58: Deserting the beach — god forbid

— dazzling lethargy undoing our cuffs, waiting as the wagon sways
with fellowship. Love in the future, at your beck and call, a handshake spreads the rain,

flowers, rain,
flowers.
(That’s it! Do what you want.

The moat-house for the wagon then some new wagon shirts we
can walk on with. Hell. A mighty wine origami and the wagon yard for our widows.

This is spring history.)

What’s this eyebrow to?  Eyebrows pile up like the snow of socks after a sit-down inside the capitol, for as long as needed.

I write on my nature in my head. Let’s hold a séance! 
I snare us Joy to starve a fever. (Is it raining out?  
At a range in speeds and cold locales.) 
Many rooms, each story (usually) with clay-toned physiques  
fighting the relative fight waving, receding on one another  
 
— everybody under an influence indoors and out, which is filthy. A foot of snowdrop petals from the window. Laps of water filled with light sleet, rotating in reverse as if catching on how to purify snowdrop offspring & manage fever in lurches of nibbling torque adjusting into days.

2: We never come across deep trenches in your beauty here. Not here.

Slow, like never before, a thriftless parabola of your face intersects both of us. Parabolas come up with their own monikers (that were).

Face to shoulders, our gestures are precise, going well into your eyes, and through your eyes, the viewer’s glass.

There are proud motions throughout — answering to your sunken gaze. Warm and cold pride climb down a first, second, third hill. Falling lower — a lusty mainstream-underground

of units of successors proceeding, then, looking craven — we — some of us — avoid them. Of small worth. When asked, will

you recover some of mine? Renew my worth? how much? First, let’s renew
our blood and warmth, summed up in fair use

remembering pleasures of the eyes! neck! and chest!
Yes there..

Did you catch the interim report?   
 
Operetta’s core keeps an eye out for crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a guitar/keyboard. At first.   
 
Moving forward we have all of an hour to take in sweetness made for infamous exposure (within costume) indoors then out. 
Lights up — we take ourselves down a libretto stretch where we preserve disparities. You deserve it. 
 
Sweetness is vacillating as usual, after hours on clear nights. Robbers, cops 
Though fragrant, turn opaque  
 
And poof — still  
..could rain.

I’m a floater of cynicism when it comes to treatable influences.

Early on our folks taught us to celebrate country music!
Burp through the microphone, Earl, stare ahead.
It’s early on — it’s a joke — I hadn’t spoken to you, I imagined
we can overlook a construction zone perforated by echoes, hazards,
procedural lunges toward extra gags. But I see I had.

75: Every time I visit you in your mascara I become lucid about the fear you strike. Day by day you’re in my thoughts, food to my life. And I see your brilliance lives again, sure enough; it always has, fudging strife and abasement. There you are.

I came to poetry later than you.
Pleasure then the transportation of your soul take place about here and now.
Nothing for me. I feel I’m a pursuer of no delight, uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my whorl of cement paintings..

Starved for a look, now, counting it best if the world
see both my fear and pleasure feasting off you, on your dime, thus, in your sight...
pursuing you in peace, all or nothing, with you alone.

A headboard with no utility other than book nooks. 
Can we cut to the scary part?  
Materiality won’t exist. No dissonance, no disruption, a new status quo that’s forever sparkled, meandering within ordered appearances that go dormant or run off with incentives in unboundedness, unraveling humane optics in dissolved questions behind the good times coming, going, surf.

122: The longer I live it’s right in front of me, above all, beyond all, your gift within my brain.

There’s a glow in seconds before razed oblivion, fun .. and explosive. Wow.

Or much like staying in the now, yielding thru nature to receive you more, more of you.

An idle life abandoned. I’m forgetting about it. How?
You and I remain beyond date and time in my heart and brain. I won’t be funny or make a stab, score or tally... Every day I’ll subsist to import your love into me .. Again.

Male muses —

— the vulnerable and most maligned muses were not held enough as children on a moonscape of beaks. Ever notice? Certainly I wasn't. Now I have to make excuses for friends of mine buried below their own animation with no heirs.
They’re donning synthetics, seeming only half familiar, and just too intense, plundering the transport of their ambience. 

And I was musing, simple stuff picking up a pen.

30: Losses restored?
Often there’s near loss of a precious friend — I think of you — words we had or not — all our words forewent consequences. Our moaning sessions went bad like grief, since we know sweet woe summons up dim remembrance of the past — wastes of time.

Yet I take liberties wailing... I have a dream of fairer housing: Free-range light and dark in the clerestory to our lair... where sorrow ends. Some of us are headed there. My treat. Would you like to come?

A portrait should be backdrop in this. That one of you in the back. Undressed — except for slacks — borderline annonymous yet ungeneric like Updike. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back —

Not out of caution) — I now know it will be ok
I find it too tempting, untested, untried, still, nothing better within its reach. It = your grasp, my central aggregate.

90: Hate me now.
It’s up to pond structure to model strains of passivity and its onset by the rear shore. Only don’t drop in.

Tidal pools hold scraps and parts of nesting authority as an after-loss. Rainy tomorrow. I join you to re-reference an arrow and bow made out of many purposed m.p.h. gusts — and this is your and my body as well — a priori nil in inner life razing names of sorrow.

It didn’t happen. I’m glad you’re here.

Capitalism usually never hesitates feeding acid to the innocent then addicting them through continuous discretion. It follows that each victim goes broke, sighing take me, kill me freely halfway through the outer knee O —
Windmill robots embracing the free market, it was announced in a penetrating tone.

Neither dead or alive, a windmill robot in your imagination has a request,

“to express things ... as they are when you see them without remembering having looked at them.” It’s an infinite standard for an emergency lexis until... who can say?