Lots of us were gifts
and land across our example
while we saw the wind taken
that the waves under you lift

Tho see-thru as doves
which today are nothing more,
swept with a visual certainty
no matter how we change in love.







The reunion is off.

A spotlight called.

Distinguish the feel.
Hold it from the sides.
“Pronounce it.”


That’s good.
Now draw the strings. OK.
— what do you know!

It goes off softly
So hard to shovel, soft to fall
White, red, pale red

A roving shadow feeling like
The thermometer


Blood standing’s a fossil orange.
More feeler than hand,

It shakes
The nombril ray,

A maneuver just dimming the drowned thumb,
A sculpture with a cup on it.

I’ve always been mad about something else.

Everything is trauma. (“I exist.”) Everything takes away from the center

[S]o caught up in rule-governed mechanics.

Who is there to tell no one cares when no one cares





You’re a mess, honey.

                                  — Touch of Evil

Something came up.

Little, no, nothing. There’s so small

an exchange to transact, no product, only

exhibitionist’s subtopics within the power den,

to prove repeated effort lengthens pleasure.

That’s all right.


Another time.

Sonnets

We have no idea of here & now —

Connections lost in reality were scarifying.

And like some peers who frame their searches socially,
we learn lightly. We’ve slathered each other w/ axioms over the poor
and excluded. So there’s nothing else? I can’t tell, because I wouldn’t know.

Partnerships were constructs, 1st a little lunatic,
                 sometimes febrilly culled.
There is a nothing. Yet nothing was forbidden.
Or there’s a burst of daft tone substituting info
                 for a lifetime.
I lower your voice to approximate parity.

Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?
We have reality subtracting poetry.

*



We have no idea of here & now —

Whatever we thought about talking, making up
was a lot better than “looking pretty close” watching others spin
like “sentience” refined by distance

& that’s the gist of it —

Finalists (e.g. Tom Clark) quit general practice — work converted to industry,
little or no honor system. W/ that, I’ll drop our language, the vicarious lexicon

To conform to our belief system to get forgotten.

Speaking as a single expert, you’re my business.

“I heard talent, beauty, money come by their own right; by your putting them to the test they take ‘full effect’

— “when you remember this lust bucket read Lacan from the start, it seems mathematical to think about us favorably, tho programmers have a fierce impression of any abject uncertainty.”

So this was an edit. “That’s as close as we have to a pulse.”

That’s what it reads over one entrance. To pull it together, total anonymity makes the inside disappear what’s left and right into it.

Max Planck fellows run off with radical research incentives for a frontier in unboundedness.

Organization in a small package, tethered particle immolation. The dignity of boson appearances.

With little or no motive, the sky foregrounds their styles, taking them all in.

*

Decor: Not dying is not not wanting to die, a unique semantic potential assigned an inventory. (Dying is not wanting to die and then waiting not to die: Between waiting, not wanting, desires crowd out a covert, unplayed suite shaped through a decade long derangement,

misread revisions bourne in
countering selfmastery, fighting it even in unspiteful moments

— was it something to do with prayer?)



All this repetition is not good ahead of patterned, glimmering haze surrounding powerful men, dating them, finally; you know, the level of glamorous self regard here is high, gnarly. If all we do is seduce and note our conquests, we lose. We lose austere joys, cloud dogma, sculpture perpetrated out of wire in scentless comfort, winter is coming skies. Scentless discomfort, too.

We meet on Mt Snow, north of the town offices
first on drenched tho
slackened



shaking the tidal vapor thru no shadow weighed, no


less than ten or more seconds off the slopes



meaning above steps coincided with the light


clipped to the final base blast patching the thaw



— spirals discharge, wind heats the ground and trees open.

*

Again there’s no natural retrospective because nowhere
Now might the flow of ideas be so well hidden ..

Right. It’s past. Passed. What you say reminds me ..
It’s a bold contraption.

When can we enjoy sobriety, the doo
(implicative space)!



Pitches more to wade out above what’s sung

Above the beautiful, well pronounced.

That’s what we yell to joy, lightness, yes
Thrown in doo (where else!) :

Kyrie in fully sensory hellcat wrath.

