Decor: I lost my nonfaith in the underground

Poodle topping Chihuahua,
Dalmatian tied down on futon w/ starlet —
Maybe I deserve my extramarital wealth.


Now, like Joe Orton I play Fenders unter dem Deckmantel
Shih Tzu in barrel ate red pork rinds, sick
Pomeranian necklaced w/ black cord —

Dear Torch Bearer, I bit into the Friday media tables.
It’s my first fill of politics — Mr Fuzzy here —

we use photographs as subject matter; students in foreground (by an arch to
abandoned voters). We’re taping south, west and north.

Someone goes further after a button gets pushed,
a model theorist says hello, how are you, reverses course.
She heads upstairs to an installation in mounting solitude.


By Saturday & somewhere else one finds a thinly veiled version of me.
The jam on our toast is persimmon, steamy
as our bodies beep.

A kimono has been entered, explaining the subtopic tongue and cheek.

Cheek beep,
A fragrance is found shaking hands, wiping our brows.
To keep up we don’t find a compromise so we’ll vote often.

Crime: The big picture shows me my modest place.
I’m technically adept dining in (or out).

A few take umbrage from grumpy distortion,
fractured logic (Hex 39) and their own morbidity. While you —

You picked up the check. That’s swell, looting prestige,
the nether handle to misapplied figures, images,
exactly what the cradle requests; the place rocks.

Max Planck fellows run off with radical research incentives for a frontier in unboundedness.

Organization in a small package, tethered particle immolation. The dignity of boson appearances.

With little or no motive, the sky foregrounds their styles, taking them all in.

*

I wrote this 15 minutes ago.
That hasn’t stopped me from modeling.

Entanglement: As a nonpractitioner attempting authenticity in speech,
Study Freud or any of the evolutionary researchers of the arctic.

Stick with insoluble nonfiction you’ll fall asleep after only 5 days
Blindfolded. (Our guarantee.)

Such brilliant dislocations a\we\re expected; it goes
Beyond, there are dark and unknown (again) predicates fixated on newer procedure

But in their case it’s sung to see into a protracted surfeit of space,
A sumptuous, soilless bond,

The angels.

*

They're real actors, not people.

*

I’m adding, right off, I don’t know if that helps.
There is the cynically obvious flesh and blood bind.
We were curious will do. A lament would be awful
to ennoble extraordinary times. Our cohort might
flock to lines of credit.

I’m caught right in the blast middle for the XIVth century.

There are statements of facts
And those of law. Their truth

Levels go down or soar depending on
Outer linear order.

The young gained on the old, those that could, 

Externalizing an antiquity beyond their years


Like ours. Permanently bantam weight to realize our view 

As something else frolicked up — inside. (That’s the renaissance.)



A ball of a bird, maybe a butterfly / Yeah, what do we care?

All we anticipate is an elegantly accessible chronicle of interdisciplinary montage
Along with financial services.

Linear standards like “I say”
And they never go away.

Frame: I’m always explaining the place where I work.
Gateau what’s his name is done (delivered) in a tangle of foxglove as you and I de-meadow.

A company like ours takes it into the physics facility.
We’re in the flat present tense, account outlines in simultaneous perceptions

Reciting new slang exponents since we have no major gay issues
Making wave sounds while we scout flyweights in a recursive landscape.

We thrive in non sequiturs,

Speaking of the cultural moment, the contest before poetry groups (there are no schools today) is both to amplify their message and mute opposition. The muting part is too easy, preventing them from becoming ‘schools.’ For as the term implies, a school fosters a social intellect that not merely speaks but also grows within moments. A group in contest is a rougher framework, around which we can pick in’s and out’s, effecting a flawed institute, narrowed, slighted, privative on either side.

There’s still no contract for a hermit. And you get peace of mind.

6S Plus:
A luscious, noiseless bonding in the very era or epoch of the perpetually alterable

— a stream of gasses embossing conjoined tattoos. Outside the again-feel of an invisible roll call gathering around neighbors’ brightened ways w/ brays.

All our neighbors are mirror bees. Music up. Am I not one?

*

I promised you a ham for painting bombast, cremating bad melody yonder.


That would be deep indoors at your and my place.

I’ll have you over when life and death crack the lobes of automation...
After that, there’ll be everything Orpheus to grab at.

Decor: I still want to remarry in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?
Marriage makes me horror struck
Aghast in wake of our previous melancholy.

Buddha and Buddhists are different things.

*

A poet contains both architect and carpenter. “Contains” is a convenience word, been meaning to tell you, Anne

*

— Religious type, agnostic, both listened to reason while a temple friend sliced off a nipple. It was the middle way, enlightenment simplified.

Lightning over fog. Knower and the known, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

A sweet industrial morsel went for all 3 doors assuming there’s no threshold ahead where materiality can’t exist. No dissonance, no interruption.

These could be so

1. As appearances point to behind our sand dune, skipping temple.

2. As long as your swag is clean.

His haiku was stiff: full, bel canto, with a slight

Vocal member of the Illinois cultural

Studies group carrying a sawed off

Shotgun.

Schtick is a super concept.
And today’s laughter protocols could not be ‘more serious.’
It’s been remarkable to gauge how sneering, vaporous, obtruding personalities —
A loose term — proceed unamusingly
Or even uncivilly in opening salvos. Seems a rehearsed practice, perhaps.

By salvo — the first three or four minutes of monotone in talk, in writing.
You can’t have that in this film.
So much slobber invested at the start, discourse, along with any oomph, runs dry.

No personalities, please, only slow motions going for the moody and not expected.

