Zephyros, a sex addict shoots thru the property’s high impact surfaces, yew in cones
rejoined with strings of baleful, tempered banality.
“In each house he has a different name” — a polygamist's modality,
burning talent with a see-thru suspension over the ozone.

Chez Sir Toby Belch Himself



Mind and body worship is vicarious before conforming to a system leak.
I’m too ugly to be molested. It’s true.

I kissed a cat. Once.

Once out of what? dying belief
I wrote on otherness when down (“I’ve stopped looking”) otherness came.

A sober-garish run on sentence
Lay before my head cold rumbling..

My body in the language of dunes
— soba colors with melons and blues.

I’m sorry for shoddy reasoning and growth. Sorry as pieces

Of aqua and orange foam and plexiglas.

Even more I like meeting mates’ life-changing kisses
Kisses like interior windows on progress.
Hoarse for weeks.

Part 2.

My facts are not incompatible with yours. There is no absolute diva in me. Just power events, long held within stewardship & productivity emoji pluralizing visuals, prosaic at base, atheoreticals broken down into ‘facts’ — broken, brief punches of looking great on the phone!

A petting zoo cannot stand for practice?

As a curator of sorts, I have to ask. A lot.

Your space calls for more.
Defy self interest.
It’s alpine in one direction,
but metabolism takes off, along
with clumsy fearless tempos,
a framework for rants surrounded by cool ceramic
wallboard, figures.. conserve or not?

If you swallow your ego luxury is great. I say no
with my eyes shut.
No meditation spanning the surface of the woods, no
massage. No smell of wood. So there’s nothing to resent.

How does it resume?

For all appearances nothing lurid is due at signing
It’s privileged out there..

I was saying endless tunnels, gadgets and impulse — Come,
interconnect here as Jerusalem waits.

My fingers feel an immersive element, some of it; it’s on cleats
in an infinite series as the glow that’s breathing and regular.

1800 years ago —
Philostratus was regenerating transmigration, some.

Some had swing,
You saw that? Haphazardly

the scandal passed, hardly worth the coverage,
otherwise excellent.
Newly a couple, we got back into the van.
May we trespass? It seems relevant
if filed under filming a break-in about a file,

say “Ambient text file”;
her jaw trembled.

See this pigeon? A true albino. Incandescent.
The lot have been splayed, getting warm.

Warmer, said the baron.
Not well done yet a total expression (..)
It takes your whole body to exchange hands
Now with a party who questions now —
If tendentious lyric is science fiction tomorrow,
Thank counterintelligence.

You have kind eyeholes.

You and I are fans of progressive modernism estimating flow back in time from prior polemic.
(Gilded drapery completes these sentiments. Yet never over stays.)
Don’t eat, sweat generally...
Alt politicians have a feeling for bread before it rises, heartbreak.

Mainly specific
pieces of pieces —
Most space is dull in impact. Often this is how the latter day sing
as we come to our senses

with an hermaphroditic itch gerrymandered in ambiguity.
We’re pushing in genetic material prompted by an assembly.

Student conviction was a sorry concentrate — Vincent Price, that name again
until we went broke we were indebted.

There’s an international side to unbuttoned, squeegeed pain —
That guy was the first to get a grip and hold on. He was witless after a while, undead.

Understanding what’s perfect we fear imperatives.
It’s remarkably ambitious, like when water lilies kick off their work boots and women rule. Snipers crouch. The idea of Burberry’s.

Stage one.

As an alien in 4 dimensions I’m done with it. This
Has nothing to do with a colorist’s or bug’s notions —
In capacious preview of 3-D transference
Animating hedgerows praxis of fair use.

For your next reading...

You sign up with realists. You start right outside, wandering the complex. You’ve been asked to stay inside with folks assembled.
Using the audience is offensive.
You pass over weak words and ask for a 2nd date with an audience member. Soon after loggerheads avoided with the grit of understatement.

What do you say? Bon balance, hey my.

You grow accustomed, so to speak, no name is escalated until the focus is lost.

Preaching to tenors is an art
practiced by Art Farmer.

Or you can stand by and have what you are looking for appear
as an entire practice.

There are no stages.

The play was mostly about ticket holders with initiative winning the status quo at the beginning..

After the show folded we were never serious. Toys were another good idea until they broke. We weren’t the first to do what we like & hold on, so it would take the future to adjust to the beginning.
That’s a rough outline.

A frayed honeymoon was a pleasure, felt normative.
Pleasure gets exaggerated but there are three pleasure substitutes. Here’s one, an itch to borrow sentences to raise one’s consciousness.

Another is coming up with filaments like attrition of affects = eyesore.

Third, after a honeymoon deflections accrue.

The Japanese are fascinated by pottery.

Any dark ceramic with asymmetrical tenets is tacit
but could be looking up at a source of light, feeling talkative..

maintaining maximum restraint
to engage another’s psyche.

Any emphasis prepares the manifold; earlier accounting systems join the 1st probability of having you to touch & subsequently empower mergers ’n exchange. That’s only half the cost of what has not been said.

I’ll do what I can in cavalier terms, slim voids. Almost the same as great! yet stiff front jokes
turn over in sleep, dreams that forgive me for almost everything but paranoia’s belated audition, ‘different strokes’
trapping you if you let go while yielding authority.

Then a high school kid said I

Hey the marsh
was
god’s idea placed in a mini series.

