Are they saying the same thing? Chögyam Trungpa teaches First thought best thought; George Balanchine, Don’t think do. Both mean and don’t mean it. Put extremely, the meaning / meaningless problem buries itself in application: a first thought in Trungpa’s belief is already broken in two; thinking (or not thinking), even (or especially) when it’s “first,” impedes being (and incidents not attached to being); while Balanchine wants physical movement to function over and above mental representation, yet one thinks on the way up to execution. Both statements — first thought, don’t think — are similar examples of intuitive layers in which meaning deploys no meaning slaying the butterfly native to these parts, reflection of opposite outcomes.

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

Where was I? Reading is different for writers. 



For poets, reading is poetry, prepoetry, or at minimum, 従って, original potential. As John Ashbery has said often in a number of ways, “poetry dissolves in / brilliant moisture and reads us / to us.” It’s snowing heavily as I cut and paste Ashbery’s three lines. It’s timely for me to face the brilliant moisture idea. This is unmitigated happenstance, like a majority of what I read. Circumstance or not, writers, not just poets, skew toward reading that prompts wordy consideration and response. Poets appear to go out begging for it, finding relief in processing text, principally but certainly not only poetry. We’re not addicted to reading because we’re feeding off catharsis or anything like it. That’s what normal readers do. We’re not normal. I am not compelled to read to feel emotion or have ideas, primarily. I read to do something with emotions and ideas. We look them over, kick their tires, test ride them. Who among close readers of Ashbery has not taken him for a ride and been piqued? When we feel this way we can figure the time / emoticon game out, just a little. The hold it now frolic that Ashbery creates with registers is one way. In “El Dorado,” he plays with loose, dim witted utterance, with “‘No rest for the weary’,” which he puts in quotes to annoy his reader, a poet, more; “I disagree / with you completely but couldn’t be prouder / and fonder”; followed up by “So drink up. Feel good for two.” For the fun of it he’s talking down to one of his most cherished categories of reader, a poet, acknowledging the troublesome and timely antagonism between the writing and the being read, a live act passing on as it addresses, writes the other, the live act in reading, the future, both merged continuously. More obvious, we find a symptom of time shifting as Ashbery reaches (up, across, down?) for a choice of word that spins his reader’s head, because, well, when the curious yet killer word comes along you feel it... because you’re thinking ‘what a cool choice,’ and now you’re immersed (sic) with what you’re reading and with the writer as you both had to have speculated, as if together, on the word, on how, and on why it came to be such a good choice. So reading and writing about reading suggest rewards.

Gastronomy is to breaking the ice as ‘fucking / sponginess’ is to bacchanals.

Who picks my music ’n prose? She’s a far out snob.

My area is interpretive search.

(Want to read my mind? enjoy.)

At 1 time there was modernism + plus in diffusion, a going dutch like critique. Yamaguchi feels criticism like that got modulated, coming out to sample masked hostility, the indecisiveness of the environment, backing it up with inexactitude ’n randomness from what we were doing before the procedural took hold: 



A bright skepticism mostly shows up as identity. Youthful identity ’n hardened m.o.’s, closed ’n evaporated, taken down, resigned to 3 decades of processed shock of the simple, safe zone simple, where pop classics are reauthenticated, highlighting weak spots.

...cross-pollination of English and psychology is providing a revitalizing lift. I’ll assume you suspect I know you know I know. It’s in the literature. Empiricists map it. I’m in sympathy and while I try a couple of poses from the repertoire of the defrocked — ah ha there are great, pure benefits sponsored by broad-shouldered believers grasping for governance! Wouldn’t you know they’re in an infinite series within the history of gossip. (Or from another angle they are the series, dead and history.) (You know.)



It’s been a while since they’ve grabbed a bite. I suspect their budgets have been cut because I cannot be concerned. But nothing is forgotten, since distraction matters for the next table/angle. You who.



English 1st. All our mistakes stand at attention because they were selected but warded off, fervid show-offs.

The Lord wait lists the system.

Can’t be sure there’s larger yield.

Gauguin went to Tahiti.

Notebook open, wallet shut.



Occam never multiplied.

Irony-sincerity voted

Thomas Eliot, a flashy

Society writer, a modernist.



Oh, fine, thanks.

And yourself? Today



That chintz is lost

And chintzy terrible’s in play.



Something accrues.

A lot misunderstand to dote on.

I’m flipping out, whoa. A white screen shot. Completely lite jazz, then lower right, your lips moving up, down, talking design.

Remember about now we want clarity on motives, soft flickers spidered into leg & arm pins. Get to the resolute joy nodes, a punching bag of tricks, compressed. Check the seams

glowing with shimmering. Lodging a spigot startles the system.

Let’s dance.

I’ll take the sherry Pepsi, & sardines, thanks.

I’m sorry this happened. I was pumping gas

& going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension
of disbelief, a scene like martial arts, sparkling pen-



umbrae, a pro ring barnstorming on top

dicing / re-arranging pushed to extremes,

undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.

Coast to coast software permeates yachting.
Wherever she roams..

Damn, can’t complain, when your children left
we had chipmunk..

A crane & white as air a crossbill
tasted nah. We kept contact for the timing..

induced hunger paid. We’re naked now to
quicken the flip side of getting our ch-

amber music to pleasure others, to stroke ch-
ins for surplus power, when. When yes.

But ur plots don’t belong here. Before facebook, years ago
Philostratus regenerated transmigration for poems,

A Pythagorean retro feel there is a beginning, there is
an end, don’t fix it.

I forget Bat Masterton and Hamlet in a nutshell

I forget Souhait is powered by coke

I forget umbrage derives from a grumpy guy’s distortion,

Fond pleas fractured time and morbidity,

Gothic non being, first loneliness and Goethe’s juvenilia

I forget man killers residing in jail


I forget Malthus festivals in the woods

I forget command centers for negotiation,

Structures lined with mosaics

And tunes by Corelli as well as my life on a cattle ranch



I forget we both were wearing black polos

I forget functioning ghost towns caked in tire tracks,

Havana interiors and Tonka trucks.

I forget you picked up the check.

*

I forget MoMA in the original

I forget shifts have genealogy

I forget different periods of shifts

I forget changing contexts for straw men.



I forget good instincts

I forget large amounts like lengths and desperation

I forget being pregnant

I forget circling the rink.



