A flesh-eating virus attacks recent college grads. We never forget and we do not forgive. Even tho we're too fat to have insurance, our moms have always been supportive. Viruses are like that. The wind too. Boo is emphatic. Shivers of a sigh, I made messes all over the nestling ground to suit a creative purpose, balancing running around everywhere that's off the map, the first one, getting lost and then explaining the gorilla mask as a prior condition. Then there's settling down to become human, hacking skin off the dead.

Or, I grew up in Chicago, I used to feel locked in apotheosis (or resisting it), befouling the youngest hearts and minds, collating all the splinters into a pile and resetting the fire by myself (in my head). Fortunately, my energy could be made smart. And it is. Like the wind slapping children's ears to spread sunshine in the lake or on the beach.

Gogol, Nikolay Gogol, with a master's degree in these matters, says the landmass of gut feeling, sane behavior, and noncriminal discourse, like mine, teeters on the grotesque tattoo of a human skull. I can't turn it down. I can't mean my language. I'm a nutbrain; that's a tradeoff, my trade. In the din nihilism shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It's a good thing. That door leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.

Brawly triangle. [Today's H & G.]

Doctor approved
sex toys are
a good idea; until
I went broke
I was indebted
to them. In one
direction the focus
is lost. It's scary (loud
at first, blasé and back)
yet there are comic possibilities
as dreams seem to
be saying. Another focus
is adolescence. A hippie
throws us a softball,
variously literal, the power
system centralized, closely
managed as yoga
for planets. Now he and I
are sly about casualties
and debit. We power
our own, mounting a bait
and switch to chalk up
the utility of lingerie,
discreet shipping, and soul
kings touching wood.

How is it that smoke comes out shiny and fallen with grey streaks? Is it fire? When it's ended you'll switch back. Like this is Stu. The last emperor.

Don't disneyfy pissing me off.

Eileen works through her mess, about as brilliantly as we would expect.

Your wardrobe has experienced a resurgence as beaten but breathing as a fad preview in October of what's to come in May. Anyone can see. You're a crusader and victim in the crossfire. You can't stomach the fair use doctrine or what age plays at. Where's the surprise in a seeming long time? The mutt of infancy regenerates, there's a beginning and there's an end, don't fix it. Try to look better.

Go this way. It's remarkably ambitious, it's just off the boards, like when the water lilies kick off their work boots and women rule. Snipers crouch, the idea of Burberry's.

I had sex with multiple staffers here at pantaloons. It seemed fresher three years ago, but at least I was the first to get a grip and hold on. O my decimated, I said.

An aperture opened up and a lovable perspective is achieved. You disappear, and you have children and they disappear.

Inner wresting? That word again. Kind of an inner, unbuttoned, squeegeed pain in the foot from bee stings, a dishonest hermaphroditic feeling gerrymandered in ambiguity, rendition, and ferment that after a while floats away, released at last into some newly impartial state of brittle ignorance, your story shared among sunburned strangers glancing backward as though all is well with the stats, their stats, as though you never knew the cosmos on a first-person basis or you forgot the name of the enslaved for vampiring the engines.

Either Day has been assembled so that its primary product is topic rather than text or some other nominal for authorial achievement. To paraphrase at least one of the two assemblers, you don't even need to read it to talk about it. Of course one can talk about anything, but I infer the assembler means something like 'to talk convincingly or authoritatively about it.' That claim, which strikes me as accurate, resides somewhere in the continuum between ferocious and pedestrian triviality. It dissembles to empower the nonreader who doesn't have to do anything in return to the assembly but improvise a reaction, enacting the life form of an intellectual exchange. As such, the topic (if not the sensationalized assembled datum) is contained in the one-sentence proposition or, okay, concept: Reprint one day's worth of The New York Times in a book format; call it a book of [conceptual] writing [poetry].

Meanwhile on the lagoon…

Introduction to a blurb for Handel Kent Johnson as Orpheus teacher's pet.

