the craftmatics forget to breathe... What you said is part of it. And now my life is made slaphappy-proof to diffuse your feel me up.

Heya, this it or no?

a dream of immense sadness peers through me / as if I were an action poem that couldn’t write

Estheticism is enlarging. Diagnosis is a mystery.

This is a formlet of propositions. Like digital vinyl or handshake painting. Or prayer warriors that are relatively non-contagious.

Then I stumble over this “highbrow posturing” and “chin-stroking art crowd.” Nate Harrison chronicles how the Winstons’ original drum sequence, the Amen Break, from the 1960s has been copied over decades, sampled by 80s hip hoppers, and those samples diced and re-arranged by jungle-djs in the early 90s. By the late 90s dicing / re-arranging might be pushed to extremes, undanceable “fetishisizations” for chin-strokers — Harrison cites Squarepusher, for instance.

I wish you didn’t invite tradespeople over to the house.

Well, you know, I was a fan, for a few weeks, of Squarepusher. (Working in Japan at the time I lost chunks of my pretense-detector. You begin to lose a lot of your native cultural faculties when you live abroad, you even peel off what you thought were built-in parts of your language!) Well, well, closer still is that chin-stroking highbrow posturing. Could that be what I do now, even some of the time? The easier-than-ever synthesis of language overload, the current poetics climate I live in — if you will — does that parallel the extreme, undanceable re-appropriations of the Amen Break? If so, am I so other-directed not to know better? Can I stand up on my own? How small will I get?

Pulling the cord, a cadet steps out of his flight suit and runs bare-ass to the megaphone on the pitcher’s mound. Why, it’s a poet! Right off the guy breaks into a badly chosen sonnet and sestina. The crowd that half-fills the stadium is booing, boozy, lunging, some blowing kisses in the poet’s direction.

The narrative arc remakes itself while the bionic glove is a godsend. The half moon is proud to be garish.

The self, yourself, is fascinating, perhaps to squelch a tautology of greening photons, nominals and actionable conditions that seem certain when hidden in how far you are beaten into their projections.

Self-thief of tables and contents, school love, navy birth and feeling bad about the brief, purest gleam seethed with keen, rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl sparkle to figure life together with no vision or dash — no longer having to know.

Your history, ok sunsets standing in the waves like swimmers in spandex smelling of pleasure. Jennifer Moxley’s “arc of grace, a mystical exit from the trap / of birth chance and bloodlines, call it talent / or perhaps obedience: mostly we are poor.”

My area is interpretive search.

You’re always not talking. I get your point (approbation without the tedium of argument).

Ready for some talent management? You’re a smart guy so act like a fan. Keep up your city theme through the wee hours, eat on a budget of $5 a day.

And this is what you can tell me later, every rock lyric has it right. Lasting obstruction is a sure bet process and process reception are not going the right way, rather the way of lovers and colleagues, or of sworn animae and a conflicted self.

Process blockage prompts me to piss and take up tactical reanalysis. (The moral arguments can get gnarly.) The vantage you enjoy leads to something or, more likely, someone opposite blocking your view, redefining a new status quo. Coin tossers regard this as perpetual, rendering fluid obstructions as conflict, which means a noun that acts like a verb, “not to love” (according to Wilhem and Baynes). But conflict is more than just evil if it sharpens ethical focus on esthetic desire, self-regard, and collegiality, as well as the potential utility of enemies.

I do my best and worst work and still get picked on — not in a great way.

How has my first book changed my life? I got stuck on yoga so I put that in. Yet how cool is it when you don’t have a plush isle or anything left to your solutions, beading, ruche, rickrack, or fringe? What if what I write can’t react or be acted on? (Monologues of burning lightning, noiseless migration, honey refusing natural flame.) Sorry, my aural pheromone is too diverse for stopping sex before I undertake image-free philanthropy.