I forget an empirical relationship

I forget the transitive force of “mottled taxonomy”

I forget this is so you I forget the gastropod nation

I forget complaints and sworn declarations

I forget the Kennedys I forget the Dead Kennedys, video pastiche

I forget ephemerality I forget narrative.

*

I forget farewells

I forget any handle made your rounds wholly hidden

I forget triumphs that cradle the face sorrow brings to the sack

I forget flexible spite


I forget how your toeprints are all over this

I forget your own fantasma gadgetry

I forget my thigh, the one you lift
I forget being in the wrong place


I forget misapplied figures, images, parables
I forget the medium requested looting prestige

I forget my leftist French brain I forget being nervous!
I forget the medium is across earning a word.
I forget I’m technically yours and again I stay fallible

I forget this is so you.

Food tastes better, I notice flowers. What’s
wrong with me? May I introduce me? Who
you reading these days? Whom I love, food,
haven’t had any for a while. Crunchy leaves
underfoot & wearing your panties, walking
the park I have to apologize to everyone, do
-ing this. Don’t be fooled thinking Psyche
has to be heavy. It’s something we eat. If a
day comes, this should be read aloud to our
girls Harold, Joe, Jr., & Frances Blue Moon,
drink to me Bill Bouguereau. You seem nice.

CONCEPTUALPOETRY = CREATIVEADVERTISING

John, it’s up to hope’s pond structure to model passivity discharged by shore conditions. Everyone knows that. Protecting dignity threatens it. A man’s voice is handsome, calm, but also scrappy.



Scraps and parts of nesting authority. And what I learned from you is to hope is to re-reference flow made out of many godless m.p.h. gusts — this is my body — a priori nil in inner life razing names of the verb.

I polished the text and handed it in.

It’s my last fill of politics.



We used photographs for subject matter; here’s a garland fungus, students in foreground (by an arch to
the abandoned parks).

Further downtown, after a button is pushed, a model young theorist says hello, how are you, and reverses course.
She heads upstairs to an installation in mounting solitude



Mahlerless, and somewhere else, I find a thinly veiled version of me. The jam on our toast is persimmons even
as our bodies beep.

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



A fragrance was found shaking our hands, wiping our brows.

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

The sun is gray. Divided, confused, I
signed up for a summer of love. The pills are

sweet, their force takes me out of bounds,

interludes on the double.



I’m Matthew McConaughey, not perfect. It’s an every

day regimen with that living unlocked smell.

I set the controls; the active ingredients are

soon not now, don’t. First thing prithee

Noonish. I have a profane vocabulary,

a little nervous forced into the secondary

but I’m ecstatic I’m 29. I’ve been blocking

myself but now it’s over. I’m directional.



My head weighs 10 pounds.

Hold my earrings.

It saddens one to inform the boss


she’s not serious, never is.


I live off equity of a nerd faculty

where my future holds, the major role promised

Hermes that took him over the edge.


I’m in love with my clients,
plus I’m environmentally drunk;



I’m a working temp, placing puts

on the periodic table, petite in wanting you (I do).

Angels, let’s run some #’s.

To pass over when we wake is ample. Waking’s crap;

scrunching it up is everything for breakfast —



a perfect station that plays Schubert for a kettle of urgency,
searing, puffy, relaxed, and succinct. Like fury.

The Blob.

I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating gaping yawns in fair use praxis, and there’s a connection to the same eggy lights-out factory, an eyesore we dreamed up or could dream up. Inside there’s little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying in the dark, increasing inventory, keeping faith from their orientation, mining the richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dawn to midday, they think: so many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs up they flare into aqueous shimmer! One we’ve been party to. Party is a word. It felt so good to close down a wide sector of the critical imagination, ethos, and move nowhere collectively, a function of a huge leftist irony aggregation org.

That misspelling in brief is Fidelio, and from there I can move forward and back to connect times with ideas and people that encompass my naïve expertise.

Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam,
Accounting disappears like functions of context (procedures) —

Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to amoral schemes
More fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Travel well.

A big heart susses southpaw disproportionality, so lovers per lifetime meet the others halfway, slanting the blurred promise we had or we don’t know in the aftermath of a hiatus, letting it die down.

Smelling adages jazzes a decimal of our pablum.

Where should I hurt?

Once and be done. A few more



fix the climate really fast with glass and shining wands

like my nickel-coated lots of dick. 



A marionette’s defiance is as defensive



As ours but you feel tall and

inflatable as you cascade into a blank, mechanistic corp.

Ads before news of comfortable, determinant
Males gaining business insight by the numbers are
A given. Someday I’ll have a pomegranate thermostat;
It’s not torture unless it causes organ failure.

No shortcuts. Nope. The perverted best part was
how I occupied your emotional life, the highest in Japan.
The guardian part made this a better world with a splash
of blood on my shirt. It’s for you, Jack.

The composed freakout is in wide release. Filthy inside, one protagonist is making waves as an analyst for a nonprofit, deep money, fancy beer, soda.

Who is that high def doily legs in an itinerant color of childish poetry?

I’m expecting something. I’ve been expecting you. How much more if something happened?

A gaze from a subscriber who won’t consider
it’s such nice work, the jug
with its schema proliferating one fable
between acts of kindness, tragic themes
of incitements or was it just empty?

I’m still not finished, you pay.
We call soliloquy theoretical fado
since there’s no one else speaking.
The jug she’s extending is not audible —

it’s just a backstory in a way
sulking inside a thought of a room
with the hygienic view forward, a term
that cannot be considered in terms
until my spinal column heats up, thinking of you.

My Panker is home.

It ranks among the most beautiful in Holstein. Darkness fences the glow.

My Panker is a Kleinod from Episode Neun, only 3 km from the county seat Futterdorf.

Futterdork I don’t visit. Wax flowers are harsh, yet impassioned, so nowhere is low.

Borders and shading sharpen us Trakehners, as well over 1500 hectares of agricultural surface’re worked over.

Ducks flying down splash, flattened grey popping on mauve.

Horses, tho, you find steeds of Panker only. (Hammered light is accommodated on neighbouring properties, Schmelzbad zone, attaining sad celebrity in the last climate day burn.)

Beside Panker observation tower, from which one can see in good weather far over, even Danemark, where many dreams lie.