On a human ~ ant landscape, god is the ants.

*

Yet our guardians are tired of interruptions and self-
reflective outreach; herein the corporation is late
and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.

In a song of our inner rhyming selves, all emerge never getting even, debtors at last;
debtors are nice, tho

bank officials had had enough of the tetra borrowers. (It might be better being a big fish instead of a little one.) Next day Ed the clown took
a new job in the equivalent of an education cafeteria. Growing up tetra evolve. It’s a

measure of the increasing clout of fish this message strikes you like a fin. This is a message!
aspects of which covered debts by dropping glassy eyeballs in fake vomit



— 9 to 5 the sky aspect above the new moon is a flung, short hue of our echelon’s ideology. Climb max!
Anything to get along. Hmmm, dividing feelings like vendettas, your feet never come back.

1.

Everything I do is sin. One after another piles up.
Yet the nuclear self lingers for a year, that fellow (he’s a fan, even now)
we grow. “Absolutely.” Them.



2.

They’re throwbacks to un-hurting instincts, the least we inherit, recall over time.
Suddenly as told by 2 dads, 3 moms or any of us,
No one is inferior or too serious, either;
We can maneuver with the cash of inevitability around many
Gender-specific no noes! shattering them.

3.

Our love tosses in bed burnishing a logo.
Shame on the t in tear drop lamps above the island.
(Bikini Island.. w/ a handshake in the center.) We’ll yield this echelon

To nothing more authentic than having unadorned communal assent.
You’re holding me, middle of a welding
Head-of-light, until my vertebrae burn. We grow. Them.

Brain damage is in the eyes. Tho

there is nothing like an emergent semi-horseplay,

especially play to welcome you or educe prosthetic artifacts like no despair,

my eyes are open / knower / known, a clean osmosis now, I’m behind you, way less affected by less meaning, less capriccio like you,
the “ding dong” in “decay,” m’lord, you hobo.

I’m hoping nothing won’t happen. Duly of course sounded, I cover my throat.



A few facts crowd around where the figures are un-garbled when least derivative; ephemeral objective content triumphs. It’s kind of a snob racket. (C Bukowski)



We weren’t orphaned, we just decided to pursue other interests. Plus, it started again,

as theory, pleasure is to ethics as the roundup

waiting in any landscape, waiting for mistakes (1) and (2) jounce.

Spontaneity backs up position vectors.

Woe is paralytic. I don’t detect a drop of broad mindedness toward any arched dynamic or versions of it; it’s better when and how
you love or even when you nibblingly slobber over a numbed one’s body of rare happiness, feeling

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

Dionysian = could pull off brocade, puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.

Riddles are everywhere while violence underlies our pleasant lives. People who may not see this are killed daily, so we wind up w/ the visual goods we enjoy. Shaky ground. Is there any other kind? I mean, we’re all pragmatists. I mean... I think that means instead of living under the sun and the moon and seeing the pollen on the lawn, one is living in an enigmatic scheme of one’s own not-seeing, blinded by periodic breakthroughs one calls substantial. To see what else might be there, there is Geof Huth, a neo-pragmatic sustained focus but also a discursive, contentious stance taker who rakes the ground for graphical poetries, ground that’s permanently shaky. Ten years ago at [dbqp.blogspot.com/] Huth argued against that repeated, generalized call for substance and breadth in visual poetry (you might say, in all effects, poetry) — voiced by those he characterizes as new-criticism-inspired — pinpointing the unique semantic appeal that graphic-verse offers as motes of a riddle: “A visual poem might be an epic or an ode, but it is more likely to be something minimalist. And that enigmatic movement of meaning across its surface is its particular gift to esthetics.” Huth might have said that. You don’t have to subscribe to this view to find value in it as a point of contention and counter-contextualizing w/ respect to pop (albeit dated) theory (new criticism). 



