Absence of song rules for a higher authority. The boards are filled out to their edges with intricacy (crosshatches over pastel word clumps), busy but cool, almost ambient absence of thought. The soft vellum pellets change the impression a bit. A busy, cool songlessness that’s slimed, maybe.

It’s a fact eye contact is defensive but our strategies are the contents. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane senses. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in texts, making sense to and from alterations that seem situational within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.

Anyway, I retract my falsehoods. At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)

The Darwinian environment is a robust lifestyle exposing the hashish of space to gain a hilltop on seamless mannerism, or maybe it’s more like mannerism modifying one’s memories in an oblique self-interrogation where you can share your conventions and broker a plan!

The dharma of the windmill is monotonous.

If I were mannerist, I would describe our ‘age’ (for quality assurance and training purposes) as the one just before the death of death. We are approaching New Venice. So far, the ‘reports’ reserve commentary, remembering your breasts. Lovely but. The cross-hatching which allowed our ancestors to exchange certain genetic traits for others...has just about run out of steam, and has left us wondering, once more, what there is about this plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to. It’s nice finally to be able to put a face to the humiliating nickname.

True or of course? A degree from Capella U. sounds attractive.

After the masters spoke we ate a snack and read country sheet music..

can we cut to the scary part?

In no time we went for a treat and put six heads under water. Next, did my homework which was to study for a spelling bee. Then we ate cupcakes. Mrs. Brown taught us about binary numbers and the mind. I love math wiping our flesh and solving problems.

Later we’re taught the integral self can level with all the others, and sadness is a public health problem. So protesters are hired to hunt down any incriminating thoughts and raise contentment rates.

“Let me tell you why you’re here, to disseminate our values.

“We haven’t changed the infrastructure. A bad earache reduces shaking hands, I mean, sluggish jellyfish with blond hair.”

Looking back on that time — my early twenties I mean — I realize how awful and obviously coming from a family of sardines I was. Despite the violent and seemingly unprovoked attacks, I’m now smoothly sailing into my 80s. (GM)

Relax and beware, the law of cause and effect can be obscured as traffic aims straight at us. We wake up, cartoon-lean, and we sleep until the last day — up 11.

Inconceivable it seemed swerve-y and melancholic then — forms of address changed the ideology into shiny cornsilk throw-up.

The blur of pronouns embodies overwrought subject matter while an emanation turns into a spectre, brought up a peg to clear things with the bosses.

And I’m awake again, once with a face of a poet lost in dream. Or a formal outline. Or lines. I dream about poetry. Sometimes in poetry. It’s like a business. I could teach a course on sleeping practices, call it Meeting Deadlines. My department head would rename it Pathways, tho.

Revisions from last week.

Smiling Lessons

The sexes are divided. So is capital. All I could wish for is 86 floors of hot ass.

Powered by belief, I’m a floater of ‘cynicism,’ gold insouciance, persona non barter. The whole thing just snowballed.

Finesse augurs repression and destruction in an immaculate allegory.

And now the frontiers have all been urbanized. Each new batch is bifurcated, bed-wetters, cynics. Cynics are the dry numb ones we haul onto the arc of cleverness.

My ass is all about listening.

Jonathan stayed and worked with the new birds coming in, who were all “Could you be a little more specific, doctor?” while they rested on the beach after a session of folded-wing snap rolls.

Time to release the hounds. But I’ll stop now. We’ll soon restore the chaos.

Flâneurs who decry how ambivalent I am are missing the point, generally. On the other hand, I get kind of overstimulated by stupid generalizations. I wouldn’t know how to come down on these vital issues.

Future Stanzas

Do you like spiral staircases?

There is nothing like an emergent semantics to find your voice and produce your prosthetic artifact (flippant, machine-y text).

Ultra blurry and anamorphic, some of the following is actually good. Sort of, I sing alone.

Facts are a marketplace that understands figures are garbled when they are least derivative; ephemeral objective content triumphs. It’s kind of a snob racket. (CB)

I sing thusly, a skeptic steps over and above the deadpan. A moan’s direction is shifting, pasting in its genetic material.

This is how the Frankfurt School’s defenders get nested within a keyboard to determine contingent values in the scheme of the all-species inventory.

Radial Evil

Our nervous system distorts reality to emphasize changes in time and space.

Worth repeating.