Standing in rain assumes moral delay. Now the sun is shining,
Nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual
Of our meaning it but not tempted like others. Some of you and me is there

And more ‘here we go,’ retreating to emancipating solitude,
More sound oriented as translucence flushes our keeping up

Adding up the lead time, keeping your eyes open, waiting, moving
On that panoptic sentence for the animal that needs you.

Anyway hipster
is a contradiction in terms.
In term’s a shortcut to prediction.
Unilaterally a hipster

throws out softballs,

variously literal — the power

system (it’s decentralized) semi

managed as yoga

mounting a bait

and switch to chalk up

the utility of lingerie,

discreet shipping, and in
this case soul

kings touching wood.

It won’t be serene.
The enlightened instant comes
to how this can be put together
surely, entirely.

What is pill as a verb..


Imprisoning refinement. Example? Adjunctship.
The curtain, with a curtain rod staff —


Having it, I’ve hobbled

Away like a mad scientist with a big dropper



Dreamily subsisting

Halfway into a loose state

Staying loose. The verb cuts you and your lineage off.
Now it’s later, good news tho

Since my mission is wait to listen,

Not empower blithe and highly egotistical boy girl men.
Two good words, highly too.

Teaching can be reversed.
It’s Nature. Try it on.

Willing directors bail out 10 decades. Tears.
Every frame has a did-it-for-retraction stench

Swimming
Unsynchronized.

As a narrator here, I’m no art fox, a swimming
Plateau = not finding hotter places to take on. You care?

One pleasure then is borrowing sentences to raise your rent.
Filament like A neap tide itemizes all bets.

And like beach safety overall — you can bring it back to the exterior.
It’s an hour from Nauset. Bail here.

Frankly, hot-doggily bailing like this can’t be taught.

Wes Craven, R.I.P.

Dissonant sports metaphors seem prepared for a gullible ally, hon.
Like preparing the red matter.
(There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.)

Dr Who gadgetry from the future,
How can this be put?
Hey went from one thing to another, came back.



As a guy I’m done with Malthus festivals’
Black sweaters in the woods,
Tented command centers for negotiation,
And I’ve had it with my thigh, the one you lift.

That’s all right.
Another time.

You, my man,
Pastoral you and all it initiates take humane power in socialist space. It’s rare.

Home base, hierarchal Finland: say it’s working through the population.

We’re the entire crew. The socialist’s way.

Two smoky dogs tracking boots in drizzle, shining from sight, playing by stacks of storm windows in restless composure translators can’t reach.

Now where are they?

The wetlands are working this through. (And there’s a new plot — those words we had and didn’t have were consequences. The milieu has been bad. Bad is good, since we know enmeshed values constitute our pit bullhood.)

But I take no liberties writing you now, bubble footed in dark briefs. I have a dream of fair housing: Free-range sunlight in the clerestory to our lair… Some of us are going there after work. Would you like to come?

On a human ~ ant landscape, god is the ant.

*

Yet our guardians are tired of interruptions and self-
reflective outreach; herein the corporation is late
and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.

When is as soon as today? How do I say please, John? Circumstances say it.

*

Again there’s no natural retrospective because nowhere
Now might tomorrow’s flow of ideas be so boldly hidden ..

Right. It’s past. Passed. What you say reminds me ..
It’s a contraption.

That’s what we say to get “thrown in.” (I remember it starts with poetry students making “circumstances” up.) Welcome, nowhere else!

Where can we enjoy sobriety, the doo (implicative space), beautiful, well pronounced! Does it matter I’m thinking of contradictions until women rule and we go kitty up, so flaming kitty to have nothing retro, rolling figure / ground tension into many feminisms, using little or no math.

It’s ideal. Invite someone missed, John, sing more to wade out above what’s sung

Wade out above the beautiful, well pronounced.

That’s what we yell to joy, lightness, yes
Thrown in doo (where else!) :

The more we wade contradictions
Feminisms are re-reading us in fully sensory hellcat wrath.

I am transitory.

This is what then? “A moment of empty solidity.”

*

Anyone can take this personally,
including me.

A tree in the wind.

How is it lit? 



Tall with liquid arms;

another is hit and run.



They’re plants from one deity.

That’s what led to our church shifting



toward showdowns at the riverbed, O

for fuck’s sake. Impulsive.



Back to work.

Show’s over. Go ahead. Go

It’s irreparable.

But it’s in the repair shop because

It is the repair shop.

I’ll do what I can. Another day, slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless;

Different jokes turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me for almost everything
but that belated audition,
trapping you if you let go while yielding authority.

I .. Hey

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

Fearless presence bears repeating.

A wild or perhaps even a good guess as to what readers crave is a byproduct of becoming a decent reader. One writer rarely reads alone, and that’s part of the saga of collectivity and simultaneity. She and others pick up similar texts, comparable projects; snowballs start flying. When a writer thinks in public about what she’s reading, she’s taking aim and will be aimed at in turn, pro and con. This is one yarn of opinion acclimatization, hardly superfluous.

The signature concern is a reader’s experience. It’s peculiarly nepotistic, another point, that so many writers simultaneously figure out readers’ expectations within multiple, extra literary contexts, politics, nonprofit cultural construction, corporate performance theory and the like.

Thinking more decentrally: A brazen writer like Nicole Brossard distinguishes herself taming her otherness and the other-directedness that she (writer) and (s)he (reader) share.

You don’t want her festivity so much as your investigation into her iconoclasm. It would be abetting deeper juxtaposition to bracket one’s enjoyment just to explore alarm and vacuity anyone else had previously not known. How does she know? How does she improvise? What timing(s)? How do you account for a received notion “being in the present”? Even better.


on levait la tête on aimait les petits arbres
derrière le fer forgé du cinquième étage
personne ne tombait jamais
plus bas que notre habitude de la vie

[taking pleasure in these trees, looking up
through the 5th floor wrought iron
nobody ever falls lower than
this, what we make our habit in life]

The narrator who claims personne ne tombait jamais speaks for me and anyone who wants and takes enjoyment with no palpable fear of falling.

