You decide about the boyfriend’s audible glee, clapping, etc. in the background.
Let’s adore a good deal more while putting out the details.

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

there’s geomancy to being perennially other and oppressed,
the oppressed by what I change when or where I am free

on the outside, in a place of earned vision and natural voice while a bouquet smolders
w/ the emancipatory normality of alien dominance to attain evolutionary altruism.

Oppression of that

if I make a judgment about it, then it will lead to his anger and resentment:

Those who still insist on fighting state power, let alone directly taking it over, are
immediately accused of being stuck in the ‘old paradigm’: the task today is to resist state power
by withdrawing from its scope, subtracting oneself from it, creating new spaces outside its
control.

— Savoj Žižek

Anyone holding the mortgage will die.
I’ve been with BP for twenty-four years.

This is not how an escalator aches —
you apply stimulus until it doesn’t look ugly.

What goes with Land o’ Black Rock?

A naked person is bigger than that. He was 11 when he got
a job at the pizzeria-acting sweatshop,
a distinctively Californian combo, on Setting Boulevard.

Mortal Keanu Reeves is not reckless, iniquitous, or anatomically complex,
though monotone to the gills like a slower yet more self-subtracted Rod Serling
in knock-off Prada, distorting the status-quo on our otherworldly streets.

“Where are we going?” This or that way. I guess so. Not particularly.
Earth therein leaves an imprint: Devoid of message, nonviolent like us tho
smacked down by a tendentious, retroactively inarticulate coordinate — Keanu

66 Days

We’ve heard of mezzo motivation. You’re supposed to put your fingers on things.
Doing the honors is separate so not particularly grandiose
in a climate of lonely opinions / expectations that we satisfy motherfuckin sopped.

My other car is a broom.

Everything has three parts. Pieces whose lengths alternate between eight lines, like here,
snaking around Best Buy, ‘our entire cultural orientation
is on its heels’?

A saxophone, ice cream and you may figure prominently.

To cheat the fates dawn marries your projectile. Welcome back.

A civil union totally crosses the line yet
the first kitchen is chemistry, the Oxfam of self-doubt.
This calm never gets resolved. Every traceable minute

I’m a muppet and a marine, loving you for charity we overlooked,
reigning over Proustian triggers, cost curves, etc. Makes us feel at home.

“Punched in the face. Mugged. Knives. Guns,” he said

(shiny in the rain)

— he took a last look around before hopping back into the Lexus
(with self-drying brakes) to get back to the jet,

‘In a way’,” he said, “‘nothing kind of saved me from the worldless’.”

He made note of the burnt-out McDonald’s the one his father, Raffaele,
used to forbid him to set foot in before he finished his doughnut pillows.

Or “how can I pursue this friggin argot of ours along
with do all of this in a way that doesn’t reach just boys or maybe they’re girls
but thousands addicted by watching him stumble, lose it, and fall apart on tv?”

That our bacchanalia is nonfiction was slotted in. I think I love the all-purpose
one. It’s a nuance all right. “Or it’s nowhere?”

Any answer and the question carry a distinct echo of advertising and therapy.
“Well,” he said, “there’s been lots of therapy.”

Just “the things I feel for you day in and day out” drive me crazy.

Yeah the diction. She wan’t oin to lt he peronaity
out here, the he’s such a bone, always been

(call a timeout) bound for the pure density of
readers and critics equipped to reorganize this

and redefine: Except that didn’t.. — not, at least,
if you’re talking about the way Audemars does
in the tight chinos fighting off the taller, wealthy kids,
only now they are

forsaken, “He’s given away everything that he’s good at
for some things that he’s not good at.

And that makes me really sad,
because he’s such a phony bastard.”

O ye gods = inside voices and homeless autosuggestion
testifying for the hybrids and standard-bearers

climbing in the mist, pointing to the blight of the neighborhood
and placing bets..

a secret gift made this a better world with a whole splash
of delivered goods on my undershirt,

a hazardous exemption, site of the Cyclop’s smithy
& Margaret with the brains to have a handbag

Later was too late in your head —
what part of California did you

(worldwide phrasing)

your
exemptions are commendable.

“Exactly,” and in that miracle voice Geigy
corks up to enchain, knife and subdue.

That’s before I thought about the white fragrance,
watching my breath. Let’s try it again

without its always fearing contact.

Whereness
on the tongue, the tip. The perfunctory receding plane

stranded ideas wanting out,
taking no step at all

later.

For the last
doomsday, veils,

desserts, all sorts of stuff
rd were all over thus.

It was hazardous
sharing that info, seeing thru

— you mentioned blurring out
of the batteries involved in a

something
— we hadn’t had any idea

a few months ago, and now
common that was, looser; &

can we restart
where the voice flies in

fear you have been
destroyed; & despite

pleas you wanted to get to
this point, stabilizing a department over the ocean —
who matters most? who you

eye for the race to phrase a
triage; who?

= spooky
once Wall-E and Eve lift of,f

a show of hands checked by
our private desires in animation.

O brotherly daughter, Jerry Lewis was real and terrifying.

Fla, fla in response to evil is not the fuck knee I was thinking of.

We’re off the island.

A wormhole is less sensitive to oblivion than

nonconformity of the whole had been.

It’s best then to pretend Steal Princess does not exist.

I am a traits leader whose existence precedes essence, thanks to hands-on literary studies.

I run to the nearest bathroom and flush the toilet once Lupin the Third starts. This reduces the amount of airtime the video has to stink up the place. I told you our fingerprints are off a center requiring teethmarks, restricted to a world without suffering that can’t exist. (Thanks, guys.) For now I'll follow you to the before & after boutique.

A college like ____ has become a fashion wife swap.

I have nothing to add to that. Our rooms are full with acceptance of our morose office. It’s even sadder to think this becomes relevant.

Warning, warning this is a devotion.

We are all theologians now. It started when a luminous protein invested with confidence.

Walk it off. Garish tulip brocaded with energy. You are man-y crisp, a color too orange for anything that can happen if you try to pretend you care. It’s not simple but very fluid how you kill fidelity like mine.

There is no rest for the annoyer. Elmo has been stripped of his exaggerated status and worth.

Question.

Tv contests a thousand bees stinging my feet

— we polished the text and handed it in.

We chose photographs for the branch along a shuttered residence,
ambassadresses in the gag foreground. We coax them to come across,
waiting to keep up.

Voyou, le 23 décembre, 0910

Jimmie voit char, déraille Fenton & Jennings Olives

Jimmie beholds char, derails Fenton & Jennings Olives

Camps. Dupont Julio.

Take an interest in opulence & stratagems bequeathing our
ing great! Those brands are awesome announcing oops, they’re
digging in bins.

I watched your dreams.

A bite to eat. Even a tremor of you goes around in concepts, calling
your egalitarian bluff. Where in your collusion does it say
a smirk presses on — mass culture
destroyed, sundial-changing sex?

It’s always smart and dumb modulated, coming out to play, sampling
the masked hostility and indecisiveness of the national honor
and backing it up with inexact and multiplying sounds
from what we were doing before updates [give me a second..] took hold,
instantly recognized as identity.

Identity and hardened m.o.’s from silences, retakes,
and feral scents of feeling cornered in a soulless piano lesson.

(I forgot to send this.)

Puppies after puppy, Halloween restores my faith by touching my two
elbows behind my back on a breather

escalating disappearances [Poem with Hannah]

where any guess takes motion outside the house

making what’s whence not appear
along with any clouds in it the last day we ate. Together

then they subside again, turning bright green and beyond, flunked by the machine, uncontrolled —

the mind is Switzerland, ok? Eyes belong to everyone, leave now.

