A nonreligion of men, a High Service
Sung along both coasts:



Our people are what makes us / great.
Love and heritage go down together.

The last nonpoem eases the dress code, a bolo tie display on 8
For a race of giants (giants are made up pieces of one another in other names).

Love came up short for a few and drove them to forgery. And shatters.
The taking of whatever works to swat the hand that feeds them,

Sharpening endurance,
Risking focus.

It’s real privilege to be singled out

..once there was a C-class ..

We stay onboard

Suffering, complaining, two out of 3 observers got off, depleting the shipment. Surnames are ..oh forget it, huh? They’re randomly conjoined.

They mentioned they had legendary roots, cleansed of the thought even of terror. (I heard there’s a list of field after field trainées.)

Fall back, breathe while our new rescuers get authenticated.

Breathe, kick, push, kick, five ..

It’s about letting go, breaking ranks

To achieve a balanced personality we have to bury.

No danke. Just piano and voice. Piano, voice, practice.

The big meal. Inductions to your other habits;

Just because you and I were snarly, externalizing our ideas.

The gleaming haze drags down sculptures of felted helium

— raw nerves done over by spinning in warm wind.

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

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

Literally nothing is granted / nowhere

There’s another centerpiece to explain how flowers are cut as progressions.

Iconoclasts count them in a series, along with any allure of falling cornices.

They did (in plurals).

Now months later, it’s good news
Since you wait for new word, not to empower others.

Everything belongs hiding in plain sight, on the ground, no hinge,
Ornamental to a point... our brain / body fiber pierced 24/7, point two... to start

Terpsicore is ascetic, improvisatory, sherbet hued like Erato, a voice of suspicion, hisses.



Let’s put this less sophomorically.

Basically existence precedes essence asleep on the leaf. Mostly.

Anyhow, a steel door opens. Here are the last letters of bliss.
(We best defer to the series to differentiate ourselves.)

Deep blues and silvers with biological shades to form vowels;
Consonants have already taken shape from older models.

This organizes five minutes infinitely without saying bless your heart.

舞踏

As in Where the 舞踏 were you?

You had every opportunity to reset the agenda —

Ergo the invention of worship is over..

(so much over: the topic is civility, imparting dicta slathered across century-old middle ground) a themeless module (where we sleep) fields of action (and continue playing around innuendo to stay kind, as you and I undress to force a smile) fully emancipating me from not feeling obliged to receive you generously, keep it together.

It’s a bitch comedy.

To execute your thought is itself recursive, beside the thought —

Far-out crops — banks hate this

All meanings are the full meaning.

It’s no single fool’s doing, making it easier to borrow. Clenching-tight

I’m sorry so sorry — Can you sing that? from a reveler on a roll, keeps forgetting

What she’s rocking on about

Every day you change your life.


[Earle Brown in the audio ground..]

I was never in 2 places enough to ask permission
(trying to sneeze paid better)

so that got to itch.
Went on forever. The point?

Even a good start won’t stand for practice — hey
not while the restless recover from numbness :
Recruits blessed for pleasure, els of light, identical, emotionally
extrapolated from their super-definition :

It’s up for grabs now, where they ensile a streamline
for joy in wooden enclosures, a caricature of hard play,
off in duets in the eco-imagined before-the-point.

Postlanguage. What the heck is it? It’s historical, chronological fact. Ahh! Something something that follows the first language generation, some hyper criticism of now that may sound tonal for a moment, that may open into al fresco narrative if it has to, because the visual is back — what a relief! — at least bits of a hungry lyricism or para-lyricism, then, among other options amid political downtime masking horror. One key is that there are options for urgency (“calling out to you,” almost personae-driven) to compete with reflexive linguistics (“invasive assertions crowding in...”), both unfolding measuredly within a list of grievances (even as the calling is drowned out by discursive officialese — “giving onto. Making free with”). And this, just because this is also key — postlanguage is often best practiced by language poets, as with this text published in The Likes of Us eight years ago: “Where Once It Was Deemed An Advantage To Know So Many Words,” a title so layered with critique, we can absorb it all in one swoop.



