First-person motion through the leaves missing you overnight, breathing, all smiles, in aqua. Dentist removes gum. Comparison is anticlimactic. Sexual dynamism is a quarterback problem — staying blithe in the win column, an aluminum, tenebrae-filled drape in potatoland dirt colors and echoes of prosthetic fantasy, perhaps, yet eco-conscious and looking cool responding to the frantic call. We grabbed this, while there's a ladder we wouldn't rule out. Let us beguine by the window, a lamp over my shoulder to herald the swindle in wind farming. The incision continues in this vein. Time passes — street gangs, movies, lies — freedom is illusory at midpoint. It's personal. The city seraphs tell me. It's almost impossible to write enflamed birdsong and comb back your hair at the same time. Pearl puddles. Conniving backwashes have run of the view.

I feel like an editor / coach in the new bloodbath of city planning and unemployment redistribution. It's an avocation. I'm a free agnostic about most everything important, postcritical, or shaded and flat in terms of emotion and architecture. The term "free" creates clutter underlying the unfinished bike path that never ends. Giving something away like ambience, beautifully made, you'll be taken up on your offer, no sniveling over the petty fuel price. Having sex with a leader in nonprofits, will you take me as I am? I'll stay on my side, pictorially (stone and dented wood). I have a mask of unmatched value that mocks death holed up in rant.

Permission to speak freely, señor? That means you, pal. Maybe I'm foreshortened, shapeless taking up prerequisites of munificence in governance, not crying to lessen the gravity, still I'm listening and I hear a noise. It could be me reduced in size talking to you. I'd like to restore us intact. But how can we save your citizenry who more and more are losing their health care? No, wait, here comes a big glob of bubble gum crashing down. Chilling of course because it's forced. I've lost my way.

Has gender identity hit a pothole? narrator asks. Am I in some experimental state of forgery? And how do I maintain the balance sheets and my resolute informality?

Life is short and drives you all over.

Making out, I can drop the questions and shoot for addiction to craning my mien, through which everything is scattered by vintage strobes and liquid jolts emitted by a graffiti masterpiece pulling into Jimenez Station. It's filled with the Filthies and Mr. Abundants wearing income neckties. (Behind the art there's an interaction lab.)

Who is this? Nobody's first choice.

The joke this week was why did guru's cochair say clock the ice during our conversation? She was referring to a few rings won in turf wars, "Will my fortune survive?" I yawned back, on the internet, mind you, as if meta-trigonometry is forever. Security is really tight with the meta-relatives. You sick mother! Sure, I'll take the consultant into my confidence.

I smell a rat. I'm a backstage avatar with an oversized Afro. Your name came up on my snaggletooth. Death haunts not increasing value nor the dimples around the feet. Capacious, breathtaking anxiety, yes, refusal to arbitrate glamour, okay... I'm done. In a footloose world I've waded out above my welcome, which was special. That kind of language teaches you not to bark just the way skilled manual labor makes you (one) feel like a man. Or a woman.

The body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons. You chat up every you (one) in the room. I'm an outpatient. The next stage of trolling pillagers is fickle. Love and money go down together.

Don't hold it in. Talk to your doctor.

Say something cartoonish. I'm trying whirling strokes in roughly forty minute stints. To learn something about what you mean is to let high jinks belie despair over entropy, a quiet start, zero gravity. But you don't get to keep larvae. They're apart. Their cloying song goes out and you feel a necessity to ache in baby blue blather, calmly, accruing intimacy. Hey I'm really sorry.

Never stop exploring. Turn here.

You can always tell when they're finished. There are snakes as well as larvae swimming in pools. What do we now? We have functional emotions and this much-traveled vocabulary of affects. There's a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I just missed the last place you look.

Stay with me.