The answer is twofold.

Question. Lorre to Dietrich, ‘In this one there’s .. different flavors, pots, sets, syrup-simple to complex, some devolve in brawls and randomness, others, chaos, not mentioning initiations in self-alloys, call them alloys of function routing. We’ve highlighted one in this box or surfboard. (There’s a coincidence. And there’s a rule-of-thumb levitating the landscape, ultra altered.)

I’ll let you out.’

Paul Broadnax & sidemen, pancakes &;
we’re surprised you took us here.

We’re ordinarily against against..
it’s called a change of heart.

Fate shouldn’t adapt what’s spindly or bang it home.

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

Something to stop the snowman mid-grin.

You can’t say I pushed you out willingly (nurture, nature, frantic relaxation).

The fit was good. I noticed you work under me to make your poise smoke
its own lemon and cloves.

Call a time-out a makeshift breaking point, outside the boundaries of contact.
The restriction (lifted) aches.

We need smarter drywall too, to excite ferns and moss growing
a contour beeped forward w/ the put you place on the table.

Wanting you (I do) not out of quantitative easing began how far
you liberate yourself to oppose other facts.

The active ingredients are / have a profane vocabulary
and have nothing to wear tonight.

Your nose looks finished beneath the stopper.
Up, shiny, imperfect, not held in place —

nothing you know is like these long prison phials
of sulfuric fern, Fougères, the Germans say, watched out

by um pirates. What’s significant, half an hour
later is that painful moments were over, we realized.

Later we went to the movies. I was wearing the shorter
spring outfit again. I got it down in a nickel hotel.

Got up, and headed for the bus terminal,
an installation in perfect solitude;

breakfast at Starbucks and we were off, wandering
downtown; brushed our teeth and headed to the other airport;

problem being, we were playing golf later that day and had blue jeans on,
so we forget

these events seem headstrong, immersed watching the light, I know you;
I cleaned up, got off and Judith and me left for the bus terminal

(by the way, I got up as usual, exercised, waved to everybody and got dressed)
a botched, knife-in-the-back celebration over adding the bill up, up.

I should take myself down and stay far away,
leave the top 2 buttons undone, crabbed, about to fail.

Conversely, you hate me. It’s true I was in the money issue,
only I’m pandering, too pointed or sustained? I’m

not great at due diligence; it’s entirely for deception I spy
— gosh the population for ears could form into cozy motels

we have it on the double to browse,
be kind, hungry in

these ways compile — they’re up front, filling, easing
Schubert playing for a boucle, puffy, relaxed w/
gratitude if there’s a force of flight, bad-ass DNA

to outtake things as ample, an everybody sets the control
perplexed movement. A class struggle to remember all
voices were Mel Blanc thinking he's not real.

It dawns on me I am covered
with bacon reform

v. not saying anything that’s ro-
just daring a first drag

to feel some with no idea
lled into burbles,

wearing his reflection admit it
encircle your face

make a bleed insert on the dummy
with all components

now in place a
lorem ipsum dolor sit

is taken of the whole
before it’s pasted onward

offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets solved

for vast atmospheres
dissipated, adverse to

reductive elegant parity
with something to read.

Tomorrow for the dark, the lilac-dark
it’s utterly dormant & bigger

— I’m probably not taking it all
on for the kettle of urgency that is.

Give in, move it. What’s the x we talk about?
Shifting x and ugly is better than dying of laughter
only once, some form of home correspondence

When blood type was fresh in this place, no
intellectual Red (Perseus) v. visceral radiation (his bro).
Falsehood is an actuarial stat, one anto

-nyms assimilate since you haven’t said anything
to the workers wearing that reflection, giving
in, doing nothing with shades of March on your face.

You don’t even have to be interesting.

That doesn’t sound right.

Always buy what appeals to you.

I’m captioning this box Token Austerity, sleep-laden, neatly eating dog food.

Counterfeiting is more profitable than deep discounts.

We need to see everything before it’s retouched out.

Our vision said Partisan Tactics.

This is a new policy to block deletions that are missing.

A painter at noon, “Purple black teal
it gets exaggerated, the marsh
— they have many words for it was
god’s idea placed in my mini series,

The century we’re in control in
ruined by a few words,
the sounding-it-out tools.
Never enough rest or exercise...

This looks stupid. Start over.
Whom will you discover?
Did he check the oil? Abruptly
per the Chronicles of

Very good. Very goo.
I mean knocking the nonprofessionals
off, throwing knives, wrecking them
from the inside, slicing up!

The mind’s breathing is long overdue.
And I’m back in my vertigo seat, now
reading and writing without an attorney.
That’s how the paint sails.”

First I spoke Marxian argot, fighting amid effluvia
yet w/ quadratic status, a friend’s tongue in my ear
& all the bobwhites in the Appalachia hush... off

we enjoined getaways & then — second — noise
of collared hospitality, greening where Hellenic
banter might calm the tax credit havoc.

                                           Third, I’m
worshiping a Shrek glass while service precincts
look to ruses here with a hen of steam, as verdicts
are trifles beyond Krishna’s achieving reproduction,
the bliss of

everything belongs. The rest is stress related.
Still

how can it be effortless if I tell you what I’m doing?

There’s a piece of karate with top notes to erase,
there’s something else fantastic, piquant, active. Your
push reaches a point at which time management is unleashed.

But I’m just commenting

on efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, knitting a brow;
I’m happiest when stairwells mesh to go nowhere,
                     tiny, hidden wriggling strings
between you and expulsion as a hole is closed. Turn here.

As one voter you fail to mushroom, ignored. But we’re hellbent in two, three, more discovering wisdom on human terms. So we need oversight.

There’s a glow in the argumentation, like before an avalanche. Or, in other words, the powder is wintry but fun and explosive. Like a snow machine.

I’m also a leftist deep in my head in the battle between the sexes? The rich won.

One year, twenty-three hours ago my ideas took time. Dozens of spices. A mind occupied, just so.

Am I in some experimental state of forgery? No, I live in a red state. & how do I maintain the balance sheets, my resolute informality?

It’s another day of no hope. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different, jokes turn into sleep. & it’s dreams that forgive me for almost everything but paranoia’s belated redemption, trapping me inside a force field of ambitions to blur what’s real and yield authority.

I talk thus in a low register. To get inside you my face sports a few layers of sleep relief, aching in baby, calmly accruing intimacy to belie despair over entropy, a quiet start, zero gravity.

So there’s no dead end!

First create a gap then put up a bridge to connect employees to each other,
movement you can chant — they’re doing it openly in a pillar of Nicocrettes.

The shouts of disbelief are strung together to be more fluid.
Same is true when it comes to airline safety, there is no plan.

Our guardians are tired of interruptions and self-reflective outreach,
hence the corporation is lonely as an inter-discipline that threatens.

Solitude, confidences, you’ll learn times in the day, the plays and the jungle of paradigms, such
that it’s useful to be in radiant short sleeves and white thong.

Wag the dog represents whatnot we give thanks for, a seduction of industry,
a sort river string quartets multiply because I am a pig like simultaneity in science fiction

Or maybe not. I keep up with engineered management to float like hydrangea in labor
(staging nightmares) — in labor we chose our parents; this is a tenet of Hindu verse.

It’s with the other tenet I hold you, Caesar, for conniving to carpet silence.

From The Book of Resonating

If you feel like sex, be sure to wake me up.

I should be collaborating, writing this down.

Government dotted with its joke mirrored hot pants.