There's always one bubble brain in every class. He's taken a hike to nowhere too exaggerated. A vacation from straight talk, missing the point, tripping over important crowd pleasing stuff, what's right in front of the visible us! Yeah, right O

Peerless thistles, tamed pigeons

— splendor that's interesting, t...his collections of purloined purloined matter abnormally

illumined and slurping

the moon's backlash

The because everything's got vulcanized in the process (or triple-quote process), plus his work-about-work is gag-inducing (in the fun sense) underground, baring their tired innards from and meta-withered as a hare's paw struggles, forceding convulsions of self-conscious laughter from this reader's reader, and may I add in a word, Kent's slop is grueling (in the nourishing sense), also it's impelling me to give up reading reading, altogether a body of antiesthetic intolerance that folds into, and turns on, itself so it's not only ingratiating and entirely comfortable indeterminacy: it brings me back, happily, to nanny's re-embroidered bodice stitching, only Kent's you can see through and it comes off! double duty! but the textual surface (which is of course not Kent's so I should leave him alone) leaves me feeling destitute and in panic...like torture, man... so many techniques...

I just want to say, Kent, about your recent special effects, seriously, human imprint mistakes one thing for another; we're like everyone else. I forgave you. Then this.

Also, a minute after reading this gopher sandwich of yours I'm more convinced your personal battle with blindness to the distinction between socially constituted subjects that are confused while unaltered practical reason streams into fruitful accident is complete.

Read this. I did.

Introduction to a blurb for Handel as Orpheus.

A vacation from the visible!

Peerless thistles, tamed pigeons

— splendor that's interesting, this collection of essays

illumined and slurping

the moon's backlash

The vulcanized gag underground, baring their tired innards from withered struggles, forced convulsions impelling ingratiating and entirely comfortable indeterminacy: destitute and in panic…

I do not hope. Almost the same as hopeless, without luck, except hope's pond structure implies passivity discharged by shore conditions. Not to hope is to re-reference flow made out of 45 m.p.h. gusts — this is my body — a priori nil in inner life razing means to get out squeaking stripes burst ires unmeasured glaring everything unscrewed song by Jim Carroll, the names of the verb.

I'm a woman. Superstars down. I have all the training I need encountering rage and Luhmanian systems. The oasis just passed. It was more at home within stage fright and a vocabulary of deconstraining tastes stowing an echelon's ideology. Then you have another urge and we feel gorgeous encouraging adjustment in the hairnet over the situation.

Inner retreat. A grown man, I'm crying; jokes turn into dreams. I forgive you for everything. Let's encounter, at my signal, unleash hell. See! I'm awake like you sniffing around the A spots. Declining standards, my approach to intimacy is to bar we all each other. Before it was a movie it was a proem, paranoia's belated redemption, an implacable virtuoso handing over his reins to the ace in the hole.

No ripped-off melancholy, not a lecture/rap, not a spectral story nor tiny swaggering to fugue, but a minuet containing you and me in a force field for our expertise. It's taken this long to read the gospel of wealth. Thus texting is not going anywhere any time soon. We're televisionary, still, describing affable hysteria to make a mark, preferring lunacy to kissing, diffusion at any cost to render your mouth a mess of slop, and that goes for captioning the box with the receipt, and tarantulas of steel squeezing under the door, isolated by an obsession with coming right in. If I have to I'll be dressing you down to your car character, elbows up, free and easy. There you go, spiritualist.

Can a poet/artist blog get more graphically motivated than Gary Indiana's? And what about his officiating at the marriage between Warhol and De Quincey? Hyperkinetic.

The sky is in the air sort of the hue of golf balls
Sort of wiredly the air stinks ruched with fart
Hey Soledad!

I wasn't orphaned, I just decided to pursue other interests. Legacies dissolve into debauchery but I found a place in the blood. So I'm not going outside without an extra sweater or my fringed jacket. I take no liberties with literal meanings. I'm delighted to take a supporting role. Given. Someday I will have a pomegranate thermostat, an America of high quality. A deepened voice, for now the benefits in language cloak opera in jeans, a sweatshirt, and a trucker's cap.

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.