I wasn’t orphaned, I just decided to pursue other interests

to get re-elected to her, and we’ll proliferate to here if I try, if I have the confidence we pack — we the blind wiretap the secret she weighs (she gets no credit for this) —

no ripped-off melancholy, no spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in, but here’s a substitution agreement containing you and me in a force field ruched with fart.

It’s taken this long to read the gospel of wealth.

O to be bubble-footed in dark briefs!

I’m still describing opéra bouffe in jeans, preferring lunacy to kissing (ah, affable hysteria), moaning about diffusion at any cost to render your mouth a mess of slop, and that goes for captioning this box Austerity, neatly sleep-laden, eating dog food.

Our vision, tactics.

This is for you now.

Only

Astronauts aren’t perverse, it’s the dress code on the inside. Read this. I did. Resolved, the body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons, the most dangerous, New Year. You’ve got my mind messed up. Sun pours down, unobstructed in your abandoned region. “Prepare the red matter.” The incision continues in this vein...

I’m leaving disjunction behind. To work with you (the plan) is one way to avoid subjectivity tho content is a nominal fallacy like an alloy. I know I don’t know what I don’t know I know.

Holism doesn’t come naturally (Nickolas Christakis). Yet the parts know how to grow (Benjamin Aranda).

A Cretaceous bunny stuffed in an envelope is ludicrous. It’s untidy and young. I basically authorized it. While your back-and-forth is limp clear gel rubbed into my hair/no-hair in all these dubious directions you’re going in until you do (as a gentle pun) onslaughts in a riveting presence, O on the outside, a close-up or two first staged with no sweetness, only credits for adamance.

A Long Pause under the Tattoo

The theory,

pleasure is to ethics as Spode is to gastronomy

while across the river a recurring nightmare, film tunnels’re (wind) lifting wax paper when the water is abusive — all ends adaptively,

nearer

Duluth — you can’t handle Duluth. (RF)

The strategy is

like any landscape, wait for mistakes (1) and (2) pounce.

Woe is paralytic. I also detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of it, even when love centers on the numbed one with a body of rare happiness to be popsicle blue —

all of this implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the proudest to be stupid Dionysian.

Dionysian = garish brocade with puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.

Watch this space.

Performance

I’m a fan of the music that flows back in time from pharmacies.

English drapery completes the gutter.

I agree with you when you live long enough.

Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of the knowledge industry that can consider approximations in crazy-fancy contexts nested within a keyboard. As for scrim’s logo, it’s so us washed to sea, paid to be friendly at the center of an oculus: the I stuck in the happy glissando 4-wheeler semis a-swirling.

Moving forward I have all of an hour to believe in sweetness itself made into infamous exposure (claws).

Lights up, no-name.

Homeless — we take ourselves inside inside where we reserve dissonance to dog light & volumes of bark animating the hedgerows of three-dimensional archiving.

The performance.

Inky musculature evokes nighttime and a quantum hummingbird. Tape both of my hands together. And grease-pencil trompe l'oeil on my forehead. Please.

Innocence is guilt. Yeah, blandness is a problem. No luck is too popular. Understanding what’s perfect we fear exclusion slathered with near-imperatives for rationales while the night refounds paradox as a creaked-out immensity, too mediocre to reformulate.

Everything dark is brute-accented imparting how our inflated logic dialogs with others, working three dimensions into a formless clot of mist.

I hope you’re happy.

I used to believe all the grossular and pine boxes that hold the night would open up to the horizon of a former life, a life stocked with the coloration of air like Shakespearean quarters foot-lighted with bouquet. Superangels strummed harps to sound the alert, lithe, w/ spooky edge. There used to be a flare for what noses should do, a full deck of going for the stretch and preen in a premonition, the one about other dimensions that (plan the predestined) blind patch — de-biased out of sample — the good of an experience / current status average win-loss.

The unequal in luck floated ashore.

There’s a cool oral tradition that’s like trail mix, so rhetorically honey-sealed and narratively palatable anyone with a few years of advanced English can have in.

It’s kinda clear that jumps in tone are staged to signify irony and distance about food prep and galley stainless.

The gestalt is to look urbanely offhand and sound normal. Do hang on.

The scribes are the first to note who’s hankering after whom. Gorgons are wrapped up like bargain hunters in boas, constantly slurping bouillabaisse smacked with vipers. It must be an omen or something. Or to put this another way, Labels don’t work outside among the diamondbacks. If you don’t believe me ask them.