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 clear.

Perhaps my escort suffers like me from shaving in a symbolic realm.

Again, I’m doing an accordion fold, an étude-incarnation about the plu-construction of sensibility. The plot concerns D and D-2 who meet younger D-3 with a vinyl sleeve up his private place. I’m just using this idea as a springboard to bring the étude to mystical symbolism within a rational theme of imprecise turmoil, recycling once or twice. We witness destruction of a blues pub and its improvised scaffolding, disintegrating like runic practices, flung-out interiors silhouetted in acrylic behind projections of glass screening the ‘official’ episode. However I believe we’re past the middle and nearing the end of that theme; now it’s a higher number with incidents of homesickness without inebriation, long division, complex facticity that wounds tear open and heal slowly for 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 urban work, a tight 100 hours of narrative casually parading as self-help boilerplate turning in polyphonic leitmotifs. It’s on an uncapped 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.

Add but an eyeblush of exposed material & this seems a desperate measure, and it is, in reckless hands, yet for a silent partner like you there’s depth to surface and un-despairing perceptions of what won’t be contained. If you’re the anamorphic type, you can pick a spot in informatics and be seen as well as seem on top, breathing life, o Swami, nothing to curate nor disbelieve.

D is still a little wiped. So is D-2. D-3 is frowning, ready to be seen. D-2 is blabbing. D is a little fucked up too. “Just starting one.” “Cool.” The thing is not to get fucked up too often.

When it comes to a former suburb, it’s never good enough.

This aside, those issues of yours are not a specific program.

Hand-me-down color had risen to his cheeks. “I want us to be in charge.” I am,

Having at such big, elusive ideas comes for a moment. I stared at the door.

Seconds later I was unsure where dick-brain ‘stands’ vis a vis avantism.

It’s probably not false that did. It’s too obvious (as well), it tastes used basketball

Ok an explosion directed the shots down my throat, the light in back..


The envoy feels like an imitative sort, toe-tagged in the emergency room, not

That we’re abstemious over disquiet when cutthroat & officially sanctioned conjecture

Getting a pulse, fixed pupils, dilated. Don’t try this without the others who?

They want to be involved clanked again, ovulating out of pocket.

The sine functions were ‘pontal,’ still rising from parterres & topiary snapped in place.

To continue, asymmetry solves the perfection problem, not remorse. To think I got to know Myrtel Hammer who highlights me among others.

Others include us without parole, draped over a bowl of smashed heads and hooks.

They were a boring couple. Is one related? The too-serious topical regard for perfect categories is working backwards from walking out to compete with myself. Oneself

but there was a separation had that been allowed at age six, a caution.

Read the inspection label.

Snow lists a mood replaced as the driveway met you. You’ll always be daddy’s inside, animals looking at you.

You don't get to snooze

Snow is a collective that takes its singular form learning to drive.

Substitute snow falls like sea foam over snow.

So that’s craftmatic. Especially if snow sees itself a Marat procedural that does it and is done in by it.

A flea say had mamma-ed my speech with a signal emanated.

There's good news at the pump.

Sonnet to the people at Boeing, since the poor make us sick — stuck
learning the plain facts by heart in capsule surveys

: the pace is noncommittal (not nothing) if you don’t inhabit what you’re saying, shhhh ...
Yes, fool, you sick typist - bobbling,

Learning about how to learn are cool (& fatuous) even if officialdom
germinates when we begin to step away from them.

We have to trust you on these matters. One apiece.

We’ll provide all the hip jargon on screen. And when you come to a three-syllable you don’t recognize,
you can just look down and see its one-syllable disentanglement.

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

As we advance, there are four thousand voice-to-gifs with references from which to
plagiarize a response, while the materials become more complex, building on what’s been said

yielding fast access to the obscure but highest table with sof’ freaks — handsome,
sniffed all over, never complicated, staring down our bitewing. Ask your financial professional.

To an Ex-Pope

You didn’t have to what the hell-?

Is it its gaze or its maleness?

The more you put your finger on it

it’s re-reading you, I sense loose projectiles “got thrown” into doo (implicative space),

a retrospective 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.

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

Time’s up.

What’s my business? The apertures told me to go, and that led to me holding

And these are the volatility models from T.V., vocalism in a sense.

Hidden risks shift weight (merge accounts request)

CVS photo counter. I know him, he knows me, I admire him, he back.

Instructions are errands, the fake story in English I never tell v. real fake.

So much like the naked around Queen Antoinette’s. They were textually modern, respectable Europeans: They
undressed for success, but also survival. They avoided bosses and careers that were intellectually focused, peering
back and soaking up the city among savages of their own designs.

I’m my own boss.

The flamenco troupe apologized. Horizon I wasn’t sure, darts of light & algorithm that solve you and me for x
when we let them.

Own a tuxedo.

The subtracted j-walkers return with renditions of zealous counterculture.
I’m thinking of someone’s head, until my spinal column heats up, thinking of you.

Big and floating a beautiful menace driving over from an outer trail.

I’ve been noticing your whisper when the weather cooperates round our wrists.

Let’s file this down.


You’re a Mets fan who’s happy somehow scraping by,

from there I can move forward and back to connect the times with the ideas and people that

encompass my naïve expertise.

It’s nothing personal.


What’s progress? Your name, weeks after.

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

I’m a novice enthusiast. (Didn’t know I was a total surprise.)


I’m sipping Tropicana on your behalf.

Taken to the streets. Walking in sheer.

Hustling all the time, awesome!

Tomorrow I’ll file again thinking about those I forgot to lose.

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

Self-thief of tables, of school love, navy birth and feeling bad about the brief gleam seethed with keen, rank fidelity, a gazing furl trying to gnarl sparkle to figure life together

Your history, ok sunsets standing in the waves like 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.”

No futures present new phenomena.

The chorus is plural on that or on whether it’s the end of aging, moods are out. Order in mayhem. Be one with it.

I have a tiny soft view of phenoms 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 as an aspect of our fiction is told/on. We have no perverse incentive to be mindless of taking chances, since we talked a lot thru allegory, too much, and too often we drank to the madness of consequences and how angry they get and how it makes us crazy for the late poetry of X.

X, that’s the turning point person we hold for show. You want me to reconcile the semiology? Type in “Zigeunerliebe as the hydrangeas split, elegantly disruptive, i.e.”

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

What’s the point? tho, unless we’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.

Follow the process. Tease near-misses out of what process could mean. Stipulate minutes and subroutines to withhold and then expose your meanings, and don’t talk with your mouth full of process, disrupting cut-off points where ideas can meet and turn into habits to become the stiff, gnomic atmospheres and accoutrement for following process, and definitions of all this. Take care, and take your time, since to criticize another’s process is dumb without frontiers and off the mark, like gagging on a pianist’s shoes. You can do this, feel free, but don’t expect to be asked back to her kitten-infested avoidance rejecting criticism. Keep your smart bomb under wraps, knock the moment down with glances, nods, and inspire small talk while keeping everything under surveillance. You look great together!

Cherries Hamlet.

Avalanche, the virus.

Reporters Agitated, Reproached, Disappeared, “It’s Kinda Surreal”

Who owns property under socialism? Procedural painters and photorealists, tho binary opposites, figure their lives together, now vision or dash, no longer having to know.

Something more than research suggests this road to fame is treacherous since proceduralists near the top are often both perpetrators and victims of aggressive behavior involving their peers.

I picked this up from the past as you’re a popular person.

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

Painting your party last night was great. You like to dwell publicly on differences, on crispnesses in whispers in the air.