Contention is fine, but Huth goes further visualizing gamuts, checking others’ work, displaying his own, amplifying, looking to see. From Huth’s posts a decade ago, we travel from his base in Schenectady to Manhattan, California and Texas. Huth discovers typographic sleight in a store sign at Bryant Park, and then ogles (correction: we readers are ogling; Huth is photographing) a graffiti-enscorched men’s room (w/ hand dryer, hand mirror, etc.) in a Midtown restaurant, an occasion to unpack a base irony — “At the door (my egress), a joke appears: Very Top Secret. But I don’t believe it. The creation of the text might be secret, but the texts themselves are quite public.” I like these pieces executed in “heavy pollen” around Caroga Lake, NY, photos of his own glyphs inscribed into microspores on auto glass and on a car’s hood, as well as one on a glass tabletop at a wilderness café, “Pollen over Glass over Fabric.”

One who will die isn’t perverse, it’s that one adheres to so few modes. Read this. I did.

I’m leaving disjunction behind. To work with you (the plan) is one way to avoid subjectivity tho

content is a nominal fallacy like that bondage alloy. I understand I don’t understand, etc.

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 until you do onslaughts in her riveting presence, O



... the downed rookie is burning on the outside, his only credits were adamance /

to squelch the dramaturgy of theology, wealth and actionable conditions, missing how far you are beaten into their projections.

We are that kind of thief, feeling bad about the flitting gleam that seethed with rank fidelity, gazing trying to adhere figuring our life together

Our history, ok sunsets standing in the waves like Moxley’s “arc of grace, a mystical exit from the trap /

of birth chance and bloodlines, call it talent / or perhaps obedience: mostly we are poor.”

Song: My neighbors have been urbanized.
Does it matter only a few minutes ago I learned to
Write above my welcome?

Copy: Drink to one’s health & bicameral madness
As sugar consumption skyrockets. O Canada

I am is still here, the body’s purring could not be put off. (One dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).



*

Wrong. Constantly wrong is correct once an hour if you’re a minute hand (person). Seriously? But what is identity.

[...can’t stop it...through language [going in] [out...] cheesy time lapses in which [animating backward] speech & narrative continuity become incrementally

transformed into deep structure affixing the Old Norse phoneme to nonobserving verbs. ]

Now my head is cleared.

Still how can it be effortless if I tell you what I’m doing?

If we had grounds I’d subside higher up having you weed out caution.

I call this a sex drive.

We’re in no hurry

Snow and sun? We’re expecting something.

There’s no good time to get sun, which is a tragedy.

Right here we want clarity about motives, keep delivery un/pinched.. slightly about here.. chance of showers, now, still in a long silence we’re

Standing — rain and everything neutrinos can’t stand scattering. Next the sun we say shines, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of our meaning it and not tempted.

Some of you and me was here, and more ‘there you go’ noting, retreating to emancipating solitude, keeping / adding up the wait time you say, sporting by degrees the related changes you seem to see and are.

Frame: In flight, whom or what did an avian event planner spoof?
How can varsity fans wear outfits that crush their tribute? Why?

This café, I think, is going to answer that & help the weather from getting lost.
I now know the frame craves attention.

Finish a stretch and lines get confused. Fuse the way they

Continue. / The weather, then the mood diminish. / It began / I did have
A tattoo for that purpose, sure. Promote your event.


Aw, the guest room becomes an office. Mine or its?
Who? About why? & what was that about?




Frame: A diminished mood will be buoyed by scatterings of photos and books, most left unread. More atextual sources as fodder for your text, new ontological components for thinking, composing, as well as subprocesses harder to isolate and observe as they flood into short term memory. Add your touch and all you touch, everything you see, good sounds and less humidity as you walk or sit along any surface, any pang, faculties for balance, direction, toes and feet, tastes and smells, motions, textures, feelings from everything so far. Bring that (as much as you like) to our ambient government. Government divided in two. First, liberal arts loosened from esthetic scholasticism, inventing new suppositions for research and intimacy. Second, wiry empirical jolts, ambience that comprise (sic) enmeshments within a readymade mood and control structure parallel to vocational education in poetics; appliance hint: a job with a hot plate.

Decor: I still want to remarry in quick fire in a church in white. Or did I?

Marriage makes me horror-struck

Aghast in wake of our previous melancholy.