While translating freely is not always the fairest compliment a writer may pay another, it is one entry for empathy (How does she improvise?) as well as beginning to appreciate Brossard’s command of what is suggested here (How does she know?). And in four short lines we stumble across habitude. It is a writer’s answer, Brossard’s answer for now, to be in the present.

Affordable Noh. That’s us with big hanging wolf eyes. We’re a match in perseverance, trying to spook breathing
pedagogy when we meet somersaulting in /

What goes around then comes gasping, the more irregular the breathing —
looks like he’s breathing! A spoon worm lives inside the womb,
a male redback dives inside the reproductive tract!

into his mates’ fangs just to get eaten while copulating!

I’m going to leave you in the middle of the city where you belong, you robot.

At fight camp all you bring are wet marks over your shirt — there you go — sent,

Slotted for long scream divisions raising heads front and center.
Grateful lines of argument stampede out bourn in eager heartbeats and bright debate

Drawing youthful boundaries along dark areas of propaganda
And owing to your interest... this won’t ever constitute a date.
Or only one of many as noted by a third party.

The terms are, go settle down through the evening and finish your agenda
At gunpoint. Perhaps heartbeats get covered by a shroud that frays
And unspools to gain advantage spreading the plan. Imprisoning refinement.

Cold draft.

It was a place to ... what’s this put up or shut down? It began on airlines. Nice houses were everywhere. Let’s remake this old place with coffered ceilings, make it a dollhouse. When prices hurry up, everything will be felicitously stuccoed, ultimatums rephrased, and moral aspiration will again become footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.

Vernacular reductions come next. Here they are. Romulus and Remus. Appetite and style,
core lemons of classicism, romanticism too. Appetite includes style but style
directs bitter taste and other pretenses of appetite. A she wolf looks after style.

I hear Carol Breakdown is hard to get.

Takes substance and breadth, not at this end; the going price reacts to audacious desire

(a rare cigarette case, may I?) looked after in dangerous tranquility and

No thanks. Just piano and voice. Piano and voice. Practice.

The big meal. Inductions to your other habits;

Just because we’re snarly, externalizing ideas.

The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of needle-felted wool

Like nerves warmed over by spinning in freezing wind.

Stuff. I don’t yet know the scent of snow and sunlight, of your utter loss

— of whatnot in over the counter contextuals and scent, those scents.

Bolo tie sad.

*

The drill of local news, temperature, 2 hours of indebtedness, fascinating stack of known challenges — locality reduced to economy, co-rejecting isms off center. Both influence perception, both engage what leftists and the right make up as sources. Nothing in between. Nothing to uphold. More below.

It’s simple (the invention of worship is over.. )

Like autoeroticism for one. (So much over: the topic is civility.)

We impart numeric dicta slathered with platitudes — century-old middle ground (the themeless module) where we sleep (fields of action) and continue playing around vulgar innuendo to stay kind, as you undress to force a smile, fully emancipating me to feel obliged to receive you generously.

We are free — still — to say what some think — but their recipes, or ours, are adulterated, perfused with feminist modernism; if not that, we’re cruising at altitudes of theorem.

Trees in place, defiantly miscellaneous, thanks to a compliant Leitkultur, a treeway on a berm, backdrop to the ideal civil democratic union with permissions built on headwinds —

Add one summation to sow

Headwinds within and, as it were, without manners. Good manners can scar others but they also let us peons act like participants in marking time as though subscribers to the regulatory plutocracy. Either way, I know so little about the state and the state so much less, so here are the details.

May I reconcile friends who are angry. Toss all night. Know they lost.

They know imposters lurk in one friendship. It means something
But not enough.



You can never expect it and when it happens, it’s fantastic.
What? Why are you crying?



I don’t know! I’m Yoko and Hymen!



Then quit it!

You’re on every page I never mention you.
There aren’t enough shortcuts to go around,
Your soul is on break, in a style of incompletion (Otto Bismarck),
Obsequious, sharpened anomalies w/ bait

: A new music took off about here.

Hands in the air.
No motives — the harsh gets exaggerated.
And a smudged view needs count on (you). Capital will be redefined

: Here, 1st. It’s feeling wonderful from the start
And breakpoints, thinning out
Obsequious, sharpened anomalies w/ bait

— you can’t predict what you’ll drive to get to the 5th element
To encapsulate our suspicions…

2 out of 20 come around,
They slow up together.

We are one species
meaning many different things at one time all over time :

*
May I wish others well.

Well, I knew m’lord was a prevaricating, bloodlust child — the writs of Rolfe d’Hampole had warned — unceasing sycophant, his incarnadine shadow spilt down dim stairwells to redden more, divagating before olive branches in nightfall, exhorter of few changes, hardly any.

Dinner in precision blizzard-words,
Reversed decisions rotating surf a mercurial quantum
Shift, soft, whispered could occur. You’ll want circles and circuits redressing
The boat’s cortex attention to holding out to
Say when. Pulse, how did you say when? There’s a form, learning windows..
A chestnut travels well. Chestnuts stand around in jobbed hoards.
Coupons expire.

Cold draft.

At / a new level of storytelling nationwide is on your side.

It has to go with something like a pigeon guided missile or thing

As there are centers of wishing beyond closed doors.

All batteries are charged (that’s the feeling). I’m pouring molasses over my track pants ‘stitched’ with microfiber — I’m about to walk the spiral and more! Ladytron is carrying this note of irony back to my pals.