Your sleep is like a procedural language recognized by NASA.

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

No to tempos of glyphic turmoil grounded into torpid incision, no to prophase. No!

No contusion of the photorealist spheres.

And I dislike insatiable shine.

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

I’m saying no to kitsch first. No to grim ball-bearings, no to virulent, callow stances and covers and mongrel humphs. Cut the skull-like crocus, low opinions and bloodied mesh. No aplomb in nature, please. No chiastic haunts.

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.

Painting you again. Painting double quotes.

How far is it to the autopsy in procedural areas?

Painting formalism —

Pulls you into photorealism, along with lab wonks, murderers and lesser rogues; crazy robots drive into action hulks who overlap a six-year-old offering his sister for a painting that’s overemphatic and vague.

Silent film in three or more faddos attempting authenticity v. insoluble speech in painting, procedural and photorealist, two men painting the firewall. (If they admit they rejoice in tricky intersections they’ll be taking sides.)

Painting voice, the glass house, painting utopian disaster perforated by mirrors, warm-toned, slightly smudged. Beating paintings that pour vodka that makes us cry. A painting with multiple data fields and a disk of stunning extras in malaise supported by a partner grabbing the ring of convoluted painting propaganda, two men in paint.

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

Silence pays. We’re both being blackmailed
over boinks spinning up to the surface with no
message. So there is nothing to represent.

The will to quiet is the flip side of fleeced, a ch-
amber piece somberly floating, waving inaudible
signs for surplus use as renewed power.

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. Smoke takes you in stride.
Your eyes are red. Bologna.
I’ve just noticed you haven’t said anything.

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

I call this a sex drive.

And it’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 I can’t pinpoint or supplicate.

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

The wetlands are 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.

Stutterers Stutter Trying Not To

Stutterers Stutter Trying Not To
“Radiance comes in bushels, refreshed
from extract.” (We’ll check what held up
the star date.) In each glance a name
burned, a protracted surfeit before the pup
tent it got shiny against. Smile. Shall we?

This familial gestalt switch empowers
the incriminated city, warm & cold &
further down the moss hill operating
with franking genomes, lattices, industrial
parks at the corner sheeted in quick fire
milled cement, plywood & dust, their
magic buoyancy wiped away.

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

State of Our Union

Like poll-taking, it’s mostly implemented rhetorical solutions.

Tantalizing in the feasible, wanting nothing more but to jerk the chicken and throw out sleep, trust, and nimbus-wet telepathy. Left to systems and devices, dreams and occultism are dull intrigue and romance, equipage of the half-taught or self-illumined. A slice of a childhood domain. Ta ta.

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

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

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

I am most impressed by the firelike cream in the center.

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

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

— torchbearing shadows —

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

I’m always wrong to prolong my appeal.

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

There’s something to mining homilies and off-color wackola
copying, imitating, replicating for the evening drive.

You take the wheel, officer. I hand it to you, and have your way,
your fleet of stars, your special access to felt qualities. What’s the problem?

You’ve now passed the second-cousin stage of wretchedness. You’re good
to go on and take it up with the authorities to sever a head from the vines.

Rationed compliments ensue in secret and float the math.
The cubicle is in your head; foam under rush-formatted steam

disappears like factions of perplexity, contextual effects (procedures) —
more fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Travel well.

Further out the descriptors peel off like spiders
descending into moaning nonentities (the Ralph Vaughn Williamses).

Physicalism (neural mediation) adapts to schemes.
There is product on the loose.

Let’s talk over the music as a business, an exciting week.
It seemed to make sense.

Nature’s mirror engages in transparent secrecy,
one idea to play with that one note, the future..

There is a civilizing process to being purposely
dull, entered into by spotting it first. It’s

a clear refinement where character offers liberation,
supports you from underneath. You can go right in.

They have an open table. Everything is for sale.

Season 2

The lap pool is cloven ice. Let’s stay inside
and be seen at the deep end, & keep everything as it is,
media-simple on the corner of statue and space.

We can bend rules for statue-equity, bob
for rare & boundless foreign minerals, and see trees of green
to the tune of spillovers w/ dogs taking a piss tracking flutes in drizzle

— Green bowlfuls of someone’s wobbly meadow using sung
          spacey pre-season, so color.

This is ur-summer. Q-tips & smoke. I can pick you up, take a day off
          from where everyone who’s standing is,
physical and prime for the stress of relays between the workplace
          & security dogma.

The models are you & everything I can live by w/out being
sequestered or brutally charged by mental objects. These shortcomings
balloon in harmony w/ use, and the sky is part of parts.

The lap pool is cloven by ice. Let’s curl up
& be seen at the sonic deep end, & keep everything as it is,
media-simple on the corner of statue & space.

& since it’s Pet Corps, we can bend the rules for statue-equity, bob
for rare & boundless foreign minerals, & see trees of green
to the tune of spillovers w/ dogs taking a piss tracking flutes in drizzle,

Green like that rain melts bowlfuls of..

It would be a challenge to simplify winning a car or suffering injury
starving how?

Than thanks.
The future would give more, no more.

I thought of you.

2.

Pre-bowl.
You’re at the door.

You enjoyed yourself abroad.
Who’s over us in the wet and questions the vulcanized backlash?

No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless, rice of
no luck, except the whole pond structure implies conditions.

I get the idea
an ugly feeling
you’m a Capricorn, an anarchist.

The thought washes in over time —
it was dinner figures / the aptness of spring

when pragmamorphism will be innocence,
makeshifted to pulp —

Does it matter, the bravo question?
Do you test, tease, defame to get the best?

And the answer in a day wherever that is.
Is it time or times?

Absence of song rules for a higher authority. The boards are filled out to their edges with intricacy (crosshatches over pastel word clumps), busy but cool, almost ambient absence of thought. The soft vellum pellets change the impression a bit. A busy, cool songlessness that’s slimed, maybe.

It’s a fact eye contact is defensive but our strategies are the contents. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane senses. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in texts, making sense to and from alterations that seem situational within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.

Anyway, I retract my falsehoods. At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)

The Darwinian environment is a robust lifestyle exposing the hashish of space to gain a hilltop on seamless mannerism, or maybe it’s more like mannerism modifying one’s memories in an oblique self-interrogation where you can share your conventions and broker a plan!

The dharma of the windmill is monotonous.

If I were mannerist, I would describe our ‘age’ (for quality assurance and training purposes) as the one just before the death of death. We are approaching New Venice. So far, the ‘reports’ reserve commentary, remembering your breasts. Lovely but. The cross-hatching which allowed our ancestors to exchange certain genetic traits for others...has just about run out of steam, and has left us wondering, once more, what there is about this plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to. It’s nice finally to be able to put a face to the humiliating nickname.

True or of course? A degree from Capella U. sounds attractive.

After the masters spoke we ate a snack and read country sheet music..

can we cut to the scary part?

In no time we went for a treat and put six heads under water. Next, did my homework which was to study for a spelling bee. Then we ate cupcakes. Mrs. Brown taught us about binary numbers and the mind. I love math wiping our flesh and solving problems.

Later we’re taught the integral self can level with all the others, and sadness is a public health problem. So protesters are hired to hunt down any incriminating thoughts and raise contentment rates.

“Let me tell you why you’re here, to disseminate our values.

“We haven’t changed the infrastructure. A bad earache reduces shaking hands, I mean, sluggish jellyfish with blond hair.”

