The dream of writing takes time. I feel bubble-footed locked in dark briefs. (It's not torture unless it causes organ failure.) My tall dad's fiancée has dozens of spices, just so. I'm ten years old. Doing the roundtable quite well, yet not entirely. Free-range sunlight in the clerestory of our lair... I write fondly of fair housing. Elements of my style are excessively self-conscious. Safety carefully disguised as fast and furious, knowing race is an issue as is the waxy sheen of this little piggy. You'll see, I keep faith on the horizon that turns a wandering eye to bright licks among luminaries. President Obama appears to recognize the seriousness. (Nothing in this guy's life is normal to me.) I'm waiting a beat.

Hermitage in our time. In the hermit's words.

New titles for early 2010: Memoir and Essay by Michael Gottlieb [a history of language poetry, New York branch]; A Hundred Posters edited by Alan Davies [a CD archive], The New Old Paint by Susie Timmons [only her second book of poetry]; Post~Twyla: Reset by me. All published by Faux Other (Faux Press and Other Publications). More soon.

There will always be a poem
I will climb on top of it and come
In and out of time,
Cocking my head to the side slightly,
As I finish shaking, melting then
Into its body...

— Jim Carroll

I'm good in bed. Give full value. Part of a part. (But) I'm getting ahead.

I'm a sometimes fiend. I often have sex with an orator who is also in marketing. (Ashes to Diamonds.) Pigeon fathers pattern heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the bright series, brocaded and then stiffened into sympathetic parody staving a muleta, the thatched kinfolk.

Small islands serve as hideouts. The guys are restless. Excellent. We shall conquer childhood, read over the presentation, juggle a few heads. You'll need a new camping saw and hood scoop. I'll invade your space and just leave. Did you see weasels blow up? I'll be really conscious, sitting on your face, I was having to toolbar another.

I am inoffensive, remote, and most of the time my headlamp is on, but you know, irony for money is tainted.

How old do I look? I do insight by the numbers, a walk in the clouds, bloodthirsty aplomb, composing a baffling theory of cognition, with jaded lyrics. "Fat Asses," another high school movie about a straight crew with guns. (I overrate my judgment when what I see comes to rest.) At least I have my integrity. Pancake mixes make the best eye cream under the eye. And I take an introspective view of altruism. Guess this comes under the advantage of an insider.

We hardy knew Dionysius.

Conceptual art is portable and formulated: Language + the materials referred to, dimensions variable. Dimensions variable. That's the hard part.

Ceci n'est pas un moment de transformation.

Web 2.0's desperate bid for fame has been playedout. Find us where we're hiding.

The mailbox happens. A man's voice, handsome, calm, also nervous. Protecting dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that. Our swift powers have never been better aligned.

Scraps and parts of rope.

What I learned from you is speed. I know this sounds lame but what can I say, we were flying high. I annulled you with a hand wave the way we inspire openness and emotional shrubsoul. Nesting austerity is neatly poetic, a sleep-laden vessel of dreams, eating dog food wrapped in a buzzword but no idea.

This is for you now.

Engaging nonlinear oddball. I have no major issues. I'm one of those hoarders of history, buying and piling stuff in the garage, keeping tarnished nanowires and foreign minerals staggered like chairs. I can pick one up as if it's a bowl that's really a vase. Sit and let the sunset pitch its foam. Smoky dogs take the piss tracking flutes in drizzle, shining from sight, playing a bit far, a stack of storm windows, a weakness, a composure for flight a translator can't reach.

Both purchases are burning up.

The sea bream lifts, lukewarm and soft. The Colorado canyons splash.

Splash.

Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.

Where have you been for three decades?

The fop is a French invention but an essentialist's incarnation. It's now English of course. Le Smoking for driving and dressing on the left.

Highway safety — wow, everything has that just created smell. The Buddha Machine is on low, marking discourse. It's looping Tramp Lapping My Skull. Pointless stupid madness. The double v above his eyes means very-very dunkel. (I'm not.)

So this lack of media polish is transparent like twins missing their luggage. I should be mortified and impressed. (These strategies actually work, apparently.) For my driving, I've hired designers.

Reading Anne B's Odali$que this morning, I'm stumped by an old question: Is the search for X1 X2?

(X = content. Content, the primary noun reference for something contained, that is, not so much the verb or adjective. But the adjective and verb together raise even older questions.)

for Ed Norton: The redhead is a redneck in the Berkshires = an unaligned crank in his whittle world even the whistling stops. Ashy style, a whittle weird. Sorry we don't need anyone at the moment. Still, there's a big reach, hyperkinetic within, the fire gospel and mystical motifs = a holding paddock for the down and hungry. (I'm in the horn section, a whittle peasant.) Tabs are seasonal and the vests are talking. Spinless, the question of trees and absolutes (flakes) watch and settle during the simian takeover. They're in on the take.

Oil mistakes.

There are different flavors, pots, sets, syrup-simple to complex, some devolving impediments of brawly randomness, others, chaos, initiations in self-similarities as well as... can't make it out, call them alloys of function routing. I've highlighted one in a box. A rolling bit of Apollonian familiarity, a Mainline ranch dressing refabricked in aromas of polycarbonate. Like a surfboard. There's this rule-of-thumb assortment with natural stenches, along with hidden dimensions in smells exploding on the roof while levitating the landscape, ultra altered.

Different drafts and stinks. I'll let you out.

Can't help it; concur with Rodney K, Eileen M, Alex B, and just about everybody else that B Brown's Brooklyn Lunch Poems and essay In Focii are inseparable from the cosmology of the big, talented humanist himself. We are in an undisclosed place, that is, in awe.

My boy is a very fine house. The spire was a secret inside. The child grew. You are now leaving a faraway land. The ballgame of slow, hissy heights is immediate and beyond your big D.O.A. umbrella. Tall men in raining birdscapes. Nothing's wrong with phobia-free mania v. boredom... two verses, a hook, and a bridge... see what you've done? Quality time can be targeted on a wet afternoon like a fondly disciplined python. And we'll keep insisting on feelings not facts. We enforce a certain look in this house. Marginal partnership, aigu, that's not two years ago, dusted up.

Getting ahead of the message. Food, gas, lodging.

Smarts don't matter. I'm laying myself off. Not that I'm smart. I'm more interested now in squealing puppets and dolls. I hate them. They're awful, I said. (You're right.) I hate their eggs. The dad puppets look at me and shrug.

Spinal wigless, they're the ones spotted with investments.

My cohort flock to benefits. It's in the evolution of avarice, loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer every opportunity. Looseness keeps young bodies moving forward. And that goes for the sun shining with its belle-lettriste metamorphosis in the street, damning grownups.