1. If there were a don’t fuck it over manifesto it would be
Why make so much of leftist political origin 3.
Start for free 9. Let’s call this time left.. the end of the beginning if
up in the cloud sounds too.. liberal? My guard-up was a lot.
..that triangular jot ...
of 10. That a phone or fingernail of?
How do parallels threaten a referent? Which fox drug is best?
12. The front gate won’t front
13. Spot the dog.. or now his surrogate intruding a moment before he’s emptied.
Intrusions entail teamwork, coincidentally.

It’s too late to beg.
Songs of what’s around us never miss a beat

Like unwashed hair, maybe a style of crooning

Rum-soaked exclaiming


 — the place’s been wiped clean.
Liquor and nerves committed to memory.

*

Don’t worry. I’m a doctor.

Summer holds spring!
Who am I?

*

May I be no one’s enemy. May I not quarrel: and if I do, may the quarrel end fast. May I love and do some good. May I wish others well. May I not rejoice in their ill fortune. May I reconcile angry friends. May I not turn away friends in danger. When visiting anyone in grief may I use healing words. May I respect myself. — 3rd Century

*

Pardon me while I disband our friendship.

(Restoring your feeling is one of my hobbies.)
It’s a difficult style.

We’re both harder to explain now. A head-on view.
The subject box reads I am who?

Something inside snaps.. Try putting a poetics in a coma.
I wouldn’t dream of it.

Meta-delivery.

I’ll take it.

The coast is never clear, fat boy,

The ingenue lacks charm and extends an inhospitable hand. That’s how unclear. Leasing cars to dead people, along with wheelchairs, that’s quirky.

(Poetics process stuff. Ketchupy.)

I’ll take it.

I’m bipolar. You know. What? We can make the poem go mute. If it doesn’t speak, we don’t have to pay it as much. A world-less deaf-mute.

I may have taken a 24-hour cold tablet (they took them off the market for humans) and my brain is boinging forward into TV-noir starring Max Headroom — remember the ex-sprinter who played him? While the show was popular for three weeks Max’s asymmetrical haircut started to give male pattern balding a tolerable hipster panache.

The coast is never clear, fat boy.

After Max was canceled you noticed this guy doing a few walk-ons before monotone backgrounds in other failed series and then commercials. He sunk fast, poor Max. Like these sharp pellets slicing through the blood, sinking me south by southwest, bullets pointing down and out my feet.

Are you healthy enough for perfection?

A head-on view looks toward emptiness, embraces it

But speaking the usual way subverts expectations.
A stencil of the dialog frames others, tho
As a thought pays homage to paying homage, finding its subject.



A gridded compartment will decide most perfectionism is an error

And to appropriate is to provoke both nature and discourse.



Those organized under a strong gesture shall triumph.
The frame knows this and uses communication among friends, a dissonance born of necessity, one dialog reflecting gritty highly-trafficked back alleys of seduction and violence. Oo oo it’s discovered her voice.

Eurozone class struggle is more and more slippery. Or peach-dreamy. I’m not sure discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income distribution, honing you / one into two dimensions on the surface.

I’m socialist by nature, maintaining perspective (the tatemae policy), I’m spooked
while cashing in analytics
(lifting data off) to mine parallelisms (partisan gold).


Atheism is otherwise the main event at the Hague. Secrets of satire want to float
free to find an informatics of doors opening (bassoon music) and structured
multiplicities (an ear for sex).

The glue is “Token Austerity.”

A bright spot on the game horizon, we’re beginning to see a need for a blanket authority or foundation to issue antinomian licenses. A nondemocratic institution that constitutes only one of a set to which no democratic or parliamentarian voice matters, no second thoughts, no heuristics, and in which nothing un-elfin or hurtful belongs or stays put, holding itself to the test doctrine of multiple shots at Todd’s Miniature Golf.

You contain only so much of me.

I live where you belong.

To a lark,

Like torsion in third-level calc,
obliqueness shows up around access to felt

Authority. It’s far if you can’t say why.

Let’s be brusque. The new job title un-urgent. Shorts and flip flops are ahead of an orb —
it’s surely layering something else via cheerful motives & you’re evenhanded getting back here;

Yes / No thunder?

Or / & like crustaceans you give in to forgetfulness.
Around dawn your prefixed, scavenged opacity fills with sangfroid
                riches of dark matter,

Soaking them with hometown pedigrees.

Before that yoga was fantastic, advanced yoga for always beginners, a civilizing process added to eternal dimension categories, entered into by you.

It offers libations from within & supports you from under.

Speaking of the pure land, you have none. You swim in it.

Cliché inflects neckline flasks.

There’s an essay to forget this mess when we mask how often Prokofiev is mentioned,
disproportionate to the vacant bits transcending that of meaning itself.

*

All these personnel to be shifted or fired but keep their jobs somehow,
achieving an overweight bliss of the non-willed state, an enlightened
legality inside streamlined minds.

There are a 100 butterflies in what’s wrong watching even one

                    or two spin like mediums, happy in the dirt, re-engineering their variety and persistence.

We build something better.

One can feel it drinking coffee from a can, its sticky metal heat, fun, seething too, proportionate to the open space.

The smoke is rubbed, worn and you’re mortified with ozone.

The whole firebox glow yellow wallpaper engages on.

The collapse of saying it better is.. no, the aim changed, functions bounce.

For AW and JY

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


A tai chi student crosses Walnut. Compare Dana’s silhouette to one of anyone who won’t study. The arts administrator, director, a politician acquires a verbal correspondence to her, an equivalence inside a process repertoire.



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

This is a dance question. Fibber Perseus v radiation (Dana, his mom). Which are ya?


