Nothing is such in all cases. This brings on what works mostly. Life is short and good grooming drives you all over. No longer victims.

We grabbed that as a ladder we wouldn’t forget —

A moment soon to stare out the window, a lamp over my shoulder to herald the swindle in wind farming. Craning one’s mien goes on in this vein, time passes — comments from nonreaders, movies, lies — freedom takes off at many a midpoint. It’s personal, e.r. managers tell me. It’s almost impossible to write enflamed birdsong and comb back your hair at the same time.. Can you do that?

Light with a spooky edge

To sound like your own critic.

The sky is in the air, a hue of golf balls.
This is discounted, for historical justice.

Our supply chain deals fatalism whose allegory
can shape and twist any desire, except a ready
-made means to change the supplier that feeds us.
I love needing what tv does, colonizing until the wheels fall off.

Nearly sunset in coconut milk. Skinny ‘eventude’ brings on fluttering waves of populist rage and dishonest dogs. Tv dogs taught to come, fetch, force it down. Chips smaller. All in favor held under pressure. (An unreliable clique. Bad posse.)

I’m channel surfing in the cranberry state where immigrants mix well w/ bohemians, gays, subjectivity for a life entrenched w/ decoration, feet first. I’m asleep now. It feels great here. We’re on tv.

I take an introspective view of altruism. Guess this is the advantage of an insider.

A wholesale opportunity has passed. It was more at home within stage fright and a vocabulary of constraining tastes.

What’s left of this year’s poise is the primary product, a topic rather than text or other nominal for authorial achievement.

The second garment is to give full value.
Both purchases areburning up.

I had the idea surviving —
a songless vibrant feeling — a fair day
washed in over time — (if we need one)



What do you need now and for what?
Does it matter, that bravo question?
Do you test, tease, defame to get the best?

I ducked his punch, closed the distance.
I told him, no, no don't, I want to bolt. A little piece

in today’s Times calls Merce Cunningham’s
choreography Democracy in Action, a refreshing reminder
to the clique-minded.

Then there are Cunningham’s last figurines / their aptness in transit any time
when pragma-morphism brainstorms over innocence,
opposing absent zest vapors make-shifted to pulp —

It’s our advantage being excommunicated.

Being British, it’s not our nature to boast. Fortunately, we don’t have to.

We’re British.

Movies are a visual medium. The first word, w/out a word.

Astronauts ad lib macho challenges on their way to yellow flowers and white daisies
w/ wolfbane. How did they get in there? It comes down to not



that I miss you doesn’t
change anyone/thing. I want you happy and on time for the big release pledge.
It also helps to ad lib on your water bed from side to edge —

Planting ideas (marry me) restores our faith, popularly

escalating visionary disappearances
where every guess takes the edge out..

Because always we thought was possible

a quaff-off voice kept us happy.

(This is over a month, year, decade ago.)

My partner and a friend came home with a guy

they met at a bar. I was asleep but joined them

while I got my feet wet

as did the floor, so it happened again.

Can’t find a million on the street and not lose it

— I wanted to lose it —

I loaned it, I think.

It’s been overstated, the mind is a beautiful tool of late capitalism (the unwitting effect and cause).




Capitalism stands at the curb, a whiff of more aroma, waiting, eyes unblinking.



Hey we all have the same goals, forgery the game. ( Or one could seek documentation, semblance, something Swiss..



From now on the mind is Switzerland, ok? Two eyes belong everywhere, leave now. ) 



Capitalism thus gives up its dude ranch, akin to its rustic factories, a way west to prey on the drunk and disorderly. This is the highway the slug runs out on, leaving us a little dizzy.



I was wondering what the ...

The mind just kind of sits there. It wants to be best friends. It’s saved us some burgers.

IF we have an idea to process a text or artifact, subject to analysis, THEN how does the text or artifact change ways of thinking about the process? Does the result generate inquiry into both (a) who, how, when, why it came about and (b) any utility of further application or adaptation?

Been holding our tongues. That’s how it works.