seeing how the tables have turned



that terrible foreknowledge sinking into the west



Those vasty deeps calling out to you



the imperial aloofness of the overpass, the flyover, the dress-rehearsal,

the four-in-hand, the signature cowlick



NO FOOD USE — FOR DISPLAY PURPOSES ONLY



a top-down command profligacy



the alike. The superb, canny sloth flecked with benign rancor



prompting for any sign. As in, “I wonder what the poorer rabbits are

doing this season?”



A gorgon demonstrating motion furniture. A giantess astride the 
Bowery



nameless and unshod, the invasive assertions crowding in upon us just

before the return-date



the wayward surgical appliance stumping across the access road



giving onto. Making free with. What was once afoot, and bruited



Gas. Food. Lodging



shriven and rent, all-too-knowable, that low mittel-european scent like

a serge [...]



— Michael Gottlieb

Traffic jammed under the apartments
A lemon sliver caught in my nose.
Tangy.
Romeo and Eurydice. Just a wedge.

Naval voices wake me up.
It’s too embarrassing

pulsing in a deep mirror,
light snow performing butoh.

(Ethical and mammalian boundaries pertain.)

— I don’t want fun or get to dress you, hell
I’m ultra-excited to seem enthused ..

tilting your head with no untoward parts, transfixed silhouette,
— the Demon Puff in his plumage / language.

I was hit in the face when he turned himself in.
I knew I am unhappy and, like most everyone, not — 

the boat’s cortex holding out ..

I came straight from the agency, our agility welded to the pile of dirt flung after a party’s coupons expired. It’s all ours along with brutish architecture and lab animals attending what’s neat and new to me.



N.. I’ll take your little posts and flesh them out. Saying what is unmeant, quiet, ambiguous. I won’t rampage in a sense, shifting one thing at a time into the present.

Objectivists, beats, language, unoriginal geniuses, or what you and I are, the further you go out in time the descriptors for these moves or movements peel off. These are people who hang for motives. They’re facilitators intaking social verbs, nominalized. (Beats more so, and less.)

Nomads at the museum.

The castle walls are this conference. First up, a soulful lab mix of appliances and Beats.

Dear January,

I went to your reading dreaming of cutting out. I thought I went outside and cried. I
need a new sum of things, just remembered. A heart shaped culinary thing holding
my tongue on the verge of resisting you, thanks to notes of civet and benzoin. In
the right daylight, polygamy itself atwitching, acquainted with men’s affairs —
“In each house he has a different name, adopted to sever the head
from the vines.” That’s an odd thing
to say, are you in or out?

Another thing, I want all the trees shaken.

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

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


Atheism is otherwise the main event up at The Hague. Here, secrets of satire float
Free to find an informatics of doors opening (bassoon music) and structured
Multiplicities (an ear for sex).

Are you healthy enough for perfection in a gridded environment?
A stencil of our dialog frames others yet usual speech subverts expectations
Like these sharp pellets slicing through the blood pointing down and out one’s feet.

May I wish others well, not rejoice in their ill fortune, reconcile hurt 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

We can’t compress enough or too much. We were one people at one time. We also =




a glistening database advanced by textuality. The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity tracing out how to refine / displace any remnant of your contempt. Classification adjoined by adaptation passed thru descendants.


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

*

1)

Read Ashbery from the back forward: Defense owns — there seem — accents — these:
reticence such on put days, our
moving and light, puzzling in place
of morning winter smiles .. a chorus

Emerges which on canvas ..
noises w/ filled already silence ..

2)

Here’s a proposition. Start over. Compelling work toasts knowledge construction — in plain speak — as well as finds, explains & reforms infinitesimal times-spaces. Your optimism is required (a) to keep everything open for reform; (b) to understand we are beginning the work and as a species, we will always be at, in as well as be the beginning.