Crime: The big picture shows me my modest place.
I’m technically adept dining in (or out).

A few take umbrage from grumpy distortion, forward, back —
fractured logic (# 39) & their own morbidity. While you —

You picked up the check (58). That’s swell, looting prestige,
a nether handle to misapplied figures, images,
& exactly what the cradle requests; the place rocks.

Monumentality is a silly environs for hobos at a point of time when esthetics are pitched to viable contexts über intimacies and other intentions. For humorists, the monumental is a free radical to chew out or evade, tactically. Macgregor Card tries something comedically different in Souvenir Winner (2002, Hophophop Press), a collection of nine short verses (“verses” is the term) that carry on about themselves (of course), also about “mother,” “Pauline,” and other family relations among immortal lonely hearts out there where “teeth soak of their own accord” and “fluency is the chart of an architect / eyeballing space, and the chart, a poet’s diplom’.”

Card dedicates Souvenir Winner, tellingly, formally, to Alexander Scriabin and Achilles Rizzoli. Scriabin is felt at the surface, emphatic grammar shifts, as well as tonal splinters, compressed harmonics that distinguish archaic, antic mergers of “footman,” “Christ,” and “a porpoise in a pretty tune.” Yet Rizzoli is the principal lonesome foggy and recurring motif for Card’s ultimately upbeat romp through stencilled space. Rizzoli, an architectural draftsman who lived in mid-20th-century San Francisco, is appreciated today for oversized Beaux Arts renderings of Kathedrals, huge symbolic portraits, and other big-scale pieces crammed with odd poetry, anagrams and fake quotations often translated into a secret code of his own. Bona fide ‘outsider’ monumentalist, Rizzoli is the architect of choice for Card to chart with. Also on.

*

Card’s reworking Rizzoli parallels John Ashbery’s Girls on the Run, a storybook in verse about small fry linked loosely to Henry Darger, another outsider and monumentalist who authored an illustrated novel of over 15,000 pages, The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What Is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion. But Ashbery’s and Card’s strategies for adaptation are different. Ashbery’s freely descriptive and much longer chronicle draws on Darger as “only a jump-off point,” Forrest Gander suggests; whereas Card’s diminutive lyrics substitute fruitful accidents and nonsequiturs as supportive elements of cohesive story telling. In attempting to complement Rizzoli’s visual spectacles, Card’s is the more exfoliated imagery, revitalizing a belated Beaux Arts consciousness that Rizzoli himself describes as one “hermetically sealed spherical inalienable maze of light and sound seeing imagery expand in every direction.”

Some people that are sick are not people.
They are hereditary balls of light

This begins verse “VIII” in Souvenir Winner, a twenty-line schizophrenic paean to oracular irony where distinctions among metaphor and simile, cause and effect, eye and I, object and subject vaporize into “the souvenir / of flung windows.” We begin again, instructed that some of the sick are not people, but “balls of light” as the poem continues:

like the tallest man in the world
must be lonely looking
no one in the eye all the time.
I couldn’t seem to move, Pauline,
the famous men from stars to tears ...

‘The tall guy, one of those lonely stars, is a fire ball I can’t move. I can’t make him come sob down here, that is, even as I think you up, I can neither see nor move myself or you, Pauline, I feel sick.’ To accede to this logic is to be possessed of an oceanic albeit menacing enchantment that, in my case, wakens long-sublimated, communal attributes of a once-content childhood, one given to perfecting a petulant naiveté, and one resonant, I suspect, with affects on Card of Rizzoli’s life and work.

The impression that Rizzoli serves as a running motif is reinforced by the inclusion of three of Rizzoli’s designs, it seems, as well as swatches of quotes from his supposed prose, slogans and working titles. Still, Card upends the initial impact of a one-on-one appropriation as collaborative transaction. In epigraphs, text annotations, and especially his “Notes” that follow the nine poems, Card discloses how he supplements Rizzoli by lifting text or ideas from a range of better known sources, including the New Testament, Lord Byron and John D. Rockerfeller, Jr., and by inserting fragments from a number of inscriptions on public buildings in New York. Not all these borrowings are straightforward, though. In the ninth and final verse, Card miscues the reception for the opening four lines by referencing a biblical passage in italics just below and to the right of line four. The passage is Paul’s Romans, Chapter 12, Verses 3-8. In the King James version it starts, “For even as we have many members in one body...so we the many are one body in Christ, and each one members of one another ...” Here are the opening lines to Card’s verse:

My roof is done like a faun into tears.
Never seen despite all its rich article.
A fairy wand in a court of law, twittering, faultless,
Mute, staked as a mare to a formal lawn.

