Burroughs’s Junky is a source of the Flintstones.
Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads.
The contours. Nothing month. To on.
The combing and suffix opal phrase
The whole simply. Save early ea.
Bike sale: Burroughs tries to jump over bikes.

We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.

Chevy in supermarket, shelves topple
Why.. you’re doing this because
The sax counter’s pro sweatshop..
Man flung from restaurant on a catapult,
Lived in Oakville on Huckins Neck

— I’m guessing doing bunny rings. Real shine.


He died on, beforehand, his fault day.

Haste is the suave part of RSVP;
Earth is spanked all over

for love — now on the mouth.

*

I’ll keep this in mind.

I’m no judge of character. I just shoot.
Have a Bud on a cul de sac with a dead end
feeling my rage is countrywide..

Holy moly, produce and a way to pay for it!
there’s strength in staring at a bug zapper, attracted
to light, staying competitive.


I treat our sect thermos as a norm to trade on
finding order amid play divisions and muscle octads dealing /
glinting with hamminess.

The ideal Cupid fell out of place in a man’s body


but staying in the picture. Voice changes and all.

I’m listening to !! (powpowpow) Choosing a next word, like deciding what to listen to, is a significant event entailing parallel yet soon defunct phenomena that cannot be measured but hypothesized within a quantum construct. Choosing ten words or choosing ten spins by a dj, say, creates an entire merger among quanta, happenstance survivors plucked out of a number of now-dead parallel event objects. “When a word is selected as a ‘vivid detail,’ Wm. Empson insists, “a reader may suspect alternative reasons why it has been selected.” You’d think a given detail would have to be spinning either as two or more meanings resolved into one or as two or more unconnected meanings.When you find full contradiction in a quantum system, the lucky confusion collapses, and one number or flavor of meaning pops out at random; the rest are destroyed.

*

It’s up to the zygotes.

When you read this, it appears prior to who prompts it.
Not you.
We were informed on your discretion in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with a couple of new features and a few we move in any direction.
Not you.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom bank with us!
But this interests me only so far. More curious, is why we approach poetry primarily in terms of understanding it.
As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.
Not you.

In relation to conflicts over scale, Habermas and I want to inspect what others say,

but a few lies are shiny architecture of real matter. 



As if Rawls poems me on plural paths. And where the tolls were o, etc


Truly bathetic. Forgetting what you have to say has nothing to do with current biases of mine. Like so many others, I’m fixated on the war, loss of democratic principles and governance procedures —



procedures again, only this time writ extremely large. The snippet above carries a stark reference to the last liberal prime number among us, John Rawls, but how inarticulate and superficial to use him this way. I’m conflicted about criteria for justice, questions how these may apply to our history now ...

The firm handshakes.

A lien here bore the joke
Of sold summits in your loyalty

To rearm the temple
That protex a posse



...a prodigy or two
Poof! or more patchwork forms their daze;
Keeps them

A total mishmash of untimely and vague
Yet it’s
Their indebtedness along with its prosaic point that stinks...

... but by the bed I share with you
Danses Avant Le Mur.

There is no circling the rink.
No complaints or sworn declarations,
Nothing frilly and glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;
We’ve lost your name card and your name.

A poet’s prose nails her reputation time and again. Eliz. Bishop, Jas. Schuyler, Edw. Denby, to speak of the dead. Are we examining a ‘real’ voice, or are we merely more at home with the subject-verb-object flow of normalized speech? When Gert. Stein adopted plainer or more standard prose for Autobiography she became a pop sensation: “she took Alice’s voice, her acerbic, lucid style, her declarative sentences, malicious asides, quirky jokes and regular punctuation” (Diana Souhami). Is that it? we can more readily stay with sentences even when they’re overstuffed with personality so long as they are conventional, making sense, well punctuated?

— The world becoming flat and falling across



The telling (of)



(Instances of)



Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic



Streaks and — weird! — high wails of titanic fog, sifting down from



Rain ceilings (of)



The snow. The snowing. The across (falling),


It is (falling) across


Morton Feldman.

I need antic intellectualism. Lead-free prose.
Four husbands.
Simplistic, Manichaen juxtaposition.
A solitary genius in the workplace (seaside, e.g.).

Jousting snacks.
New verbs like ave, firebug, Stradivari.

For some Aztecs sex is immediate, overwhelming, terse and decisive — A thousand and one friends back in the city in a little boil .. polka boats like dots.
This is a loose translation, drawing on elements of your life. You planted yourself here.
How was it to record the soundtrack for an unscripted movie? Was it like writing from a retrieval search with lots of different data trees leading to nebulous, chaotic deculturalization?