In the change up scene everything is repurposed into conceptual deflation. Psychiatric disorders are now as commonly diagnosed as parallel discourse strategy.

A Cabin in the Launch

Witless v. gutless. It’s not to be.

Politics and the dignity of appearances don’t mix. (The financial pacs industry is just noticing.) Nothing personal, this is the sustained concussion version for charity... I also give in involuntarily for what’s not available, a cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments, for the boink of whinnying for pleasure. Or I cry when it becomes fashionable. I credit everything from the engine without a message.

I live in Hung Oaks.

I’m writing about it, not just doing something. I taper the next new visually inevitable thing and select for gameness. A deep-seated specialist would work with genres and play something interdisciplinary but I see beyond impertinence and scars. Um, ok, yes. I’ve misspelled the signs. I got a procedure to make it better — sham wildflowers, a few with a weird bounce and a fuchsia spurge past the goalpost. I’m on an errand stream to earn a structualist’s degree on time, a serener surface.

It’s a sorry concentrate: Until one went broke one was indebted.

Now an international scale opposes the light in my body. It’s scary loud at first, and yet there are comic possibilities as dreams seem to centralize.

I came to my senses breaking separate to put up a lava tint. So what if I say prompted the assembly made of torn Gillette letters and small decimals?

It’s hard to tack a center onto perception whetted by ideation! The mutts of childhood regenerate, there’s a nose and a tail, don’t fix them. Try to look better.

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.

Seven Versions

Just a few things I dislike. Neuroenhancers. I’ll admit I was curious. A guy interested in robots, the narrator, urinates on flowers, grabbing my shoulder. Rusts himself in.

Voice mail happens. A man’s voice. Handsome, calm, also nervous. (Protecting dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that.) Our swift powers have never been better aligned.

We have functional emotions & this much-traveled vocab of affects. There’s a hint of falsetto. Shields up. I just missed the last place you look. Stay with me. Never stop exploring. Turn here.

The sea bream lifts, lukewarm, soft. Splash. Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together.

Pigeon fathers pattern heaven where detachment is trimmed. Swimming there uproots the bright series, brocaded & then stiffened into sympathetic parody staving a muleta for thatched kinfolk.

So there’s a rule-of-thumb with natural stenches & hidden dimensions in the landscape, ultra altered like ranch dressing.

Small islands serve as hideouts. Tall men are restless in the rain. Excellent. We shall conquer, read over the presentation, juggle heads. You’ll need a new camping saw & hood scoop.

Why was this week’s contest insisted upon from side to side? What bud are we?

The short answer is a teenager’s you can scream open and enjoy.

Brain damage is in the eyes. More bounce for the retina to unscrew the internal hysteria pouring up but embarrassing, rocking like a party, like losing both death and life, dropping your rags, breaking water gushing down over my heels.

Steal Princess & Rogue’s Whip. You look how I feel.

No plan is perfect.

Between grief and nothing I do nothing wearing a torn shirt as an escort.

Dream within limits. What do we do here at times? I deal in ex-ghosts feeling dizzy. We tease out opinions on redeeming encores or nutty enterprises. We’re not so interested in dreams. But once in a while we can’t help it, like this morning we woke from a flash of such gruesome practicality we became distressed talking to painted traces and vapor. I was looking for performance glamor in a sports-transition store. There was no deeper pretext or tortured prelude. I walked into this pleasant, really dark place decimated in lights. The lights were out. But I was in there casually shopping along with others. It was a showroom for Under Armor where mannequins, staff, and customers match up in comfortable, form-fitting shirts and sweats and some in jackets pulled a quarter inch back, almost off their collarbone, not to flex but to suggest upper body development. These are steadfast figures and outlines but nothing shows. We have eyes and the mannequins don’t move. That kind of carefully lunatic geopolitical stow and store. That was what I was thinking as I picked out five pairs of socks. A pointillist grey pair, two pair in enlarged, graduated chocolate pixels, and a couple of pairs in ink, one with a hint of an inkier digital plaid-ish under. Everything was going to blend with other clothes. (So what was the point to a sphere of flowerets and blood?) The total came to under $200. The wind always kicks back allowing us to translate sleep into discrete transparent overlays of desire, textured fantasy, aimless expectation. We call this shopping.

Waiting for Hillary.