Card rocks the sweeping, representational register of the referenced text (we, members, one body, Christ) into utter reversals of Paulist dogma: fugitive simile and Gnostic incongruity (roof like a faun, fairy wand), through which glints of representation shine, only briefly, like waning metonyms both “twittering” and “faultless.”

Card exposes a baseline ambition later in the poem:

Tell the good old lowering eyes – broad feet
toward the door – I’m a poet, showdog
rightly termed dreamer, skaters on blockheads,
scented peers. “I have only one plate of soup.”

Card bludgeons Paul’s certainties (sitting targets, admittedly): “we have many members” is taken down several notches by “I’m a poet, showdog”; “one body” melts into “one plate of soup.” For the showdog, inferential exactitude is an on- or off-affair. As for his reference to the biblical passage, Card reveals in conversation that the intent is to have Paul’s Romans “echo” within his poem, without direct quotation.

The good question to pose at this point is, why bother to take on Paul, Romans, and such? My hunch is – and it’s a fairly sure bet – architectonic voices in Card’s head encouraged his ambition. Churchy texts and artifacts by Rizzoli motivate Card’s lyric, as in Card’s volunteering citations of Rizzoli at the end of “V. Yield to Total Elation”:

We are almost tempted to call him sweetheart.
The light that made Jesus speak through a sonnet.

If Rizzoli plays with matches, Card yells ‘fire’ and catches hell.

... I’m a poet, showdog
rightly termed dreamer, skaters on blockheads,
scented peers. “I have only one plate of soup.”
How much will you need? “A cupful of tears.”

Echoes? Card calls out the name Paul or Pauline over a dozen times in the nine verses, and refers to Rome or Romans six times. For good measure (and ghostly after-affects), the passage from Romans referenced in the final poem is ascribed historically to Paul. While Paul’s text has been in effect erased, key lexical items are distributed throughout Souvenir Winner – God, Christ, love, grace – as well as close paraphrases: Paul’s admonition, “not minding high things, but yielding to the lowly,” is mirrored by Card in “a debt / of honor paid for in plain fact, humility.” Card’s “My arm’s an idler’s rod inveighed against genius” can be traced to Paul’s “Do not be wise within yourselves.”

*

Echoes happen within architectural plans that afford vast interior space to exceed normal acoustical barriers. Cathedrals come to mind, certainly to Rizzoli’s mind. Card has examined Rizzoli’s drawings and writings on Kathedrals at length, and then in his “Notes” Card gives evidence of his search for inspiration in other Beaux Arts structures, such as banks and post offices in Manhattan and Brooklyn. An impression I have is of a poet so on the verge of elaborated ceremony he plunges into it physically and over time, a process-under-the-influence that might appear to some as extraordinary or even wreckless.

I love mourning on Earth,
decorating my fortune wheel.

Card’s architectural immersion is reflected in his formalist textual structures, as well. A quick scan of the verses shows colonnade-like symmetries: even-numbered poems (the mossy shades between columns?) are numbered but otherwise left untitled and each winds up with a 5- or 6-line coda; odd-numbered poems (the columns?) are numbered and titled after coinages ascribed to Rizzoli, and each odd-numbered poem consists of three stanzas, whose middle part can contain any even number of lines from 10 to 20, but whose beginnings and endings are always four lines. For example:

Earth is light, but mother weighs less
on the surface of my poems than on mars.
Her habitat’s the top-drawer aurora
the sorrowful bell tunes are built in.