Pierre Bourdieu throws a projectile: “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of
capital distribution are stopgaps like one’s personal butt fear or discount cosmetics while


subdominant esthetic fields balloon and get subsumed by bigger ideas.
Like that whack job in Vegas.”

Bourdieu gets home to his Cajun kitchen, much later, and hears if
it’s a voice in his head. “We gain knowledge from our shortcomings as well
as insights.” Well, ah! The shortcoming between truth telling here
while checks-and-balances heterodoxology is nasally inspissated thru fear.

Edgar Poe writes, I have a degree in psychology.

Liquor and nerves committed to memory.

My menu is disarmed so I revere collectivity,

Culture and spontaneity

And the absence of hype,

Which can be a felony in some states.

Do you recognize me?
It seems you’ve become useful again.

Cunt-Ups, Dodie Bellamy, Tender Buttons , 2001. Collaging is not all that rueful — and these days with super graphics editors and shouting heads to punch up rib-breaking pastiche, anyone can start a number-one news subchannel, as Roger (“fuck your brain”) Ailes knows. The brownshirts in fact enjoy total command of their cool technologies. Anyhow, Dodie Bellamy is a very leftist collagist who sensitizes us to the global network of sex, which by most accounts, including hers especially, is expanding. In twenty-one short prose patches Bellamy loads her own mesh of radical élan, pill-popping, skull-squeezing, ass-hammering and, above all, totally fucking shrieking. In possession of both steaming female and thirsty male parts is a normalized condition under the influence of hermaphroditic frisson, a physics for grown-up sexuality and generative interchange connected to a writer’s insight: “I’m touching the page you wrote, I’m tracing your come-font...”; “I’m still planning to fuck and speak in a public place.” The cut-ups of ideas all together impress one as persuasive argument for a better sex trade for — you know — better living.

— July 2004

An open question. What criteria do you
adopt in choosing poems and books of poems to read?



Give me a textual praxis as if from a mansion gone wild.
Admittedly, wild is a black hole.

Nine Immaterial Nocturnes, Tony Towle. Immaterial is one of those two-headed terms, conveying qualities of the insubstantial and — hey! — metaphysical. A whiff of eerie in a self-putdown, I guess. Towle’s adoption of the term is a quiz for me in that his accomplishment is neither incorporeal nor slight, unless we consider a run of nine one-page poems slight. This is not the case with Towle, I maintain, since whether in long or shorter pieces no other poet better spoofs yearning for self-engrandizement of the individual as creator, nor more envelops his readers within the self-searching generation entailed in composition “‘...you can sweep easily through the words / of a talented writer,’ the critic said / but not of me alas.” This is Towle speaking to the occasion of something like this very one-paragraph survey, perhaps, “...nobody’s poetry is any good / until someone in prose says it is.” Towle’s luck is early on to be welcomed (personally as well as in praiseful prose) into the second generation of the New York School under the nurturing auspices of Frank O’Hara, only to live through the subsequent atomization of the scene after O’Hara’s death, to witness the metamorphosis of the craft from one of avocation to career path. There is, doubtless, a


cartoonist gesturing that smooths over such a shift in aesthetic temperament, imaging himself decades after his entry into poetry among the old-timer “cactuses...keeping our spines straight out all night...an effort well worth it.” The effort is a countermeasure to the careless as “we force wit, / laughter and subtlety to carry gloom, / lamentation and humorlessness on their shoulders.” Towle continues to play historian and geographer in his references (“I pick up a copy of Medieval Ways to Have Fun”; after putting back “What Brooklyn Means to Me”; in the poem “Hudson and Worth” we are informed one of these is “the former Anthony Street”). His metaphoric digressions are erudite audacities (“Catherine the Great draws even closer, / her Russo-Teutonic bosom heaving...the empress is coming to resemble / Margaret Dumont..."). Towle’s game is tableau completion, nine tableaux here, each incorporating social commentary that adds texture to the view, as in “Le Voyage.” This is a 13-liner that manages to capture moments when the I is composing and planning a visit to France while walking “in fashionable Tribeca” airing, evidently in English and French, “topics of internalized interest.” The poem recognizes “voices have informed me” and “Every little breeze / takes on import” especially since this is “Hurricane Awareness Week” (though, in another voice of droll recognition, this is just another start to “Real Estate Avarice Month”). In closing lines, Towle’s self-conscious determination and hilarity resolve the prospect, a stunning rendition of poet in action: “I walk down the street, / ... the passersby assume I am on an unseen cell phone, / a bilingual conference call of schizophrenic significance.” An immaterial self-putdown, precisely so.

