[A Modest Revision]

I suffer from shaving in a symbolic realm.

A head transplant brings on the knowledge affect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower. I never understood insinuation. I never misunderstood it, either, a civilized divide teasing my attitude into an admonitory tableau sponged with saliva.

All the algorithms are just fine. You can go right in. They have an open table.

Titles cost.

Again, I’m doing an accordion fold, an étude, a documentary-incarnation about officialdom in sensibility. The plot concerns a guy named Ethan who meets a younger guy named David with a vinyl sleeve up his tuchus. I’m just using this idea or this word as a springboard to bring my intentions to a mystical place within a rational theme of imprecise turmoil, everything recycled. As a new definition of the trickle-down we witness destruction of the blues pub and its improvised scaffolding, disintegrating like runic practices, flung out interiors silhouetted in acrylic behind a projection of glass as it screens the ‘official’ episode. However I believe that I’m past the middle and nearing the end of the cycle; now it’s late summer numbered with incidents. I’ll experience irony as homesickness without inebriation, long division, complex facticity that wounds tear open and heal slowly for some kind of urban equipment (equipment??) in the future, enduring pain and disappointment and failure, climbing uphill and sliding back down just before turning 17, biting down, gritting my teeth, growing up a little, suffering a little moving in with my parents because they like me... I just don’t worry: It’s my best work, a tight 100 pages so far of narrative casually parading as self-help boilerplate turning in polyphonic leitmotifs. It’s a cap-and-balance in Godzillian scale, reflecting what happens when melt re-ices, raising sea levels. Just hope I have the backbone. My greatest fear is going deeper into my inner trippy, conceptual junk — I’d be dragging a palm frond around at four a.m. That would kill my parents.

Your reading was beautiful, well pronounced. Perfect make-up. But boredom is poor experiment; that’s what we said to snap out of lightness, joy, the eyes-open dream. Knower and known are clean, osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we're way behind the public, our public. And I’m less affected by less meaning, un-giddy like you. The “ding dong” in “decay,” you said. I’m hoping something happens. Duly of course sounded, I cover my throat.

“It’s nice to be interrupted twice.”

Felatic.

Today's highlight from D.C.'s escorts: “You can change yourself into infinity, but still get the changes to the location from where you left...” That feels very clear, to me.

iconic breach

a charter culled

60 neurons to make a documentary

tow rim

nominalizingly scant

bud kin

xenomorph

Cy Twombly, R.I.P.

As you say, it's too late for a nervous breakdown. There are gaps we see now and through. Louis Pasteur enjoins the loyal center. The candy ass.

One in four children today lives in poverty. This is the highest rate of poverty among children in the U.S. since the great depression.

And.

It’s worth re-noting Obama and his financial team have never attempted to correct the handing over of a trillion dollars to subprime mortgage holders.

Note again: the cash went to holders of the debt, not people who had to pay it down. Unemployment among heads of households and subsequent foreclosures are the largest causes of forcing children into poverty.

Free advice for a poetics entrepreneur.

Follow the process. Tease near-misses out of what process could mean. Stipulate minutes and subroutines to withhold and then expose your meanings like hibiscus in beans without frontiers. Don’t talk with your mouth full. Process self-disrupts into phrases of process. Discuss the cut-off points where ideas can meet and turn into habits that muddle on, neither wifely caricatures nor whores. Talk about process components and the stiff, gnomic atmospheres to bring accoutrement to terms for process, and definitions of all this. Take care, and take your time, since to criticize another’s process is effrontery and off the mark, much like disapproving a pianist’s shoes. You can do this, feel free, but don’t expect to be asked back to her kitten-infested marathon. Likewise, avoid rejecting criticism, keep the smart bomb under wraps, knock the moment down with glances, nods, and inspire small talk while keeping everything under surveillance. You look great together!

I repeat, coming up next from a great new publisher, e-books that go under rewrite as you read them, that flip genres as they plug into you, that change your mind while you sleep.

Then.

To go off half-tuned as a resolution.

Mulberry scones.

Vicarious is not strong enough.

Affection is vicarious info. Inner and outer merge in our skulls, which can be broken down. Deep dish or alla breve? Equity or neurons? Talk, the walk, persons in the environment trudging so that creeks. The world we heat up is still-smokin’ yet a lost cause.

Connections we lose in reality are scarifying. Partnerships were constructs, first a little chilly, sometimes febrilly culled. When we struck our alliance back at the start, I thought, friend or foe? It’s no way to begin although our ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspirations became footloose and empirically incontestable as Seven Bagatelles.

We’ve forgotten how to make things. It began with the airlines. Their only product is a service that dissolves midair. General practitioners stepped up but their work got converted to an industry with little or no honor system.

A product injector is the thing that looks most imprisoned these days. Its time has come but it too should stand aside (even though it’s wearing favored colors, lucent grays).

Like my peers who make their searches more social, I’m involved with a darker pool. We’ve slathered each other with near-imperatives for rationales that reformulate our fears of the excluded. So there’s nothing else? I can’t tell, because I wouldn’t know. Is taking on something without wanting it substance or junk?

Anthony Weiner got into libido trouble, and like Napoleon he slumbered through fulfillment, undressed to force a smile.

Beautiful red shoulder blades, his gainsaying oomph...

He returns to the leftist podium with his excrement wrapped in see-through plastic. Where does the political economy have him put it? “Sorry, not tonight...”

Just in time.

Downmarket tween = Poulenc.