The week will have then proceeded — I’d have to say faith-based notch by notch, snippy, half-baked. What’s relational? I stick in a little yoga. Then I run after you a complete idiot. I’ll have dropped 12 pounds and restructured the deal.

Lines from kari edwards: “...mercury poisoning / abandoned to loading docks / door prize / all well meaning / track homes.” Feel like watching the second half first.

I'm elegant and round. I can't snicker. You can, though.

I'm offline. So I turn blue when I heat up. I blast up by myself when you leave for work. And when you come home I produce a mental readout of how long it will take for you to reach for the newest temperature and humidity and so on.

I can't snicker I'm elegant and round with a mirror finish.

To recap some reading: Astronomical and infinitesimal times-spaces are compelling problems. The cool work that defines knowledge construction is to find, explain and reform problem sets. Optimism is required (a) to keep everything open for reform; (b) to understand we are beginning the work and, as a species in confronting infinity, we will always be in the beginning.

Ted Enslin, R.I.P.

My style is no style. (Louise Brooks)

I flubbed a sacrifice to appear tough. (Each moment was electrocuted with pleasure.)

My time is for my removal waffle and sproat interpretation.

Birds cover their nests, beavers their dams.

People fear us because we have a glorious set.

We sometimes need fresh lexicon in the mind-body problem, words to determine their own behavior, items like primality and cuboidal, glints of jazz that’s trending this way.

I feel a lull in motives. Interforce rondure.

I put a recalled toy in my mouth. (Eric Dolphy)

The jungle is quiet... too quiet. (Theseus)

The apocalypse ignites downtown and up, combustion and dust spores filling canyons between skyscrapers, your honor. People take shelter in a convenience store, then race down into the subway, running with the rats. Asinine language (you can’t call it dialog). Ugly apartments. Life-draining clothes. Absolute rubbish. Highly recommended.

Keep the secrets of simplicity to float free.

These are the volatility models I read on T.V., vocalism in a sense. Hidden risks shift weight resulting in an even slimmer recovery.

I can assure you it’s all in my mind as far as it goes, thin air, the hashtags, and blooodwork and all — here they go, like sunflowers trapped in movement. The biggest ones are inexistence, leftovers, the color of dreams, an addiction to too many things.

Much, many things, is a go, a game on to the world to infer everything would work out about you, about now.

We’re the only nation that flies into hurricanes. (D.A. Levy)

All or nothing, counselor.

This bears a repeat. Women around Marie Antoinette were textually modern, respectable Europeans: They dressed not merely for success, but also survival. They avoided bosses and careers that were intellectually focused. They peered back and soaked up the city.

I’m my own boss.

People believe in miracles. I have no boss. I work for myself. There are bosses out there. Still. Sure. Savages, quick, with their own designs. Yet it’s the bosses inside I turn my thoughts to, the psycho-analogs that stick to you: nonverbal monitors of sensory and motor operations standing up to see the repaired wall unit, hearing you read new, wiry copy, tasting brie, walking home in idle suspense, smelling something burning, then falling asleep. When you listen closely they’re administrating social filters meddling and nudging closer to your verbal core, editing your prose, keeping everything tidy; above that, less of an allover presence, there’s one or more crisis managers descended from a rich family of what Freudians describe as superegos mostly whizzing silently on automatic, now and then shaking a finger up in the brain and mumbling something half-received and half-worked-out for the moment — be warned — there are tribal warlords above us superegos, and their thoughts will be even more fleeting, harder to perceive, fossilized — cast down on all of us like paste rubies and artificial pearls that are deliberately mismatched, almost!

I work for myself.

Any sentence from these warlords shines in gloom as the ends won’t quite match up with the beginnings, each bandage dulled into a thought containing falsehood but contextualized by the faintly plausible, as if draped over a bowl of fish hooks, a near accident or an accident-in-the-making. You might desire to push personal data into the narrative, your opinion on having sex as a linear signature (of sorts) or the death of a home appliance, for instance, so whatever sparkle is passed down achieves the same (but no higher) level of emotional force as boilerplate taken from a corporate manual or website. This produces a scrubbed textual surface rinsed with the sobriety typical of social-democratic utterance, open to interpretation as Euro-ambience. The arbitrated décor of your short text can then be looked after over its time.