Non-interference in charge, under which an authentic kindergarten, language, dance, charades get raised and quest is forcibly asserted. Working against deadline shaped the last phase of withdrawal from our deadlock with future attributes. Oedipus meantime targeted a fan like me because of ageless obligations to familial platitude, his camouflage in plain view, the focus of stiff winds over centuries-old middle ground.



A futurist has a softer side. He continues:
His life is his poetry, which is a biopic on my writing poetry about my life.
His life then is built around sane choices w/ a sense of a person, even though in a few seconds, I’m in memory * of that person to come. Aw.

That a fact?
Some don’t hear clearly when one’s “voice” joins others’ to deepen ultimately anonymous expressions of desire. * The memory part is mostly vice versa.

Nature is too loud for poetryts.

I’ll stop here, because I know you dislike machine habits:

Des ert-wise, how’s it going?

Well, you know, for a few weeks a word like trounced came up.

I lost how small I get.

Here are today’s avoidance words.

More bloom in the rubble sands mint white

Politics is the gene expression omnibus.
Each of us is one viral video from fame.

Vanity is promotion.
Amen to white boats opposing innocence.

They hear their voices as children bowed.

You feel in peril, have to join in.
I don’t get what you want

— our lives are directionless without a group, a clan? ...

The telling problem with engineering simplicity,
You annoy others (meditations in telling).

I don’t mean rampage in a civil sense,
I mean surgically knocking other chanters

Off, throwing knives, wrecking them
From the inside, slicing up!

I was kidding I’m not religious.

Hail, love, I’m in hell with you
Having seen again what we know about us. We're not living there right now; it's too far to drive, leaving us out drenched to the waist, hanging down by the sidewalk and sludge in blue and green mud streaks through thick glasses, filmed over.

The now is? I don’t know where it was. I wonder if they’ll show up.
These questions are battered about.

A-B / B-A.. She looked right at me.

Oh My God, I so adore you. I thought I was alone in my hatred.

Task me about something else that’s forced..
Stop hurling new foodstuffs, Bigly.

Please reference Christ w/out irony —


St Joseph and I were looking for new peanuts.
Had a drink, got to bed.

Architecture, carpentry together,
One shouted, “Estudando o Pagode.”
Wonderful at frustrating.



One’s trying to put forfeit words over
Party Two, unrelated and unknown. Distractional bliss.
Dogmatism.

When his looks offered up smarts,
In they came / endured
The bejeezus, tattoos and piercings.

I knew the family members he had, too many
Say they are married, too many pebbles
Ashore. Most of them carpenters, architects.

My gosh.

Did you ever imagine old masters wasted?

Their experiments in graphic semiotics appear

apolitical, outgoing, adaptable to pillory hindsight.

Married and still a rascal ..

EVEN IF WE ASSUME THE BOWL GOT BRUISED

a Chesire-smiling Henry James is like everyone else,
a nutshell of a wonk
glaring, boasting
among ten babes, brushing
w/ family planning toothpaste.

A dictionary of Indo-European roots lists derivatives for gno = know, can, cunning, ken, kith, kin, uncouth, notice, notify, notion, notorious, cognition, recognize, connoisseur, quaint(?), ignore, noble (known, knowable), gnomon (diagnosis, prognosis), narrate (from Latin gnarrare); & these less ‘probable’ links = note, annotate, norm, abnormal, enormous. 



Poets, I guess, know this, so someone’s dismissal of another's work by shrug / hum is unclear thinking, a mark of unknowing. Patterns of dismissal show a settlement of ignorance. Ignorance comes easy, tho, among conservatives like me. First is not reading. I won’t buy the book, if given the book, I’ll sell it. Second, there’s reading just to find a formal quality (scanning?). Can I do this? What’s the vocabulary like? This reveals a poco inquisitiveness, but it’s all about willful typecasting, bracketing in other words streamlined for not reading further. For face to face ignorance, there’s not listening or not listening much or listening to find an opening for my chance to speak (hey do you like what I do?). Hanging around other egos like mine is just not fun, unless, of course, there are compensating abnormalities. 



What I want are noble communities of uncouth poets who not only notice one another but stay awake & narrate Oh. If it’s abnormally sweet, you’ll be the first to know.

— drafted 2003

I’m lost? I’m not familiar
with the neighborhood?

You’ve got a nice view of it
from up here.

