I see your inside voice, binary to binary autosuggestion.
When it gets dark it happens fast.

We wanted to go to

This point, stabilizing the office — over the ocean
W/out ‘water- or personal-contact.’

To be chaste is on the house.

Yoga is really charming

First done wrong, quaint, then drenched though slackened
— Janus was proud to sponsor Janus.
Book-worthy twists. Cross branding contracts.

Here’s my side, since you never asked.
The moon at this phase could be the clearest abstract debacle to date −
anagram of appraisals coalescing, a typecast

notarized in the spry travelogue almost ten years ago. You wrote
the subject headers. And the soundtrack wasn’t ugly

yet not to everyone’s taste.
As a guest or host I admit

“France is imaginary.” Those very words saved me or words like them as many times as topics, not qualities, opposing denial of healthcare, unless there’s no risk, and again, I’m full of appropriated superstitions and everything. Everything if.

I read you and people move away, making it vacant.
It’s vacant to think about high art favorably. Time for a sequel.

Take a wild guess —

It’s a classic knife-in-the-back suicide..
for a good time undressing gravity gets to be a habit but police are still baffled.
There’s efficacy speaking clearly, gesturing, knitting a brow,
just commenting for now.

Everything belongs... related thru stress.

I believe in the healing power of unhealthy options. Percussive isolation. Resentment buried in a colossal physique. Orpheus, the overspontaneous,
beats through a dinosaur theme park. Don’t care, I only lie about what I believe is right, clinging to my male sexuality

without a theory of purpose or the gift of agency to promote my case, as masking vanity becomes a fund raiser’s challenge.

Fizzy yet salient points soak into the beach hanging out for the escape clause (always the last place you look!)

Paradoxical tissue is still not perfect, having that living unlocked, scrunched for breakfast.
It dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for consensus over these flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions.
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole sector before repro-ed onward

offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.

I prefer a clean hotel.
Call a time-out a makeshift breaking point, outside boundaries of contact.
We need smarter drywall to excite ferns and moss growing
contours beeped forward.

Up, shiny, imperfect, not held in place —
Your nose looks finished beneath the stopper.

Breakfast at Starbucks and we were off wandering
headed for the B terminal,
an installation in profane solitude.

Smacked down by a coordinate from outer space,
Keanu Reeves is not reckless, iniquitous, or anatomically complex,
though monotone to the gills like a slower yet more self-subtracted Rod Serling.

I got a grip on the heebee-jeebees.
Times are an outrage. Good times, lean, treason’s treason.

We’re tracking theme thru anxiety —
for prejudice damn well plays a formalist bias,
a tradition of selfishness I’m loosely not interested in.

Tax breaks for the wealthiest keep it humming.

To look is also

(we note now at the end to physics-oblivion)
to be seen.

Holy shit!
Sorry. Your language is procedural lengthening its insipid menace.
Accommodations are key. That’s why we signed the contract

hammering out so much history & sensory awareness.
It’s said starting to speak of you is written better where it’s taught.
(Our addendum is in the mouth.)

(Japanese cranes)
It’s impossible to separate churned out understatement from performance; both are adolescent in a good sense, pitch. So that’s how cave and landscape can be felt. Next, a cool minimal database advanced by lariat. Minimalist and to burn out your swing try living on meeting death half-way hapless (and deceitful), sensing value is contingent; partly insight, partly not.

The underground = stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity or trance. What matters is how to find and / or emplace each close to noble attempt. Classification by evolutionary adaptation passed on to descendants as collisions = one’s part multiplied by preferences, poetry, prose bits, one’s words, one’s part in the performance.

To Caspar,

Flowers in the twenty-first century are glazed by design, going on adrenaline bud fathers
and daughters in search and rescue to catch a few winks.

So you get it now, assigning you to our planet to feel cathartic
is dimensionally impossible. You’re dull. Rather uneducated.
Shine and velocity for all the living!
Sap is flowing top speed.

A politician, claimant of the photogenic vitamin to stop the bleeding
is not much of a sentence, lacking meaning, more useful settling in mere syntax
as warm as visual partnerships queued up for a motorcade.

Something as broad as symphonic latitude will be hand lettered; this is guaranteed
so time is disguised among botanists as an inner harbor to cut the glare from
coastal space.

Space doesn’t know we’re looking...

She’s slowed us down a rose to furnace the pace

for full positions in another trace or matter.

We came from coming back
running on a cult classic by breathy folk components,
listening and showing we both are here, one part

synergetic Weltliteratur giving less weight to fantasy —

another I guess is where we part ways.

*

You then I change very slowly with a shower curtain,

on televised football. Management didn’t yell

raising your pulse rate. Or is it just to remind you?