In former times foresters got their Aufbesserungen along with sailors for a Senkrecht. From that, with foresters, with sailors the Hessen Stien grew.

The wind in tent flaps sounds. I am here.



Today one can eat excellently and jazz friends here come also.

Like dozens of others spin
ning into effect, I will never make chicken
soup for you, I never make
chicken soup but if you needed me
to I would.

You come before vegetarian salvation.
I will never make
that either.

Stunning, new chaps:

CALCINATIO by Kimberly Lyons
GOLD STARS WET HEARTS by John Godfrey
DON’T GO HOME WITH YOUR HEART ON by Alli Warren
ONE-LINERS by Vincent Katz
I HAD EVERY INTENTION by Michael Gottleib.

Covers by Tom Burckhardt. Read more:

http://www.fauxpress.com

To be disciplined on our new motion furniture
requires drill, “...comfort is a habit of empire.”
Start over. Abruptly
per Chronicles of Goo,
I’m knocking nonprofessionals
off, throwing knives, wrecking them
from the inside, slicing up!

A he-mind’s pill for breathing is long overdue.

And we’re back on one conjoined vertigo seat, now
reading and writing without an attorney.
“That’s how the paint sails” within taxonomies, overheated,
a mind occupied, just so, musks in the field and so forth.

The bus door was gone.

You’re friend is coming. You mean the theme costumes?

Wearing a wigless wig is my method and model.

When I hear topical shifts forward hidden risks it’s iterative, baroque: As if after
her death Couperin sprawled with the naked around Antoinette.

Let’s find one thing to agree on.

I usually snooze after a bonfire of love, & like Coup, not one note of cynicism vis à vis whom I adopt.

It’s better after I begin to wake I’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun is great. I merge at the top, asleep..

Moreover, I landed. A roundhouse in the sun.. the left knee was just there when it was there, then took a variant position in summary terms of a sequence with only a few I could see up thru to the pleasantest valley. Police went wild one lane over, so I was arrested while asking myself, do

I understand profuse clouds are disassociated?

How is a partner shiny but then fallen with grey streaks?

Huh? Is it the fire? Up in smoke, flames sparks glow,

the red moon indispensable for smearing made light

that travels down in a tiered borderlike scrawl.

There’s an echo upstairs.
That guy was the 1st to get a grip and hold on. He was witless after a while, undead.
You disappear, and you have children and they disappear.
He was Vietnamese. Works for the post office.

Inner wresting? That word again.
It’s kind of an unbuttoned, squeegeed pain to wrest
a dishonest hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity, where
it goes away, released at last into newly impartial states;

the tide appears to notarize something.

We came here to our senses to put up a hoax mailing.

Apologies to my mate.

So what if we both went thru the door leading to the rescue
of childhood? and all it contains,
all I could have told you?

Let’s run an empire far off the — the first the —
& inhibit stimulus regulation within sight
Killer Joe staying small they say, only to walk-ins
& wrestlers who portray border patrol..

I’m thinking of a movie, “Do you know how many?”

The sun shines larger. We rely, really like your ideas. / O
great. You can stay with me + have what you own grow
as an entire practice, obsessive habits flattened into
cognition-festering symmetry

about a skirmish between distinctions
over words bringing up the actual goods
times incorrigible brain-states of Asia.

It’s a question of .. you can say art or Art Farmer.
There are no stages.

There’s no way to degrade-ultimately-destroy capital.

After millennials there’s homesickness, new inebriation, a little suffering a little moving in with my
parents because they like me... I just don’t worry: It’s my best opus, a tight 100 hours of urban-U,
Godzillian scale narrative casually hiding in self help boilerplate..

I’m feeling polyphonic with an uncapped fortune, reflecting what I did when my adolescent
backbone iced up, raising all boats, all social levels. My greatest fear is going deeper into Dr Jeckel —
I’d be dragging a palm frond around 4 a.m. That would kill my parents.

They’re dead already.

If you’re anamorphic, government 2 often comes out with all-of them, highlights. Or low-2-high if you like
sex, be sure 2 wake me up. Pick a spot and be seen as well as seem breathing, o Swami —
Our guardians are tired of interruptions and self reflective outreach; hence the corporation is late

and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens. Solitude, confidences, you’ll earn times in the day,
the plays and jungle, many in a series — during your mother’s labor you chose your parents,
keeping their lives 2 lose you.

Thank you for your musical style, a payee’s piece about

the imageless form to experience / current status win-loss =

Average as guilt, blandness is a problem. No luck, too popular.

Everything dark brute-accented inflates 3 dimensions into immense mist clots

too mid-acre to reformulate. (It’s up in the air. The property goes on while.)

The ornithologists’ gist is the sparrow’s wardrobe is beaten but breathing.

The unequal in luck float more. I hope you’re happy.

Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions

like these unforgettable elements to our touching and holding the moment,
surrounding it with illusions of taking off for the unknown, spinning or spun,
upset, out of control yet

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

100% our touch.

Who owns property, names, or anything under formalism?

We grew up 20th century, 100 years sooner when
more than research suggests

it was treacherous. Owners on top, perpetrators / victims
of aggression involving peers.

Now your party last night was great. We dwelt publicly on difference,
on crispnesses in whispers in the air;

there was a gate to nothing like a silent film in a process language.
Mercury is arrow & bow! pensive. It’s

coming back, back...

no..
No to tempos of glyphic turmoil ground into torpid incision, no Daddy-o.

No!
No contusion of the spheres.

I’m saying no, not the first, no to virulent, callow graphemes, a stance cover & I dislike a crackdown that fabricates its essence — otherwise normal project managers on the roof, smug in clown sport outfits at the top of their game, which is synchronized, written over from scratch.

Cut the skull-like crocus, low opinions, bloodied mesh. No aplomb in nature, please. No chiastic haunts. & no

ilk of valid scouring colloids — simple? No mimic measure, no ceremony “plinthing a drumbeat.” Also,

no dyscalculia, no hindsight bias, no rose gum.



If I put a question mark after feeling genreless, it’s live

while dreams of Lubitsch films



don’t exist — here we go — appreciating in value?
discourse running late — this is one’s newest



moment favoring an objective.

Example: Sun up, Fra Angelico,



girl, you’re a mess.

I’m going to grab you.