Here we go. I got you.

Here we are.

I got you, I got you.

My back!
I got you. It’s okay.

You sure that’s why you're here?

One film maker, a poet (out of two), is turning out to be quite the artist, sits and lets you alternate looking at him and thinking is the floor moved? You is a burning mansion to sing of thingness, the mist wild, everywhere without shine whose staying put is more to the point — dull mist, not deep enough.

Thanks for your astounding, dry touches in an airy sky and for your weak calligraphy in placing yourself before nature and dreaming.



You also is smooth as sleeping sickness, singing, noise died down to perfection. I’m by your side. On your side.

We just saw a few feet minutes from now, however, your address changed. We could have done it differently before you discovered the charts, the parent company:

Mist trickles down rewriting chain letters you refuse to answer. Good for you. Good for you!

I love doing what I do, colonizing until the wheels fall off.

That’s acting. It’s impossible.

I wish you had taken that job to sing of thingness.
Even so, if you could eat onlyone food for life, what would it be? “Take notes,” you said. You were speaking of a provisional throb as you forced his from the inside.

I miss the walled city where an operator like him looks up when you arrive at this step. Try to remain calm. I’m going to talk you down.
We'll take the stairs, because the elevators refuse to gowith people in them.
(Ok, you there? Bye.)

“There’s no intro. Descriptors peel away.

For each flight a different comment is earned,” the old monograph goes on,

“Take an idea, anything that interests them or you, spend a few days noticing,

protecting it, perhaps, without outreach, no descending into light talk, nothing to hide.”

From this moment you set the pattern we’re squinting within dual representation,

getting some miles in, taking them on board, putting them in mind, say,

of a future photo realism. Much untold on both sides.

No no.. A trivalent forms at birth, blocks our death.

Where we live now we’re “into” military opera. Adherents have henchmen, dogma and the finesse of needle-felted wool.

There are two ambient music cartels here as well: Doggone moosebirds and dwarfs striking poses with all their dwarf power. Their de rigueur for now is writing over others to outrank the trivalence. I won’t do your religion, good day.

Just piano and voice. Sunken gardens with a fountain of moods for each of Four Corners.

Second poem: Someday all this will be yours. Five hundred
City blocks that lean socialist, oblique, an
Untapped atmosphere of noir swing, slovenly
Housekeeping and, worse, puckish flair
And snappy dialog. Reading and living
Ontologically under-simulates the senses.
Be furious w/ the world w/ dog-food boxes, be
Angry at keyholes, too, w/ their conservative
Counter views to earnest alignment as one’s timing slips
Into the prowess of floating unquietly,
Into apothegms, into sidesteps of fine voice,
“A voice and nothing more.”

It’s only 4 years. Stand still.

We were wondering about invention of the planets, empathizing
With a numbers guru also the director — one of them.
Often that’s a normal baritone and determinative section to sing.

Sing: Pigeons pattern heaven where detachment cut back! Getting
To there uproots the light series, exalted then stiffened into parody..

Reminding us of a few contingencies we picked up from a tray
Of bright boomerangs that tantalize in the feasible, wanting nothing and showing
What go around and come around, left to their own desires and systems.

Rene Ricard writes, ‘Intimation, insinuation, deep innuendo.
Perhaps something you ate.
Perhaps on lavish nights, like this something you ate.

Boo hoo. Obsessive intimidation..
Not quite theory, string conjecture (an edge to sleep)
W/out inference, compressed from a postmodernist “fount” of contradictions:

A piece of research asks, Why erase my beauty
In a way it feels like games?’

There are faith that’s gone on and consequences. There comes an enrollment point you caught your waxwork hologram in a partner’s eyes.

V entriloquating is something.

No one’s favorite word yet — nice aftershave, Rene

I got wind of it and put you in —

Can you be “quoted” in any meaningful sense?
We have two arrays for time & harmony:

The ass comment — I know you meant juniper
within a philosophy (in movement thru spatial dimensions)
(& the aura of a scent) forward!

Mr Peanut twisted once again to look up. I hadn’t expected it. On the other hand, what choice did he have? There’s a term in telephony, ‘room tone,’ ordinary silence. My heart stopped altogether as I held my breath, then he answered.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Oh, um…”

“No. It’s not.”