More research reports what’s in my mind.
Why not reflect it in the text?

Courage is an art.
I hope you’re happy.

I used to believe all the grossular and pine boxes
that promise sex could open up to the horizon of a former life —

a life stacked with the coloration of air
as in an Elizabethan absence with coarse bouquet.

There’s a flare for what noses should be,
a full deck (augmentation) of historical fantasy.

We should see there are lots of tulle and making amends,
going for the stretch and preen in the premonition

figuring out room and board that transforms the way I text,
hands free, with a glance. You lost me at should.

Poetry on the style page (where it belongs).

I don’t think enough poets sustain what it takes to write. I’m speaking for myself and a ragged conception of cohorts, anyone who has been recently alive, over the age of 18, say. The word ‘sustain’ is interesting. The work and the works have to add up — especially in the beginning and the middle parts of writing. You intend to compose and you stick with it and enjoin more ideas as you stumble across and through them. The intent explodes (one of millions of verbs) into a problem set of texts and consequences.

You can’t leave it there. This has been argued ad infinitum. A tree falls whether there’s a human agent in the woods, but the sound of the fall will be disputed when there is no one listening or reading the text of the tree’s descent.

(A thought I’ll put aside is that a poem is the sonic record of felling trees.)

A text proposes it be listened and paid attention to. That’s putting it lightly. Publication and performance. Meta-commentary. Media madness. Gossip and fame. These are the consequences and subject-headers of compositional being and death, the consequences in the cart that writing pulls along if we can say the text is in charge of it all and it’s in the lead.

The text is self-conscious in postmodern times, better so I’ll insist to stay in charge. A common outcome, however, is that a text’s consequences are fore-grounded in a poet’s identity and her intents, conflated with audience, exploited media, reputation, and so forth. It’s all to the good, superficially, temporally, and that’s certainly a problem when one’s success precedes the poem.

So a critical first question for any text is, can we start over.

A few words on process. It was nice meeting your ideas. I was reminded a poem is science fiction or it is not. I just try to be simultaneous.

Sometimes a partner in writing can be deliberately passive-aggressive. I’m kidding. I’m being sarcastic.

In this one my partner is an ashtray and the cowboys are spying on some other cowboys. Practice makes perfect.

And in this one I was the skinny kid in lipstick wearing maroon cords on the way to a writing class at Presbyterian Culvert, Reformed, in between a gang of college business majors with bow ties and another gang of art school fools in black shirts and vests, and it was like, “How did I want to get beat up today, smacked with calculators or acrylic spray?”

In Throne of Blood — if you’ve seen it, you won’t forget — the tall growth of Cobweb Forest is sawed down to new purpose, camouflage for an avenging army on the march. The sad image is threshing fir and pine needles that shield warriors advancing to unseat a despot flummoxed by presentiment. Ontologically, a wild deed like writing a poem is complemented by an autocracy of attitude toward its occasion; they combine as in coitus, serratedly. Standing by and looking on — face it, I’m prone to passive aggression — stunted, I limp off scowling to the dull deforested haze of profuse misses in experience and lightness of touch.

I understand the cloud. We’re disassociated.

I have nothing to transact, so there’s no friendship.

How is it coming out shiny but then fallen with grey streaks?

Huh? Is it the fire? Up in sparks there glows

fire stomping the peerless thistles. That is

the moon is made of lard. It’s indispensable for smearing light

that travels down to Earth in a tiered package like buffalo.

I grew up reading Gogol in my backyard. I used to feel locked outside in his “overcoat,” the tartan one I thought was apotheosis (resisting it), befouling my neighbors’ youngest hearts and minds, collating all the splinters into a pile and resetting the fire by myself (in my head). Fortunately, my energy could be made smart. And it is. Like the wind slapping children’s ears to spread sunshine down under the lake or offside on the beach.