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

as the guy interested in robots, the narrator,
urinates, grabbing my shoulder. Rusts all over
himself. He says this lets off steam.

Private-public ideas, made-see-through
& of fine voice. “A voice & nothing more.”

I’ll do what I can. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different jokes
turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me for almost everything but paranoia’s belated audition,
trapping you if you let go while yielding authority.

I Hey

I talk in a lowered register to get totally inside your face. My face. My brow sports a few layers of sleep
relief, aching in baby, cutely accruing intimacy to belie despair over zero gravity.
So there’s no dead end!

But it’s my doing, making money hard to borrow. Ambitions clenching-tight,
I’m in a century where that passes for control, shafted by the viability of conquering death
with abundance.

Sprigs pick up, driftwood gets epigrammatic, many upsides unrelated, pale, immaculate.
With little or no motive, the sky foregrounds its style, taking all its time.

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

We’re in scandalous terrain prone on a couch eating donuts —
that or anything like that could send us home, hungry

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

There’s a glow in seconds before the avalanche, fun and explosive. Wow.
Or like a buddha machine in no now.

A chosen toothbrush has been abandoned. I’m forgetting about it.

I’ll be moving out soon. Moving thru a lefty runoff. I won’t be funny or try, relax or specify the ...

I only know self-reconciliation doing this puzzle, but I’ve always got your back, sans angst,
familiarly strange and pleasant, but

I’ve lost myself in the new geography.. Thanks.

Do you downsize? Can you?

kari edwards: “...mercury poisoning / abandoned

to loading docks door prize / all well meaning

track homes.” P Inman’s Echelon hairnet thumb-nailed

into one agreement beset by red tide warnings,

hot, dizzy, the environment calms down, thirsting,

incapacitating northeastern beach personalities, split,

calibrated mostly by a ruckus-like technology / outreach

where all the jazz wears off. (They’re both full tilt.)

Sonnet to the people at Boeing, since the poor make us sick

— stuck, instead, learning plane facts by heart in capsule surveys

: tempo noncommittal (not nothing) if you don’t inhabit what you’re saying, shhhh ...
Yes, fool, you slick intern online — bobbing head,

Learning about how to learn are neat (fatuous) even if your power won’t count
when we begin to edge away.

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

We’ll provide all of the paragon on screen. When you come to a 3-syllable you don’t
recognize, you can just look down and see its puny disentanglement.

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

As we advance, there are 44 thousand voice-to-gifs with references from which
to plagiarize a response, while materials become more germane, less error-
prone, building on what’s been said

yielding access to the obscure but brightest sof’ freaks — handsome, least
sniffed all over, never complicated, staring down your bitewing. Ask your financial
professional.

This was worked on, 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 in a symbolic realm. It’s a higher amendment.

Again, I’m doing an accordion fold, a plu-construction of the escort’s sensibility (as if I know what any 1 syllable of that means). Reverse stabbings thru-out, they concern writing and writing-2 who meet up in a fixed-action pattern within rational yet imprecise kairos, recycling once or twice.

There are episode interiors silhouetted in un-analytical projections of glass that screen the ‘official’ episode. However I believe we’re past the middle and nearing the end of 1; the outlines say there’s a Majesty Double interior where writing adjusts to incidents of long division, complex facticity that writing-2 tears open and begins to pick at to pay writing off in disappointment, near failure — both writing and writing-2 climbing uphill and sliding back down just before turning 17, biting down, gritting their teeth, growing up.

There’s improvisatory depth to one surface and to their despairing perceptions of what won’t be retained, nothing prime to curate or disbelieve. Writing is a little wiped. So is writing-2. The drawing of the accordion is frowning, ready to be seen. 2 is blabbing. Writing is a little fucked up too. “Just starting one.” “Cool.” The thing is not to get fucked up too often.

Teaching bests year to date. (Interest charged.) Teaching is something.

Vicarious is not strong enough. I repeat, submission smiling up a precursor, optimism goes under rewrite as you profess it, flips genres beside you, changes minds while in sleep.

I believe you’re a flaneur. Sign within (above x).

Then seed money flows, sounding as half-tuned as any easy resolution, no anxiety. That’s first, nex..

Inner and outer merge in the skull. Affection can’t be broken down, a starry equity in neurons?

Frankly hot-dogging like this can’t be taught.

We said nothing about your male whore sitting meditation, why?

His focus, cash on hand are immediate, overwhelming, no gloom,
Devisive & some. Hai. This may burn a little, two-star.

Two very different outcomes will equally square
What you hear with the apogee you are.


I stake my reputation on it, inscribing our illness, touting
you & kiss the air in your 1st mustache sense.

Self-barter, a potential volt in a then-this-is-now domain,
Lord hobo’s fat lips, wet. Brainy ellipses, & a big hand!


The future of the past was written as if the Northeast crawls
W/ shops like this, which are their symbolism weighing in (...vroom)

Based on trying to get to the gym, having an olive swelte
Protein shake, saying nothing about ..

Oh my god — I just remembered we can fly!

I despise my inabilities to be with you, my own undoing, John. Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush nimbus-wet in devotion to their next decimal of the property. This might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads

and let you know when.

You’re on your own
as our only bard put it, face

Boiling angry sad practiced together.
Not pretty but there in print,

A back to romance pile-up. Rhythms about envy, fugue-sonata
moods for all time rigged

To a full position in some truce or august matter;
autumns & springs mutating so much the dark must be

The opposite of Kristy needs a foot job. We
& why by dint

Of no one that stayed home,
She don’t know we’re looking.

That’s her native name
slowed down to furnish the pace.

Sculpture

The place was firmly democratized, sir. The beginning seemed and was a) (one more time) :

To let the park tell jokes & relay this is about an order of arrangement in Exemplary Monitoring and interpenetration among important parallel scenery et cetera running this.

It’s in the cloud.

b) To qualify what happens and delay what this is about I’m reading Jean Cocteau again and watching Butterfield 8.

Someone, not just Richard Howard, translates Cocteau, Unknown and betrayed, that is a poet's fate, the and italicized. To continue, There's another slant to male deadpan, social conditioning in both its range of intentionality (add agency) and its bi-lexical pragmatics. The schema is echoed by take-downs, targets stuffed with inflammables, straw men (physique / text), and clustered pellets (conditional biodata), whose immolation compels male gut pleasure. The instant sweet-tits take-down / &-out. You can’t have deadpan without it.

