I’m not afraid of showing the much simpler, formless inexact I wave and dissipate into highly animate raw munition. My hands are supposed to cohere in what I cull from hearsay. Raising one hand exudes only passion, which if you allow I agree with, with intertwined wilderness raising two, but a misdeal.

One assumption is tomorrow’s flight will be an extension of how it’s going now. A disclaimer in Chinese contains characters that aren’t pronounced 
Or displayed. It says you have an upgrade but there aren’t any.

Broken, giddy up, dead.
Today I face thunder. How to pay homage...
Page 10 concluded some orthodontic advice.
My instinct when asked is to inch back
To the moody raw nation where these talks and notes
Jettison their own use. No half-soothing word
On top various uninvented heights,
No heights outward
Of looking into what we broke —

The soul is a hypothesis, a sweet flying
Fish out of water wind-surfing over interstates
To destroy itself.

We begged it to go faster and keep at it,
Stick with a sublime subject or object, rally
For more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can slap it perhaps you should.

A few minutes ago there were bright blue shadows.
The quartet’s on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part scribble / disassociation.
I can hear Johnny shoveling the drive
like a voiceover to operate microspores humanely,
stacking ideas of alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.

Heavy pollen, nothing! I should add I’m writing on borrowed-spores.
Making up a to do list! blinded by periodic breakthroughs,
A pragmatics circumvents the will —
The focus is on nothing we won’t do.

Sweetest of the geeks take their lessons to heart and join a special breed apart. Hoody, fucked-up demeanor and default dalliance with convention will get us to our destinations faster and more pumped. Something about / the “human couplet” / keeps me over and under. It’s a military formula, zennish almost, common enough striving to write as well as to rock.

“Stages of violence yearn for a whereabouts.
Conditions look dispersed — beeping you (did I?),
not out of calculation; it began how far and vast

signals liberate you to oppose other facts,” you wrote.
Or plans change.

Chinese chill is tossed thru the window, surf rotates
about-face like a mercurial tidal pool

filling sand and dusk with water wheels nearly at rest
as lurches of nibbling torque days into weeks..

Here’s how I hitchhike. I pull on my gloves and come across an organizing principle for pulling a trigger or 2, replacing subject matter with source text, exploring only the musts: structure, acquisition, mis-use, peasant media — no Eros except in ideas, room for the best but never the pure. 

3, One who hitches has no right to speak other than excellently. Self-conflict and compromise keep coming up as rich bases for ironic pleasure and symphonic failure. If that’s allowed.  

Primitive patterns and blue throats, crowbars taped to a tree, in the distance, Eroica...  

We haven’t been far away — the fields are twenty, chips are foam, our clothes thrown,  

The great We of fish, that’s what I say on a sea plane worked into the sky.

Matters of faith:
Mind and body worship is vicarious before conforming to system leaks.
I’m too ugly to be molested. It’s true.

I kissed a cat. Once.

Once out of what? out of dying belief
I wrote on otherness when down (“I’ve stopped looking”) otherness came.

A sober-garish run on sentence
Lay before my head cold rumbling..

My body in the language of dunes and trash
— soba colors with melons and blues.

I’m sorry for shoddy reasoning and growth. Sorry as pieces


Of aqua and orange foam and glass.

Even more I like meeting mates’ life-changing kisses —
Kisses like odes on progress.
Hoarse for weeks.

Lots of us are gifts
and land across our example
while we watch the wind taken
that the waves under you lift
Tho see-thru as doves
which today are nothing more,
swept with a visual certainty
no matter how we change in love.

A few minutes ago there were bright blue shadows.
The quartet’s on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part scribble / disassociation.
I can hear Johnny shoveling the drive
like a voiceover to operate microspores humanely,
stacking ideas of alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.

Without speech sex is peroration.
That’s a normal reduction or formula for my song,
So few words on process.

... the rookie burns on the outside, his only credits were adamance /
to squelch any dramaturgy from theology, wealth or actionable conditions, missing how far you are beaten into their projections.

My position is to add design to physical combat.

I’m spry in my motives while the open field fills with sumo shapes fighting the relative fight to operate on one another.

Sonnet 150:

Power to the powerful. A truism like this reminds me of a simple turn of the ignition, not a big deal.. A journey over a pathless scrubland back at that bind when you and many were read by the last data beyond the (evolutionary) point. All in an identical manner, everyone getting one message while sugar consumption skyrockets and textless news advances in choppy ‘prose.’
Would you like to ask questions or can it diagram its strength of skill?
The message refused to come here directly deducing another head scene to make me love you like the first time. That’s in my mind ever since love’s regimen bulked up, competing for powerful excess, powerful perspective in every word mentioned or about to be, with all syllables performing as one compass spin between you and others trained in our elite language packing questions, giving no cause of hate. Who or what taught you to make me love you more?

If you swallow your ego luxury is great. I say no with my eyes shut.
No meditation spanning the surface of the woods, no
massage. No smell of bullet points, no pine. So there’s nothing to resent.

How does it resume?

This original copy has been duplicated.
The rest is history, throwing leaflets.