The mailbox happens. A man’s voice, game, calm, also nervous. Protecting a sleep-laden vessel of dreams threatens it. Everyone knows we are never better aligned at night.
Scraps and parts of rope out of here..

Nesting austerity is neatly poetic, dignity eating.

I bet in the future we have no mail from here
and now. We’ll be on site.

At least I have my integrity and pancake mixes...

Bliss. We were looking it up.
A battle between two distinctions
among words bringing up few others,
times two more of those brain-states from Asia.
A marsh is now interesting
(vitae) for the sea. For the eye, nothing but applesauce then shellac
the sea brought in without consent, leader of the pack
of subject matter. Not varnish, bliss.

It’s never hue I can look forward to, yet you’ve got just what I need...

I’m crossing over to a male color — no name, no feel..

...a question of blood flow. There are no sequences of poems, no stages.

I’m thinking of a movie, “Youth.” Utter, pretentious torture...

Alternatively, do you know how many rabbits Revlon tapped?
Your animal bi-products are painting the town, preemptively.
Innocence concerns such ethics. the boho acts in those own interests.

His adoration has a new literature scent — the design space’s thus directly oblique, pointedly

— He loves you down there up to speed, united with everything forever no-count!

Language, inadequate to reality, a 2nd look through banners around crystal wrapped in a glow

of cognition counter-stretched — stretched on balance

running everywhere that’s off the — the first the —

explaining an authentic vantage within sight

and miniature schemes, whorls, colors of dusk and wrestlers who portray border patrol...

The happiness of one bright red chair with a table in one corner washes up on islands serving as hideouts. You’ll need a new camping saw and hood scoop. We’ll invade your space only then leave.

Song II: Truncation was in question, both winner and victims in the crossfire, that anything you answer will stomach fair use doctrine — what youth plays, but the next resurgence is going to be an elaborate gerrymander where ambiguity vanishes for a seeming long time.

History is old as mutt.

As the past tense broke, the mutt of infancy regenerated, feeling there’re ticket holders rising to the occasion with pretty good probabilities, because they won at the beginning.

Song: This isn’t a black or white issue.
Someday I will have a pomegranate thermostat.
It won’t be torture unless it causes organ failure.
I still think in poem titles.

Saving a life you can break the law to shoulder perfection.
Therein the last bad deed eases on down the dress code w/ a cheap bow tie that pays for itself. Context becomes the e.r. Something is definitely going on.

Like a race of giants, welcome to we’re not so much friends.

Not now. We are made up of chips of one another in other names.
The brightness shunted into red day until emotional exchange began, crested, and vanished like emissions administering the right thing to do, close to you.

Capacious, breathtaking anxiety, yup, refusal to arbitrate glamour, too close but... I’m done.

The new moon shining with its belle-lettriste metamorphosis in the street, damning loose ends everywhere giving wind sheer every opportunity..

I’ll let you out. In.

Vote often.

Factual. A study. Broken, misunderstood.

Before cymbals came up and the 1st song reached out, and well before verse is parsed, there were snores from ancestors and their coughs and grunts crowding in together in caves. Back then the body taught itself speech with shrieks and groans for pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition.

Teamwork. Our people are what make us great.

I’m out on a date with Mittens. I too do architecture thru assembly.

The taking of whatever works to exchange the hands that feed me.

Sex has nothing to do with sex.
It’s a joy problem, love let go on a technicality,
The dichotomy produces a smooch-punch

Per bantam partisans in calculated terror
Toweling off ready for the next bracket.
Boxing’s hospitable. We’re not that stupid.

Not sure of hollow bluntness. How is it elevated?
With a doctorate it saved civilization.
Good start.

Grr, what’s the extent of driving off
in getaway hybrids?

It could be that lunatic yarn to move around
modulating what the self comprises, an apotheosis
according to replicas. While ..

I’m neutral re: driving recklessly, sequences w/out words —
both types of daring and protection w/ outreach.

And there were digits for more pleasures, wooden enclosures — teach,
play hard, focus on the computers, keep at it —

They say med school is mostly laid out.
That means you partake in indecision (ever cool).

If your crime is big enough, it pays — proud

— puzzling results from a soup of cable offerings. /

Crit lit suggests a dark totality or entirety that makes this up. /
A quarter of creation eluded direct detection until now.
Another quarter, brick and mortar in the cloud.

So we don’t follow Jesus or Yaweh, except chronologically; /
I’m a friend of theirs.

Jesus, what’s behind him and crime are threads in the American narrative.
You can look it up. /

To you : My wish is you succumb to mezzo logic.

Your other car is a broom.

That’s top of the mind. Morning has two or more parts. Pieces whose lengths alternate between eight lines, like here,
snaking around online, ‘our entire cultural orientation is on its heels.’

Morning darkness can be brokered like any morbid trend you can see thru :

An alto saxophone, no berry ice cream and you may figure prominently.