Can you construct the weather to circle bright light credited to seven chimeras in a purified labyrinth?

Yes, I think we can. Those seven now under the weather quiver to sleep, resemble one another trembling.

Pine assembled.

We are a color of cunnilingus. I noticed, though, you and I applied for pharmaceutical assistance, an oscillation gelatin called Sparkling Affront. Nothing is more or less than arabesque, forgetting our place in the secret order of failure. We were once handsome, having left a lavish record of the male-female hush-hush from hand to fingers to mouth: in epic hock to our hips.

Our temperature raises the magnitude of repetitions into a shriveled median in the after-life or its meandering dissolution

We’re fidgeting to pronounce our semiotic manners,
lit by mid-lunch clarity, sporting and Floridian —
an enclosure with no pulpit, without dogma...
breezeways to enter then exit formlets
spreading out in willful overloads of language design,

Skilled decor, de-simplified or notional contracts
in contretemps between science and who knew?
ironic technologies with no precedent —
a corporate hold across a matrix of manners and adaptations, restrained praxis
and hermetic syntax.

Nice beachfront. Amuse our ears and eyes, there are so few
and fewer bonds with semiotics doubting itself (if only a little)
— it seems an absurd referent and then less
off-rhyme here and there.

We must fight the matrix to pronounce our bedroom manners,
let mid-lunch clarity, sporting and Floridian, take hold in —
a beach resort with no purport, with no obvious titles...
breezeways to enter then exit into formlets
spreading out in willful overloads of language design,

Skilled design, de-simplified or notional contracts
in contretemps between science and who knew?
the ironic technologies of ‘new’ art —
a corporate hold across mannerism in so many adapts, restrained praxis
and hermetic syntax.

Nice beachfront. Amuse our ears and eyes, there are so few
and fewer bonds with semiotics about itself if just a little
— it seems an absurd referent and then less
off-rhyme here and there.

A sparrow close-range, a dedicated follower, packing a double large elegy of values, love trouble, last blinded by the sea tonight, this evening of the seals. Two old seals suddenly lifted in a renown wave, the same in each. Humming back, large as the beach staring away in too much light. When it goes there are too many ways around it when sung. The wave gives lip on The Neck floor. It goes for gladness reasons. No one you know, seals go meteoric too, mourning the orchard rounds.

Madam poet reads her singable pieces uninflectedly,
a dissonance that plays to mock solemnity (“sing me, song”)
and tuneful reproach (“play dough of god”).
Combing through my notes there’s a world of disputes,

Churlish puffins and other problems to shatter the continuity

Of my exploding goofiness over lunch; of course I mean exploring.




An emanation is a specter brought up a peg. Just to clear things up for you.
I’ve moved.



I’m passive but I don’t believe in spooks. Here’s the outline.
A few strings were pulled to get me in this new factual place I would never have chosen.

I’m here
maintaining a competitive smile for a maxillary edge you own only if you go a little overboard.





 I may not be deep enough; loose alliteration masks that, only maybe
— maybe I’ve got a thought altering ‘mentalist’ landscapist up my sleeve.

One has a roundish face, green eyes and a slender
but blunt nose that hardens his otherwise sad, unrecognizable features / the sadness of phantoms.

“When I read about them I keep wiping tears from my neck, but I didn’t know I could write like them
before I met you.”

Speaking as a child of professors I miss this subject. Every relationship has ups and downs.
It’s not what you bring I guess. It’s what you take away.

From my tiny house
made of cardboard crates, ink and papyrus

The dharma of the windmill is monotonous.
Reënter the Style Of


My dreams are Lubitsch films

that don’t exist — here we go — appreciating in value


discourse running late — this is my youngest
scouring moment favoring the specimen objective. 


Sun up Fra Angelico,

girl, you’re a mess, in cartons..

core harmonic structure: call back when you want

[En]Try




Gambling Chimp was the featured beast in the movie Barfly.




Six-inch plush Talking Chimp screams when you squeeze him, an “Animal Talker.”.. 




The gambler chimp wrote the interlude for a solo record player. 

Cinematic back-and-forth can be stifling, especially when it seems a talking chimp in itself.

 Gambling Chimp is the one creative advisor on how to pronounce a few political words, mama, papa, cup and up, by the use of positive reinforcements.



Mr. Cabinet employee, you need a gambling chip.