“Forget it — have a drink”

“Because?”

“Look, he —”

“You don’t?”

“I would.”

“Well let —”

“You know what..”

“Promise..”

“Yeah, I think —”

What I heard while we both waited was room tone. The next five or six seconds would matter. In an hour he would walk us both down to clear our heads. He waited a moment more, then he said, “I’ve just noticed I haven’t said anything.”

I come unannounced because I am socially awkward.
A line in a poem.

J parades toward emptiness in subrogation, embraces it to bring us back into space.

J is Kerouac.

Style is a digestive structure in zoology.

By the way, every worm thinks this-is-so-cool. / Every owner of a worm subject to restitution

even as most tax experts evoke cuddliness w/ breeder values clad in mute colors.. I’m here too, waiting for everyone I can’t stop waiting for.

I live and wait in a container house near the city.

Dog Zen is nothing at all, only sustained focus and innovation in nowhere equivalent to a disc. I won’t do it, nah, many thanks.

I work in comp and garden, that do? .. I’ll grieve later on, turn to pen and ink for human voice breaking glass in an r v to drown out the dog track.



Nah

Ode on hold a sec. Is that how you see yourself?
There’s a world truce out there (fraud protection) ..

We can remember when wisdom lay in de Staël turmoil, a title for the ‘rhetorical’ surface where middlemen / women are loathed today. Owning our words makes everything phenomenal.

(Our addendum is in the mouth.)

The French Suites get lighter, in transition, immune to desire & intimacy in the grips of mistaken identity. Theirs, not ours.

I’ll lead us to the border. Just call before you go.

Love: nothing concentrates like consecutive sentences about our new visual plan and its promise of more. That’s if I’m hit by what I feel in the a.m. I believe you. Evening you’re different.

You give me a musical temperature, an abstract marvel.
Finish a stretch and the clouds get confused.

What are we fixing up? a few rounds of bluish vistas — soft whorls of a moon phase over lakefront.

The lighting here is just off the boards, like when water lilies kick off their work boots and women rule. Snipers crouch,

the idea of Burberry’s.

Tiny, simple iterations, the best phases to clobber you. That ze plan.




Your poetry is preliminary,

I reserve comment —



Don’t get above wrong

There’s below to mull over :



I remember those breasts
..


Geometry that respects the brain,

Fred Astaire kind of shit.

When I win, I’m



Drifting toward us,
It’s a back-drift



Sitting on your blanket. I’m

Over you now. I’m half-awake



Falling asleep in its presence.

It’s deeper than that really.

A tormented poet notes, “When I started writing things were looser. I had another side; I was a hunter as well as hunter-gatherer. I was constantly revising. It says here the journal is a superb apparatus that can change any entry into a transmutation of genre, filtering it through the alembic of aesthetic properties, so long as the writer is arbiter and guardian of sideway as well as progressive depth.


“Apart from your writing, my favorite natural act stands on the beach where you are. Your gaze is deflected like in a photograph based on a prophetic painting. Our inter-endowment seems modern.



“When you walk in and check out my writing I couldn’t ask for a better move. The checklist is a few percentages from being there. Go lightly on density. And the pace should vary.



“Nothing takes precedence because it was revered, no chair emerita. I speak now in a voice that rarely rises above a mumble. Still there is that constant question about my reception as stand-in. And the idea that I can give myself a perpetual vacation from any heavier role.”

What is this iris if it keeps coming back?

Bottoming out, the face is inside a very powerful camouflage (instructing us to use it).

There were balls of steam suspended in bacteria over our hands, discouraging others. (A boiling kettle contained prescriptions, it’s a guess.) Better now if we not digress but file out a shade apart to trail the other copycats.

At top the penis is everlovin-elastic.

Heaven is in the heart with its egg drop of credos and documents, from which large scale dull instruments get tossed.

It has to be done but it’s one-sided.
It seemed artificially important
The screech was spherical.

A seagull.
No one’s there.

I missed it.

