My stuff now in the sneaky previoo.

Shit. Ahem.

Teaching can’t be taught.

Poem on Super-8. Another mild one, one and all. Let me pull an invisible to the eye hair off your blouse to increase the speed of our nation’s speech.

When a bitch writes she finds her living. She’s a social creature. Capable of complex communication. Traveling in large groups or schools.

I’m most terribly sorry my absurd politics scores you the mother of vinegar.

I’m a funky ass focused on the bourgeois, breastfeeding, research. Well, 2 out of 3.

I hardly know you. And will never know you. I’ll give you a call.

Terrance Hayes is a nice enough spokesman for poetry as normal mild-mannered activity. His verse is in fact mildly appealing, garnering the National Book Award, with pieces published by The New Yorker, Ploughshares, Fence, a mainstream fellow through and through. In his interview on CNN Hayes holds back on any ratio or relevance to poetry vis a vis politics, much less the influences of modern political discourse and strategy on poetics. Hayes acquiesces to his interviewers’ boilerplate that poets speak only to other poets, while politicians lack the gift of poetry. Of course, since the Parker Spitzer program is primetime cable news, the interviewers aren’t interested in poets, only in Hayes’s assessment of politicians as ersatz bards.

This is a huge topic, eh? Let’s throw down a couple of propositions to work on later. If we start with rhetoric and invention, political strategists are at the top of the poetry game. There you go again. Tax and spend. Death panels. Toxic metaphors infuse ideology and organize perception. Political samples predict behavior.

Like mild poetry, poll-taking is largely implemented rhetorical solutions.

After editing, reediting, last minute adding names, changing our introduction, widening the circle as due dates slipped past and gnats flung themselves...closer. Poet: you live within politics and practice warfare to engage another’s psyche. You are the last person I thought would do this to me.

Bafflement is tentative, one mountain clinic after another. Though wigless following its bliss. All of the above, and herding cocktails we sleep with a relationship. Rough seas and heck, you've been in this game long enough, you know how superstitious vampires get.

We leverage the social graph to miss you. How long have you planted thoughts without a gender balance? Maybe it was a mistake, collaborating on the spinal, the oatmeal on the ground...

Like all of the above and people going in and out of buildings, climbing stairs, you’re one hundred percent normal running up debt to keep devotees heartbroken.

A rubber duck’s victims assume a moral duty. If you’re not buying it, take a look.

Though there is irony to my lecturing a square insult comic dissolving in wind sheer, freed into puddles of nudist delusion that swell and swell

            hi and lo

the young bodies keep moving, the elders seem alienating...

clouds part and the aerodrome rushes toward litmus introspection, snug, sotted with the urge to fit nothing in.

            Slapdash.

That’s how it works.

See this pigeon? It’s a true albino. Incandescent.
I was thinking it’s hard to get foreign sports equipment
or the meaning of structure, a table for the counters
along with the varmints in the shortness of thought
that indexes suspicion and objurgating.

I’m happiest procrastinating. When stairwells mesh to go nowhere
            majorly
between you and expulsion, the hole is closed. Turn here,
there’s efficacy in speaking clearly, gesturing, knitting your own perks.

Woke up to 'blog is deleted' message from blogger today. Discovered you need an 8-character or longer password to gain access to your google account. Fair warning, I recommend changing your password if it has fewer than eight characters.

In Del’s preview, aka sneaky previoo, two experts, so far, apply the word “moraine.” Both women, no surprise.

Metadata are available. And though there is nothing in these that is difficult to value, notice the area marked “mountaineering” deploys words that were originally compiled using an interpolated resolution and, more, there are no concepts to get run over by, secondly, no back to death of art's behind theories that may have been treated as if they were integral to the original notation to confuse you. The dataset, of course, has no intellectual pretensions, yet women continue listening to both sides of it. Love under these conditions is purely expression in which the writer (I was going to write wirer) broke his ankle getting to it — if he did break his ankle (and if male, not footless) — along with the mixed feelings of the author who could be some distinctly other entity than the writer (or wirer) based on my defined instrument and set approach — the “my” referring to me, the person showing here one kind of instrument and setting a course to you now. If I take another step (there is a gap in the data here).

Differences associated with biological sex should not be construed as genetic sleep. Love is all about communication. Altitude to altitude. A love dataset appreciates and values you as the parcel on the mountain it celebrates the triumph of, a tearful alchemy of lore descending amidst the conventional pitfalls and thus calamities — not that there are such today, our calculating the routes we could take, saving the date, knowing the weather; feeling refreshed can be avoided or otherwise subsumed into the data which have so few lines, and fewer words, and so fewer arrondisements than the downfall tree has forks in its path to count now. Each line (you could say every word) and all syllables perform as in one spin of the ‘compass’ between the two (of X), both a physical point and a point in time when the two evolve as if into one, and when you think about it, it was right somehow, and symbolic. Technically, I agree, oh yes! Historically, no! there is no good because I’m with you, love. Below a hundred thousand feet or more from here, readers would each lose us in a pathless scrubland interpreting the data in any manner and derive the same message (sorry, there’s another gap).