Souvenir Winner is grandstanding about itself as poetry, mysterium profundum, and ostentatious paradox rhymed with a vocabulary of romance, dreamy totality and unfashionable gods. Its Beaux Arts pedigree requires nothing less. In aftermath, its fire ball wit blazes, even when doused with hope.

So wrest the dough of toll from me.
A lot is sad, but the habitat’s a fine place to be.
We’ll intuit a city-intimate ray – you and me
and the other ones ...

*

Macgregor Card’s voices — architectonic, effusive, genial in 2002 — echo in 5 Poems (2009). [www.poetryproject.org/5-poems-by-macgregor-card/]. This music is of another ceremony / totality, a bit like watching how Rizzoli’s “seeing imagery expand in every direction” piles it on plaintively.

“The Merman’s Gift / for Karen Weiser” begins “Brother I need back my sticks...” Merman, a fantastic character, wants everything back for real, calling his gift “sticks ... I hope they bring us closer now,” so close (the self) caller and response giver (the self) are conjoined in off-rhyme —

to range / by grass depressed by possibility alone

One and every /actionable blade of glamor

in a ranger’s vatic underfauna / If we go there

I’m a total wreck my brother / carried off at totalcy

I need for you to wreck / upon yourself

the salvage you recover / from me

and I love you / I need back the sticks I loaned you

— in 80 lines echoing “sticks” give voices to “totalcy,” a normal if vatic monumentality to be attained and released (given back), an entire round. “What is there to sing but a round?” Card asks in “To Friend-Tree of Counted Days,” another of the 5 Poems. Here sticks are branches helping Card “climbing a tree / too high for words / whose leaves are as green.” We’re in another call and response, mystery place; “to range”

I can only imagine
is probably astounding
if seen in generous light

Song: I elect to be ignorant.



All in; all for one; one for all : magical thinking. Left to its systems and devices, it’s a tenure system, dull intrigue and romance, equipage of the self taught. A Vulcan slice of a childhood domain like improving one’s posture. Ta ta.



Eee god my head is growing. I fool myself all of nature repairs to a cryonics lab that’s been reopened. Just for a second.

I believe in highlights and the mimicking hidden force of gravity. You guys go ahead.



I’m going to walk away, that’s the best stunt.

Gilbert Ryle asks, “might not every action or reaction be a piece of shamming?”



To throw out sleep, trust, and nimbus-wet telepathy — I’ll never feel his arms around me again. Never feel the air on my skin, or wake up in his warm bed, I’m done, I don’t get a chance to try again for anything, not even for something I’m not. I can’t do any better than what I’ve done.

“Absolutely,” visiting professor I don’t know her last name will reply, if asked.

Entanglement:
Study Freud or any evolutionary researcher of the antic.

Stick with insoluble nonfiction you’ll fall into a niche in 5 days
Blindfolded. (Our guarantee.)

Such brilliant dislocations a\we\re expected; it goes
Beyond, there are dark, unknown predicates fixated on louder procedures

But in their giddy case procedures to see into a surfeit of space,
A sumptuous, soilless bond,

The angels.

*



It’s only words, assembly, to quote you.

They are real actors, not people.

Sodajerks. Their stock was luminous.

Their noun phrase furthered ambition (we’re sure it was theirs), amusing
Vim shaken from the inside. Each had a skeleton curse;
(Youth, after all, is sustained as the winged subject of love) how emotional language models for 3
Dimensional real time as

I shit where I cat.

Dissonant sports metaphors seem prepared for a gullible ally, hon.
Like preparing the red matter.
(There are no guarantees in risk engineering up close.)

Dr Who gadgetry from the future,
How can this be put?
Hey went from one thing to another, came back.





As a guy I’m done with Malthus festivals’
Black sweaters in the woods,
Tented command centers for negotiation,
And I’ve had it with my thigh, the one you lift.

Nice save.



There’s a title for most any time lapse. Stick around.
The sentence: the Bruins lost squawking about losing
Diagrams the opportunity


‘But should we use quotation marks?’

Came up as a refrain.

By then our thought freezes,

Just why we reserve dopey incongruence



Nested within notes to adjunct scenery filling in

The right performance, the normative outcome.