As anyone could guess, I strive for positive mosaics when speed reading prose about or from poets, but that strategy alone is wearying. And (to use another’s term) ‘kickass prose’ composition, with thesis, counterthesis, and so on, can’t be counted on, either. At least half the hack spin-offs I read are clearly attempting to argue a point — admittedly, that point is often reducible to ax-grinding, enforcement of collegiality or enmity. Fabulous prose, often, mosaic (a pile of impressions, citations??), but let’s raise the bar. To resonate with the poetry is such an ugly phrase, only a practiced musician, thespian or poet can get away with it. To figure out how you think about others’ poetry as you write about it is fairly stupid, except when you deploy invention techniques that are hallmarks of classical composition. To merge poetry and prose is against all the rules, and may be another procedural breakthrough, especially for those who have been disciplined to follow directions and not get caught. Simple to say, but the review should be as interesting as the reviewed, without getting in the way.

— 2005

Image: Please and thank you

The aspen glitters in wind — problem?

What’s going on? Hose you off

Yeah, well, your cones are wet, asymmetrical,

The darker needles flutter, total crackpots —



Think they know everything because a motion

In the heat last summer, one of those days with a breeze,

Protects their cells from drying out. Won this round but

Likewise your deep greenness — if I weren’t such a nice guy or person



Unbelievable, wobbly stems. We’ll kiss one

Or two, yes, there are limits to saying
Your living as a metaphor opens and you appear

Not quite as it turns out

Derivative or that far off.


Concision in detailing method is a catamaran in process.

This is how morning began.



Waking up from info of classical value, replicas and rapid transit. It felt like a school reunion, ponies with liver spots. Rando and Ann and a couple of younger guys with portfolios of collaged material, mostly text about itself.



Getting there we wait in long lines for a Trane. The Japanese are hardly speaking. I turned to a companion and asked if he was interested in how poetry’s put together.

He thought about some pure things are style surrounded by syntax. All at once.

A poet under a cloud, Byron wrote of the dead among us living

— what they did is reprehensible, tho they added so...

Busy, sorry. The

substitutes are locked up. They

have something to do..



Over restaurants in museums

& cook-dating. They’ll... you

learn a lot all at once. Absolute

power over the last half-century.

Doctors, scientists working together

Swinging ultimately for the fences —

the job’s changed tremendously —

They fly the Atlantic in this context

..really only this context:

There’s a thin column between their hey! & ahem —



Within a week I lost a pound

& my parties became off key fantasies, flute

scaled for kodo, familiar toepaths of scents.
Didn’t they tell you

thinner tones and soft muscularity are proof

— our brains are being stolen; after

we wander back home muttering “TV,

TV,” a mildly eccentric suburbia

waiting for a payday of awe-inspiring relaxation.
Talk? You hoped we might &?

We played “No one loves me like you” — then

We did

Phonics ...

When the bell rang to go home. I was in a hurry and

Did

Not wait for anyone —



Ate 9 fries … That’s math. After lunch

Mrs. Brown taught us about binary numbers and

The mind.

I love math wiping the flesh

And solving problems. Then we interviewed Mr. Brown ...
On the boat and

Ate so much I got sick.
(Phonics makes me stir-crazy hungry.)

Spring!: billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom bank with us!

We’re playing with a few new features and a couple we move in any direction.

Their funds are soon to be declared ‘NONCLAIMABLE’ and subsequently turned over to you!

You’re assured this transaction is risk-free, as we have taken all modalities to be less acrid and top secret.

Lugubrious or not, we’ve been informed of your discretion in our sleep / lines from Aeschylus —

You forget your first poem. 





You forget jabbering with Apidae divas.

You forget the gastropod nation

You forget being lit up by a nimbus!



You forget storylines garrotted across aeons
Additionally 
you forget payment of current debts.

You forget I'm technically inept and again I stay fallible

you forget this is for you.

2. Just a few questions, that’s all.


Why do you care about the guy? Do you know him?
Does he call you at home?
Don't worry, your funds are safe or will be.

I’m a little I guess confused

I thought you might understand I mean

I'm surprised, do you know

what I'm saying? I guess so

not exactly.

‘During the break we squared an agreement.