Then Gogol and I came back for Halloween, like a flesh-eating virus attacking college grads and crooners citing alcohol. We never forget and do not forgive; our moms have always been supportive. Viruses are like that. The wind too. Boo is emphatic. Shivers of a sigh, I made messes all over to suit a creative purpose, balancing running aground without a word, the first one, and getting lost and then explaining the gorilla mask as a prior condition. Then there’s settling down to become a little more humane, hacking skin off the dead.

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

There’s something I haven’t told you, Durante degli Alighieri. I’m passionate about what’s right in front of me.

We’re in scandalous terrain like donuts that could send you home, hungering for vibe trays and signature seacoasts.

The toothbrush, abandoned and chosen. I’m forgetting about it.

Achilles, Augustino, I’m speaking on your behalf, sipping tonic of fear impressions.

Shoulder to shoulder, our emotions subside into idiot access and the purity of blindness.

I’ve been on a rewrite binge; there’s a hydrangea boat and it’s sinking. This is the office. Welcome. I’m rewriting about it, not just doing something. The place is grotty; our staff assistant is a propped-up construct, a moral valet to instrumentation, dirt colored. Come, Earth, hold my hammer.

I taper the next stage with new visually inevitable things and select for gameness. A deep-seated specialist would work with genres and forms and play something interdisciplinary; I see beyond those scars. Um, ok, yes, ma’am. I’ve misspelled the signs.

I got a procedure to make it better, something, something and sham wildflowers, a few with a weird, obscure bounce, and fuchsia spurge past the obverse of our opponents’ goalpost. I’m doing only one thing at one time on a crazed errand stream to a structualist’s degree, as well as a serener surface.

I have not fulfilled the norms set by stop action. (Politics and the dignity of appearances don’t mix.) Nothing personal, I cry when it becomes fashionable. I credit everything on the surface without a message. But now

I'll trade you as my hands are too scared of rejection. I’m breaking off with you among summoned spoils we’re scheduled to garner. It’s looking like this is the rag century after all, and the worst part is our time has come, introverts.

I wear counterfeits and feel fake. I bet,
hey! Open the curtains. Let's steal the show.

I learned a comic needs a vertical monkey bar
and stage time, a star range that's speckled,

plenty of tenderness to smolder in pastels.
Best of all what I do works for you! In brief

I want a life that permeates philosophy,
divvying up rain, benching the mnemonics

but I’m not someone I usually hang out with.
My outer layers make me muddled.

Enough sarcasm, I’ll try different things to knock down.
In a heartbeat I do yesterday over and pick someone else.

Huge and floating, a beautiful menace from outer space.

I’ve been noticing this stuff when the weather cooperates round your wrist.

Let’s pare this down.


You’re an everyman that’s happy as in somehow scraping by,

One shoulder hitched higher, naming names but allegorizing what happens.

It’s nothing personal.


What’s progress? Your name, weeks after.

I can’t live without it (it = a ticking whirlpool).

En route to the dogs, the apocalypse within, the pastoral in a hurry.

Dear John,

They’ve taken to the streets. Walking in sheer.

Hustling all the time, awesome!

This is in response to the inscrutable commerce-vector coursing through pop concepts, bringing unique comforts to support our position in the food chains, which is in dispute. Our position.

I adhere to the same late-filing rule as you. Am a keeper of years.

Art is theft all right. I’m almost a novice enthusiast. (Didn’t know I was in the running, a total surprise.)

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

Then I shall break down and cry.

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

Saving face clinging to chains.

Where I go from here...

All is not lost! Everyone's wearing an expression on his face (or two): I see your potential though everything is speeding; don’t wait to be huge.

So. Get your share.

I killed for you.

Why’d you bother?