Talking chimp does all his [her own] stunts.



What is gaming Chimp to you?



Here, meet the Gamer Chimp Advisory Board, the [creative] tank that is helping us.



What if we stow the talking chimp for five seconds.



Upon his release Gambling Chimp left Fifth Ave. and went to the Tropicana.



Game Chimp competes for aliens who take his most menial jobs.

We’ve been looking harder at Chimp.

If you get close enough to his cage, he’ll throw dirt, food — anything he can find — while his companion

Kelly ___ Tarzania [Ekornes] makes — sounds like a ‘raspberry’

for ten points!

I'll still admit a degree from Capella U. sounds attractive.
But you can’t hold back the lucid diver and astronaut from boyhood, to any degree. .

Ask why we find this grueling & meaningful.

We love how duty calls on astro — Always a nonesuch scenario.


What’s under water?
For now nobody claims there’s even one shell of insight 


— then I ran into you neither
here

& there go our inventory of constrictions for the entire season & its welkin of interruptions!

Rich, aren’t we? I mean in conflations of fate

or
not even there.

Here’s where we work — It’s not fun, it’s work

as I was saying, lanterns were swaying.

At the Tropicana
They call one the flummoxer amid the full time wash of copters.
A talk show with no host
limited open-ended discussion,

meanwhile your ass and the trees danced the jerk.

Do I have the time part right?

Danni and Stephen survived bloody combat.

Julian and Rath met Danni on a visit to London. As is sometimes the way with hearty souls of opposed natures, they got along very well.



And there was a spot of orange above the bone that bore a wing.


Hold on, Rath’s old college friend Stephen, I just mentioned, he’s a jazz guitarist in free-improv — he’s been living with Julian, a fabric designer. Now they want to make things ‘official.’ When they go outside to smoke don’t let them back in.

— Nodes of a Creep

Sir Fric and Frac. Remember them?

Fric just called, said “We were swimming naked, a word I often use to characterize my falsehoods. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed another human. I felt something strange but familiar.
To bring this up this late in the afternoon is totemic.”
I fell silent and wrote it all down.

My style is no style, a luxurious quest.
If you’re stagnant, you’re dead, pure metaphysical evil.
I put a recalled toy in my mouth, more profitable than narcotics.

Doggie style. God is mirrored information.

Burp through the microphone, Earl, and stare ahead.
It’s hard for me to take credit
..I’m a floater of cynicism on any topic I redact.

Prince William is putting me to sleep
like your baldness.
Think of plagiarized passages from your poems as product placement.
Your hair is wrong. Give it over.

The normal exec in a large corporation by a highway will grow up, in a flash forward, and work for Strategy Foundation, a company that parses guilty pleasures around the world. She or he doesn’t dream now.


Not any more. One’s become an energy therapist, and has rabbits. You see doctors learn how to say what no one wants to hear. “You sure of that? You sure those were your rabbits?”

To deflate without constricting the ego, an artifact that seems research-based, chock full o’smitten insinuations weighed toward every day.. What’s relational? You have to guess. I stuck in a little yoga.

Snows in Hawaii.

That sentence is a turnoff. That one, too. The love-it-bellows form I assemble in is about momentary ooomphs we’d overlook otherwise. No proof required, especially. A range of conversation impressed into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences.



Flamey asides.

A kitchen to heat pizza.
Wake up and work.

Haiku:

You can never expect it to happen and when it does, it’s fantastic.
“Be a mensch” my parents told me.


Early on they taught us We’re here to celebrate country music!

Stutterers stutter trying not to stutter,
looking to ruses with adaptability in circumstance,
unable to help us play a single practical
joke — I hadn’t spoken to you for months
of a construction zone perforated by mirrors, swindles,
procedural lunges toward more pranks. But I see I had.
I mamma-ed my speech into these lines.

My style is no style, a luxurious quest.
If you’re stagnant, you’re dead, pure metaphysical evil.
I put a recalled toy in my mouth, more profitable than narcotics.

The citation read:
Manchester by the Sea. It’s the movie in the age of nerf balls — hearts skip a beat, that’s a symptom. A dark and grizzly foreboding about one roll of the die, porridge scooped from Victorian tureens, illogical outcomes, the recurrence of some fatal condition like sentiment.