In one sketch you can see big futures ahead, mouthpieces to the salon [O flat major] rolled ‘into’ burbles, ‘into’ spools of Walnut pedestrians sweating lead colors.

Slumped over in gaffs, so

many without pulse, how did one stand tall, pause

then brush his hair back? Men

like him looking up like flight risks; say



“Exactly,” in that miracle voice?

A faint breeze on zoom as you slip

your phone in his pocket — How against

containers hanging along the bow all fonts
are justified by defacing matter —
1/2 linguistics, 1/2 I’m sick of nice things. Whiskey.

East Cambridge has its rhythms
on occasion.

The sun, which is divinely authentic, is too direct, preferring disorder
beside a confection of labs

..getting off the T — Is it memory or in fear
the new governor becomes a hypothetical of passivity
putting you first, smaller democrat than the original?

Aggressive governance heals more, less
if citizens get to pay for things,

Float a memo, commuting like Derek Blurs.

Steering is good, Borodin on HRB, home town
wellbeing in windows : there’s a legacy voiceover.

The sko-ah is persuasive

Adorno says plain speech is fair game starting over (in the middle) but its put
doesn’t count. (It’s always been technical.)

Surely there’s no foundering beneath the social parasail of violence.
Rules commit us.

This emphasis does not belong in the verbatim over

-supply. That is, which lexicon will be appointed most enabling. Ellipses

Point the way out & will continue — how we express ideas, simple or not.

Big, multiple ideas are broken down or up..

constituent, subordinated data emerge, important as big data, simple & not.

The simpler the better. Bad poetry yes, scansion none the less.



That leaves too much for a traffic stop.

We face 10-to-life thickets of cloud & southerly winds taking
it to other investors who might stay offended,

the next step in the training.

Involuntary ideas of thin dots and stripes, that’s a guess.

For Christ’s sake I saw you in a documentary.

I saw your name written on walls

(sons), foam under rush-formatted steam

disappearing like figure / ground battalions,


pretexts (w/ no sound) — more

appreciable fear a cappella —

There’s product on the loose in good tailoring,

faintly reeling w/ descents into moaning
nonentities.. the Ralph Vaughan Williamses..

There is a wee automated palletizer of bread
w/ industrial KUKA robots in a bakery
in Germany where groove is still a verb.

My favorite pastry chef did the research. So
it took hold. I retracted my contemptible lies. &
I condemn & mourn meritocracy. For / & all men
are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry
to inspect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland
                                                            for nothing.)

Today, my beliefs will go unchecked worshiping in Spanglish w/in the gloom of purgatorio
as perceptions of different spaces blow town including the best halo effects and feelings.
They’ll come back.

It’s nice finally to put a face to the humiliating nickname.
Today, every day open censorship is going to be there,
filtered, unfiltered as long as it takes.

Living that music is offensive. You’re wide awake thinking it through until a subfocus gets lost. You grow accustomed, so to speak, directly oblique : but pointedly no name is escalated or united w/ anything no-count!

Bon équilibre, some1 else will choke and in a non asphyxiating language at that, 1 a 2nd person, the “some1 else,” comprehends. What do you say?

I’m Aldo.

No, you are.

We’re a special team. We’re circumspect, our sharing mechanism (pretext) giving no voice to repeated wandering motifs over a long silence we back off from, nightly.

What about cleverness and famine?

Try not to be involved.

What do you say? We give up weak words that never happen, hack at reasons to try with the grit of understatement.

And then you thought, that’s what’s wrong. Hey hey my.

I’d like to restate rules for a stretch w/in a finger painting
where we get dressed for the weekend.

Full transparency on stilts w/ quarks and rare minerals that take on blackened colors & properties of icons produced by classical form as a nonprofit love nest heated on sea plankton.

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

Just like other Europeans playing the stunt of delays between workplace & dogma,
anything everyone can live by w/out being
sequestered or brutally charged by objects :
so by these shortcomings we’ll softball in harmony
around some parts of sky & parts of parts.

What if I am a drifter returning with this season of enthusiasms, could you still ‘like’ me, could you choose ‘I liked it except for you?’

One thing is to thank you guys who sent in money. Another is getting and staying in shape to bawl about only two things that changed since I wrote, ‘As modernism restarts, soi disant Stephen Jonas writes Boston into his Bohemia (Exercises for Ear); midcareer Kenneth Koch romanizes his playbook in the New York School (“Fate,” “The Problem of Anxiety”). So the musician / historian stakes a vantage but never forgot that vantage slips away. No what if.’

Perhaps for now what if is not that impractical.
I have 1/2 a mind re-imagining the blues
By Corelli as well as my life on a cattle ranch.

Taking chances put us in this lissome interpretive state (birth), after all. Function varies widely.

Paying attention is the field call haunting the future, skull,
More bounce for the retina to unscrew internal hysteria pouring up but embarrassing,
Losing both death and life

You look how I feel.
No plan is perfect.

Peace, justice, ecology, all uplifting.
That’s not to say there’ll be no food.

But there’s no sponsor tie-in currently



— 4 plastic badges for now and pa-

Per sacks. Imitation spinner features, it’s
Just there’s the royal we (a pain) in game theory to pla

Y. This may be an insight

While I strive for positive letterform abstractions speed reading, but that alone
Is wearying

Bringing us closer to following your advice.

*

Also any emphasis prepares the manifold; earlier material representations, along with the mounting system, are the 1st probabilities of having you to touch, empowering mergers ’n exchange. That’s half of what has not been said.

*

Now you’re giving me the finger. Technically we’re not there yet.

                                                           (Maybe it was perfect to start

With also.)

If I give it back it’s about letting you go, taking me out of context,
And your Sprite. And that downsized color
In the atmosphere riding pleasure, then falling back and breathing while your
Rescuers get authenticated.