The Bronx (and Bronk) looked used up.

Sometimes it’s otherwise, conforming to a belief system to get forgotten, pinned to one’s alternative dish, rejecting criticism, keeping smart bombs under wraps, knocking the moment down with waves from a window, nods, and small talk while keeping everything poles apart.

We’re talkin’ unscripted, unpredictable! Struggling between comparative (and descriptive) vulnerability to vie for solitude, taking your hand to reshuffle, to suspend.

I go for the moody and unexpected.

The color of the spine goes ultimate, high and low, unlikely yet foreseeable.

So I put my name in every ghazal. Am I fit for the scenario? Are you and I? I ran out of balls rating you. I found so much of what you say emancipating but your data are hardly unadulterated. You’re driving me nuts.

I have a sentence for everything. This is a transition.

Some of you is more sound-oriented while translucence is flushed downhill. And there you go, retreating to that century-old middle ground where they still play vulgar innuendos to bag the new, addled priest wiggling his back end, half orchid, half gold, a toss-up.

Avast. It's Talk Like a Pirate Day, according to today's crossword. So this bears repeating. I remember [Joe Ceravolo] reading at a Wm. carlos Williams festival in rutherford. Daniel Halpern had the audience in stitches laughing at his numerous references to suburban lawn care products. Joe followed and actually read each of his poems twice “so you can better understand them” he said — he could have read each 10 times as the audience seemed totally tuned out.

-— Joel Lewis, posted to Poetics, Aug. 18, 2007

Obama is wearing thin ties again. He kind of snoozed.

But the gloves are off, Obama has started openly campaigning. Woe is us, Jon Stewart finds nothing to like in Obama’s American Jobs speech, a bucket of false promises and bleak outcomes, a parcel of a “campaign-driven economy.”

I wrote what I paste in below three years ago to this day in 2008, a little less than two months before we implausibly elected Obama to the presidency. It’s like yesterday now, only a century earlier, even as today marks one year and less than two months before we implausibly elect someone else to put Obama back in the future, as they say.

When it comes to his job performance, Obama is now McCain, the old boy laying it on thick; secessionist Rick Perry is a Sarah Palin, right down to swagger and huffiness; and I love this — Romney is Cindy McCain, 2011. Read everything with sympathy, please. Three years ago everything was fact-based but policy (Obama did not repeal tax breaks for the rich; Romney funded abortions in Mass.) and even party affiliation (Perry was a Kerry democrat) don’t need to be in fact material as we move forward within the uninterrupted campaign for the highest office.

[snip]

Both democrats and republicans, in particular, have succeeded in converting presidential politics into a vote on who has the better campaign backed up by the biggest, most brazen falsehoods. The best campaigner, the formula stipulates, is destined to be leader since political control is a perpetual campaign. The good-cop-bad-cop republican ticket is our latest sample. By contemporary standards it’s not only above-board but widely expected that an inexperienced candidate turn ingenuousness into a positive. Not a good old boy, Palin's a reformer. And if she snarls, so much the better. Given power, a feisty female who makes herself ‘average’ is a terrifyingly bad cop. When her old boy partner faces the media-elite women of The View and is told he’s lying about Obama’s record, McCain needs only to insist he’s not. And that’s it. He’s the good cop. For additional oomph Cindy McCain walks out in Oscar de la Renta to make her reinforcement cameo on The View. How many houses has Cindy got? That’s not part of the campaign, snaps Cindy. She’s a bad cop too [...] TV news analysts fill us in on the meta-levels of such processes — the horse-raciness, the perception game (so-called), demographics, strategies, tactics and execution — and they fill gaps, foreclosed-on neighborhood-wide gaps, in their first-order reporting, using and re-using loops of video material produced by competing entities from both campaigns. Issues are effectively snowed over by trivia and ruses that only huge capital can sustain. Just as gas and oil consortia attempt to calm us with deceptive portrayals of their token initiatives toward cleaner energy, democrats and, I emphasize, republicans continue to perjure themselves during this every-fourth-year trial for democracy, telling stories and pulling off tricks about what politics is doing to the American economy and to our freedoms.