3)

Not wanting to be cowardly. That would be a problem.
Write visually.
It’s wise to move to the city, scripted
by infantile ambition, well groomed.

Food tastes better; crunchy leaves
underfoot and wearing your panties, walking
the park I apologize
doing this.

Once an apologist it’s for life — you need
a vertical and a horizontal bar, libido time, you’re on a star range w/
blank tenderness to smolder in met
colors, galvanized pastels, winning the beginning —
preparing the manifold, earlier..




4)

Dustbin Starter Kit, wrap collected work of [fill in your name of the poet] in loose pages from today’s NY Times.

5)

Can’t Feel My Bouncy Face After Party, TBA, everything you touch is gold, I remember. Any one thing is ‘sculpture’ of its original idea.

Pierre Bourdieu fires a projectile: "Magnified preferences ['levels of
taste'] within capital distribution are stopgaps like butt paste or discount cosmetics while
less prominent anxieties balloon, yearning to be subsumed by bigger ideas.
Like on that trip to Vegas."

Bourdieu gets home to his Cajun kitchen, much later, and hums if
there’s a voice in his head. "We gain knowledge from our shortcomings as well
as genius insights." Well, ah! The shortcoming between having things to say here
and checks-and-balances stuff is nasally inspissated with fear.

I sign off on others’ labor —

A newspaper edition, documentary remnants, penetrable databases —

We occupy this clever, conceptual nook, curl up and think
At times siding with the powerful is deliberate as well as passive-aggressive.
I’m kidding. I’m staying sarcastic — unironically. It bears repeating

there’s audible glee not being perennially the other and oppressed,
the oppressed are what we avoid where or when we can be free

on the outside, in place of a natural voice a bouquet smolders
w/ the emancipatory normality of assumed dominance.

In better Prada, distorting the status-quo on otherworldly streets:
“Where are we going?” This or that way. I guess so. Not particularly.

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

— Savoj Žižek

Bad news, I was
struck by the French property owner. You know,
plagiarism in quotes.




It’s cold indirection
but our metabolism really took off, along
with raw emotions from a huge manuscript
I’m freezing, since

It’s none of the above.

I misfiled your core principles, went
for higher ones in baroque-neurotic sleep.

Any higher, they’re not talking ..
(there’s tighter discipline)

Highly apéritif,
morally camouflaged.

We’ll leave it here.



There is a definitional flaw with the Kenneth Goldsmith-Marjorie Perloff foundational experiment in theory: their retrieving the superordinate term conceptual to promote an array of processual practices — a categorical overreach. Little doubt the term conceptual evokes audacious gesture, readymades from Marcel Duchamp, legendary erasure of a hand drawing by Willem De Kooning by the young hand of Robert Rauschenberg, Damien Hirst’s sharks floated in formaldehyde. Hirst, Rauchenberg, Duchamp — I imagine both Goldsmith and Perloff enjoy associating with these types of daring and achievement. A closer parallel to the Goldsmith-Perloff experiment would be the use of the term conceptual as a descriptor of New York-based art projects of the late 60s and early 70s, with linkages by broad association to Sol LeWitt, Lawrence Weiner, John Baldessari, et al. I think this is the primary linkage intended. Sol LeWitt comes nearest to the Goldsmith-Perloff processual paradigm, having famously uttered, “idea becomes a machine that makes the art.” This is only one construct from that era, however. Lawrence Weiner, in contrast, describes conceptual art as thought conveyance through which texts, written instructions, for example, substitute for or obviate artifact. With this formula we have text that proposes motifs and procedures for imagining artifacts such as poetry, resulting in an Occam’s razor-like approach to conceptualization, a proposition along with a thin, cool treatment or abstract, a metatext, in any event.