“Great I’ll hold...”

2 out of 2 observers were cut off. Innocent men on a wet
Highway, casually substituted.

During the break we reached an agreement.

Innocence concerns these ethics. Nature acts against self interests.
Adoration has a poetic scent as it pertains. You actually drain me.

Cupid’s id? It’s a violent, smoking culture so we need straight talk.

It’s a gay culture so we need some of that. We’ve been up
for two centuries fighting overseas.
Head-on war is a mistake (Diane di Prima).

We always won, until Vietnam, fair and square, violent.

Cupid’s appeal? Direct appeal even if it’s imagined could be stark
for Samsung tastes. Here, that’s speaking practically.
There’s change with movement in overlaps.
For half a second the short answer is a teenager’s
you can scream open and enjoy.

I don’t know. Yes. Details collect. It’s a mad softness where
we’re going over one part, step after Santa Claus step
as mating instruction and human rights,
the amp and pan point in overdue time.

I thought you’d get it.

I wasn’t planning to write but I changed plans. If I were Ron Padgett I might have said I changed planes. On cue, he navigates a new visual plane, adjusts what can be seen for a line or two, then veers off with dashes added (or multiplied) to another illustration made humane and in searing words although his specialty is everyday words that are always humane-seeming and amazing in how they fit together just this once on this page in this poem. He’ll change planes a lot, losing his footing on the flat oily tarp, perplexed, take it outside a Rubik of a different color denatured by the octagonal gloom of hearing his thoughts erase similes, not needing traditional structures but throwing daylight out there between them to achieve a halo of wit with dimensionality for us to salivate over anyway, a blend of mesmerizing suspense and long-buried libido that reminds one one is reading poetry while famished, fasting, scrunched up in what feels like coach on a bi-plane skywriting. In one instance, we’re not amused, perhaps, to discover the plane is a midsize corporate jet piloted by a professional birdbrain who’s not pretending — he’s really mean, misplacing his mom’s name in the space of what he had for breakfast and the blue sky. I don’t know, it’s hard to see it. That’s because this is my illustration. Not Ron’s.

We can’t compress enough or too much. We were one people at one time. We also = I. This is how the toy psyche writes more conscientiously touching on a couple of endearing dual roles in an algorithmic yet conscious translation; desultory of us to read and reread brutality extending to your one body and infinite ceilings, howling for the first time; insight is the rhymed whey.

Next, a glistening database is advanced by textuality. The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity tracing out how to refine / displace your contempt. Classification will be adjoined by evolutionary adaptation passed on to descendants.

This break and entry taking place under a balloon holding beef jerky.

Citing a theory of clouds I cannot stress enough
Your card was de-activated.

It’s a perilous ‘was’ — my, me give you a hand.

There’s high cognition in light opera

Observing very little community. For more oomph

Rules note every commitment on a riddle gauge, puns of data solutions on the punishing ground looking up.

(I don’t mean that as deeply before we hand you over.)

Finish a stretch and the clouds get confused. Confused the way



Danzig is the Wallace Stevens of evil urban clusters..

Ok, this is not Danzig. Clinically proven.
But theory is something else.

You start along these lines,

There are West Coast pullovers

& a Heimlich shoulder blade, non personality
Well in back, favoring sleek objectives.

You’re wearing a scent of rosemary.

I’ve always been there waiting for the rush
Updrafts don’t even have, the time today
Our mouths can kill;

Your friend is smoking, “I’m
Wind blown,” he says turning
This way when we sit down
Before the mirror.

To want as well as have nothing
I shouldn’t ask did I live like that fly on the wall?

Surface depth. You shouldn’t expect me at all.
Self restraint & perverse incentives, an unknown future’s cart before
Facing great green bruising air with less but more to live for.. scruples-less!

New teachers turn up with stratagems, even newer phenomena
To run over, any & all mayhem will be unannounced (achieved)
Or they won’t be since we talk thru flexible models &

Already what you say takes us off the jet trail! quelling fear of pain.
You never can tell. I won’t.

On the border of Marblehead, ornamental shrubs sometimes have presidents’ names or others’, Dukes of Zoroaster, Forex, a snort of a nice hint and of a finite nature exuding foundational values like a panderer. Just get by the comic bits; a shrub is a lone entity in a world dominated by luxury blooms.

In order to take on a galactic stare,
Occasional intoxicants
Every 10 yrs
                            A decade goes and still you are unattainable!

Say you’ll be back. A blast of cold air
Stoked by an airfare invasion.

Que faut-il? Des cris de règle de la majorité enfilées sur les zones communes /
Je possède le haut. Je me maquille à casser des histoires — One admits one’s a Nike athlete in a relaxed conservatory for work.. Le dernier d’un type dessous du pair, un type sur un voyage loin du soleil.
Pour se baigner = dormir comme le blé. I’m the last below par sort this far from letting one happen faster = to sleep like wheat. Après un certain temps: Ces crocs sont à la porte. Que-c’est un marin du prototype au bateau? After a while: Claws? What claws? What is proto-sailing? On est devenu complètement libéré des pronoms en début de l’adolescence, c'est annulée, tout le monde, c'est libéré
à long terme, affalé bien sous un tartan, juste aller dans les coulisses où ils ont mis sur le maquillage. Comme y un retour. You’re freed of pronouns in preadolescence, long voided, you’re longterm freed slumped under a tartan. Go back to Makeup. Donc on a adoré l'école primaire de plus que son père.
Plus tard, à Whole Foods, quelqu'un agitait. On respirait bas, au même rythme en agitant les bras. You liked primary grades more than your dad. Later, at Whole Foods, someone waved, breathing down, arms apace.
Panes of sunlight,
how many hours are we talking?