[/snip]

My hesitance is weather related, I think, a paleness riding in this morning and a similar wash of fog, darkness in the air and offshore atmospheres yesterday and the day before.

The sky squeaks with common sense. Its pace is folding into dreams.

You need to work on you own war-is-imperative. I recommend blending in with nonpoets off and on, video vignette artists and others indistinguishable from scientists.

After work it’s useful to think of yourself as a human hose of illuminated octane, in radiant short sleeves and white thong. Or maybe not. Your heart is non-music-industry.

Solitude, confidences, you’ll learn times in the day, the plays and the jungle of paradigms.

Space between faces adds up what you say waiting, keeping your eyes busy on the platform.

It costs a fortune to get uninvolved.

The rock lyric roots for a singularity out ahead until there is no threshold. Materiality does not exist. No dissonance, no disruption. There are appearances, such as a vantage point that leaves us alone with our perverse incentives, shopping boundaries, reading biker comics, ibis fur. Others go dormant or run off with their ideas of a frontier in unboundedness, unraveling optics in baseline attitudes behind the dunes.

I keep saying that process blockage prompts tactical reanalysis. (The moral arguments are gnarly.) The vantage you enjoy leads to something or someone that’s opposite, blocking the view, requiring accommodation to our redefining a new status quo. Coin tossers regard this as perpetual, cyclical, a status rendering fluid obstructions as occasions of conflict, which means “not to love” (according to Wilhem and Baynes). But conflict is not merely evil if it sharpens ethical and esthetic focus on self-regard and, moving beyond, collegiality. This is the potential utility of enemies, a baseline annulled.

It’s unlikely the not-said expands underground.

Lightning over fog. Homology and prudence. Package and immolation. It won’t be serene. The instant comes around, triples our worth. No questions asked, we work the crowd for the same carbons in how this can be put together someday but not entirely.

There’s a lack of linnets and authentic wax.

And something came up. Initial elements are bled into a diachronic backtrack messing up my mouth, cherished ideals I thought I snail-mailed overseas were sent back in the screw-up, gleaming like a valentine oxide yet pay-as-you-go, immured in rust. Unlike Paradise Hall. Or the occasional warrant for no sleep, no solutions.

I see a dart has feathers and it flies.

There is then the example of the ordinary frog. Frogs lost teeth in the lower jaw at least 200 million years ago, but whoooa lower teeth reappeared in a marsupial tree frog species about 20 million years ago, another trifle.

My leaving office is a double into which I am thrown to off-center my impenitence about the filing system and what we don’t get, to know limits to affirm my retraction, winding into a reliance on hard work, pleasures, plans, and this most generalized, I guess, burningly turned back, watching the wax dim.

My neighbor Al Capp created L’il Abner out of vitriol and some German revenge exorcised by the French in their distantiation mode. It was after the wars sliced them in two.

The chorus is plural. It’s the end of aging, moods are out. Order in chaos. Be one with it.

I have a tiny eye on them and I’m holding to their path, rescuing no one. However soft or firm, the drills at the end of the continent put up more shelves. And now an aspect of our fiction is told on. We have no perverse incentive to be mindless of taking chances, since we talked a lot about allegory, too much, really, and too often we drank to the madness of it’s all over between numbers and how angry they get and how it makes us crazy for the late poetry of X.

Onze mouthing off to dix.

No future presents new phenomena. Pain, that’s a blood type we put on for show. You want me to reconcile the semiology for you? Type in Zigeunerliebe as the hydrangeas split, elegantly disruptive, i.e.

There is a history to our misfortune. You can’t find actuality in a void (plateau) of the crescendo, the will to splat (Zeus’s disguise).

What’s the point? tho, unless they’re in social-politics?