Looking back on that time — my early twenties I mean — I realize how awful and obviously coming from a family of sardines I was. Despite the violent and seemingly unprovoked attacks, I’m now smoothly sailing into my 80s. (GM)

Relax and beware, the law of cause and effect can be obscured as traffic aims straight at us. We wake up, cartoon-lean, and we sleep until the last day — up 11.

Inconceivable it seemed swerve-y and melancholic then — forms of address changed the ideology into shiny cornsilk throw-up.

The blur of pronouns embodies overwrought subject matter while an emanation turns into a spectre, brought up a peg to clear things with the bosses.

And I’m awake again, once with a face of a poet lost in dream. Or a formal outline. 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 Deadlines. My department head would rename it Pathways, tho.

Revisions from last week.

Smiling Lessons

The sexes are divided. So is capital. All I could wish for is 86 floors of hot ass.

Powered by belief, I’m a floater of ‘cynicism,’ gold insouciance, persona non barter. The whole thing just snowballed.

Finesse augurs repression and destruction in an immaculate allegory.

And now the frontiers have all been urbanized. Each new batch is bifurcated, bed-wetters, cynics. Cynics are the dry numb ones we haul onto the arc of cleverness.

My ass is all about listening.

Jonathan stayed and worked with the new birds coming in, who were all “Could you be a little more specific, doctor?” while they rested on the beach after a session of folded-wing snap rolls.

Time to release the hounds. But I’ll stop now. We’ll soon restore the chaos.

Flâneurs who decry how ambivalent I am are missing the point, generally. On the other hand, I get kind of overstimulated by stupid generalizations. I wouldn’t know how to come down on these vital issues.

Future Stanzas

Do you like spiral staircases?

There is nothing like an emergent semantics to find your voice and produce your prosthetic artifact (flippant, machine-y text).

Ultra blurry and anamorphic, some of the following is actually good. Sort of, I sing alone.

Facts are a marketplace that understands figures are garbled when they are least derivative; ephemeral objective content triumphs. It’s kind of a snob racket. (CB)

I sing thusly, a skeptic steps over and above the deadpan. A moan’s direction is shifting, pasting in its genetic material.

This is how the Frankfurt School’s defenders get nested within a keyboard to determine contingent values in the scheme of the all-species inventory.

Radial Evil

Our nervous system distorts reality to emphasize changes in time and space.

Worth repeating.

I wasn’t orphaned, I just decided to pursue other interests

to get re-elected to her, and we’ll proliferate to here if I try, if I have the confidence we pack — we the blind wiretap the secret she weighs (she gets no credit for this) —

no ripped-off melancholy, no spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in, but here’s a substitution agreement containing you and me in a force field ruched with fart.

It’s taken this long to read the gospel of wealth.

O to be bubble-footed in dark briefs!

I’m still describing opéra bouffe in jeans, preferring lunacy to kissing (ah, affable hysteria), moaning about diffusion at any cost to render your mouth a mess of slop, and that goes for captioning this box Austerity, neatly sleep-laden, eating dog food.

Our vision, tactics.

This is for you now.

Only

Astronauts aren’t perverse, it’s the dress code on the inside. Read this. I did. Resolved, the body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons, the most dangerous, New Year. You’ve got my mind messed up. Sun pours down, unobstructed in your abandoned region. “Prepare the red matter.” The incision continues in this vein...

I’m leaving disjunction behind. To work with you (the plan) is one way to avoid subjectivity tho content is a nominal fallacy like an alloy. I know I don’t know what I don’t know I know.

Holism doesn’t come naturally (Nickolas Christakis). Yet the parts know how to grow (Benjamin Aranda).

A Cretaceous bunny stuffed in an envelope is ludicrous. It’s untidy and young. I basically authorized it. While your back-and-forth is limp clear gel rubbed into my hair/no-hair in all these dubious directions you’re going in until you do (as a gentle pun) onslaughts in a riveting presence, O on the outside, a close-up or two first staged with no sweetness, only credits for adamance.

A Long Pause under the Tattoo

The theory,

pleasure is to ethics as Spode is to gastronomy

while across the river a recurring nightmare, film tunnels’re (wind) lifting wax paper when the water is abusive — all ends adaptively,

nearer

Duluth — you can’t handle Duluth. (RF)

The strategy is

like any landscape, wait for mistakes (1) and (2) pounce.

Woe is paralytic. I also detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of it, even when love centers on the numbed one with a body of rare happiness to be popsicle blue —

all of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest to be stupid Dionysian.

Dionysian = garish brocade with puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.

Watch this space.

Performance

I’m a fan of the music that flows back in time from pharmacies.

English drapery completes the gutter.

I agree with you when you live long enough.

Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of the knowledge industry that can consider approximations in crazy-fancy contexts nested within a keyboard. As for scrim’s logo, it’s so us washed to sea, paid to be friendly at the center of an oculus: the I stuck in the happy glissando 4-wheeler semis a-swirling.

Moving forward I have all of an hour to believe in sweetness itself made into infamous exposure (claws).

Lights up, no-name.

Homeless — we take ourselves inside inside where we reserve dissonance to dog light & volumes of bark animating the hedgerows of three-dimensional archiving.

The performance.

Inky musculature evokes nighttime and a quantum hummingbird. Tape both of my hands together. And grease-pencil trompe l'oeil on my forehead. Please.

Innocence is guilt. Yeah, blandness is a problem. No luck is too popular. Understanding what’s perfect we fear exclusion slathered with near-imperatives for rationales while the night refounds paradox as a creaked-out immensity, too mediocre to reformulate.

Everything dark is brute-accented imparting how our inflated logic dialogs with others, working three dimensions into a formless clot of mist.

I hope you’re happy.

I used to believe all the grossular and pine boxes that hold the night would open up to the horizon of a former life, a life stocked with the coloration of air like Shakespearean quarters foot-lighted with bouquet. Superangels strummed harps to sound the alert, lithe, w/ spooky edge. There used to be a flare for what noses should do, a full deck of going for the stretch and preen in a premonition, the one about other dimensions that (plan the predestined) blind patch — de-biased out of sample — the good of an experience / current status average win-loss.

The unequal in luck floated ashore.

There’s a cool oral tradition that’s like trail mix, so rhetorically honey-sealed and narratively palatable anyone with a few years of advanced English can have in.

It’s kinda clear that jumps in tone are staged to signify irony and distance about food prep and galley stainless.

The gestalt is to look urbanely offhand and sound normal. Do hang on.

The scribes are the first to note who’s hankering after whom. Gorgons are wrapped up like bargain hunters in boas, constantly slurping bouillabaisse smacked with vipers. It must be an omen or something. Or to put this another way, Labels don’t work outside among the diamondbacks. If you don’t believe me ask them.

In the change up scene everything is repurposed into conceptual deflation. Psychiatric disorders are now as commonly diagnosed as parallel discourse strategy.

A Cabin in the Launch

Witless v. gutless. It’s not to be.

Politics and the dignity of appearances don’t mix. (The financial pacs industry is just noticing.) Nothing personal, this is the sustained concussion version for charity... I also give in involuntarily for what’s not available, a cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments, for the boink of whinnying for pleasure. Or I cry when it becomes fashionable. I credit everything from the engine without a message.

I live in Hung Oaks.

I’m writing about it, not just doing something. I taper the next new visually inevitable thing and select for gameness. A deep-seated specialist would work with genres and play something interdisciplinary but I see beyond impertinence and scars. Um, ok, yes. I’ve misspelled the signs. I got a procedure to make it better — sham wildflowers, a few with a weird bounce and a fuchsia spurge past the goalpost. I’m on an errand stream to earn a structualist’s degree on time, a serener surface.