I smell a rat. We’re still in the meta space.

And your name came up on my tooth. Breathtaking anxiety, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... we’re done. In a footloose world like back in college both bodies are loaded on symbolism. Go ahead, chat up anyone here. But the next stage trolling pillagers is fickle. And then it begins, an ellipse comes over us / as our love and money go down together.

Yup, we know gobs of cash and living well, poof. I’m just curious having compulsively misplaced most of life’s grotesqueries, does a rescinded narrative / meta space take in how and where stories get produced or which claims long ago transcend time continua inside the moves we are the circuitry to?

Mimesis. Don’t hold it in. Talk to your proctors.

On a human ~ ant landscape, god is the ant.
Drink to one’s health & bicameral madness
As sugar consumption skyrockets. O Canada

Retour lorsque nous sommes sur notre propre,
comme le seul barde de notre époque, il l’a dit, un visage

.. ébullition triste tout ensemble.
Pas très joli mais il est en version imprimée et autour

Un retour à romance jusqu’au tas. Rythmes environ envie, la fugue-sonate
avec humeurs de tous les temps qui sont truquées

A une pratique complète au sein d’une trêve ou une question énorme.. où
les saisons d’automne, aux printemps, tous solitaires, sont en mutation dans l’obscurité.

— absolument personne — personne ne reste à la maison
on est ralenti, à fournir le rythme —

Un prélude à chanter seul
dans le cadre de la colère d’origine afin de confondre tout.



Back when we’re on our own
as our only bard put it, a face

Boiling sad together.
Not pretty but there in print & around

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

To a full practice in one truce or august matter; lone
autumns & springs mutating in dark

Chez nobody who’s stayed home,
slowed down to furnish the pace,

Prelude to singing along alone
as part of the original anger to confuse.

Thursday.
Outdoors a muted roll call gathers around brightened archways,
A hazard to paper aircraft taking off.

Any ambience, keep that inside. Beyond
Today’s protocols for self promotion could not be ‘more serious’ someways.

It’s been remarkable to gauge how sneering, vaporous personalities — a loose term — proceed un-
Amusingly or even uncivilly in gunshot salvos. Seems a rehearsed practice, um.

By salvo I refer you to the first three or four minutes of killer monotone in talk, in writing.
So much slobber at the start, discourse, along with oomph, runs dry, needs ice
Cream. The aridity leaves me pock-marked (although my cheeks aren’t).

Attempting authenticity in insoluble speech, they fall asleep after only five minutes
Spent on the defensive. Such brilliant dislocations a\were expected, the angels.

In our sight there are dark and unknown predicates fixated on following procedure
But in their case procedure to see into a protracted surfeit of time, a luscious, soilless bond.

Mind and body worship is vicarious before conforming to a belief system.


Life changing sex.
That would be the solid thump in no progress.

Hoarse for a week.

I lost my nonfaith in the underground

Poodle topping Chihuahua w/ fresh scar,

Dalmatian tied down on futon w/ starlet —
Maybe I deserve my extramarital wealth.


Like nobody I play a Fender at night.

Shih Tzu in barrel w/ red pork rinds, sick

Pomeranian necklaced w/ black cord —

Please Frank,
Please forgive this, except my foolishness.

A worker loves riding in your convertible and holding you
Even though you can’t concentrate. We’re in a place, well
A place we’ve never been before. Your convertible.

What’s
Wrong w/ me? May I introduce you? Whom
You reading these days? I love food and
Haven’t had any for a while.

*

Ten lines to go. One thought waded out above your welcome

Working against deadline, ordered to bring you along
Forcibly, surrounded by eerie patrimony for future attributes.

To each her or his own ad hoc Oedipus, pouring gooey home brewed beer and beet juice
That reaches its goal! Dad is a doormat.
Dad as in genetics.                                 QED.

*

Except it depends — an authentic adult language, dance, charades, mores are raised.
Bullets and lists shape the last phase of withdrawal, possibly supplying you
A look back over who we are after the actual sublime prequels to shorts un-filmed.

The current event is to remain forgotten.

*

Many of us never see criticism as blues exercise for glosses over parts

How’s it going? It

Sees you’re a victim of fair use doctrine —
what rage plays at, no surprise in seeming a long time

Putting up a wall of calm pillow talk..

This is where you have to go get more.

Your relapse, 1st, is capacious, breathtaking... we’re done.

There’s a beginning and there’s an end, don’t fix it. Try to look better — second —

As an alien I ask how can we sleep better, stay loose and not get to 3rd.

Let’s play a game. Frankly, Scary Movie was a date movie, distinctive thought
Out on display like a private / public bond, say Klee / Ibsen.

You’re wearing a headset, OK
And this is what I didn’t want, as my animator picks up battery fluid



— torchbearing shadows —



Animators are like that.





I thought about shying away from sharing his room, but that could leave a negative impression
— whatever with a bible, I pledged him a wholly hidden idiom of renderings, spotlighting what’s
Missing!



The cracks should be bridged with glass fiber.



The view outside, pears and Fuji oak, null passages in fog, moos of approval.

I then bring us over to the rubber towel, leaving everything to chance.

I’ve been dating Mittens while I go thru assembly
given in to take you out, shake you tamed. Dart

I’d like to restate the rules for a stretch w/in a finger painting
where we get dressed for the weekend.

A place w/ quarks & rare minerals that take on alien colors & properties
of icons produced by classical forms in a nonprofit love nest
heated on sea plankton.

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

Just like other Europeans playing the stunt of delays between workplace & dogma,
anything everyone can live by w/out being
sequestered or brutally charged by objects :
so by these shortcomings we’ll softball in harmony
around some parts of sky & parts of parts.