We can feel it, silver-blue lamé (void) but I wasn’t too sure (hydrangeas like it this way) swallowing their methods for months and years going up in ideology and any kind of style. Whatever futures is.

To aggregate is to achieve. Afterward a file will result. Then a deficiency of thought, of ideas. All the same, this is the second point.

Adorno says plain speech is a fair shake at fame.

Like the oboe in I. Got. You. Am.

We can start over in the middle but it’s really the beginning.

I’ve always been mad about the point. So the others doesn’t count. (I’ve always been secular.)

Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for foundering within the social paradox of violence. The rules commit us. Yet this is the worst case, damaged surplus. Let me give you a hand.

g = l. Everything I note here is integrated. These databases center on content while something sober on the ground keeps looking up. I like my fruit to get by on appearances.

I take you in to go beyond intoxication, to guard the masses.

August begins to spin. There, I know it. I’m imprisoned to reach my market.

Thank multiple histories to suspend my arms and keep your profane circumstance pushing into the room. It’s silly like when a ladybug evolves, a pretext that’s out of shape, part of a riddle, a gauge toward or for another punishing final, a jewel as it were, the trademark of both natural and technical production, meaning to be either way.

Finally, I leave for finishing school. I’m wearing khakis and a red T-shirt and my new backpack is stuffed with graphs. I want more than a group-regulated ethos for the manufacture of comedy and verse. Why is there no music emanating from the garden-facing rooms? The archives keepers must be so sick of themselves! I’ve been reading Cliff Notes for Le Morte d’Arthur, which I finished in one night with the help of two pitchers of martinis. Also reading Mina Loy who abandoned three kids in Italy to take up egg crate sculpting in New York. Top that Cari, Jemi, what’s-your-name. Mina-mou... which is Greek. This is my homage. I’ll have what she was having, realizing her dream performance in “Fidelio.” That’s how I found myself, without a helmet; I’m a yet hater. Well, I say. Studying the history of human height and esthetic prestige is hopeless. This one graph took me nine minutes.

So, with regard to static and its ovoid, stasis, in a compulsive battle over tv’s ultimate smiley face, it’s not just who smiled first that counts, but also wherever and however. Frown-inducing accusations have been flying in the heat — between a loose start-up of random singletons and duos representing traditional (some would say ‘mossy’ and ‘old old-hat’) friends and opportunists of desire between or among poets v. some well-organized language-auditing communities (detractors call them ‘thought-camp fellowships’) with any number of members (‘the imprisoned’) — over the defeat of stasis and triumph of happiness to supersede scandal and exploitation.

I, for one, have extreme difficulty in separating out external compulsion from the experience of desire. Nothing remains but the smell of night herbs crushed in the enormity of literature’s sneering apparatus.

The archives are at risk.

We’re on tv a lot. It’s a general condition, but hushed up. On tv I have a family resemblance / remembrance problem with some poets I encounter. This is because we’ve been brought up in visual culture. And since it’s being archived, there are poets who affect me in new ways I will never let them in on or admit to, but those ways are tied up with off-the-page and off-screen emotions that I see or project into an encounter, and, notable (notable on a paranoid scale, that is), I get it they are viewing me in similar ways. What I’ve just outlined is not déjà vu but my conjecture is these affects draw from a pool of experiences first lived within a family and through childhood, thanks to taping for later viewing by hundreds of thousands if not millions, over and over. That many hits.

First reading H.D. (in high school) set my fingers tingling (not my spine, tho). Reading Donne and breaking down how conceits interlocked parts of the argument fired something up in my brain that I experienced physically, but I don’t remember which body parts, precisely. (Again, this was high school. I bet it was pixification added to all the brainwork studying Latin and German and maybe the attendant headaches. I was more involved with Keats before college, but his poetry was dreamy concretion, to me, and I don’t think I “felt” his words so much as “saw” them and me in them. The visual over feeling. At this point, embarrassing to admit, I wanted to be an amalgam of Keats and Donne. Girl, was I anxious.) First time I felt a poem through my skin was over a quarter century ago, listening to Kenward Elmslie read for the first time. Boom boom up and down the limbic whatnot. I still feel it, watching tv.

