First I wore quadratic conditions in my smasher
area, spoke an argot cuttingly woodland. Marxian

yet morphine-ghosted by Thanksgiving's
bobwhites in the Appalachia hush... off

to getaways & then — second — a boutique
of collared, greening hospitality where Hellenic

banter might calm Kant’s havoc. Third, I’m spli-
ced as on a magnum while service precincts

rig sawtooth nakedness mauling the stubble
headland askew sundry wharves... so

doing sex here with a hen of steam, verdicts
are trifles beyond Krishna's preproduction

pouring kerosene to kindle tomography
for having brooked the Toscanini kind.

You never achieve status as a full pariah
even as Starsky and Amida exquisitely
handcraft cheesy retributions —
losers = worshippers of their detractors;

pathos = desperately seeking npo tax credits;
appropriating mauves; outsourced research;
hapless (though deceitful) green-face coloration;
dedication to ex-intimates. All these

personnel will have to be shifted or fired
but come to work anyway, achieving a seeming
bliss of the non-willed state, enlightened
ambiance like an argument lacking design

squeezed onto a breezeway, goat-gotten,
fighting among effluvia to endure.

There was a tongue in his ear driving noise
Into history of men in a line of duty. Glad
he's a fan. It's quantified.
The four-man cabin five flights down.

Opacity's a colossal how. How
do you pay for it? How is an epic life
colorless, sparkling yet dissected
as reflections of one’s self or angst

Slumped over in gaffes, so many
without pulse, how did he stand tall, pause
and brush his hair? Brush it back, men
like him looking up like flight risks say

“Exactly,” and in that miracle voice?
How do jobbed hoards of ass and clips
of soothing breath reach to enchain, knife
and subdue? How do you encounter

A faint breeze on zoom as you slip
his phone in your pocket — How against
your best effort is everything
on drugs as you go through the mail? How?

This is a quiet pace except for the plastic
containers hanging along the ship’s bow
and top sails maximized along the side.
24 hours we’ve had.

I polished the text and handed it in.

We used photographs for subject matter, like this of a garland arch by the abandoned tracks along the shuttered residences, with hetero gag men and a made woman, a vulcanized ambassadress to the gag foreground. We coax them to come across, waiting for all the trains.

Mahlerless, I find someone else, a thinly veiled version of me. The flow is persimmons even now. The mounting look and what we did are odd quirks and turns, a block party, informatics about neuroenhancers — a charitable sort, a higher up interested in robots, goes blind. Agoraphobia sets in, it’s less friendly with proliferating mordancy inflating while you inhale.

To keep up we don’t find a compromise. Vote often.

from August 5, 2009:

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 [cell] 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.

Part of the world works backwards facing the street, passing it... A science fiction flushed hollow, looking on outside it and still walking through adhering neatly to nothing, just passing, but also taking root ornamenting impurities of state.

Who are these? Staving muleta and the thatched kinfolk? ÷ Don't hold it in. Talk to your doctor.

As noted, there’re recipes for disaster. For subatomic beings, fluctuations are well understood. The carport is perched high above them, but how was I supposed to know? I put my finger there — this was the first time — “Great. I’ll just hold your lips. Down.” It was maybe a couple of weeks later I cried, “I feel like burning myself.” She poked at the remaining bubbles, not really, she said.

A thousand years ago this town was gored basalt, minerals seeped through phlox and salt marsh, more like plump meadowlands then. I wanted to suit the farmer or the farmhand along the shore, tossing his head as he stamped with one foot on the sand before he broke his baby toe, stubbing it. Next, on placemats of woven straw, eating salad, we both look up at a string of eucalyptus pods dangled from the rearview to discourage homesickness.

Everything belongs. The rest is stress related or foolishly unhinged.

There's no way now to prevent the zoo making a mistake blanketed by cloud and pointed in teary winds toward a scrim and drum rolls. A veil of ignorance rises to mete out democracy; its flatulence becomes my Ipad for which blues like ether in heaps of organization overlap consensus.

About those outbreaks of more virulent parsimonies, the depression on XM has a single coordinate everywhere, for the squirm of it, the advent, set alone.

Tomorrow, an awful catalyst takes on today. I feel a little ointment-ed by the unimaginable vengeance. Those who argue lose their hands.

I’m holding a transcript from an undistinguished gray keeper at the front.