Sun pours down, unobstructed in this abandoned region. Samples had been flown in and many of us at lunch wanted softer eyes. We'd been warned to stay inside. No need to look at me when I talk, my guitar hero. There were black widow spiders, and incendiary balloons scribbled notes above the large scale nuclear reactor. I feasted on free donuts and coffee, left my dismantling section at the home office seaside, stomp'd, and put my feet up at his place, a little down, effortless, helpless. Every clanking radiator is programming this sentence. Bard of Vesuvius, I made a killing that reads lips without leaving overdrive. Magic attains a chirrup of light freshened with anchor. Why ball now? Leave it to Chagall, stoicism there, loathing here or love may be blind. Oh my god he's got... god blesses him. I just felt a shipwreck with sea monsters back at work. No sorry hold on it's just the worms we uproot. Hanging out is the art of compromise. Slurs little. To save a life you can break the law if you're poor or if you're balled up smart to shoulder perfection. I'll alter my trumpet tones, cock an eye. (Conjoined the two words are underemployed.) All business class and legs to break, pay me now and pay me later. Like a race of giants, welcome to we're not friends.

Dear Anthologist,

It could be worse. My notes say every man's prosody enacts theories of sawdust, eases on down the dress code like a second-hand bow tie that pays for itself. Context becomes a woman's e.r. Something is definitely going on.

Words hurt. It's certain these do. And yet identifying which poems and whose, that's the Hendrick ter Brugghen dilemma, as with all flowing sperm and loneliness we contend in a post-minimalist liberal arts detention center. The dissonance and sports metaphors seem gullible, and a lack of nonsense resists interpretation. Hoarding Skeeter. Ists' opium. My Kindle blows up just trying to make sense (but I grow my colon back!) in context. (I've been wrong about half-dog leitmotifs before.) I'm just curious having compulsively misplaced life's grotesqueries, I'm drowned out by party axons that sound too streetwise for second-rate saws and gossamer voices, these, those. I fear them like tyrants. Prepare the red matter. (There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.) Auden was noised, the requisite critical faculty is parody. You know, your choice of poems sucks, the way celebrating the twentieth anniversary of botox sucks. Collaborating without you like a kotzwinkle alloy, they have to have everything your way.

Yrs,

Lefties are feeling cornered (not to say conned) by Obama. He's a milquetoast. The economy and healthcare, don't-ask-don't-tell. The government looks terrible because it's doing many things halfway. Interior is presently enforcing anti-immigrant policies put in place by Bush 2. Guantanamo detainees are shifted from one prison to another. Obama plans to keep us charmed at towhhalls, baby step by baby step, but it's hard to stomach longterm, while his enemies' operatives ridicule him and his spokespeople with anger mongering. In a democracy you need to persuade and exercise power of governance. We haven't come that far that a majority just 'gets it' about the left's brains and style superiority. No matter who's in charge, government is a problem. Try renewing your driver's license at your local rmv (serving a neighborhood with an average median income), and you'll get it. People who drive are sweating their existence and don't have time for charm. They need directions to get them through the process. Now serving nothing at Window 11.

When camp breaks we call it fl-x-x-f auto-tunes.

First nowhere, and no one is the woman behind me, slumming. Intervention is the better word search. Gang murders are cut in half. I'm not going out in that. I'm saving my homophobia for someone really hot.

She's discounted, for historical justice.

My supply chain is fatalism. An allergy can shape and twist my desire. The taking of whatever works to exchange the hand that feeds me.

Nearly sunset in coconut milk. The skinny eventude brings on fluttering waves of populist rage and dishonest folk. Goo-doggies. Outside dogs are taught to stay, screech, and force it down. Chips smaller for the memory. All in favor hold together under pressure. (Unreliable clique.) Immigrants, bohemians, blacks, gays, subjectivity in a life entrenched w/ decoration, feet first. I'm asleep now. It feels great here. I'm a grad student, on the map.

Space begins almost anywhere, no organizing principle at all. (How to write a publishable anything.) God blesses us, saying "Be fruitful and multiply." We're slotted into type as believers and speakers of Dari or Pashto, one end of the zoological drama in an up-state of perfect moms and sunburned bikers. (Equipped with dark places travel vests.) Everyone here is ready to mess up. Naked and unashamed. The look reminds where fault belongs. (I'm developing a cataract.)