This set, like all good slices of the avail, tells a story but what does that mean? It finds self-mastery even in those spiteful moments — was it something to do with me? I don’t think so, you see, women like small cities on the West Coast focus on only one side and block out the other, even though, apparently, it’s instinctive to develop both. Do you admire a life that the other shares with you? This question represents the hope for a surrogate that will not turn her back on what a para-glider would undermine, that does not think it’s better for her than with someone who screams back, “no, it was something to do with me!” that is committed to a foundation in pop culture, like hedge climbing, shouting “I have no dogma!” Fair enough but it follows there is absolutely nothing fashionable in not. So it says I may as well switch back to what it says.

Coda

I remember Dad with his tenets
looking up at the sun feeling talkative.

“You know what gets my flashbulbs hot?
Some famous name negligees!”

A branch can be a sentence. There is urgency in ideas.
I live in a debt growing country. Of how

the version-2 pressure is scents diffusing
the air has the outer sky above.

During the break we reached an agreement. Big
thick crazy quilts the sun buildings

marshaled over property wings,
the bubble places the blue “Great but I’ll just hold...” matter

a level over. Is the ‘new black’ of terraforming
not enough? — suggesting I send you some?

I put my finger on: Not really, she said out
ahead how I was supposed to know.

I’m addicted to carob.
This was the first time.

Coda

I’m always wrong
to prolong my appeal.

It’s a great country, just don’t get sick. Where
else can ballplayers call their mom Ai?

I have nothing to wear while breakneck tempos bed-hop through streets that lead to the slopes. Translation is a ski accident in waiting. An a-frame is supposed to be up next. The Norway spruce. Was that you?

I have nothing to wear tonight. Your nose looks finished beneath the stopper. A smell of Black Ops to see the look on all the faces and allay boredom. Not ours, theirs, along with ages of apprehension arrayed in dance movements. Unshiny, imperfect, not held in place — nothing you know is like these long phials of sulfuric fern. Fougères, the Germans say. (The name cards are all the same.) “We’re watched out for like a celebration over adding the bill up. We’re surprised you took us here.”

Hold to the truth behind your lie. That’s a paraphrase of the CIA mindset unraveled in Doug Liman’s Fair Game, based on Valerie Plame Wilson's memoir, Fair Game: My Life as a Spy, My Betrayal by the White House, an allegory for our hyperexcited, distracted time when politics is a plastic art. Reorder events. Impugn motives. Leave something out. Practically speaking, who has the luxury of judgment? Bad behavior is taken in as, well, getting by. Or getting over. Getting retribution. And what is the harm? No one but the target cares and fact is no one will care for long. Even the targeted need to move on to get by. These are the pragmatics of a Pewter Age (several removes from silver or gold). The behavior in question is that of the George W. Bush administration outing Valerie Plame, a covert CIA officer. Exposing Plame was a treasonous offense undertaken nonetheless to revenge and silence her husband, former ambassador Joe Wilson. Wilson was targeted as an authoritative critic of the cooked intelligence on Saddam Hussein’s atomic weapons program, findings used to justify war with Iraq. The first half of Fair Game pounds the drums prior to the bombing of Baghdad, fast-forwarding an emotionally hooded Naomi Watts as Plame, wife, mother, and globe-trotting Agency manager in counter-proliferation, 2002 and 2003. After husband Sean Penn’s public outbursts, however, Watts is left running-in-place toward midcareer annihilation. The film’s second half follows the marriage more closely as it starts to fall apart. The passions externalized are the hard to see kind, ethical chiaroscuro, hesitations cum paranoia that give over to Watts’s rationalizations when facing Penn’s us-v.-them hysterics, two heads banging against one another, for sure, locked in mutual self-doubt and professional destruction orchestrated by all-out enemies. The battle line against a more resourceful adversary is whether to give in, move on — a position idealist Penn by nature recoils from and one Watts comes to oppose as well. Beyond the Wilsons’ dilemmas, the film fills in a narrative about how Plame’s outing compromised Iraqi nuclear scientists the US was pledged to rescue, a significant geopolitical aftereffect to Bush operatives’ treason. Before the White House turned up the heat, while Penn’s character presides over a nearly empty lecture hall, his anti-war conviction looks and feels narcissistic, small, ineffectual. But the formulation to the allegory goes like this, the government lied to wage war; this is the truth behind the multiple revisions, re-interpretations, and cherry-picked findings that gave license to killing and engendering more lies. The object when it comes to doing no harm, perhaps for another time, is to hold to the truth. Period.