It’s a sorry concentrate: Until one went broke one was indebted.

Now an international scale opposes the light in my body. It’s scary loud at first, and yet there are comic possibilities as dreams seem to centralize.

I came to my senses breaking separate to put up a lava tint. So what if I say prompted the assembly made of torn Gillette letters and small decimals?

It’s hard to tack a center onto perception whetted by ideation! The mutts of childhood regenerate, there’s a nose and a tail, don’t fix them. Try to look better.

In the din nihilism shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing. That door leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.

Seven Versions

Just a few things I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I was curious. A guy interested in robots, the narrator, urinates on flowers, grabbing my shoulder. Rusts himself in.

Voice mail happens. A man’s voice. Handsome, calm, also nervous. (Protecting dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that.) Our swift powers have never been better aligned.

We have functional emotions & this much-traveled vocab of affects. There’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I just missed the last place you look. Stay with me. Never stop exploring. Turn here.

The sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.

Pigeon fathers pattern heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the bright series, brocaded & then stiffened into sympathetic parody staving a muleta for thatched kinfolk.

So there’s a rule-of-thumb with natural stenches & hidden dimensions in the landscape, ultra altered like ranch dressing.

Small islands serve as hideouts. Tall men are restless in the rain. Excellent. We shall conquer, read over the presentation, juggle heads. You’ll need a new camping saw & hood scoop.

Why was this week’s contest insisted upon from side to side? What bud are we?

The short answer is a teenager’s you can scream open and enjoy.

Brain damage is in the eyes. More bounce for the retina to unscrew the internal hysteria pouring up but embarrassing, rocking like a party, like losing both death and life, dropping your rags, breaking water gushing down over my heels.

Steal Princess & Rogue’s Whip. You look how I feel.

No plan is perfect.

Between grief and nothing I do nothing wearing a torn shirt as an escort.

Dream within limits. What do we do here at times? I deal in ex-ghosts feeling dizzy. We tease out opinions on redeeming encores or nutty enterprises. We’re not so interested in dreams. But once in a while we can’t help it, like this morning we woke from a flash of such gruesome practicality we became distressed talking to painted traces and vapor. I was looking for performance glamor in a sports-transition store. There was no deeper pretext or tortured prelude. I walked into this pleasant, really dark place decimated in lights. The lights were out. But I was in there casually shopping along with others. It was a showroom for Under Armor where mannequins, staff, and customers match up in comfortable, form-fitting shirts and sweats and some in jackets pulled a quarter inch back, almost off their collarbone, not to flex but to suggest upper body development. These are steadfast figures and outlines but nothing shows. We have eyes and the mannequins don’t move. That kind of carefully lunatic geopolitical stow and store. That was what I was thinking as I picked out five pairs of socks. A pointillist grey pair, two pair in enlarged, graduated chocolate pixels, and a couple of pairs in ink, one with a hint of an inkier digital plaid-ish under. Everything was going to blend with other clothes. (So what was the point to a sphere of flowerets and blood?) The total came to under $200. The wind always kicks back allowing us to translate sleep into discrete transparent overlays of desire, textured fantasy, aimless expectation. We call this shopping.

Waiting for Hillary.

Landscape takes out the flowers.

But it’s my doing, making money hard to borrow. Clenching-tight, I’m on a distorted guilt trip, shafted by the viability of conquering death with abundance.

There’s no work-around to the observer influencing the observed mire except later, much later sprigs pick up and the driftwood gets epigrammatic, the upside unrelated, pale, immaculate.

The sky foregrounds all that is style, the worms’ motive, subjects for close attention.

Paying attention is the field call to haunting the future. And the future notices who attends. But it does not impinge on the field.

A rewrite for W.B. on Halloween after Sandy

I see your potential; don’t wait to be huge. Time is temporary.. eternity

Later, it’s not much. Get your share, knocking the moment down with small talk, unscripted, unpredictable. Form is a hampering.

Sometimes it’s otherwise, conforming to a belief system to get forgotten.

Where I go from here... struggling between comparative (and descriptive) vulnerability to vie for solitude, taking your hand to suspend kinds of illusions —

Nebulae. Curved and hollowed.

The Bronx (and Bronk) looked used up.

Our 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. We feel it though. Its pace is folding into dreams.

If we pray for protection you need to work on your own war-is-imperative.

There is a want that hinges out: Lightning over fog. Homology and prudence. Package and immolation. Or if I could believe in a world 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.

Experience in impulsive concealment is physics outdoors evolving pretexts that are out of shape, parts of an abolished riddle, a time gauge to another punishing final, a squalid compound of jewels for continuity as it were, the trademark of both natural and technical production, meaning a value or a variable either way.

For our dual cosmos self-inflates as a product injector smitten with cultural exertion, just like a weather bomb wearing favored colors, pebble and pale, lucent grays.

Each stone then is a cloud inside, unable to be judged while giving away to access in a haystack, the multiverse, which looks most imprisoned now.

Dorothea Lasky
Thunderbird
Wave Books
2012

“You speak of one reality

I speak of the another” since you sport a destiny like foam

And I got caught in the scheme of two assholes

But I was too far in their scheme to see my way out of it

So all I did was wait:

A manifold vacuum [i]n that both relate to Buddhism:

To aggregate is to achieve. Afterward a file will result.

I am sick of academics or businesspeople telling poets

There’s deficiency of thought, of ideas. All the same, this is the second point.

And what cold hand will I grasp your heart with

— this is the worst point (“Move me around”). Let me give you a hand.

I am the horse people should bet on

I am the person who will likely save you from fire

I am the person who is black smoke

And blows black smoke in your eyes

I am the squeaky noise at night

Like the oboe in I. Got. You. “Tear up this paper,”

Adorno says plain speech is a fair shake at fame.

When you put your money down

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

The rules commit us to collaborating [w]hich turns to anger

Over language. I’ve always been mad about something else.

Everything is trauma (“I exist”). Everything takes away from the center

[S]o caught up in sheep choc-a-bloc in white fields via rule-governed mechanics.

Surely alter egos bear no responsibility for foundering within the social paradox of violence.

Who to tell no one cares when no one cares

So the others doesn’t count. The others resonating — a prism on top of which you can point to the horizon that’s both magnified and askew. Doesn’t count.

I would still be me though

And I would not let you catch me

For your dinner — with all the pivots discovered and invented:

I would disappear

Until I became the antichrist — something we ate,

Something we are left with.

You're a mess, honey.

                                  — Touch of Evil (1958)

Three readings at Harvard that should be SRO.

Wednesday, October 17, 6 pm:
Mary Jo Bang and Jennifer Scappettone
Woodberry Poetry Room
Lamont Library, Room 330

Monday, October 29, 6 pm:
Charles Bernstein and Christian Bok
Edison-Newman Room, Houghton Library

Wednesday, November 7, 5 pm:
John Koethe
Woodberry Poetry Room
Lamont Library, Room 330

Rats in ’84. Pyrric chaos now.

It’s either one long numero or buckets of sequence.

I forget something else but won’t forget

mercy’s repeated efforts lengthen pleasure.

A gyrating breakfast is only description w/ depth

subsumed as they say in the trade off

or on, in and out. ‘Off’ is the ‘on’s eye feigning

to wait for all possibilities to soften the surface w/

clouds as dense as free-tailed bats.

Something came up. And what’s not said expands underground. This is unlikely

as lightning winning over fog. Lightning understands it’s disassociated. Has

nothing to transact, so no product. How is it fire? Up in sparks it glows

and falls out with grey streaks that look glazed or remedial past

the exercise and expense within its detail just like the moon made of lard,

indispensable for smearing light into a tiered package of delicious snakes.