It’s not valiant to question another’s choice of blurbs, except in the case of unambiguously forced, flattering run-ons, with at least 1 stylistic snag. I like these pieces. (Emily Dickinson)

A counterminimalist design ethos eggs on Steps: A Notebook by Tom Beckett. It’s one in a set of Tiny Books from Meritage Press. Publisher Eileen Tabios accompanies her poet as graphic alter ego, supplies drawings and indeed handwrites his text, a duet then stepping onto their small stage in shared regalia to participate in what I might describe (unsneeringly) as an intense art dealership. The poems come inside a little page-turner — tiny even in chap terms, a 1.5-inch square thumbnail sketchbook with a cover jacket in multicolored fabric (Navajo? Tibetan?). The poems come forward, sideways, and upside down in one or two words per line, mostly three lines or fewer to the page. They address ambiguities of their being composed, seeming parenthetical, always germane, or as one page smack in the middle inveighs: “In / the moment / (be right there).” The poems constitute a bisexuality of suave quotations, sketches, and facts on writing, verse making is like composing a music made of temporary flaws (“smudged work of Arias”) or like writing on a blackboard, “Looking / at blackboards / how many Ways?” Skepticism — “Advancement / is a kind / of ____.” If poetry is prayer, to paraphrase, prayer is programming in thought that’s overexposed and torn. To get beyond the conundrum of prayer, programming, etc., the art dealers work on each other and together. Beckett’s Eileen accommodates the torn thought idea on a ripped page and settles prayer down with a vapor of slants, blank lines, and empty boxes that enforce a silence. Tabios’s Tom returns, though, with a new quiet streak, “A / poetry of questions / (one answer).” To clarify, he qualifies, “When / I was / a young man.” Next page, “When / I was / a little girl.”

Photons are torpedoes. ‘I’m home..’
Maybe set you up in San Francisco?

I say to the ATM in the lobby,
take my cash, push me like a button to the roof —
Photons rebuild the world, leaping out of windows
Moving in our direction with startling humility and alacrity..

Here I am as genealogies of specialists file off.
Rebuilding one is a verb tied to esthetics that numb.

I’m the underdog here, emotionally maligned, an amalgam channel
-ing of normality, sleep, hope, nimbus-wet telepathy that bear repeating.
Photons.
Can we turn to steel?

I’ll copy Creeley singing to Wieners or it could be vice versa,
Both old masters
Who never spoke for love,
Not equipped 

to weep 

—
Who is? 

— on a brassiere stool overlooking time is money plaza,
Neither could express feelings about delimiting time. A truism is tart.

That everything once alive is precious like time is precious.
That “Having no time to spend” comes off as counterfact in a pas
De deux coming apart
— slipping on pieces of tracing paper after the ballet
That makes a racket
Even as we withdraw from coffers of the wicked deep.

It’s not the phone.
It’s the teak wind chimes.

Angels stuck in America
Lament: No more travel abroad.
Movie directors rule the planets. That’s why
The nerf is no nerf, yet the left wing senses strength and balance and Duma unanimity.

Duma? That would be deep indoors at your place and mine.

France is imaginary, I’m ashamed to add. You gave us Earth channels to fly there, but the nerf won.

I can’t circle my attraction to Japanese manners. Not yet.
A Japanese color, though, is how a light olive shifts to vetiver or chartreuse, fading hunter into aroma basilicum, dark lawn as ice minted circles yellow sage for citrus spritzes and multiples of khaki to translucent sprigs of tea in Kyushu spring.

Thanksgiving for the dead?
                   hold on
I’ll put you
on greenish “pallor enhancer.”

Strangers breathing around us, sweating under a river of skin
flowing out, living now for compliments on secret ballots.

Lack of seductive commitment foregrounds higher fees

at the end. Current limbo: we’re on unmapped heights.

The cubicle.. ..that’s in your head.
(When I can’t
sleep I can’t

dream.) Side effects could occur.


What’s your problem? there’re
cartographers on the loose and a stranger to pull thru.

I love it when prose or song digs in and flails.
That about covers it.
(It is that emotional core between personal and professional.)
Becoming free is a moving and intimate narrative.

Got to run, nose.

The surge for community and now government via chaos started decades earlier. Most poetry appears tame when you consider: In 2007 almost half of Americans 18-22 had had a psychiatric disorder. Archives of General Psychiatry, Dec. 2008.

A fear is haunting (whatever remains of) the contemporary Left: the fear of directly confronting state power. Those who still insist on fighting state power, let alone directly taking it over, are immediately accused of being stuck in the “old paradigm”: the task today is to resist state power by withdrawing from its scope, subtracting oneself from it, creating new spaces outside its control.



— Savoj Žižek

“I’ve got to get back to the city.” Why bother, Buddha imitator? Reeves is guileless, a pious, ethereal hulk in a collapsing bug life. He sneaked his junk across the border just to release his frustration, verbally sneering at no place to go in a natural voice.