Around the time LeWitt, Weiner, and Baldessari started these practices, poets were meta-texting with varying coolness, Bernadette Mayer, Clark Coolidge, Alice Notley, John Ashbery, Aram Saroyan, Ray DiPalma, Jennifer Bartlett, Joe Brainard, Ted Berrigan, Bruce Andrews, Jamie MacInnis, Ron Padgett, John Godfrey, Jim Brodey, Tony Towle, Ted Greenwald and others — their texts built in part of compressed vignettes and linguistic what-ifs, propositions about (and within) propositions, each an idea “that makes the art.” More, Brainard, Mayer, Berrigan, Padgett, Notley, Godfrey, Towle often enact / model ‘concepts’ through de-compressing, half-ironically drawing in ‘evidentiary data,’ perhaps most markedly in Brainard’s I Remember.

My points to follow need first to reference Mayer’s influential Studying Hunger, her list of instructional writing experiments, reworked and augmented by many language poets, along with additional examples from Coolidge, Ashbery, and others writing about their ideas through ideas. We need to make a more specific case for their having maintained a so-called author-function versus shifting that function via mechanics and other process maneuvers (transcriptions from other media, e.g.). In sum, it’s necessary to distinguish between at least two kinds of temperament and practice for conceptual poetics, one authored to its core, if you will, and one processed by means of refining / disappearing so-called authorship.

There are numerous examples of text production that conflates these temperaments. With regard to contemporary process constraints on practice, ambiguating authorship, authority, and originality underpins the impassive automaton and chance gaming features of earlier process-oriented texts by John Cage, Oulipo scribes and others adapted as precursors to the Goldsmith-Perloff paradigm. Goldsmith’s strategy in practice downsizes means of production to draw attention to itself as the gist (the practice of downsizing). Many of Goldsmith’s texts are ideas, pure propositions adding up to a form of argument to engage with or without material artifact. Robert Baird explains in the comment section under Goldsmith’s entry at harriet (5/30/08) that the salience to today’s unoriginal (or uncreative or boring) processual poetry centers not so much on the power of ideas or concepts as on its distillation of author-function:

Goldsmith’s originality lies not in destroying the author-function but in raising it to its purely formal apotheosis: he’s demonstrated that the most radical refinement of the author-function so far is the author who doesn’t have to write. And allow me to repeat: securing that apotheosis is an achievement, it is an act of genius, but it is both of these things because it’s original.

Why not simply enjoy this as heady argumentation waged within processual praxis! one mode of conceptual poetics. A recursive problem in conferring the broader, more sweeping term conceptual poetics to process-oriented output emerges within the presumption that a regulated methodology is essential to conceptualization, and by extension, such methodology achieves a higher scale of reasoning and mental prowess to surpass other kinds of text, evident in Craig Dworkin’s rhetorical questions from the Introduction to his “Anthology of Conceptual Writing,” published at Goldsmith’s Ubuweb:

...what would a non-expressive poetry look like? A poetry of intellect rather than emotion? One in which the substitutions at the heart of metaphor and image were replaced by the direct presentation of language itself, with “spontaneous overflow” supplanted by meticulous procedure and exhaustively logical process?

These descriptors point to a subset of conceptual poetry, hardly the entire set.

Good-bye, my darling. It was beyond great, but I have to go back to Sara Teasdale and the kids. It’s nearly a chemical thing. (Jack)



It’s a hundred years ago. I’m with Maggie Airport. Good-bye, my darling.



Next time wear a swimsuit under the towel. (Jack)



It’s a little early in the day for me. I can’t write in a swimsuit.

Websites lie. This 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. 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.

2016. Rhetoric dies.
Came from outer space; was well radicalized before it got here.

Freer speech in every direction
for walking strong will accelerate, wild,
ruthless in a sense, the umteenth layer set in funereal trance
tweeting under the bust of the rhetor, a civil, democratic ideal.

No one wants to get ‘under..an ideal.’ Freedom is personal.

To wit — the supply chain yields hang-dog freeloaders.

...better to toss politicians, Cruz (from Batman), toss the fat stutterers, the boss Donald

Onto a trampoline.. they become teddy bears stuffed with social sensors

— here but not for long
— no chance

Or there’s more down the hall, a binary fission in dystopian speech when you’re expecting mere
rudeness, so we’re attentive, bound for well armed crazy wild disturbance.