[After a button is pushed]

After a button is pushed a model young theorist says hello, how are you, then reverses course. She heads upstairs to an installation in perfect solitude, surging toward marines with bats and poleaxes.

No, she didn’t. She’s indelible. Her eyeballs are all they need, not what they are. It’s a classic, botched, knife-in-the-back suicide. No, she didn’t.

What will they spell for lunch today? slender objective on a square obstacle? To follow instructions, slippers are warmed like leftovers; a rouged dog from the next room repairs to its separate bungalow.

The commissary is down in the sub-chambers, aimlessly glistening. I’m often holed up on the second level with the flamethrowers. There are major issues to have still (meaning my whole life). Before reaching a Kung-Fu high water, everything remains in hierarchical Finland that has worked through the general population.

A kimono has been entered, explaining sex without thinking, tongue in cheek.

A fragrance is found shaking our heads, wiping our brows.

The same stairs float, for good, if they could.

AFC picked up on this immediately almost two weeks ago, and I'm only getting to "Penetration" belatedly. It's off, ugly, racist, strategically off.

[After class]

After class Judith and me went back to bed and played it safe, collaborating on the manga hentai porno. I unbuttoned my supplies and pulled the first-day ‘turtle’ out and began to think of golf, wondering if I had enough saliva to give it even one full coat.

Later we went to the movies. I was wearing the shorter spring outfit again. I got it down to 56cms. Judith and me spent some time. We stayed in a nice hotel. I got dressed in my looser corset in the morning, stockings and heels, part of my mind still refusing to believe I was doing this. I woke up a bit grumpy from the death metal the night before. A breakfast at Starbucks and we were off, wandering downtown. But what makes someone ‘play golf’? What makes another man pour a sidecar somewhere ... the airport where we slept ’til around 4:30, brushed our teeth and headed to the other airport. Problem being, we were playing golf later that day and had blue jeans on.

Half an hour later all these painful moments were over, we realized: I cleaned up, got off and Judith and me left for the bus terminal (by the way, I got up as usual, exercised, waved to everybody and got dressed). Later we went to the seminar, made love, and then ate lunch. After lunch we got in the air, the pilot made great time and we landed, chopped and awed.

When we got home we were relieved. Afterwards we arrived at the links, got off the bus, then Judith and me got up, did the usual routine: bathroom, brush teeth, dressed and then slowly, very deliberately chewed off each other’s clothes. There were eight balls of steam, suspended in bacteria from our four hands that were Idylls-of-the-King clean. I was standing vertical. I was amazed that my insides didn’t fall out through the cargo-lock, knowing the air vortex, the balls, the game, and probably the season were lost.

[After syrup]

Pancakes hollow syrup;
these events seem headstrong,
immersed watching the light,
I know you. So we forget
Paul Broadnax and sidemen.

I know the down
Rx in the mouth,
the pro cloud podiatry
infantilized by a ‘yell’
banquette OK, OK:
OK.

[Après un héros]

Postulant qzJedx 18h66

Sur la ressemblance des films crissement plus loin une
vdFexq 02h60

Voyou, le 23 décembre, 0910

Jimmie voit char, Dérailler Fenton & Jennings Olives

Déclarateur 51, Laboureur Coincait la douceur échelle de l'État

Camps. Dupont Julio.

Je savais edifices le feraient fortement. Cuisses gazouillants.

«Il est assimilée
à marin ».

[After a Hero]

Postulating qzJedx 06:66 PM

On screeching movies likeness a farthest
vdFexq 2:60 AM

Thug, Dec 23, 0910

Jimmie beholds char, Derail Fenton & Jennings Olives

Declarator 51, Plower Jammed meekness Statewide

Camps. Dupont Julio.

I knew edifices’d sharply. Thighs warbling.

“It’s equated
to marin.”

[After a Precursor]

I left you off unleashed in time, leaving you at the blurb
on your extrication from hallucinatory landscape. You’re
still in danger within all the same networked venues,

the ones a macro-obscurantist spots: How do bricks
hang through the duration? (How is the easy-hard part.)
Rules write themselves for freshwater miners gone bats,

withered inside like canaries, asphyxiated or drowned
in bubbles from the water table. (Like my brothers
before, I got to now, personifying the meme in headset.)

In the past dead birds whitmanized the wayside, no-
thing on air. Nothing theoreticians blue-noted, jostling

deuterium. In Saigon or Youngstown, a new beginning,
a generic object looks transparent, emerging as Sleeping
Albert convening the frost belt. Buff leash unchanged.

Take an interest in opulence & stratagems bequeathing us our
sherbets, pot, oomphy fireside & mandatory inflows of feel-

ing great! Those brands are awesome denouncing oops, they’re
metering the troops to search counterfeiters & dig into bins.

Little wonder a spa goer’s Geigy final sectors look down
to harden corks up in the penthouse. A therapy

taken to far corners calculated in urban planning above
a new bowling alley, now vacant, scattered forever.