Yoga is as popular as what it is everywhere, definitely in bed. It’s nearly in your mind such devastating existentialism served in fancy pants.

*
Advice to a would-be gymnast: just be simultaneous.

It’s impolitic to separate the performance from the text; both are
deadpan. Have you thought of writing?

It’s still ultra blurry and anamorphic.
You got a point.


A poetry of slogans earns ownership awards..
Folk-maverick with a dark scrum. Adolescent in a heavenly sense..
You keep telling lies in that sense to hosts in abstraction.

Tape my hands together. And grease-pencil trompe l’oeil into my forehead.


Then again — I’m hooked on figurative exposition. Maybe I’m inspired by your stockpile, your vowel-movers are striking — paramount for this, the rockiest of calculations, parody of parody — to portray frontally self-effacing, tall, slim complexities and transgressive contradictions of metabolic ambition.
This piece dialogs with others.

What comes of the heart’s marquetry?
A clay-toned physique returns to land
Shedding light tints in reverse of rotating surf.

When we single ourselves out, we get closer to feeling guilty reformulating sublime fear of exclusion. Immense hard line purging tho brings on jouissance, scrubbing any direct polarity.
Ya, you are important to me. You have a free hand, still there are holes in our discourse.

His language hits a conference-going register, theological as Lyotard would have it. The argument is plainly empirical. A concept moves, “not ‘innovative’ … but something unheard of”

— Tony Brinkley

A shrine of axioms supposes its completion, honing everyone to the surface.


Late afternoon to another.

I know what I need, which baskets we fall in,
how December persists in others, never you..
not to mention our marketing

the last piece, “Up and running”
— even in November you follow midyear tenets, you
au dormir sweetly, obviously

counter-contrary evergreens to the jubilant lake of trees
in similar preseason heat
pioneering events..

Snow rotted, fleck trodden, a faithful reprise!

Pizzazz says it’s too late to beg. Invitation only.

I added frontal motion to the story about those looks that intimidate, m’lord.
Visual surprise comes with an infrequent snow flake or ember
floating down to our nose level. That’s cool — creamed just for sleeping with you, blackmailed..

wandering into the new wrong theater guild

chopped into little squares of hypnotic drumming

and massive parallel vistas projecting smiles and learning

showing up invisible. Totally insane. Libido.

Check list.
Check the bill. Check it out. Don’t expect much.
Chew a bund loaf, make out with bullish dolls.
Map out how to rough house.

I added frontal motion to the story about those looks that intimidate, m’lord.
Visual surprise comes with an infrequent snow flake or ember
floating down to our nose level. That’s cool — creamed just for sleeping with you, blackmailed..

wandering into the new wrong theater guild

chopped into little squares of hypnotic drumming

and massive parallel vistas projecting smiles and learning

showing up invisible. Totally insane. Libido.

Francesca Gino, Michael Norton, Dan Ariely hypothesize links among wearing counterfeits, feeling ‘fake’ or inauthentic, and behaving unethically. I am in you O Hickory. (Or Dickory.) Together we are performing metempsychosis ahead of the Joneses.

(Another idea, cows with names yield more milk.)


This takeaway from Mr Bingo’s yoga class.

Dangling my shit,
Gambling with your money, brooding of course, waking up at your place,
Highball glasses tinkle and clink in the cool of the room.

Take a firm stand: I’m looking forward to democrats in the Senate going for broke, imposing a supermajority vote for strategic appointments and legislation.
(That would be in 2017.) Republicans used that strategy successfully in 2009, -10; subsequently took over both houses. Regarding affordable healthcare, in November 2009 I noted Democrats “fear setting a precedent for ramming through controversial, once-in-a-generation reform. Sadly yet quite predictably, they are losing the perception game, the only game that registers in politics, not to mention political reform. While Democrats argue substantively about thin slices of public options ... they battle among themselves, making what they do and do not do appear petty. Republicans are seen as witless by some but ... above the fray, throwing spitballs and a few boulders in every direction that’s down. Some perceive Republicans as gutsy and, for now, that conjugates well enough.”

Protecting your dignity threatens it. Everyone knows that.


I bet I have no major issues.. We could buy one now or try living on Hollywood scraps and rope, piling them up in the garage, with tarnished piano wire, shoddy mineral samples — stacked together like beach chairs — stacked like old Jane Mansfield if she sat there
Jane’d let the sunset pitch its foam. Both purchases are burning up.