Time for wine out of a box —

                     *

                                                Urban attitudes from La-Z-Boy.

*

A life is charged by the menu.

Occasionally you sleep, given immunity.

Not every detail is for a generalist’s eye; still I’m clueless about vertically integrated brinkmanship. Things in that terrain are deliberately made up to look made up, to look as if we think we need a hand skipping dinner, combing through motions and low pressure peeled back from almost getting

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

I don’t think life in the mind can be made up. I’m not worried it gets easier.

Fact: eye contact is more defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making a pattern to and from alterations sited within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.

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

Anything Apollonian looks flab prone.
Capacious anxiety, yup, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... I’m done.

You can break the law to shoulder perfection or save a life, once or
Either way is a fractional infinite in the context / e.r.

In the large apothecary we call all infinite sets
Something is definitely going on.

Some lefties feel cornered (not to say conned) but
It’s breathtaking to administer the right thing to do to you.

I am is still here, the body’s purring could not be put off. (One dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).



*

Wrong. Constantly wrong is correct once an hour if you’re a minute hand (person) and can’t move. Seriously? But what is identity.

[...can’t stop it...through language [going in] [out...] cheesy time lapses in which [animating backward] speech & narrative continuity become incrementally

transformed into deep structure affixing Old Norse phonemes to nonobservant verbs. ]

Now my head is cleared.

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

If we had grounds I’d subside higher up on the surface having you weed out caution.

I call this a sex drive.

A civil union is the Oxfam of self-doubt.

Drive-me-crazy men are not meant for union.

We’ve heard of mezzo motivation. You’re supposed to finger things out.
Doing the honors in a climate of solo opinions and best practices
we’re satisfied in many parts; soft ha hah’s between lines, like here,
snaking around on his heels, Eros —

*

The calm never resolved,
because we’re only one muppet and one marine
reigning over Proustian project boards, cost curves, etc.

“‘In a way’,” he said, “‘nothing saved me —’”

Ein Wunder, bitte, like 12 drummers drumming, our bacchanalia is talked up on the spot while it gets slotted in —

I think I love you all-purpose
one.

Living somewhat left of Unitarian

(Siberian cranes)

It’s impossible to separate churning out understatement from the performance; both are adolescent in a good sense, pitch. So that’s how the cave and landscape felt. Next, a full database advanced by a minimalist method, burning out your swing meeting half-death in no way hapless, sensing no value contingent; partly insight, partly not.



There is an anomaly. The work includes more than verse bits, but one’s speech makes every act composition, one’s part in the work.

You’re exempted from outdoors, Psyche,
Exempted from showing up to enchain, knife, subdue..
That’s before I reverse your fragrance,
Schubert playing, giving away what we’re good at

— gosh a population for tears forms in cozy motels.
A class struggle thinking it’s for real.

The struggle, not the tears.

Memories were untold on both sides.

I need you tho.

I’m not sure how to answer that.

I’ll have sherry Pepsi. And just the sardines.
I’m sorry this happened. I was going to stay
from the moment we set the stage squinting within representation,
getting some miles in, taking them on board, putting them in mind
of a future photo realism.

Bye, maestro. I’ll butt dial you
egressing, achieving very little with the argument intact,
noting pride in our measure to
— section our itches and engagements
— go over, mix more with some census guys,
cashiers — it’s called freedom of worship.

What’s my business? Aperture systems led me to holding

These volatility models from tv, vocalism in a sense.

Hidden risks lift weights (merge accounts request).

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

Instructions are errands; I’m my own boss.

My agent is a penis.

Any shortcomings balloon in ‘harmony’ w/ use

— whereas my epistemology scampers in transparent secrecy,
w/ several ideas to leverage new agents in the pluperfect..