          Many are watching a tall fool spin
                    to guard shapes of light and ice volumes

Stuck at Could It Really Be “Quoted.”


Puissance of a quick jolt sort, holy body of Christ —

Sir, m’lord,

Parlance should sound ok, staying measured outside,
What Esau called discourse in action



And that wore in your bearing for a good while.

At least there was this calculation along with a core construct
About mascots protecting protein networks and access to the core.

For team members, writers, researchers, teachers, it’s easier to keep consonants
Down our throats than dissemble before the coaches running the plays :

The equation can be reduced to pedagogues = mascots.

A fop sur la route is a Parisian invention, an essentialist’s incarnation. It’s now English. Le Smoking for driving, dressing on the left: your character lifts, lukewarm and husky. Splash.



Steer clearly. Highway safety — bow, everything amazing has lowered discourse.



Preaching to the tenor choir, I love what we do together



Like switching work bags, mixing it up then. We should be mortified but impressed.
                    (This siegecraft apparently works.
For my driving, I’ve hired a fop strategist.)

Cold draft.

I was never angry. Visually, I bought my first balance ledger. But I learned a lesson.

There was no progress.

Before that Japanese syntax was molded apart. Molded like sister & brother drummers / saxophonists playing to a safety council, backing it up with inexact tempo backbeats multiplying from what they did before better pieces from a notebook took hold.



There’s to party.

There’s always looking out, up and through silence & a sense of feeling cornered in music practice. Enough, enough men as well as women are resigned

wherein smirks press on — drizzle would hurt if verbal but not visible as a short, stout white truck rolls under haze, Kia-like, choked in a soft, fluffy diorama.

Upbeat message. We call that yeah

Parentheses to explore;

The 4-D printer’s, they have many followers, you on it?

Prigs pick up; driftwood gets epigrammatic, upsides are unrelated, pale, immaculate

As one’s eyes reset

Focus some more.
Upbeats hold snorkel like typography that can fade to
Nothing or the opposite, periodically or
Altogether for the kids, the innocents?
                                Anything to take from the a-argument
For missing stairs..

for Kenny G

Pantoum: The instant we select a rogue anime we also begin singing to ourselves,
Clio strikes commanding octaves and unreal rumors circulate.

~ To my understanding it turns out ~
Witchy rhythm is baroque-cheesy if it’s parody paying homage to the
Subject. Or object

Witch: Pass the white I think they’re gloves.

Off the rack, hey, I’ve discovered what’s scary
In some directions the focus got noticed.

— the bespoke jacketed
Sufi? At the mall that’s closing?
He’s canceled!

I wrote this 15 minutes ago.
That hasn’t stopped me from modeling.

Look me in the eye, I’m ruined.

Diagram conditions of ex sentences, touching both elbows behind your back —

Trompe l’oeil conditions I now know are approximating mock abstractions. (Once seen

You know it thru an evolutionary pin drop

Like mind and body worship, real abstraction is vicarious before conforming to a belief system.) Or is

It just an illustration?

At another time a lunatic pantomime rushes or could rush in, a dentist, to remove our tongues.
It seems pleasing since so logical a creature understood us.


So much of dentistry, a contributing partner

in the pragmatics industry, along

w/ the expressions industry —

why.. 1/2 the experience kingdom —
thru it sap flows to festoon the roadblock!

Pantoum: The future of party killers resides in jail
(given a key, you lose it)

— shifting attention but staying in touch

I forget functioning ghost towns caked with tire tracks,
I draw a blank on Havana interiors and decades of Tonka trucks



[...there is no outside [...] only what’s already here [what we breathe] below, which is
Immature, impulsive...] [as above]

— I forget empirical relationships, the visual force of
                    a “mottled taxonomy,”

Complaints and sworn declarations,
I forget meeting you.

2 birdbrains, explicit about nothing or nothing much; no / yes

Ok, we’re willful, stay in control — a thousand bees sting our feet —

High jinx as super secrets are
=

Wanting as well as having nothing — shhhhhh.. I can’t
.. I shouldn’t ask did I live like that fly on the wall?