For Columbus Day

Deep dish or alla breve? Equity or neurons? These databases center sobriety on the ground and keep looking up.

g = l. Everything I note here is integrated.

I’m driven to reach my market. Driven to sketch sweet totems that “look pretty close” with my eyes closed.

And with that, I could use your language without a lexicon.

Or the lexicon is turning out everything shy of an outboard length more (or less) infinite and infinitesimal.

I wish you had been here to get on.

Memes are talk, the walk, persons in the environment trudging,

though below 8%, unemployment among heads of households and subsequent foreclosures are the largest causes of forcing one in four children into poverty.

We’ve forgotten how to make things. It began with the airlines. Their only product is service that dissolves midair w/ infinite conjecture, casual panic, unbolted chairs. It’s like when Francis Poulenc got into libido trouble, and like Napoleon he slumbered through fulfillment, undressed to force a smile.

Beautiful red shoulder blades, his gainsaying oomph...

something squeezes pure structure into shadows that are numb to exclamation.

The finalists quit joking. General practitioners stepped up but their work got converted to an industry with little or no honor system. That’s when the mathematicians were unmoored.

Affection is vicarious info. Vicarious is not strong enough. Inner and outer merge in our skulls, which can be broken down, yet a lost cause. Connections we lose in reality are scarifying. Partnerships were constructs, first a little lunatic, sometimes febrilly culled. And like my peers who make their searches more social, I’m involved with a darker pool. We’ve slathered each other with near-imperatives about our fears of the excluded. So there’s nothing else? I can’t tell, because I wouldn’t know.

When instrumentalists and the poor struck their alliance back at the start, I thought this is no way to begin although their ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspirations became footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.

A single clomp can change the course of a lifetime.

There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.

Or a burst of daft tone substitutes for info.

I lower your voice to approximate the closest approximate parity.

Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?

The truth is a manifold vacuum. We’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions like these comprise unforgettable elements to our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off speechless for totems unknown, spinning or spun, quiet out of control.

And that’s how we fasten the starry messenger to move around objects.

100% our touch.

I remember bling.

I had one uncle who foretold the weather, intelligent and excitable. In any lake country there’s an old future that’s discontinuous, stage name of Nothing Simmering No One.

Triumph is creepy. Time here to move. The chef is childish, a waiter wields the stone rattle that he hides like buttergrass in plain sight. End of story.

I would like to see the dissolved thread to narrative, the needle and my as it were point.

This idea dawns as I back into the slurry, plump and downy evanescing into fluff. The slurry rises above affixes and gardenias. It’s here. Helium released — thrown in reverse in spring and then in autumn — trees light up again, everything’s on the table.

I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Resentment buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the spontaneous,

beats through the dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right, clinging to both

like lying without a theory of purpose or the gift of agency to promote my case, so masking my vanity becomes the challenge

I forget what you sound like

as fizzy, hideous notes soak into the beach that hangs around for the escape clause (always the last place you look!)

Outside the Landscape

The evaluations are in.

The landscape is smoking hot. The mood passes from desolating satire to marsh-puissance returning as the meadow variety of nibbling torque. Justice, liberty and rule of law (liberty with caution) ...

For team members, justice is made to look calculated. It’s easier to have a set of consonants in your throat than to work through hundreds of clay-toned physiques that rule with no sound.

By caution as usual we mean caution to the core.

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

There’s a low threshold for unlimited space and transfers.

It’s better when I wake up I’ve landed.

Volumes in the sun sound great. I started at the top, the left knee was just there, then a few rain forest elements incised to form solid bands connected to now or a minute from now. Also, it’s easy, suddenly, to have fitter children to soften the grid. We can see up through the valley. The police are going wild in the next lane, so I was arrested asking myself, how can I sleep better and not get caught.

Taking chances put us in this lissome interpretive state (illicit birth). Function varies widely. The Governor’s lilac becomes zest. I usually fall asleep before the plane takes off.

That was at the start. I know that.

After aging it’s fodder beets, as miniscule and exciting as a freshly poured sidewalk.

In design every utterance is for sale. I’m delighted in my forties and fifties, and after, I’m intensely relaxed, everything exposed like muggy air filled with puzzling results you can pin on like tendrils.

To qualify what happens to the climate and delay what it’s about you need smarts, exemplary filtering and interpenetration among the important guys running this. Or just one guy.

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. There’s another slant to male deadpan, social conditioning in both its range of agency and its lexical tactics. The partisan schema could be 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.

Climate is a tacit partner with space. 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 a weigh station), not coming back any time soon. It’s new weather either side of a sit-around for embers that make fresh tracks learning to combine. So there’s one more weather slot to restage. Also there’s a sweep of heavy and inked lads. They look seriously under-schooled, still, you would like to think one is innocuous. Dumb and innocent, the future! There’s a tattoo for that pulpiness, sure. Promote your event.

Scars are luxury goods. But none of this mattered at the time.

It was his hair.

Modesty is unimpressive. So forms of address change the ideology.

In this construct I’m a physicist painting junk and emptiness. Painting double quotes. I’m a neo-accepter of things, making and being particles of objective misnomers. Eating and breathing them, too, as the Tide-clean rhetoric of space/time burgeons in vibrating blobs and officially sanctioned conjecture. Ergo rising, the evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family of affixes and addictions to risk.

This knowledge effect brings on cloud equivalents that prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower. I never understood insinuation. I never misunderstood it, either, a civilized divide. You can go right in. They have an open table.

There Is No Personality

Going back, favoring the objective,
sun up, Fra Angelico,

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

Shall I mark you as another ambition
in the incident layers

of highly varied chroma
guessing the wrong concision or hue

handed through fog sorting the dots’
congeries of texture?

I turned and asked again.
(It felt unwise.)

It is what it isn’t.

Poem for Matvei Yankelevich
was written on an early computer,
he thought it's written on the first computer
even before the
word computer or word processor was adopted for
that which Matvei was writing on to respond
to the poem,

which was not actually a poem but
a thought experiment that took place
first in the mind of its writer,
slapping Helen over the internet
that hasn’t been thought of much less
invented yet.

The computer without a name (so far)
the one that may be the first or for
sure a prototype
metallic patchwork soldered
with tubes and distinguished by
a green glow above in its porthole,
not a porthole actually but there was
no easy word to come up with for
screen back in the day,

still the computer was up
and running like men on deck or a fox force
and the process figures it out,
tries many ways of using the alphabet
rather than numbers to fill the porthole
with letters and many idea plants.

Last Saturday at the Boston Poetry Marathon I spoke briefly about three poets with local roots, Billy Barnum, the late Donald Quatrale, and Rene Ricard. I called all three Boston Flashes: agitated, pleasurable, radiant fairies, “distinguishable by having no dominance over poetics except a poetics en passant...distracted. Here but not here. Flashes.” Etc.

I’ll write a little bit about Quatrale and Barnum later, while I start here where my talk finished, Rene Ricard. Since my interest with Ricard was to read four poems from Rene Ricard 1979-1980 (DIA, 1979), my intro remarks are minimal.

Rene Ricard is too famous to catalog. (Not really. There’s just no time to contextualize his big biodata.) From Acushnet, MA Ricard came to Boston as a teenager and fell in with John Wieners, then moved to New York. The self-inflicted sobriquet “a living legend” is deserved, rising and falling, an optimum star in Andy Warhol’s Kitchen and Chelsea Girls, Artforum critic and New York Times op-ed essayist, East Side artist, New York poet. But he came back to Boston often to spend time with Wieners, and it was Wieners who showed Ricard when to write about love. (As aftermath.)