Granted, on a more personal note, I maintain a liberal, apolitical esthetic.

You too. Sorry, I have no other associations I’ll share. I was running through work everywhere. Took an order from Exemplary.

You’re really this tall? There is no wrong answer. Your voice feels transparent, too late to make it sparse.

Even your restraint is wishy-washy. You’re too qualified and thrifty to feel anything suspended — Mayday!

I told you I agree, Angel & Angelfish, enjoy your revisionist’s timeshare, afterlife to the future, unobstructed, puckered in ab exercise.

I came for the invoices.

Ever notice? No one lives in that town.

Half-vegetarian, self-colliding fog drinks only from its disconnected, treasured demographic for energy.

We cannot mean erasure, remember.

Our nerve infused by regulatory propriety until we get up to dance founding paradox.

Name a landscape and give birth, rename it and you bestow an ecology of resonance and history.

We’ve heard enough.

This is strictly the governor’s business.

Jay stayed and worked with the new ones coming in,

who were all “Could you be a little more specific, doctor?”



(If you or I put off how ambivalent Jay is I’d miss the point, proverbially.


Otherwise, I get kind of overstimulated by stupid generalizations as

I wouldn't know how to come down on these vital issues.)



Do you like spiral staircases?



— we wiretap the secret you weigh (you get no credit for this —



no ripped-off melancholy, no spectral, tiny swaggering to cash

in) but there’s a substitution agreement including you and both you and me —



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



O to be bubble-footed in dark briefs!



or preferring total lunacy to kissing, moaning about diffusion at any cost,

any cost to render your mouth a mess of slop,



this is for you now.

It made sense, 1 idea to play that 1 note of math from the
cubicle in your head, be4 the pup tent it gets shiny against.

And, there is a civilizing future to being purposefully
dull, entered into more by spotting that and doing it first. It’s

a clear refinement where character offers liberation
Pepsi. You can go right in.

They have an open table.

Composing around you, I’m a zealot about knowing when justice
with passion is vital, not recreational. For bell, orchestra,

softly speaking, these next things in the wicked training
without you, no news, you & I become addicted to the momentum,

nothing else drives us into the surf ---v--,

did you bring the good acrostic? “Gobble, gobble, gobble, I’m talking Chimp now!”

Lament is like college camp. Modalities.
Chafed lips, burning talent, with you or not, the emphasis is how

official? ten to the tenth more hombres
like a polygamist crew barnstorming thru
an ad host hemisphere. Today’s arm band 100 months after

the small of your back sent me packing. It’s August, Arvo Pärt chafing:
& oblique as you, insipid defiance groaned out, hardly credulous ultra-
unpolished release for subsiding in attrition composing around you.

A life is charged on the menu.

Occasionally you sleep, given immunity. It’s horrid erotics but in one conceit I could count Dakota Wizards on my fingers... Your hand got in its say, of course, eliminated all that fuss locked inside. You took my hand the most. Took it to heart.

Not every detail is ready for your Cottage Roadkill section, home base, but you know fingering you’re clueless about vertically integrated brinkmanship deliberately made up to look made up, to look as if it thinks you don’t need a hand trying not to skip dinner, coming through splinters of clouds and low pressure peeled back from late summer, despite my never getting the hang of it;

tenuous, jutting fingers into and under the interstate that brings you and me home.

To recap, I don’t think the life of the mind can be made up. I’m not worried it gets easier.

This is ur-summer. & with these Q-tips it’s free to cut nothing off.

Not even a con anarchist.

Under pre-season conditions, thoughts wash over time —
Starters: Do you test, lease, defame to get the best?

& the answer in a day wherever that is if ..
is it time or times?

*

Coldest August in months. Al
-so there’s good news at the pump. Some-

one’s who’s over us in the wet & questions the vulcanized backlash? No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless, no luck, except the sonnet structure implies conditions. (I’m a novice enthusiast.) Didn’t know early snow is a surprise

taken to the streets. Falling in total sheer, replacement

snow walks like snow foam over Sherry Hamlet.

It’s snowing, nothing personal.

Further out clear descriptors peel off like spiders

descending, moaning nonentities (the Ralph Vaughn Williamses)

hustling all the time, awesome!

Who could be simpler watching you bathe w/ in / or anyone bathe n

ow in tawny daybreak synthetic,

some tint on seraphic white.

Two more loiter, intent. Both smile, neither laugh. They’re wearing harnesses w/ panoptic
properties extending their blood-pull orbit toward Pan?

That’s verse one.

Verse 2. The future would give more / no more just when pragma-morphism is introduced, makeshifted forward to answer the bravo question.

I thought of you.

Then we see a dart has feathers and it flies as it works the crowd.

And something came up. Initial elements were bled into overcherished ideals I thought you stored overseas — they were sent back in a screw-up, gleaming like oxide from my grandparents’ era. The real guys (grandparents, ideals) were thrown out before we got to know them.

I keep saying so moral bases are gnarly, of the helicopter. Any vantage you enjoy leads to ‘representative fantasy’ or one opposite, blocking the view, requiring accommodation to a time squeeze that looks perpetual, tho cyclical, rendering obstructions fluid occasions of conflict, occasions “not to love” (according to Wilhem and Baynes). But conflict is not merely evil if it lends focus on self-regard and moving on, collegiality. This is the potential utility of slanderers, a baseline annulled.

That said, it’s not likely anything not-said expands fields, roots underground.

Seasons

Guards stood tall in part over parcels. Now they tell me to take off my belt. Your belt.

An impression is each motion serves a purpose. A higher purpose according to those hoisted in the sky headed toward real politk under their own glare, collapsing into supernumerary states of hemi-fusion, small readjustments in scales opposite a line-up of our unnumbered bodies. (2 or more.) Every dancer stops mid-enchufla for a mote, a moment, feels-better internationally.

Then we speculate natives yield to the rush of new people stage center, all about the fuzz of pronouns taking on subject matter w/ an emanation or 2 brought up a peg to clear things of few or no differences worth repeating.