The sun feeling it, shears. Organizing an all-out

effort, ozone gets fucked over buildings,

thru windows, off square forest floors —


As redwood seeds pop up into thickets,

how can rape and rail keep from dunlin

trees their secret of the rare canopy, meaning

against meaning stressing postulates more.



This worked down thru eucalyptus sap, saying —
Sorry to turn back to this, pet.
Rub it in.’


‘How far?

Think or don’t think of it as conspiracy of/in the sun
in/of a square afternoon.’

I write for money and music. Money 1st. It’s in the blood.

What’s wrong with a billion for two

circulating in a branch of Chase Manhattan?



Keynes says no one ever
postulates for free.

The real story is staring at your money.

You can’t count coin fast enough —



therapeutic C-notes without whose woven

mass, chocolate and auburn, showers of coin-

only patterns, showers of gold..



this was the hottest —

hot and cool tiny videos

of mist over water bobbing and

dipping in an eternity pool with views

down passages to stairs cut apart, fronted

by music waking in haze and sweeping brightness

with no memory how it got there.

Statement of purpose — 



Just because we attribute work to personality doesn’t mean I’m not a brute with a hammer in my hand. My nailing us together takes a moment of your life.



Whatever takes substance and breadth, I’m not doing it!

— Dec 2008

X subverts expectations.



Y understands perfection is error.



To appropriate is to provoke.



The ephemeral triumphs.



Parody pays homage to its subject. Pass the white gloves. 



Y gestures toward emptiness, embraces it.



Z’s funky penumbra is influenced by needlepoint and class resentments. 



Value is contingent. Nudes mean more when their heads are chopped. 



X’s signature deadpan is unoriginal self-reflection digesting socioeconomic truisms. Ultra blurry and anamorphic.



The signs point to abstraction. Dad knew best.

A hobby becomes the color of dreams, addiction.
Does it hold the same seasonal affect?
I know what I need, blindfolded.
Task at hand, to load myself into the canon.

Concept this.

Your life is the intervals it contains minus your presence.

*

Which is a way of drawing.

Bernie Sanders’ platform: To vote is an act of federalism.

Voices in our heads are paranormal. How far is it to the casino?

There is a civilizing process to space

entered into by spotting it first.

Before the kill, yoga’s fantastic. You complain I’m brusque. It’s urgent.

Social justice is in a pickle. Who isn’t?

Honesty — we used to say or could have — is the sanest practice for thumb control and fitness.

I have nine lines for you:
Let’s go thru it again, generations of worship set in. They come back. Soon you relax your balance, honestly, equipoise for a good writer is common enough, even now.

We went into this. We went over appearances, for instance. Funny and finally, nine lines are one-sided in three dimensions.

Key is you volunteer in a regimen for hours at a time and it wears off — here’s what’s known: secretions from glands meet up (hanging out) in our brains, slanting the blurred promise you have or had or you don’t know in the aftermath of the hiatus, revving up.

A poem is a picture.



Define a language with no kids.

Roadkill is on the menu. Call:

On second thought, I feel great. Everything I sign for is effortless (thx to Yau) and I’ve got a breezy fan base. They get it. You alienate everyone and your writing rubs us wrong. You’re depressing the list.

Response:

Everly Brothers playing until it’s worked up to a crisis, its own category.
Irony-sincerity voted best....

There’s nothing wrong with commitment. I am committed.

I know where I am going

Gawky, rattling my own cage.



I know where the caged bird sings.

I shop in Brooklyn, RI.



Shy of seduction

I worry about nonacademic friends and family.



Like Clint Eastwood I was shifty.

Once. What was that about?

We borrow texts to generate product, kids to core.

Overheard on the walk from Lamont to Weidner..

A tremolo — we just don’t know —

could (& will) fill the ground trailing off within cogent discourse in a language without context. It follows thus : Impulses to conceptualize or collectivize contexts are fabulously auteur-like;

sentimental to the core, even if in fact especially if sample texts (such as poetic treatments, meta-essays) argue on the surface against individuation & sentiment. This is self sentiment affecting triumph.

The war rooms (ivory/media towers) in times of blanket authority — assumed — instantiate slaughter of memory & varietals of other texts, schematic petals, stems from where the other goes after s/he drops a thread.