— since we polished the text, handed it in, don’t expect me after all.



Even if we kiss later, it saddens one to inform the boss
You’re not serious, never are.

Like you we’re turning state’s evidence holding on to meet
                    even newer phenomena (‘stolen parts’
To run over) any & all mayhem coming unannounced (achieved)
Or some won’t since you and I separate thru flexible equations,

Already saying goodbye takes us far up the jet trail! quelling fear of want
-Ing pain. You never can tell. I won’t.

His haiku was stiff: full, bel canto, with a slight

Vocal member of the Illinois cultural

Studies group carrying a sawed off

Shotgun.

In background: we hear the sizzle to rock climbing in a trend of atomized suspense. I’m pointing to other trends apparently stuck on sedimentation, winning bets, because I bring humor to our relationship / pantomime looking wild in the frieze.



(I meant my face the minute I handed it to you.)

Rhode Island’s motto has hope, implicative of passivity discharged by shore conditions, handsome, calm, also a bit on nerve.



Talking it over maximizes signals.
That’s why poetry is the preferred medium.

Glowing pinheads — let’s run their #’s, enfin je ne sais pas.

To pass over when we wake is ample. Waking up, a freed man’s voice, 
crunching for breakfast.

A station plays Stanley Turrentine like Coolidge, a kettle of searing, puffy, relaxed, succinct.



LRSN goes on, on ahead.

Listening re-references a leonine flow
made of many m.p.h. gusts — this is my body

— a priori nil in inner life razing names of or to

Don’t be afraid.


Eh, if I could let myself go, fearless — living and bereaved like ruined plum.

You’ve never been wild about old desire, but he’ll allege you go where you have to go.

*

Bruise will stop by later.
I’ve gone werewolf. Both true to form.

for Harold Bluegrass

I’m a member of the takeaway school.
Mean something and take it away.
Fawning v welfare. Belated as a pledge.







Say when nothing is wrong

What is the considered argument
For missing stairs..

Response: Captain, can I bare your hooligan credentials?



Captain scientist, see what we’ve done? See what you can do! throw us in a hole and keep me there, cover me up. Only these exceptions: I wasn’t talking to you. I was speaking to the best interest of all in the corp. Eh, same time, I’m afraid I can’t keep working with you looking over my shoulder.

I hope I’ve been clear.

Song: A blush is a bulletin.
One time at The Pelican was inconsonant. Or..

I was found holding a grand lodge of doing-splits glossary. Interesting for
Switching one speed, why

Does a face arrest?



You had on your fabulous eyeliner from long ago. Cunning
Thing is everybody had it goes without saying a probability before
The prior bulletin

And all of us now are blown up getting wind of the Red Wings.

To paraphrase ... you can’t predict
How or even what you’ll be taking from your background;
there are too many of you.

Talk is politically cheap. I guesS
...what? on the edge o’ song



When you got up your voice was

Vibrating w/ a head cold, falling
Flat into dust in 4 dimensional motes.

Vibrating = Sturm und Drang,
Dust controls anger / how minds are wed.

DNA follows commands. It's a tad collective.

Once you think about it, think it over in narrative, to execute thought is recursive, beside the thought.

After lovemaking, performance: [Earle Brown in the audio ground..] the words, rhyming systems for married or unmarried.

______________________________________ _——_


Sunrise. The DNA imprint.

Whoever
Made a pop singer circulate the Earth —— ?

Her voice changed into a polemicist’s;

It’s no single fool’s doing, making it easier to borrow. Clenching-tight
I’m sorry so sorry Can you sing that? from a reveler on a roll, keeps forgetting
What she’s rocking on on.

Frame: In flight an avian event planner became a spoofer.
How can varsity fans wear outfits that tame their tribute? Why?

This café, I think, is going to answer that and help the weather from getting lost.
I now know the frame craves attention.

(I don’t mean that as deeply as I hand you over.)

Finish a stretch and lines get confused. Fuse the way they

Continue. / It began / I did have
A tattoo for that purpose, sure. Promote your event.


Aw, the guest room becomes an office. Mine or its?
Who? About why? And what was that about?