To cheat the fates “should be” marries your projectile. Welcome back.

The Conservatory’s always nothing much minus common sense, coming out to play, sampling
the masked hostility and indecisiveness of national honor


and backing it up with inexact and multiple scents of feeling, sounds
from what we were doing before [give me one second..] took hold,
instantly recognized as identity.

Identity and hardened m.o.’s from silences, retakes,
and feral scents of feeling cornered in a feral feeling feral piano lesson.

(I forgot to send this.)

I watched your dreams.
Had a bite. Your ghostly smart-and-dumb modulated, went calling
my egalitarian bluff. It stipulated

I should take myself down, stay away,
leave the top buttons unsnapped, settle down to fail?

Conversely, ghosts hate us. It’s not true
I’m not great at due diligence; it’s entirely for deception they spy
— gosh the tribe extends many thanks in cozy motels — am, hey
we have it on the double to browse, be kind, cartoon hungry as you —

Danny Elfman — playing for success overnight
holding back, far away as if there’s a cine-force of flight from DNA..
to outtake paradox as ample. Class struggle coming back down to tall
voices by Mel Blanc, who’s always pulling a prank that’s real,
Danny chuckled and Mel shrieked no progress, tribute unsustained as it seems.

Falsehood is an actuarial stat, one anto
-nyms assimilate. I haven’t said anything

since.

A ballerina crosses Walnut St. Can you believe her silhouette pressed against anyone who doesn’t dance. Visceral surprise! A purged rhetorician acquires correspondence, verbal equivalence to her process repertoire.

So far: There is still no nastier event in poetry since top dawg Arthur Rimbaud snitched on Paul Verlaine & gave up on poetry to run guns. (What about that prick? Rimbaud, I mean. Can you rap about Bourdieu and Weil's take on renunciation of the Dionysian crafts, poetry and lovemaking as a coherent defense in Rimbaud’s case, the system upended — production so restricted it pro forma led to work stoppage and noncompetition, again, by reference to internalized, thus revised, social norms of cultural legitimacy and self-perfection.)

Pound was nuts. When it comes to the poetry, some think thank goodness. There’s no defense, today, for the notion the Bollingen panel’s perceptions were “objective,” and it seems reasonable to imagine a few, such as Eliot, were willing to overlook a man so “situated,” that is, Pound’s anti-Semitism as well as his insanity, on the “legitimate” bases of shared esthetics, the shared part left, even now, unspecified because it’s easier left out.

There’s a guru I listen to.

“Let’s get back to bohemia, yes? and don’t call that rustic mytho hole in the Newtons suitably deshabille for my bohemians in fury chopping the air.”  

Guru, you’re so unnecessary!  


“Plus, you forgot the eco slant. Habermas. Benjamin. Sam. Yosemite.”

I’ll dispense with details about me, this is what I heard.

“And I prefer Hermes parfums through which narcissus, paling,
pass, my boheme, please duck and watch your step
then a crossroads and the come-about.
Nothing unjustified won’t happen.”

I’m no part of it, and your aunt, according to your latest poetics (an intellectual ruins).  

Aw, come on, try an exercise in subject-mood agreement.

Then Jessop went blabbing to his dark lady, oh, I’ll steal what thou bequest because we can substitute here and there. We’ll call it modern English.

And being frank I can’t add much. The ache of summer is palpable, and night is falling as snorts of derision dampen my naïve representation of democracy.

Someone makes the case for / against boredom in composition, that is, in the poem-making venture. Boredom? Blame it on relatives, the empire-prone who ride escalators up and down the Radisson nearest you.

Down here a comb is passed to a baldie
To the sounds of fountains and friends.
Sociologists are stepping up and nodding off
Under the influence of futon cramps and cars
Full of pouti debs and the elephant men,
Dostoevsky wrote.

The Women’s March last week goes down as one of the largest political demonstrations of the unknown. It was a groundswell of anonymity, parallel to poetry as a practice. Okay, this is my parallel reasoning, beginning with C. A. Conrad in interview (Exchange Values, 2006) who observes there are no famous poets because of the ballooning numbers of poets overall. And this is as far as Laura Moriarty in A Tonalist (2006) agrees with Kevin Killian’s notion of bards at work in “a common project,” which is also depicted, a little more colorfully, as a “fragmented ferment,” stunning enough a parallel to the ballooning numbers of poets idea, I think, to compel discovery of other qualities to describe this nameless groundswell further. (Why is the ferment in fragments? Because so innumerable are the writers who have signed on, we tell them apart only when we study one at time, finding qualities to think over.) New political leaders and organizers will emerge from protest, and we look forward to getting to know them. Similar optimism applies to the ‘common project,’ getting to know what’s practiced now.

I’m not making a point, just seeing it. Wasn’t the last renaissance prompted by gangs of anonyms?