Therein, a civilizing process to staying purposely
dull, entered into too by spotting it first. It’s

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



This is color: Q-tips & smoke. I can pick you up, take a day off
        from everyone standing
physical & prime for the stress of relays between a rat race
        & security IF

my 3-D models are you & everything else I can be w/ w/out you

There are a 100 butterflies out of sorts in what’s wrong watching even one
or two spin like mediums,
happy in the dirt, re-engineering their variety and persistence. To no use

One builds something better.



It’s the vibe, not leaving you out.
We 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 we’re mortified with ozone.

The whole firebox glow yellow wallpaper engages on.

The collapse of saying it better is.. reportage shifts, functions bounce.

Tequila Mockingbird A Novel
Carter Ratcliff
Station Hill 2015

You should be sitting down when you read this. Off to a corner where we can relax and welcome immodest Fiona, deeply and superficially (where it counts) our best friend for esthetic comfort and compressed instruction. Fiona has a last name but we call her Narrator. She’s all we need. So settle in.

Narrator never stops talking so we pick up a lot fast, in reliably splintered ways, since Fiona’s physical beauty totally represents her communing with disparate voices of other glamorous sluts, along with a gallery of mainly undercooked males — beautiful slut fodder, yes, many of them, but males unable to backstroke over the racing grid of infinite triple-A babe procedures. “Marta Marakova is holding me,” Fiona could hiss, “kissing my cheek, I’m closing my eyes, inhaling..”

Narrator is star witness to her bifurcation from old to the new, Fiona to meta-Fiona, “one of those girls who lives in her thought, not in the land of living, breathing bodies and functional brains.” So Fiona is most alluring. Almost always dealing in thoughts inside their refreshing facets — illuminating near-gravelly voices from all over Manhattan; voices that fly the Atlantic and many points south; voices that know the best season to dominate boys in Italy (autumn); voices posing in the big magazines, ‘Harper’s Bazaar, especially..’; voices with death threats hanging over them.

The brainy parts of the farce reinforce Narrator’s self-arguments on sentiment, ‘the warring forces.’ Fiona digs down to find what she feels about good old Fred: “he’s the only one who gets things. Except — what things?” Seconds later she knows, “he’d be patient, help me get to the point.” Fiona’s points are about sentiment, knowledge and knowing. Focused on semantics, she does something true and playful, separating British from American ‘poofs,’ or she gets a little more serious, defining her boss’s ‘total resentment’ as less than ‘true hatred.’

It may be, surface beauty and beautiful sex are forms of knowing Fiona runs through again and again; her life as a model among models ties in with going all the way — to a next step, “I’m going to be a stand-in for a statue, which is a stand-in for a living, breathing human being.” Poof.

Midway into Tequila Mockingbird Narrator chimes in with perhaps her most shameless compression, conflating Fiona’s modeling group get-up, lots of hair gel slathered over naked models, with Botticelli’s Aphrodite on the half-shell. “This is my favorite painting. Except for that Bronzino portrait at the Frick.” It’s a portrait of a half handsome elegant guy with something extra, “he’s got this huge hard-on. Which is true inspiration, no? To make his hard-on a part of his portrait ... anyway, the gel is supposed to make you think we’re sopping wet, like pussies dreaming about the hard-on in the Frick ...”

Ceremony, a philosophy of :

Can you take a seriously argued philosophical position and call it ceremony? Yes.



Rustic wedding symphony:

[Just before going thru with it, however, we started looking at the bridal gifts, lots of chopped vegetables (or vegetable facets) in the accounting as well as astronomy as pertain to unexpected reordering of mixed waivers, how these areas are comedically meta laden by dint of a non vegetative force that implels monstrosities.. they’re hidden quite a bit further along, occupants of an ultimate middle ground, tho, between endless pain and one’s data (data = life) offed. Rational function fails until you find some end zone for Longer | Higher Meaning | Religiosity! — an arena for squeegeeing and bursting ires ..]