Each raising a leg, they like to comport with others. And we have developed responses
.. untruthful automated Now Pro voices “that acquiesce on a positive note..”

one doesn’t have to be interesting. “No clouds, hi contrast,
of little depth.” That doesn’t sound bad. Anyway / or

I’m captioning the fixed width to Now Pro “Token Austerity,
Sleep-laden, Eating Dog Food.” Evolving in massive overuse

you wear counterfeits and feel fake. I bet.
A tropical shift took control. It is that one is there.

A few words on process: Counterfeiting
is luckier than needing everything before it’s rooted in or out,

maintaining perspective (the tatemae policy) while cashing in data
(letting a little X off) to mine parallelisms (partisan tactics).

No sweat. Irregular on-attainment is next, in this new version of Recently Used
English to delete any plagiarism still missing.

Quick followup. Today everything I sculpt is hereon Paul — sculpture /
dummied layout / copy — or it was when we were in Tacoma picking up fun Japanese.
The miner described it as leaving gaps.

Light exchanges positions. Thank you.

*

One’s mellowness operates a transferrable kind.

That line raises nixed larks, also structural rules that write themselves out of Tahoma, from .. Me? I’m

immersed watching the light.
I know you then in new parlance. So I forget
Paul Broadnax and sidemen.

One who will die isn’t perverse, it’s that one adheres to a dress code. Read this. I did.

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

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 until you do onslaughts in
her riveting presence, O

... the downed rookie is back on the outside, his only credits were adamance.
That’s the self, yourself, one’s mind-over-lapse
to squelch a tautology of wealth and actionable conditions, missing
how far you are beaten into their projections.

We are self-thieves, of navy birth, feeling bad about the brief gleam that seethed with rank fidelity,
a gazing furl trying to adhere figuring our life together

Our 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.”

I am a crescent metal, easy to pick up, feed and embrace after the climate changes.

My heart is breaking almost any sec. I’m in Westchester.

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

Mick Jagger is blue in the face.

Paul Violi, R.I.P.

Bowie’s on Netflix. How can a vampiric selfie be crisper, less sadistic than ad copy for Dyson?

You’re both bat shit over historical fantasy. Well, I enjoyed it.
87 percent awesome. 4 rubber tongues, a moon roof, lounging in queue for the motorcade — you
can’t predict what you are going to do; there aren’t enough shortcuts to go around to
encapsulate your suspicions.

What does he look like now? And it’s ok to impart?

Snaps of skepticism, obsequious, sharpened anomalies.

An etude like celebrity.

Us

as future “ancestors” understood by
these scarves patched in resistance, creating busy, making-chaos
“work” enacting a more cautionary life, absent trifles and your intuitive psychiatry, disbelief is
long in training..

The odd delay repeated.

A new music took off about here, 1st felt wonderful at the starts,
embarrassed breakpoints thinning out in the high style of ending (Otto Dix).

Evasion foregrounded style, motives — the harsh gets exaggerated.
And some things you need to count on
to recover what takes priority mid-grin.

Yamaguchi circulates all the flowers — they have many words for it

but it’s my doing, making money hard to borrow. Clenching-tight,
I’m in another century where hoax passes for coming too near, red-shifted by the viability of conquering death with abundance.

Wigs pick up, driftwood gets epigrammatic, upsides unrelated, pale, immaculate.
The sky has its style, the bookworms’ primary motives, subject for close attention. It’s said.

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

YOu defile my people once. Only once
expresses seeds in the mail ..

solutions to endnotes on drums.. & pity nowhere now w/
dark engendered power @ 1% .. Cavaradossi!

We’ll misfile principals, w/ others,
the higher ones [Trained staff encourages sampling.

Any higher are not talking.
(There’s tighter discipline.


Then it’s said repetitive motion has gone too far
and some at all levels are enclosed]
climbing into casual (ritual, putting
their lives together) & keeping under.)

Websites lie. This is a translation lesson.
I’m elegant and round. I can’t snicker. You can, though.

I’m off the wall. So I turn blue when I cool up. I blast by myself when you leave for work.
And when you come home I produce a mental readout of how long it takes you to set the new temp, humidity tolerance and so.

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

I’d like to bend rules for a stretch within a finger painting
where we get dressed for the weekend.

A place w/ subdued barks and rare foreign minerals that take on tree colors

where an icon is produced by something nonprofit
heated on sea plankton.

The jet gate opens to the drawing room,
once a factory made the outdoors where snow & sunlight
close their distance. The old new & new strung out on sectionals,
an untapped atmosphere of oblique, puckish Swiss..

The Swiss playing the stunt of relays between workplace & dogma,
everything everyone can live by w/out being
sequestered or brutally charged by objects :
so by these shortcomings we softball in harmony
around some parts of sky & parts of parts.

Surely as there is a heart to math there are light, oblique truths about achieving access to felt qualities.

I’m brusque. The new job title is urgent. Everything is ahead of something else via motives, & I’m underhanded getting back to an axiom we can manipulate;

no amnesty?

or / & like crustaceans we give in, to forgetfulness.

Blinds drawn, our overly prefixed, scavenged opacity fills with the sang-froid riches of dark matter, soaking them with its homiletic pedigree.

Before that yoga is fantastic, a civilizing process added to eternal space & entered into by a worldview that offers libations from within & supports you from underneath.

Speaking of the pure land, we have none. We swim in it.

This takes place in a weather balloon holding beef jerky.

I unbuttoned my supplies and pulled the first ‘haiku’ out and began to sweat over golf, wondering if I had enough left to give it even one full Iam.

At another point Nixon had left China followed by the end of history.

The declension in the passage next is from a clawback in a choral piece.

This of an airedale.

I can steal from myself to make something up and call it mine... Seems asinine, puzzling. Renascent: As if upon death Couperin sprawled with the naked around Antoinette.

Since then we and Coupe seem textually modern as respectable Eurocentrics undressed for success and survival, avoiding careers, unintellectual, peering back, soaking up the city among savages of our own designs.

I’m my own boss.

May a zealous counterculture dart sweetly to life! to help solve you and me for x!
when we let them.

Own a tuxedo.

It’s hard to do a mock-up & care. One idea, to reject isms of the center. Both influence perception, both engage in what someone made up as sources. Nothing in-between. Nothing to hold so to speak so more below.

I have nothing better to do than pump out to her grasp.

Then there is this payment due to survive, incubate & find offspring, & while we concede no phenomena evolve as the plausible epicenter after modernism, I think GS found herself now, thru various devices, in the center of that & in the center of a tangled ventriloquism composing..