I once had such brilliant optimism. Promise of a good life. Poetry came along. I meant — why not, let’s go try it. Then the coordinator wrote something down. After that I snapped.

Father writes, “Linked phrases run through the a’s, b’s, c’s and so on, but a-phrases, again, often point to the composition (the kind I am).

B-wise, my creativity
is not wasted in remorse.
What I owe: I know
almost and almost lost,
unfinished, in everything. For the c’s
I moved along a scratchy plain
of dandelions, peony, clover:
checked for snags of fern, fir,
and the only woman nodded: Oh yes
It’s only your newness:

and I see the form
as I fill in the questionnaire
putting my back into it.”

Beguile the time, look like the time.

Still reading The American Heritage Dictionary.

Put your back into it.
An ego for two.

Couple of younger guys with portfolios of collaged material, mostly text. That’s the destination.
Getting there you wait in long lines for a trolley. Japanese hardly speaking. I turned to my companion and asked if he was interested in how poetry’s put together.

Dumbly you blink
The aspen glitters in wind what’s your problem?
What’s going on? Hose you off
Yeah; well, that holds us —
And the leaf flutters turning total crackpot —

Don’t throw the right brain out with the
a) baby
b) broth
c) plywood boards

Which is the most eccentric image of a poet?
a) She begins to pick up several vials of fluids
b) She feels a passing chill reading his work
c) He relaxes in the arms of admirals from the fleet

If I keep the Beast Inside alive, there’ll be no reason to
a) flash some I.D.
b) hate art
c) test well

Death by
a) mixed nuts
b) occasional manifesto
c) serial paeans

The dead have something to say also. It’s all about museum restaurants and cook-dating. They’ll... we’ll learn a lot all at once. Absolute power over the last half-century. Doctors and scientists working together swinging ultimately for the fences — the job’s changed tremendously — they fly the Atlantic and Pacific in this context and really only this context.

I’ll say it again I can’t think of a more putrid round of faked-poshed out poetry than this: “we’ve tumbled into an elite world, full of country homes and ‘men downstairs who think / that gin’s a breakfast drink.’”

Ok I’m pitching a multi-episode appearance on Rum, Sodomy & the Lash.

The dead — what they did is
reprehensible, tho they added class...

On Saline. I’m comforted, confirmed I’d say in the prognostics for artifice, Kim Lyons’s plain as Jane reference in “Soap” to The Crystal Book is bogus. The encyclopedic catalog at my local library (Hollis, Harvard) hasn’t got it. But the prognosis looks promising once I enter the title digitally — I find a number of mis-adventures as alternatives, including (1) Crystal, David, The Stories of English; (3) Consort of Musicke, the world of English ayres and madrigals [sound recording]; (5) Wonder, Stevie, Talking Book [sound recording]; and (8) Shakespeare, William, A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. To prove each option is somehow germane to Saline would require stretches of space in a longer review — (1) story of English, “shadows of Greek postures”; (3) English ayre, “the gradual of / Eleanor of Brittany, 14th century”; Stevie Wonder, “People are realized only partially” — but if I stick with (8), I find the continuous present right here in the short poem “Soap,” the sort of predictive, time-travel-y coincidental mischief I prize: “I was looking for you / or more correctly, your words... // pulled from the stacks: ‘a new poem’ by Wm. Shakespeare / huh?” I’m enveloped now by a poem that anticipates my biblio-search! (Huh, indeed.) Granted, Lyons cuts through the travel mystery, admits her crystal book doesn’t exist, yet “absence of it yields / to…arrival.” We’re instructed that arriving is a way of ‘contending,’ “looking around... / I imagine the words / are looking for me also.” Lyons practices a Platonic epistemology via 21st-century metaphysics in which one’s arrival at words is hard-wired self-inquiry “inherently without prestige,” enamored of the magic “round room” in dailiness, like reading a book backwards, routine conceit that “disperses...a grid of light” where there is “presence between / nothings.” Tangled, convoluted, “I hate this Sunday consciousness,” Lyons offers “a violet empyrean’s contraption of radiant circles” made round and plausible within the “background in the colorlessness” and seeming limitless as “the universe cavorts thus.”

— 2005

Let’s get back to our roots, mutual surveillance.

Your Cheshire-cat presidency, the one you assumed just now — you know it’s not interesting: it fails visually in an instructive way. Grinning when you walk into a room of operatives you render them adversaries; your paranoia intimates emotional fullness (I want to say a collegial goodwill) not within your reach. It imitates humor. But it’s dark, only because it cordons off a psychic terrain of rapacious, parochial guilt. The party boy graduates to party hack, and your fetes evanesce into a seminar on trivial comparisons, fact-reformations. If you have to run again, if they let you, we’ll need whackier party material.