Then you know static develops heads of steam. I’m leaving you, quitting the craft. Or I’m joining it. Someone might be intrigued. Could be when I U-hauled myself from Waban, Massachusetts to a first-floor flat, site unseen, in the so-called poets’ building on E. 12th, I recognized the blocks of 12th from 2nd Ave. to Ave. A, even though I had never gone near them before, and, again, could hardly gather how vital they would be in advance of seeing them, walking them. The neighborhood, with its packets of sunshine and surprising greenery, and that building were altogether familiar in some leaping-generations way; could be I had been here as an early 20th century immigrant or perhaps as a visitor years before that. My first night at E. 12th everything was in place as though I had been decamped for weeks or longer. Tub in the kitchen, finessed, a foyer, walled in packed bookshelves, a studio workroom off the foyer filled with files of graphics and drafts, a large emptied bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows, large, no curtains, just windows and walls with decades of paint peeled and peeling. My bedroom is perfect as-is, a futon, a sprig of damp pine in a ceramic bowl, one or two books in-process. I knew the poets in the building, a few were famous, many pre-famous, so that's not a shock. It will all be familiar backdrop in a new craft.

A friend says she is leaving the craft, giving up on poetry. His is a cri de folbores of the ante-cease category that warrants oiving in gem posts compared in foor rveseve.

’Moves‘

Five years later I’m talking to a great poet, maybe for the first or second time. I’ve read her work. I’ve heard her read. I know some of her affinities, some of the poets she hangs with, her background, her stuff. None of this is quite déjà vu. It seems rational that with a little prep you can achieve more intimacy with someone you’re just trying to know. If you want. And, of course, you’re helped by the other, the other’s writing, I mean, since poetry is one splendid medium for self-introductions of a stagy, framed sort. No, what I am about to say is ...I want to put here and it’s not entirely rational ...there is almost a blushing-waif zeit-atmospheric, but certainly a range of collective empathy (psychosis?) with a potentially or partially vulnerable social manner that, together with your own empathy and vulnerability, will put you both way beyond resemblances / remembrances; you’re talking fast and can’t help rolling your eyes in the same, forward direction, even before you have an intention. Wham! This happens a lot, and because I don’t let it happen to me often with non-poets, I’ve privileged the condition, even though it’s a problem when a person of bad faith, say someone like me who’s done this a lot and has the ‘moves’ down, misapplies the moves and the language for motives beyond the immediate speech act.

dbqp squeezes more sense out of a text-context solution or co-construction. And it's nicely illustrated, as usual.

There’s the plug-in of time travel to calisthenics. If you feel like sex, be sure to wake me up.

Resonating — a prism on top of which you can point to the horizon that’s both magnified and askew. 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. So I note what happens. Walking away burns more calories. Better to get a friend or two to write for you, pretending they are you, falling mute, covering your lips with my gloved thumb.

I should be collaborating, writing this down.

I’m seated in my studio, dressed in ashram Goth.

Government dotted with its joke mirrored hot pants.

What are resonators for but to effect command of stuff we’re uncertain or we don’t want to get that serious about? There’s nothing but an eyeblush of material to seem a desperate measure, and it is, in reckless hands, yet for a type of silent partner like me there’s depth to surface and undespairing perceptions (like reading a dab) of what won’t be contained. If you’re the anamorphic type, you can pick a curatorial spot in the vicinity of information and be seen as well as seem on top (of it). Breathing life, we sell hundreds of these, o Swami, nothing to discredit nor disbelieve.

[A Modest Revision]

I suffer from shaving in a symbolic realm.

A head transplant brings on the knowledge affect 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 into an admonitory tableau sponged with saliva.

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

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.