Hi. It started again. You and they must have a connection to the same zip code where there’s this lights-out factory, an eyesore we dreamed up. There’s no agency inside, no intervention, only computers multiplying in dark, reduced to making more inventory, keeping the faith mining the richest veins, designing stalwart codes and disruptive innovation. Some assembly required from dawn to midday, they think: so many in-folding explosive arcs of competing constructs they flare up into an aqueous shimmer. Moving sands and your occipital lobe and its bandage, perhaps, constitute the Non-Group taking part in the phony ritual to outlast time. Yours and mine. There’s a flywheel effect, also, that turns the conversation over to science and greed, and the prototypes that mess up the visual cortex with paste-ins and the luxury goods that bind, ushering in an anti-life of grueling but quickened radiance they co-broke for enduring benefits.

Back to you.

It's been 35 years, and it's still news.

Like any yeoman of the cloth I write captions in robot clauses to overshare. And I negotiate cash for rapprochement. My views are not incompatible with yours, only I’m leisure-loving.

There has to be someone in charge.

(Hold on, I was conspicuously money-mad before I was handed this bag of sentences.)

Next, I was whisked in a hybrid to Boise State where there’s real culpability along with stardust and missiles to control. I made myself think... I let myself think... (It’s a coin flip.) Stagy dogs can be avoided while my Hail Mary rises higher.

Besides, to retrieve class struggle is no one’s baguette.

Porter, over here.

I mix shy and rabbity and squeak in biblical French. It’s just plain meaner.

There are a hundred butterflies in perilous art. What’s wrong with watching one or two spin like happy mediums, go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?

One can feel this mortal acquisition drinking hot coffee from a can and sticking to its roots’ metallic gleam, seething too, proportionate to the open space. The smoke gets shiny and you’re mortified with ozone.

The whole firebox is aglow. The yellow wallpaper is engaging.

The collapse of saying it better is.. no, it’s a folding cliché. My aim has changed. Sap is flowing to ruin parody.

What’s Lassie? Trash-rich.

I liked the primary grades more than my parents. In pilates, something waved breathing up. Blood and my arms apace.

For my doctoral research I followed bliss, the top two percent delusion that swells and swells. Despite the cameras, I prefer free, motorized speech voided and in divers dangers.

And I’m still here, the body’s purring put aside. (One dissipated the other.) But one continues to review the lab egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to wipe out ex-traitors and to outpace the apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).

No. Government is not that difficult. The background is a colorful PROCESS shot. Lethal-to-pale fellows lockstep for the scent of Labrador tea. And the gyrostats escape!

Are you sitting in the apparatus while listening there? wearing nothing but a motive for eagerness to do what we were afraid to be?

We DOLLY into a MEDIUM soft shapeless mass containing lurid subject matter. No, forget it, that's too risky. Not quite time.

Scary Movie was a date movie. A private-public bond like Klee and Ibsen.

“My regrets.” Switching phones, I look up to the crazy guy waiting to take me somewhere. Thinking is enormous but I practice until the call had gone out.

I’m sick of nice things.

Not running, walking rapidly, I cross the hall with the heat transfer ....

...come out the complex, take the campus walk ....

...go through a dedicated lot ....

...and into the Q7 in one STEADICAM SHOT.

I manufacture algorithmic spoons, tugboats and flyweights. I’m drunk on history, empathy, bounce.

Protection broken up by the security lamellas where a company like ours takes it inside the parturifacient facility.

I challenge myself every day. It’s what shakers do for a lifetime.

Now it’s daybreak — a few figures unclasp white headbands.

White on seraphic white.

Two more guys loiter with intent in the doorways. Both smile, but neither laugh. They’re wearing bluetooth up to their shoulders with panoptic properties extending their blood-pull orbit toward all rustles and rustlers.

Here comes my companion with his successor, an upgrade that’s on time.

Before I turn into another parabola of yours, you, I should take myself down and stay far away, crabbed and hesitant to set off the motion detector, about to fail. There were subtle indications you just want to cry, and it's not a bad smell, just sad or a slight lifting in the dimness when I wake up. Anyway, it all goes well. You and I will be taking off, though. One by one, I suppose. Reasons are weather related, the paleness this morning and a similar wash of fog coming back, lilac-dark in the air and offshore atmospheres yesterday and the day before. The winds exchanged directions, and I barely pertain, and why should I? What I have in mind is low on your list, even lower than that, off the list. It's contradictory to insist I’ve won in a runoff of longing and gratitude. Your taking time to sift through any, even the slightest, part of what I think is the spoils of coincident poses. I cherish your placing a tag on mine, yet I have said nothing, foundering and tongue-tied, handing our fortune over to the first letter of the alphabet where we live. You want back in, me too. It’s my off-centeredness alone that excuses your granting me permission to maintain a safe distance. I'll let you go then. I was hoping you would rhyme over me.