You want to get real
to include the cosmos.

But there is a hairnet over the situation.

Inner retreat.



Peerless thistles, tamed pigeons.
If only we could gloss
Behind the State Capitol


illuminating and still slurping

undertow from the beats.

Pleasure is to ethics as unknowing is to epistemology —

What is images and text?

We do a lot of polling, depending on the weather.

When I spotted you yesterday breaking me down into little “aggregates” and feeding in malicious data, I “heard” the shout out from the basement, the “height” of your passion sawed in half then fed to the argosy of what evolutionary good was before it was not. This is that sound.

I’ve never been more uplifted, tho, more awed by a broken White House piano somberly floating in fun stuff.

A great goon won and kind of dumped on me and my country. (It’s a remnant from philosophy show-and-tell, a truly exaggerated enterprise.)

I never dump back. I hope his coming losses help him become a better entrepreneur and public intellectual. Or I wish him savvier gurus.

Planet Earth is Maoist hell — ringed with grassy estates where that guy or better you and I can tiptoe or fall further to get beyond our laughter. Gracious and conservatively dressed, we also choose to move comfortably, absorbed in desire to sleep with any clown in a storm, anybody great.
But a lot of these crises pass. Today and in a future of interdependence I write him out of our poem.

1st question, true or false. Is it the gaze or maleness — which is a big stretch of his gaze?

Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” the human says. He was staring at my clogs, wondering how they’re embossed.

When struck a lightning rod emits dust, after that a solution, a chemical substance that squiggles down to my feet. That’s how.

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

It’s clear long jumps and pull-ups in tone are deployed to signify irony and distance about food prep and galley stainless.

The gestalt is to flare up yet relax a while, stay urbanely offhand and sound normal, not superior in any obvious way.
I’ve been saving a few hours for you. Do hang on.

I’m earning a doctorate of time.
An interpretive opera.
I keep my mouth shut & listen,
Escalating with all my parts to inhabit received logic.
I’m retracing what I think I see, I’m
For concentrating on song colors, naming obvious sounds,

Pushing the most obvious among broken parts,
The self-defiant.

My cologne is Siesta
Leaving me in states of redefinition.

Officials had had enough of fish. (It might be better being one big tetra instead of one little one.) Next day Ed took a job in the cafeteria. Growing up fish evolve. However, it’s a measure of the increasing clout of fish that this music strikes you like a fin. This is a soundtrack! aspects of which covered debts dropping glassy eyeballs in fake vomit.
Yet the sky above the moon’s full phase is the newer and longer hue of Ed’s echelon and his ideology. Dividing vendettas, an art of love, following up. Hmmm. Your feet never come back.

I have lost my nonfaith.

What’s the life of meaning? No cheating!
Until every thought becomes material:

An atom = A head turn divided by meanings pertinent in several ways at once.


Clockwise = 2nd turning two or more meanings into one
but with subheads.


Counterclockwise = A pulse of bell-shaped light of zany durations = 3rd and 4th turns to new meanings, heading into clarifying states of confusion.


Superposition = We keep repeating the above until we have =

10 rows of 10, from which the last (but always our best) turns re-invent vicarious interpretations.

A poem is a picture — I read madras pea
Coats — kittens hitting crescendos annoying the cringing robots...

Drown me out, speed bags. Drown and kiss the cleft, sanguinary as dissolvents
Erasing the mnemonics.
No problem.
The dreamboat approach never grows stale.

None of this turns out what I think it is or was —

Waking hay fever, bona fide stuffed up


— Standing across

Your just altering my whole outlook!

It’s pie for Thanksgiving. To set yourself free through what you don’t know — that takes a kind of unfinished aplomb, needing practice and achieved overviews. The verbatim relishes living among a slue of lucky design ideas orphaned to an alien ethnicity, busted out of place, in the wrong skin and age.

(Welcome home.)

I forget ephemerality, I forget narrative.
I’m drunk on the environment;
 I’m a working temp, a role promised Hermes that threw him over the cliff.

A perfect station plays Schubert for a kettle of heavenly fury,
searing, puffy, relaxed and succinct.

Angel, let’s run some #’s.
To pass out when we wake is ample.

I’m at your side placing puts
on the periodic table, petite in wanting you (I do).
I forget farewells.

Let’s dance.
I’ll take the sherry Pepsi & sardines, thanks.


I’m sorry this happened. I was pumping gas

& going to say metabolically we’re all for one in suspension
of disbelief, a scene in martial arts, sparkling pen


-umbrae, barnstorming on top
dicing / re-arranging pushed to extremes,

undanceable “fetishisizations” — yet we’re dancing.