Another solution is to operate as if there are many centers. (There aren’t.) This would debunk centrality, like the first idea, but its non-facticity is huge & eventually restores centerism or centrality, because the unwelcome news of this one meme among large numbers: this one meme, along with others, operates as if each is one center inter alia; this news motivates competition requiring a top heavy ism to regulate caring, a tough call but it has to be made. Usually by a policing force.

That said, the very minute we get off the phone, the fog enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. That never happened.

I can’t tell you I don’t care.

Too many ideas inside — I’m,

You know — can’t.. when I think

Who’s thinking, maybe after I’d,

Just Pessoa locked in place

Where things think on their own



You know — may more than 1 I,

Things, myself, lots to hide

Whatnot or not, and I’m me too

So I could give you shit

Because when I speak you’re on



Stirring up other ideas

About what I feel
 I
Think I feel, oh, Woman!

Man! You’re telling me

Nothing new here —



A stupid thing, knowing.

Re-examining all savagery,

Italicizing my failures. I’m ham-

Fisted attempting satire,

Snooty, freaky I gay love it.

CVS counter. I know him, he knows me, I admire him, vice versa

.. sorry, I have no other associations I’ll add. I was driving everywhere. Don’t know why we are in this automatic summation of now or that a minute from now after the transaction but before thinking about it, sending it over, with only a few elements incised to form solid bands connected to CVS.

**

I can’t be overdrawn, I still have cheques.

Lao Tzu (Zi): The follower’s flower name is hooded, part doodle & part I’m
not sure there’s no use.

We’re down the hallway leading to stairs cut in two, fronted with wains, brants,
sacks, waking in hazy brightness with no clue how we got here.

No one can help a cloud of clouds that should lend support, falling.
Some of it collapses, not to claim different output but there’s moral drought. Punt.
Get used to it or go home to switch tackle.

To set up phrases after the follower is to hit the complement of blunt
geometric form. And it’s clear whose side you favor for spectacle.
So I get the timing right away, it’s about a few seconds ago —

a formlet of propositions, like a handshake made of grease paint or prayer
warriors & their contagious oil stink for months in geologic time.

If he can or if he wants,
what you said is partner of it. And how his confusion is proof we diffuse.

Mr Frag-mento almost forgot this. Permission to speak freely, señor? That means you, vampire. Maybe I am foreshortened taking up prerequisites in criminal governance,

I won’t cry to lessen the self-eaten gravity, but I hear a squeak. It could be me reduced in size talking to you for crissakes.

I should but I won’t. I’d still like to sign up for a language freed from its instincts and nodule.

For I’m an agnostic about most anything important, Transzendenz und Wörtlich or shaded for that, and my voice is flat coming to terms with memory, musical structures, being filmed in your presence. Back to you.

In my life I saw Ethan Hawke become my age. The character Frag-ment winks, holds the term “free” creates clutter underlying “unfinished” ..

No sniveling of munificence. You know how security was tight during meta-enslavement of our family trees and other engines, all watched and settled since the simian takeover. We’re in on the take.

Concision or hue dealing method, means

can be objective and lack will. Rain,
an incident unveiled as ambition. It’s in the eye

as a catamaran of process.. this is while I’m doing only one thing
at one time on a crazed errand-stream to a master of art

..it’s looking like this is the rag century, after all, and the best part’s

we made messes all over to suit the last one, and getting lost and then

I contest the following.

“Gogol, Nikolay Gogol, with an M.A. in these matters, says gut feeling, sane
behavior and noncriminal discourse teeter on the grotesque.” I still can’t turn that
down. It still can’t mean just what his language means?

I turned and asked again.
It felt unwise.

You’re really this tall? There is no wrong answer. Your voice feels transparent, too late to make it sparse.

Even your restraint is wishy-washy. You’re too qualified and thrifty to feel anything, suspended — Mayday!

I told you I agree, Angel & Angelfish, enjoy your revisionist’s timeshare, an afterlife projected to the future, unobstructed, puckered in ab exercise.

*

It’s here. The helium released, the sunken park sponged with quiet saliva — a constellation thrown in reverse, ecosystems minus heroic practice banging triangles, playing lake ballads to some cambrian migratory pattern. Reduced circumstances are emotionally a full meal, a point... our brain-body fiber pierced 24/7, point two... Mayday! I’ll be right down.

Your mouth is (y)our mission. It’s your.

It’s 2014. A river was on fire because it’s science fiction. The rich won.

Chorus: Wag the dog represents whatnot between sexes that we give up stuff for.

We must, our superiority is not a joke. Correction, our inferiority is. Illustration one

it’s mostly useful to stay in a thong.

It’s w/ the other tenet I hold you for conniving to carpet silence. Wrong!

all attempts to throw your voice are thereupon dumb,

of an essence and special forces, interventions and addictions too disproportionate

to the unknown risks. As one voter you’d fail to mushroom,
ignored. But we’re hellbent when two, three, more
discover wisdom on statist terms. So we need oversight.

An idea dawns as I back into the salon. It’s a salon poem, exquisite, uninviting, keeps its distance, so what?



A yoga student crosses Walnut. Compare her silhouette to anyone’s who won’t study. A politician acquires forms of correspondence to her, a verbal equivalence to Dana’s process repertoire.



Falsehood is an actuarial stat, one more subjective state, a quality, not an elevation or height. Dopey red (Perseus) v. radiation (his mom). 



In a dimension whatever it’s fame v. work that mouthpieces for O [in flat], rolled into burbles, spools, pedestrians sweating lead colors.

Bad behavior, showing anger are more easily understood as work-

Permitted off time, sometimes a polite form of the hole-

in-the-universe w/ a large beaker installed, promising



Storyline prototypes, scars, male vanity, battle thrills,

sky & dogs, acrylics & sex under conditions that surround our desire

to adapt compliments for insurgents to bind heartache.



That’s how you hang staring in the mirror, the names don’t balance

until you think away the best part, mating:



Religious capitalism! it can whip you up, call you back in the moment ..

— unitary joy that nails us onto a box of light heaving below



Informality — stress & refined inelegance.

Doo-wop’s creepy; let us through;



We’re sort of gifted, ok,

this is house arrest.