Poems to Work On: The Collected Poems of Jim Dine
Cuneiform, Victoria TX


It’s a good time to be braced by new poetry; it’s much like spring. This spring we have Poems to Work On: The Collected Poems of Jim Dine, open flights and linguistic enactments (“up your ass faithfully”) from the late 1960s and early 70s (over 100 pages) as well as pieces from 1994 forward (over 130 pages). The poet, a.k.a. prolific artist, shows us he’s making ‘work’ out of available materials and experiences mediated through painter's methods. Here, in a brief piece, “My Poetry Biography,” Dine summarizes an approach, often writing “first on long sheets of paper tacked to the wall,” sheets as long as nine feet. He composes in crayon or charcoal, and paints over words with pigmented shellac or he literally slices letters off with a box cutter for stapling or gluing elsewhere. Most writers can recognize these procedures, erasure, substitution, etc. Yet the choreography and graphic scale of Dine’s methods imply an unprecedented level of immediacy: Poems to Work On interacts with itself and its readers — Dine exposes elements of doing the work and of openly figuring it out.

“Jane,” an early poem from the late 60s, starts “The shower is on hard / and I’m soaping up like mad,” establishing first the tangibles, putting up a physics in motion, in situ. He does this again and again in early poems as with “A Short Biography”:

I was born in Cincinnati
with the usual wrangle from
me about finding a tit
to keep my mouth quiet —

But also in the first 100 or so poems we join the ‘pop’ artist literally going about his artwork, talking shop so to speak:

making a long painting using all sorts of painting
techniques I’m making a long painting using all sorts of painting
techniques paint staining with all kinds of plastic paint washy oil...

Not fantastically “in electric moccasins,” Dine proclaims, “I wish only art for my sons / nothing less than / all kinds of words / and landscape.” I’m fairly sure we can resource battery-inspired mocs from the 1970s, so nothing is far-fetched here. In these first poems the painter and poet are one in the landscape; in the poem “Wind Marks” one sees “Violent wind” as a “dream,” yet also “I got your head smell // All over my nose.”

The later poems entail robust visual emotion and formal experiment (landscape and words). In a section of more recent work, “About Her for You,” there are shorter pieces alongside bigger poems, 3-pages or longer. Some later formats were adopted for inclusion in digital graphics, polaroids, gelatin prints, and so forth. More striking, perhaps, so many of the later poems aggregate lived experience, call-outs addressed to departed friends, Robert Creeley and Kenneth Koch, among others, as well as many variations to Diana Michener, poet, artist and collaborator with Dine. The rhetoric is crisp, frontal, performative: “BLAND NOTES / TO THE DANCER / KISS ME / THRU GAUZE…” In writing words and rearranging them on walls, the poet’s sounds and moves emanate from a visual imagination physically working out: “FAIRY ISLE / Your name — / clear / Lily of the Valley / HOLY GHOST. / BRING the bright / red paint / to your mouth.” So many of Dine’s poems are charged, however, with enactment of limits to sound, sight and something other.

ONLY THIN
SQUARES OF COLOR
IN THIS BEAUTIFUL PLACE
A METAPHOR
THAT DOESN’T DESCRIBE

ALCOHOLISM

Squares of color that glow only so far, but alive and surging with surprises you may find antic and addictive: “I half holler fuck you — / William Carlos Williams.” On second thought, “I start running / backwards...” Limits to artistic practice are always with us but here’s Dine at work (inviting us to join in), stepping beyond those limits,

fittings on galvanized pipe are put together making nothing real
but a selection of pipe fittings put together...

His point paraphrases text from one of four lithographs in Poems to Work On, “I visualized / a miracle — appearing anywhere.” Dine is deliberate, never to lessen what provokes, compressing visuals with a comedian’s ease in “Gide Lines to Paris”:

A man’s face turns to soft rubber
He twists it
To look like his wife

— Light comedy, slapstick to self-disparaging turns, “My nose goes vibrating down the street.” A friend of the poet tells me the B in the next title refers to one of the George Bushes. Thinking more of the New Yorkiness of the sentiments, I guessed more parochially what follow vibrating more achingly, more indignantly when performed to an empty stage by an ex of Balanchine’s —

GEORGE B. POEM

BASTARD —
Bastard, Bastard
like
PRIVILEGED Boy
              dark
‘EXECUTIONER’ —
BASTARD

That’s an entire poem, an entire theater of vacant, beautiful anger.

Included with the collection are indexes of titles, dates of composition, as well as lithographs and endpapers by the poet. The verse here, hundreds of grown-up toys, diagrammed scenarios — ‘all sorts...all over’ — new poems that go for broke and will stay new. Just a few artists operate with the sense that poet Vincent Katz picks up from Dine, “a sense that poetry matters.” Katz edited Poems to Work On and offers a helpful foreword to Dine’s chronology and “offhand calculation.”

Jim Dine’s poetry is calculation en plein air, a show of what has been done to self-empower and self-amaze:

INNOCENCE
THAT’S WHAT I LIKE!
I GO TO SEE SOMEONE —
THE NEXT THING I KNOW
I’M SCARED —
INTO MY FACE [...]

Fleeting, not ugly square / gets jobs done. This is how it is as an experience, downgrading the other ambiguities you may still enjoy. Good eyes, quick, every inch hidden in flouncing money. Inside, he’s shooting for rhino décor. Sobered. Nothing’s happened and it’s hours later, the old quayside, mostly mixed, dudes in sweats and black tees with blue spots of success. The hunt hath wings. The goblet exchange began, crested, and vanished like permissions administering guard times, the right thing to do, close to the beach.

Capital v jihad. (Kit Robinson)