Time and space feel like an institution where parents do realistic work. A heteroglossia in which one mom in three can't swim. She holds the bird a mutant to her lips. Two out of three are feints. Serenely trillions, the patients die.

In Urdu you learn to think for yourself when you're young, and if you're willful, if it's in your nature to want people behaving the way you think, right off you'll teach yourself nuanced thought processes, how you can think for others, for instance, your siblings, your parents (ghost punks), friends and enemies, especially enemies, and strangers, too, why not? Why not think for a pride of people and what's beneath them or above? Frosting on the beater. You start along these lines dreaming in bed then. A complex by prosaic arrangement.

You dream while awake and think it through. The audience follows you. You think about someone else dreaming, you walk in, so to speak. Hey hey my my. You look around and then you start moving. You're there and not there, of course, but you think to bring in a harmless grass snake (this's an experiment first thought by the Prophet Muhammad's uncle) and let the snake move over the exposed back of that first someone you're thinking about. You'll have that person decide how she'll handle the snake (propulsive or haunting). And if you wish, you'll let the snake make his moves, too, in English subtitles. You can exit at any point or you can add features to the dream, this dream in a language the other person, the "someone," is understanding. If you're willful you'll stay in control and have the person and all the "features" you bring in behave the way you want. Recycles sunshine.

Hanging on contains the universe. Whilst easily crossed, do you think? Nearby, make'em laugh, imagine the hurt.

I use photographs or double-crossed text for subject matter. Astronauts aren't perverse, it's the dress code. Not that long ago sorcery and spiritual drama attracted talent. Spinning ponies could fill in here. We once spun like them but later they were less friendly, proliferating, chasing butterflies. I will leave the ponies at home more. Small hills on poppers. A new beginning, the veteran scientologist is transparent, emerging like Sleeping Albert. I knew butterflies had butterflies, why?

We live in a cage, Bennyroyce and I. They made a nimble healthy movie about us. It's about inflating while you inhale. Just a few things I tend to dislike. Neuroenhancers. I'll admit I was curious. A guy interested in robots, the narrator, urinates on flowers, grabbing my shoulder. Rusts himself in it. About how often have you asked, Who is climbing this steaming, herded frontier, Mahlerless? What's curved with glaze? Ow, that total prick. La damnation de Faust. I polished the text and handed it in. I can't figure out our farewell let's go get a drink. From the seafloor you want this. Or gesundheit that. (They take care of anyone ok'd if it don't fit.) Vote often. A mutated protein will get restored. A bug is magnified, ironically revived! To keep up we can't find a compromise.

This is how it is. In the Truro of feelings fishermen think like salmon. The aluminum skiff's named Vessel Virgin. All experience is correct. Hidden money downgraded to icy mindset. A single male is required to post. Some ambiguity you may enjoy. Looks ugly, square, gets job done. Good eyes, quick, every inch and flounce dumb, making out in withdrawal. Rhino décor. The only thing more fleeting is fresh chucker. Sobered up, got back to weed whacking. Nothing's happened and it's hours later. The year-old quayside, mostly mixed, cool diodes in crimson, a soft spot for success. Shunt that wings. Then one day the emotional exchange began, crested, and vanished like emissions administering smack. In hard times it's the right thing to do, close to the beach.

Cute and cuter. Where does all this come from? I became an escort despite losing an arm. According to our files, it's telepathic, fathers to sons, trees to rapping patrol cars, or we never get a chance, or I could say it this way. Sit and roll over. Children with partialities end up winking at the flies in King Kong. They swarm indefinitely, having graduated sex for us. Uplift and destruction. (This was supposed to be a surprise.) I had taken prescriptions, splashing her face with water when you protest. That's when they appear, young men with secret ingredients and no children at all.

Braille Martian sex. Do it.