We marry. There are mantras on rustic tolerance and good manners but no one has more than the allotted answers for the stumper final (newer solutions are nothing less than what we had in mind!) :

Where did passions portend? Search on This Topic, Wittgenstein mentions a handbook for minimal methodology... [transcending its genre] co modeling automata, ‘atom-isms’ of any one philosophical position’s task.

Did I mention Wittgenstein helped set our algebraic terms? This is a dynamic factor everywhere the living supersede manners and physicality itself, where there is no privacy. Not now. Started back before Béla Tarr’s close ups, his editing, the ‘border violations’ and the runtime of his films transcended precise location and presence.

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 Vaughn Williamses..

To tyranny,

I was thinking of god, the shoplift energy ..

Hold on, I was handed this bag of sentences.

My views are not incompatible with yours, only there has to be a head severed by someone in charge orating toward torchbearing shadows —

And this is what I did not want to say.

Government is not that impregnable. The background is a colorful PROCESS shot. An athletic-to-pallid fraternity, mostly, locksteps for the hot scent, clothed in little that’s formal but a motive for eagerness. And they’re always wrong to prolong their appeal.

I lost track of our last banter.


As a rule any attempt to hold forth is off topic.
The community’s been repurposed. A river dried because of science.
The rich (not advancement) won.
Still there’s the moral watchdog that wags a peace flag for anyone / any gender.
Underneath, it’s mostly useful to remain a sequence of light. Short sleeves, a thong.
It’s with this other tenet I hold you and me for conniving to carpet silence.

A note: to John Wieners,

Illusory a
-utomatism maintains a low balance outdoors evolving pretexts that amount to near zero, a
large zero, derived from sweet metaphors for punishing discourse. A
nonetheless graceful concealment provides fractions within our known physics, demeaning no value and a
variable either way.



Thank you Jeezus.

For almost all our dual multiverses judge us smitten, each with one’s own cloud, lucent gray with a
pebble inside, each unrestrained and too outspoken while giving away access to a
fresh haystack in pursuit of a silver meadow.

In bar lighting, one’s eyes drift as if
getting laid underwater. I see why snails
build a house. They stick around, slowly tank,
coltish to the end. Jacobeans. With
them everything would be fixed.

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.

Paying attention is the field call haunting the future,

Skull,



More bounce for the retina to unscrew internal hysteria pouring up like a bass gruntbut embarrassing,

Losing both death and life

You look how I feel.
No plan is perfect.

Here’s one moving like a mobile while we go back to the invention of planets, sympathizing
with a numbers guru also the director of the environment — one of them.
Often that’s a normal if baritone and determinative segment to sing.

Swimming
to there uproots the light series, sopranos exhaling into
                                        pathetic lampooning..

Their emphasis reminds us of contingencies we picked up from a tray

of bright
boomerangs that tantalize in the feasible,
wanting nothing implausible and showing
what go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.

Decor: Not dying is not not wanting to die, a unique semantic potential assigned an inventory. (Dying is not wanting to die and then waiting not to die: Between waiting, not wanting, desires crowd out a covert, unplayed suite shaped through a decade long derangement,

misread revisions bourne in
countering selfmastery, fighting it even in unspiteful moments

— was it something to do with prayer?)



All this repetition is not good ahead of patterned, glimmering haze surrounding powerful men, dating them, finally; you know, the level of glamorous self regard here is high, gnarly. If all we do is seduce and note our conquests, we lose. We lose austere joys, cloud dogma, sculpture perpetrated out of wire in scentless comfort, winter is coming skies. Scentless discomfort, too.

I’d like to restate rules 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 & Byronic properties
of a nonprofit love nest
heated w/ 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 stretching doing splits,
an untapped kennel of oblique, puckish Swiss..

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

You’re wearing a scent of rosemary.

I’ve always been there (here) waiting for that rush
Updrafts don’t even have, the time today
Our mouths can kill.