It comes from the Greek for feigned ignorance.

For broad-shouldered believers
The ironist wait lists the system.

Notebook open, wallet shut.


Occam never multiplied, tho

Irony-sincerity voted
Thomas Eliot, a flashy
Society flaneur, a modernist.


Today that chintz is lost

And chintzy miserable is in play.
Oh, fine, thanks.
And yourself?

The sparrow’s wardrobe is beaten but breathing. He’s on our land
As there’s no way to degrade-ultimately-destroy capital.
Otherwise, there’s only perpetration and fortune to hide.
The corporation is late. After homesickness, there’s new inebriation
running a tab, also a little
suffering a little moving in with my
parents (the boiler room) because they like me...
I just don’t worry: It’s my best 3 dimensions
money can buy .. breaking into immense mist clots .. hard
to reformulate .. (It’s up in the air. The property goes on while.)

I’m polyphonic with an uncapped fortune, reflecting what I did when my adolescent backbone iced up, raising all boats, all social levels. My greatest fear — going deeper into my Dr Jeckel —

I’d be dragging a palm frond around 4 a.m. That would kill my parents.
They’re dead already.

I’m nimbus-wet. Dark edges must be why

Two very different outcomes equally square
What you hear w/ the you you wear, what you are.

I stake your reputation, touting
you & kiss & lap up the air in your 1st mustache sense.

I came for the invoices.

Ever notice? No one lives in that town.

Half-vegetarian, self-colliding fog drinks only from its disconnected, treasured demographic for energy.

We cannot mean erasure, remember.

Our nerve infused by regulatory propriety until we get up to dance founding paradox.

Name a landscape Ergo and give birth, rename it and you bestow an ecology of resonance and history.


We’ve heard enough.
This is strictly the governor’s business.

A flesh-eating virus attacks recent college grads. We never forget and we do not forgive. Even tho we’re too fat to get insurance, our moms have always been supportive. Viruses are like that. They do that. The wind too. Emphatic shivers of boohoo.. I made messes all over the nestling ground to suit a creative purpose — balancing running around everywhere that’s off the map, getting lost and then explaining the gorilla mask as a prior condition. After there’s settling down to become family, hacking skin off the dead. 



I grew up feeling locked in apotheosis (or resisting it), befouling the youngest hearts and minds, collating all the splinters into a pile and resetting the fire by myself (in my head). Fortunately, my energy could be made immiscible. And it is. Like the wind slapping children’s ears pushing sunshine over the lake into the beach.

Every time I visit you in your mascara I become lucent about the fear you strike. I see the brilliant live again, sure enough, in vetted dormitories, always have, fudging abasement with food and drugs. Sorry concentrates.

The transportation of souls takes place about now.
Nothing for me. I feel like Mr Meaty uninvited to the Worry Dance, revalidating my whorl of cement paintings..

Lao Tzu (Zi): The follower’s flower name is hooded, part doodle & part I’m not sure there’s no use.
I’m sure I can’t be overdrawn, I still have cheques.

May a zealous counterculture dart sweetly to life!
to help solve you and me for x! when we let them.
Own a tuxedo.

YOu defile my people once. Only once
expresses our seeds in the mail ..

solutions to low notes on drums .. & pity nowhere now w/
dark engendered power @ 1% Cavaradossi!
We’ll misfile principals w/ others,
snickering ones .. [Trained staff encourages sampling.



Any higher do not snicker.]
(There’s tighter discipline.
Then it’s said repetitive indescretion goes too far
and some at mixed levels are more disposed
climbing into casual ritual, putting
their lives together getting & keeping down.)
puckered in ab exercise.

What do we now? We have functional emotions and this much-traveled vocabulary of affects.
To learn something about what you mean is to let high jinks belie despair over entropy. For a quiet start, try zero gravity. But you don’t get to keep any larvae. They’re apart. Their cloying song goes out mutely and you feel a need to ache in their baby blue blather, calmly, accruing intimacy. Hey — Never stop exploring. Turn here.

*

Show us your papers, fly!


ref.: it’s November

Saving the future? In Woebegone smarts don’t matter. I’m laying myself off. Not that I’m a genius. I’m more subsumed now by squealing mating spirits and dolls...

I hate them. They’re awful, I might say...

(You’re right.) I hate nest eggs. The dad puppets look at me and shrug.
.


Spinally fragile, wigless, they’re the ones spotted with investments.

They’re in on the lake.