Iterating a pattern... the Halloween slut fest (a choir of fops) over at DC's says it: ...will lay for hours sucking his toes, love dues in flip flops. Cooper has to write this, correct?

Guards used to stand tall. United part and parcel. Now they tell you to take off your belt.

The impression received is that every motion serves a purpose. A higher purpose according to religionists hoisted in the breeze. Purpose in a word is a metonym for what is, according to boundless practitioners approaching the guardrail. Their motion, which was heading toward devastation, collapses under its own glare into supernumerary states of moves, most unannounced like minor readjustments in politik on an international scale opposite the light of my body. Every dancer stops mid-enchufla for a moment, and I feel better.

Then natives yield to the rush of the new people center stage. I'm all about the loot.

A text, and it follows, a composer, will be influenced by scatterings of sources, most unreadable. Ungainly, indifferent, unreadable texts inspire antithesis! More numerous and more frequent are atextual sources read only as prompts to become text, ontological components for thinking, composing, thinking-composing (and many subprocesses that can be observed there). Unreadable sounds, pain, faculties for balance, direction, movement, tastes and smells, motions and textures you touch or see or hear, sensual data some call them. Feelings are naturally unreadable sources. Both kinds. Feelings that are rooted from the cardinal position for most of the last century in the poetics of W. B. Yeats and cohorts, and that stretch outward into the deepest cosmetics of daydream, prize stars, parrots, and piciformes. Or wired-in feelings (readymade) that comprise marly enmeshments within a core, retroactive structure parallel for a while, now, to Ezra Pound's poetics, male confusion times female homesickness, the Chilean flamingo, appliance hints, a lifeboat, and home plate.

This note, by the way, picks up on points made by other bloggers. What I say was prompted by others. It's hard to tack a center onto perception. One solution would be to reject the ism of the center. There is a Poundian feeling and there is Yeats & Co. Both influence perception. Both are engaged in what we make up as sources. Nothing in between. No center. Nothing to hold so to speak so it doesn't.

Another solution is to operate as if there are many centers. This would debunk centrality, like the first solution, but it incubates and eventually spawns centerism or centrality-ism, because the idea of one field among a number of fields, this one field, along with others, that operates as if it's the center, that is, this idea that there can be many centers, motivates competition requiring an ism to regulate incubation and spawning, a tough call but it has to be made. Usually by a policing force.

One or two additional observations are in order. First, the Chilean flamingo, the parrot do not know they are birds, much less which subspecies they would need to find themselves within to survive, that is, to incubate and spawn offspring. Second, while I will concede that Marianne Moore is not necessarily the center of modernism, I think she found herself, through various devices, in the center of that and other isms, much like John Barr finds himself today in the center of tangled ventriloquism composing Grace.

I monitor the craft and cling to the kittens. To pay me to sin in grief is missing the point. I don't see anyone for very long; like me, Felix was a gypsy. The model peninsula put up around what's in procession, a lava tint. No surprise, it's that time of the month. Come twilight, Halloween in particular emboldens collective lament to gobble up all the wealth and zonesful of nonsense, excepting beauty's habitual use forcing a runoff. I'll be moving out soon. A wilderness gathering has been created deep inside the seminar which is an organized fraud, I say. I've got your back, familiarly strange, pleasant. I lost myself. Thanks.

Ms. Bulkhead averted nettling. I'll drop her another chum marker.

Spoof-prone or, simpler, fictitious avant-garde strategies as well as their vulnerable practitioners and critics are celebrated in a newly released film, (Untitled), written by Jonathan Parker and Catherine di Napoli, directed by Parker. In just two columns of text NY Times critic Stephen Holden deploys a massive array of double-edged vocabulary that unsettles to the gut. (Untitled)'s protagonist, a conceptual composer with a perpetually furrowed brow, is said to be tormented with a teasingly paradoxical attitude... [a] hostile scowl. The anti-hero is so self-absorbed and ungenerous that when confronted with experimental work in other fields he is as rudely dismissive as any provincial philistine. Meanwhile, to highlight the acerbic entwinement of sexual performativity and aesthetic judgment, a cheating, gallery-owning and aesthetically 'disingenuous' girlfriend shines her popping eyes like a bright screwball. Holden notes other types, including a self-loathing conceptual artist whose works have self-explanatory titles like "Pushpin Stuck Into Wall." (Untitled) goes for broadly obvious, easy targets, in other words, in a line of lampooning artist-fish in a barrel, a long satirical line that spoofs an avant-garde tradition that goes back at least as far as Marcel Duchamp's urinal. Some would-be targets are employed for aesthetic as well as comedic affect. Avantist David Lang writes the goofy music for (Untitled) and film maker Kyle Ng constructs proto-conceptual pieces, among them, a taxidermist monkey sucking on a vacuum cleaner (Jeff Koons to the second power?). Holden's review encapsulates a chapter on current aesthetic temperaments and fomented doubletalk that run for cover under the rubrics of satirical outrage and conceptual deflation. I can't wait to see the film. For now, I get Holden's picture.

Don't try to be funny, relax, specify the invisible. Ough. While the foxglove de-meadow, subject matter remains a freebie staple. Think of your audience missing bail. There is no news teaching spin. The new geography is hereby wistful landscapes, hum-vacuumed, cuddling an escalation clause (misrule) and their binomial clout, ha and cunning (Darvon and Himmel). The brilliant live over, sure enough, in vetted dormitories, always have, fudging abasement with food and drugs. Sorry concentrates.

Every time I visit you in your mascara I see the lucent everywhere, a conceptual structure subtracted from nature like the potato. The shore's also a plagiarized assembly made of torn distance in squid guns, midges, vellums, tiny Gillette letters and smaller decimals. Everything is repurposed into notions flapping motes flying from porkpie hats and more formulaic homework. It's terrific whetted by ideation! What are the assemblers selling, last rounds of an authentic vantage? Miniature schemes? A whorl of cement paintings with vistas (and vitae), for most, nothing but applesauce and shellac. Do you know how many rabbits Revlon tapped? I can't say it's emotional sailing on a molecule out-disabled in the magic, only collectively subjective, nothing but nonetheless.

Best first-person-singular lines from Friday's blogs (there are two): "I am tired. I am photogenic." And "I am not Against, but i am french." Mappemunde and DC's, respectively.

I'm a plaintiff in the recent case against glamour. I'm being taken down. Something about my discrimination in music, which is chopped and unclarified. That's another thing. I'm told nobody's talking to me. It's extremely funny, I've been sending out the lamest smiley faces, embracing the wrong diseases. Scores on fb are defriending and the phone stops ringing. I feel like Mrs. Meaty uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my fears.

Maybe I'm just mis-digesting facts. Before heading to the gas chamber it's going to be 85 and sunny, after all. Oppressed, rejected, sure, I'm in there, but personality disorder is a binding element of hip dinner party kerfuffles and drooling, perverted dalliance. The miracle is, as the assemblies grow ragged, rock stars vibrate through the bat universe playing "Heck and Whatever."

One thing about not being conceptual or a haphazard group, you know you're outside! I always do it for less. Did I tell you? I got all the coverage I need on my tee shirt. After multi-pointed perils there's the clamor and then the imbibition. I didn't know what to say. At the Oprah Store it was back to that lifelong day when the ice tower moved outdoors, and unshaven grandparents (also conceptuals and in groups) left the ice shelters, devolved and bulgy. Next there was this other cool place or an immiscible place; we let it happen. I knew I spent my money wisely. There were hallucinations. So I've gone out further on my own and I'm starting to compose. It's a kind of conference paper. (You knew I'd have my ass whipped.) Bottomline, I've listened to the system.

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…