Ornamental border shrubs sometimes have presidents’ names or others’,
Dukes of Zoroaster, Forex, a snort of intuitions and of a finite nature exuding
Foundational values like panderers! Just get by the comic bits; rosemary is a loose
Entity in a world dominated by luxury blooms.

Your friend is smoking, “I’mind blown,” he says turning
Rational when we sit down.

Land use. That’s what the new world is about. Are we breeding steer or picking pansies?

I’m reading Jean Cocteau again, watching Butterfield 8.

You too. Sorry, I have no other apolitical associations I can share. I was running through the park everywhere. Don’t know why we are in this automatic summation of before now or a minute from now after the transaction but before it turns up on your mobile device. Last thing, the parallel adjective is ‘fuzzy.’




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 lexical pragmatics. The schema echoed by take-downs, inflammable straw men (physique / text), and clustered pellets (biodata), whose immolation compels male gut pleasure. The instant take-down / -out. You can’t have deadpan without it.

Granted, on a more personal note, I can maintain a liberal pronoun to cry my way into teaching in the park.

There’s a cloying aspect when able bodies gather to
phenotype, we have to polish the devices

we had called gateways where wealth is wed (the dooryard)
to far correlates inventing a new intelligence of largess.

*

Invest now, daylight garners
each of us a stairwell math to snap out of going off half-

footloose & naked yet shooting for triumph.
(Triumph is creepy. We remember the salad shooter.)

*




The third part I guess is our resolve that comes in processing integuments,
weekly tea, investigative retailing, beholding a set of kettledrums..

Here’s our take on getting back together. It’s another part
to tensive healing (a method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow)

*

in compliance w/ odds off bets already placed... wherein
musical notes, conflicts w/ breakfast & rubbery clouds, a proverbial laugh:

Nobody totally killed it. The docents were untouched.

The estate repaired to is only offered in the ‘thereabouts’ pattern:

still, it’s not overrated, I whisper to you, falling myself for reincarnation roughing it ..oh,
wait we did this already..

No shortcuts. Nope. The perverted best part was
how twin birdbrains 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 sun shines larger. We rely,
really like your ideas. / O
great.

It’s such nice work, any idea
with its schema proliferates a birthday
between thoughts of kindness, tragic themes
of incitements; or was it empty?

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

it’s just a backstory in a way
sulking inside these rooms —

fado or Art Farmer,



stick with it + have what you own grow
as an entire practice, possessive habits flattened into

semantics + looser distinctions
over words bringing up the actual goods ..

It’s a question of .. you can say
there are no stages.

Everyone is resolved, the body is loaded w/ 3 seasons at a painting crossroads:
More relaxing filming bricks
and masked ducks or being w/ anyone who routinely
does things that would be awesome if intentional.

Filming or taping = [that is / that which is] painting / reporting.



Purple black teal — these axioms are exaggerated
yet feed-your-brain journalism takes control knocking many painters
off, gamblers bent on painting counterterrorism, cleaning up the future space, reporting that is that / which is ..

Like crustaceans we cave to forgetfulness.

Blinds drawn, our overly prefixed, scavenged opacity fills with sang-froid & riches of dark matter screening off the comic pedigree.




Before that, looking far ahead was fantastic, a civilizing process added to eternal space

Filling our eyes with unmeasured disassociation.

Thanksgiving poem —
Chestnuts stand around in jobbed hoards.
This is a country with open arms,
Click opioids.

Close up.. Let’s agree you agree
Scrub jouissance good — reformulating innocence
Getting good out of recoveries, re-do’s, re-applications,

Clenching-tight, we’re a team.

Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions
like 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.

This is an impressions album. Or it was. Youth is so impressionable.

Ultra blurry, anamorphic, bound movement sung by writing it, but occurs in the latest form of repayment

— you
weigh nothing in and get no credit, no
spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in



                                        Downing, there’s a substitution agreement containing someone else
                                        and me in force, pulled on from inside.

— oh yeah, pulled awake more, more than once w/ a face of a poet. Or a filled out line. Or lines. Smiling lessons.