Yet Mina Loy abandoned her family in Italy to take up egg crate sculpting in New York. Three kids. Top that what’s-your-name... Mina is justified like that. 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, studying the history of human height and esthetic prestige is feckless. This one fire ant graph took me nine minutes.

Some had swing /

The scandal passed, hardly worth the coverage,
otherwise excellent. You saw that?

We got back into the van.

Do you own your mesh? It seems relevant to fall
if filed haphazardly under filming a title about a file,

“Ambient text file,” say;
her jaw trembled

While we Run the Jewels.

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



Say I’ll be back. You never can tell. I do yesterday over, lower your voice, pick someone else. Your movements are still uncoordinated but hidden in new underwear.



Heavenly and new, classic and so easy, unforgettable elements to our touching and holding the internet, surrounding it with illusions of taking off, quiet and respectful in the nick of everyday nudity. For nudity earned that just turn. And that’s how we fasten a starry messenger to move around objects. It’s always a swing reunion in the ritual expanse, a whole new side of narrow and hollow in the center, along with a vacuum and wheels.



100% our touch.

Ink evokes nighttime and a built hummingbird. Tape together both hands. And grease-pencil trompe l’oeil anywhere. Please.

Innocence is guilt in a group. Yeh, blandness is a problem. No luck is too popular.

Night understanding plans the (determined) blind patch,

everything dark is brute-accented imparting how our deflated logic dialogs with paradox, working three dimensions into a formless mist clot.

I hope you’re happy.

Gyoza, tofu tempura, veggie soup, fried cricket. The democracy progresses on almost everything.

A structualist’s dreams centralize.

Politics & the dignity of appearances don’t mix. (The financial pacs industry was just kidding.) Nothing personal, this is the sustained concussion version of charity... I also give a lily 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 late for my gown fitting, weeping on the inside. Outside, I’m a prick,

I’m impetuous, from costive stock, unflappably happy, brusque.



I somehow floated here; my toys are asleep. I voted for the change.

Injecting their blood was just crazy but I won’t go off schedule.



Time to stir the matter with a respondent gavel. & back to the bench.
Judgment is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The jury rises.

I am a non attorney spokesperson.

First question, true or false. Is the last part ok? Technology keeps humming to Aristotelian extremes. The cigar and its plantations. It’s a manageable stretch from there to when you left, even while I ruled what went between us out. You hadn’t left a name, either. And yet, I stood closer, always wrong. To leverage and grow are businessspeak. To get feedback. To misunderstand.



And I should know. Something after was pouring out, dazzling the social dashboard, moving forward filling empty monitors on the table. You were bound to organize. And you were thinking about a fetish against transparency. An interim for you, pushing up and out.

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



When struck the lightning rod emits a ballet in dust (done the crawl) and after that a solution, a chemical substance that recuses itself and returns as a cognitive coloration, a hint there is a small commotion in the back of something the matter. Like one who is loved.



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



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

I say.

I say X.

X is thanks there’s so much.

*

Haiku-ing to Delmore Schwartz repeatedly gives me head.

We or most of us have a destiny, after all. But it’s after-hours

To vocalize what’s sunk in, I can’t worry or pierce my ears further.

What do we shop here at times? I deal in opinions on redeeming encores or unescorted enterprises. We’re not so interested in dreams. But this morning we woke from a flash of such gruesome practicality we became distressed talking to mere traces and vapor in a sports-transition store. There was no deeper pretext or tortured prelude. I walked into this pleasant, really dark place decimated in distorted light. Lights were dim. But I was in there casually shopping with others. It was a showroom like Under Armor where mannequins, staff, and customers match up in comfortable, form-fitting shirts and sweats and some in jackets pulled an inch or two back, almost off their collarbone, not to flex but to suggest upper body development. There are steadfast outlines but nothing shows. We have eyes and the mannequins won’t move. That kind of carefully lunatic geopolitical stow and store. That’s what I was thinking as I picked out five pairs of socks. A pointillist grey pair, two in enlarged, graduated chocolate pixels, and a couple of pairs in ink, one with a hint of an inkier digital plaid-esque under. Everything was going to blend well with other stuff. (Making new money hard to follow. 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. Shopping.

My never-in-2-places is undefined thanks 2 the locals.
The wind of trying 2 please paid better.

Better visuals, production-geared at base, a-theoretical, a bit broken,
misunderstood... brief punches of text look great on the phone!

so that got 2 U. 2 U back strings of space empty all / no limits.

Got that myself. Space time. Slash pauses.

Totally new our keyless Platonism won’t stand up as practice —
not while the restless recover from numbness :
evangelized thin angles of light R made identical, emotionally,
extrapolated 4 driving that home. That’s the super-definition :

Vaccinated, a merciless itch, what is this collapsed satori we travel?
Passing thought immortalizes the X+1 “casting
of cities” thinking past us. A true 2 years B-4
messing with U. Why wait?

His eyelashes batted.

Reminds me of a concept board from workshop, keeps going big. A simple turn of the ignition, what’s the deal? A journey within the 5th x nth element, a pathless scrubland back at that bind when you and many are reading data beyond the point, all in an identical manner, & everyone derived one’s same message (sorry, there’s a memo on this) as sugar consumption rockets, news advances in choppy ‘prose.’

Would you like to ask questions or can it diagram?

It came here deducing another head scene like the first time. That’s since love’s regimen bulks up and corresponds with humanist competition for position, perspective in every word mentioned or almost mentioned, and all syllables performing as one compass spin between you and others trained in your elite language:

her flak shirt was on inside-out and it’s entirely because it’s unexpected she had her languid hands up in the air, made eyeglasses with her fingers, meaning she was ready..

With a degree in hypostatization comes gasping, the more irregular the breathing — looks like she’s breathing! A spoon worm lives inside the womb, a male redback dies inside the reproductive tract! somersaulting into his mates’ fangs just to get eaten while copulating!

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

I’m dating other members, while I go thru systems
in your own speech act.

We’ve gone over this.

You look great in text, available where I promise not to point;
of course there’s a way unfolding to take you out, shake you tamed. Dart,

I’m that slaphappy-proof to diffuse your feeling us up. What you say is the whole body
muddled cool from so many substitutes for meditation to breathe.

U-ha, I said this, you made it teamwork: I’m always pluralized by the answers, elders,
younger, packed promising not to point.