Leave the top 2 buttons undone. Fate
shouldn’t adapt what’s spindly or bang
it home. There’s something else, that’s
a distasteful impression of Mel Gibson
in red shoes. (Jewelry is difficult for
men.) A sick mind resists emotion solving
puzzles. Are you going to put that there?

Baby pickerel eat each other speaking
Japanese. Their parents want to defend
them but can’t. (They’re peach & violet.
There’s a richness to dealing thought-
fully.) I get all my ideas from social
studies, yet theatrical brainstorming
is more easy-to-sleep-w/-&-pulsate.

Instincts are mostly buried under cement, sunk talking to each other, eh? They were hard to get out of the wrinkled valise (I removed the tongue).

You know you look really psychic behind the wheel of a Malibu. Something better wants to start the engine (cherry red). Something to stop the snowman mid-grin.

It dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for consensus over these flamenco partitions (nurture, nature, frantic relaxation). I can’t say I laid you willingly. My data field comes up with blood vessels homogenized, preferring the woodpile to indoors duality, the big man.

There’s a container for every passion.
Mmmmmmmm immersive trance box, on loud
so the ambient workspace can hear it,
feel it in stages striking after dark.

You need smarter drywall too, to excite
ferns and moss growing inside every-
thing about the yield, blowing in news
of perpetual unitary joy...

Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off
economy could be floatable within, once
regarded in wholeness, its contours
beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough

though meaner beyond its whereabouts,
I guess us.

“Dear Hightop,”

It saddens one to inform the boss

she’s not serious, never is. She makes

comparisons during sex and makes

love checking in — whilst I live
off the equity of a third faculty
where the future holds, the one promised
Hermes that took him over the edge.

The edge plus.

Odysseus shows up, impacted. He belongs
again.

So there’s a kettle of urgency after all,
just as there’s a force of light: bad-ass DNA
and much bigger stuff. The of of infinite
interest in feeling a kill.

Let’s run some #’s.

My capital is now redefined. I have a poem
in the money issue, since I’m into gambling
connections and catering to my client.

My client, plus I’m environmentally drunk.

I work as a temp, placing a put
on the periodic table, petite in stilettos.

Hit counts on the internet are the buzz, key metric of social capital and commercial potential. The web is our era's process field for integral, recursive, exponential spectacle through and through, something Mark Zukerberg understood, from the get-go, and put into phenomenal practice as recently as only six years ago when he co-founded Facebook. Among the pleasures in The Social Network, the film about the birthing of Facebook, released last week, is that we observe some of these busy-cool processes as they get sparked; we eavesdrop on contexts and physical instruments of visual analytics as they unfold in collective enterprise to generate maximal hits, not only the coding but, as Hollywood insists, the coke, the shared genius and group pathos of collaborative content-invention and -consumption. It’s an early 21st century comic morality play about Ivy League competition and joy (in double quotation marks): young, bright elitists integrating themselves within the speculative economy, the rich, in other words, getting much richer. Twenty-five billion is a round figure in dollars; that’s the current estimate of Zukerberg’s fortune. And while Jesse Eisenberg’s Zukerberg is a dick and a sad hollow man, the further into the film we go, the more we empathize with his reticence and business acumen, the lighter and nicer the guy seems packing all that joy and money. Justin Timberlake, not quite young anymore, looks the part of the heavy character, slightly less-than-Harvard material, Sean Parker, Bay Area entrepreneur (he founded Napster) who worms himself into the Facebook inner circle through his connections with venture capitalists, but who also drops out in disgrace because of his druggy habits. The film's starboy would be Andrew Garfield, shot repeatedly in glamor-implied profile, playing Eduardo Saverin, Zukerberg’s closest mate at Harvard, co-founder of Facebook, the old pal aggressively pushed out by the communal force of outside investors and Parker and, impassively, by Zukerberg. Women factor in The Social Network as nicely-coiffed accessories. The film kicks off with Rooney Mara playing BU undergrad Erica Albright itemizing Harvard sophomore Zukerberg’s social deficiencies. That’s fresh until Zukerberg shuts her down by voicing disbelief in Albright's need to study since she goes to BU. We don’t see much of Albright after that. Brenda Song plays Saverin’s troublesome girlfriend Christy Lee who seems almost fabulous when she sets fire to a scarf Saverin has just given her. But poof, the fire goes out and Lee disappears. The film comes to an abrupt conclusion at a point when Facebook is piling up big bucks. Before the closing credits we read that everyone who mattered wins, lawsuits resolved, money disbursed. We leave Zukerberg nearly the way we found him, alone with his exploding social network. Nevertheless, we can’t help but admire what he’s packing.