I read four poems: “HEY LOUIE WHERE YOU BEEN?” “‘I’m Going Now, Okay?’” “A Boy and His Dog,” and an untitled piece that starts with the word “Love:” in the left margin and continues as indented free verse:

I did the homework but flunked
the exam.       The light lays on the bed.
I lay on the bed.       I get under the covers.
Light lays on the blanket.       I get
no sleep. Light lays heavily on me.
Things are not always deeply felt.
Meanings bubble up before
sleep and, fairy gifts, vanish at the
grasp, like finding money in the
street in a dream or being re-
united in a dream and
seeing you was like finding
money in the street.       Then seeing you
again like fairy gifts that vanish
at the grasp.       Five o’clock in the morning.
The street.       The luncheonette.
Now I stay away from the bad
neighborhoods where I lived.
The bad blocks of the heart.
Things are no longer deeply felt
as I ascend the grand staircase
of indifference.       Discarded party favors
lay on the floor below.
They were my feelings.
I have a headache.
All these feelings like the remains
of an orgy in the morning light
cigarettes in half-empty glasses
The afternoon.       The light.
The bed. The tearing away.       The heart.
The leg falls asleep and goes numb.

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 dolt says. He was staring at my clogs, wondering how much they cost.

Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”

In this chapter I fear the sarcasm.
Sex is a sardonic comfort with a sober edge. My Bologna,
you’re leaking 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 undergarments in 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.

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

Can never bite. Except at night. There are newer urgencies
when management would feel desperate
so exposed it’d feign ignorance, aimlessly...

Then struck the lightning rod emits a light and after that a chemical substance that recuses itself for a second and returns as cognitive coloration that’s small matter.

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 Stevensian.

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

For exploring hooks stick to the sentence.

Taking out the trash is understood as extra
sensory anger, sometimes a polite form of the hole-
in-the-universe, with a beaker installed & promising

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

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

Time’s up. I have to guide this crone back to her tapestry, 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. There were dimensions an hour ago enabling two events in a plot we’re party to. Tenebrae, we said. Let’s return to these olfactory sketches, in which the cosmos is unexplained, parts one and two. Incandescent, then, 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.

Software permeates our touch. Always has.

Where should I hurt?
Show me a locket grant once.

Once and be done. A few more

fix the climate fast with lots of glass and a shining brand
like my nickel-coated marionette whose defiance is offensive.

But you feel tall and

inflatable as you cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

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

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

I’ve got a memory of memories in the bedroom where we sleep all night with eyes open and keep a couple diaries chastened by our agenda in a stoned vein.

I don’t like Mondays, Tuesdays or Wednesdays. Hustling all the time is awesome! And also timeless like burning in hell, too big to fail. (But this is July. So we remember slush.)

I can’t live without taking charge light years from now.

I got a yoga fungus. It’s progressive and it shows nicely round your wrist — let me guess. Not so fast, I woof you. What’s progress? Your name weeks after.

What about Lars?

We didn't kill him.

                                  — The Thing (2011)

Inside it’s gray. Divided & confused, I signed
up for a remodel of love. The pills are there,
there’s a container for every passion on loud
so the ambient workspace can hear it,
feel it in stages striking overnight.

We need smarter drywall too, to excite
ferns and moss growing other side, every-
thing about the yield blowing in its whereabouts
news of perpetual unitary joy...

The one for you, today’s furniture w/ firepower
to prelude our ideals, descending in scale
ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off
in force that puts us residents out of bounds. It’s
back to work then. Show’s over. You go ahead.

A poem is a picture. I'm holding a Shrek glass of water as the arfs define bird properties, degraded after sunset, shaken to a grin brink like oops.

A picture like hydrangea in labor (staging nightmares) — in labor we chose our parents; this is a tenet of Hindu verse.

It’s with a picture I hold you for conniving to carpet silence.

In this picture I’m emotionally shot with depth as a thespian-rapper rounding off contrasting demands of flimsy seriality and sequence, conquering death with abundance.

I'm a day late. In choosing what rubs me wrong or why I don’t want to be seen with you or apologize for an ode, can I eat something?

I repeat.

I chose ode and it’s an ode to summer, just getting to you. As marriages go it’s not all bad. I owe my bros an apology. (Not you.) My better half too. It’s just an exchange. Excuse me.

Summer!

Thanks for the memories.

You ruined my life.

                                  — She's the One

I met her on a ferris wheel. (Most peacekeepers are female-shaped.)

In the beginning I was angry purchasing my first balance-ledger. But I learned my lesson.

Once there was vitality in diffusion and a crutch like levitation. Levitation got modulated. Modulated is like drummers and saxophonists who are women coming out to play, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our environment and backing it up with inexact beats and multiplying sounds from what they were doing before the lesson took hold.

Sexual scaffolding hovers in the interim, instantly recognized as identity. Identity and hardened m.o.’s then evaporated. We invented them from silences, lies and a feral sense of feeling cornered in a soulless piano practice session. Enough of these, and men as well as women are resigned and re-acclimated to generations of processed shock of the simple — the safe-zone simple, where infectious pop is authenticated, highlighting some weak spots.

Wherein a smirk presses on — mass culture destroyed, life-changing sex.

That would be the solid thunk in no progress.

The film in which we’re about to echo is crowded without words.

The machine I never saw before flunked me —

A glimmer of prolific aroma.

Calm down. There’s a piece of karate with top notes to erase. There’s something else fantastic, piquant, active against the grain. Your touch reaches a point at which time management is unleashed.

But I’m just commenting.

I drive a Steinbeck but long for a Camus. Look me in the eye. Diagramming conditions of spatial jitters and others’ sentences, you’re anonymous either way.

So lets bring things together, kilt wearer.

There’s a big, strange pulling apart shmooshing the semiotics of escape.

We’re going around in “concepts” that save face.

How can it be effortless if I tell you what I’m doing?

So I’m in debt. It’s everyone’s creepy fault.

Clouds're in slacks by the appliance (touching both elbows behind my back) for undressing gravity. It gets to be a habit they can’t keep up. But the police are still baffled. They go on a breather

escalating disappearances

where any guess takes gravity outside our house aesthetic smoking clouds.

To put it together, the yews wear hand-me-downs making what’s inside disappear with our bed in it the last day we ate. Together and beyond

then they subside again, turning bright green.

North American Taoism is a quad divided.
We never come across it.

Yet a parabola intersects its pedigree that was.
Gestures are precise. Bright eyes,

sparkling motions. Climbing down the outside
there’s a new quad mainstream-underground

— we — some of us — avoid it. It’s hardly objective,
but a big tantric realignment is authentic now,

the hyper-rufflers juxtaposed by the advanced milieu.
So let’s start with the rectangular coordinates,

understand pleasures the eyes, neck and chest.
There. Got it.

You may have noticed I write to your head,

Flash my badge. Home is test patterns,
7 rooms (usually) with clay-toned physiques
fighting the relative fight for sheer falsetto

— everybody under anesthetics, lunar waxing
credited to a whipsaw. A foot of sleet
from the window, the surf comes to mind in
reverse as if it were one long eyebrow, roughened

Like your wingspan & oh, wait we did this already.

I’m on the side of fuzzy & discontinuous oooomphs
nibbling torque adjusting zest into gonzo —
I’m spry on my motives

Holding out to you
my coat with the fired bullet in it, effluvia.