I used to feel locked outside your “overcoat,” the tartan one in six colors I thought was an upgrade.

If your intention is to bring the feel of that out, including the tan background over an off-white,

I could use speckletone, the ‘starch white.’

Keep in mind a glowing color for a cover will darken inks.

Either 50, 60 or 55# high-bulk Glatfelter Natural in punk cream / ivory.

Aiming for a rhetorical plane above ethics
try jumping bail. So it never happened.

Fudging abasement (they always have)
model peninsulas were put up around
a cry from mother processioning a lava tint. Long ago.
No surprise, it comes around twilight again,
accepting habitual use that forced the runoff.

Owning up I make up breaking stories.
I’m at a fake graduation.

And here’s an apple
for the teacher’s redness. (He caught my addiction.)
It was a straightforward proposal covered by emotional reform.

When it comes to compatible suburban topics,
Hand-me-down colors seem jerry-rigged.
I voted for a state of grace.
There were only 2 epochs begging for genius retouches.
High Tang & one other we put aside — too-serious regard for perfect categories is disappointing.
We can’t go back. Like overmodeling

New sine functions want to be involved; they clank in the scenery we borrowed
Still rising from parterres & topiary snapped in place.
Our place.

Solved the resplendent spelling, but not remorse.
Now it’s a year later with zero emanated,
good news tho.

Today I’m late; it’s fitting, weeping inside before you go away.

Not at rest, circumspect. (I’m just beginning...)
Well, most every worry is literal, based on trying to rewrite
Hellish varieties of you getting fingerprinted in eight
Perspectives, the xviiith century Italian drawing..
One boomerang day after another. Every day
...not that we copyrighted the typo idea
— it’s you over there we can’t reformulate
& I’m going to make up for real —
Important I remember your aroma, surnamed olive della
luminari

Voice operated judgments — Two very different outcomes will equally square —

Before I could think about a white fragrance, watching my breath. Let’s try it again without commas between the whereness of the tongue receding on the palate.


One, two. Together, inside voices take a few bites then punch it out waving not perfunctorily, no toe moves, no steps at all — freaky in bed we’re testifying for tangled waves of standard-bearers.

There were deleted utterances filling balloons
with conceptual inter-operabilty —
the enormity of it was hooded — a dirge of a term
that cannot be considered in terms
of checking cost averages
since the intellect seeks damages
going to a concert or even sooner.

We have to thank multiple histories for suspending our arms and keeping profane circumstance from pushing into the room. We’re only two digits within the mumblers’ countdown evolving our meanings to proceed either way in an iconic breach, rehearsing.

Should I reconcile the semiology?

I’ve moved off the mainland.
No unknown futures present newer phenomena.
We have no perverse incentive to take more chances as we talk thru replacement woods
geschmackvoll postdisruptive.

Here an address for a blue blood ruffian.

This looks essay. I thought of you, Berryman.
You had a revised voice for most moods; I’m holding to their path, rescuing no one.

Every day I’m behind, way behind, less affected by less meaning, un-giddy like you.
You’re raising a hand — too late — we like to comport with men and women you thought
Too crazy for poetry.
You wear counterfeits and feel fake. That’s haute where you are, I bet.

Terre Haute.

Poem for the uncooked.

At the art colony
you blew them away. Somewhere.

What’s a sociopath
traveling in small groups or schools?
Teaching can’t be taught.
I agree.
To be reviewed is to be published.
I keep loving you under wraps.

I’m imprisoned to reach market
(more below…).
Otherwise, normal project staff on the roof, smug in outfits and at the top of their game, which seems synchronized, perforated by action-hulk tones.

Freedom is personal.

Occasionally there’s sleep, given immunity. It’s horrid erotics, but in one pathetic conceit I could count Dakota Wizards on all my fingers... Your hand got in its say, of course, eliminated that fuss locked inside. You took my hand the most. Took it to heart.

Hey, burn rates of

my job are moving the sounding-it-out tools!

Patriarchy expands fraternal allegiance.

You’re both bat high over the sempiternal. Well, I really enjoyed it. 9 out of 10, then some.
What does he look like now? It’s ok to ask?
Snaps of sharpened anomalies.

An etude like celebrity.

Ancestors understood by these scarves we housesit,
decor patched in resistance, creating busy, making-chaos “work”
enacting a more cautionary life, absent trifles and your intuitive psychiatry.

The garage is a statement. It’s such uurban pain.
It appears we’re operating in sludge bubbles.

If that’s it for now, we’ll switch to canonical devotion

obtained in badinage with no consequences,

in effect hypothetical

as fronds drop their tendrils, unstopping scents..

Gimme a tummy poke, Satan.

More than one. On the third one you really have us, all over us.

You didn’t have to what the hell? We told you we agreed a little, not a lot. (I forget now what you sound like.) It’s unlikely there’s more realty in the future and of course less. And some things you need to repeat there. In hell.
Or is it a geyser in a box? our infant sleep inside the womb / is prelude / a nano habitat exploding with party frogs! One question, what do we do with the property? If the milieu is attractive while our parents are on fire, do we take their place?

It’s such nice work, a jug
with its schema proliferating on the table
holding acts of kindness, tragic themes,
lowering of incitements; or was it empty?

I’m still not finished, you pay.
We call soliloquy theoretical, mom,
since there’s no one else speaking.
The jug extended is not audible —



It’s just synecdoche / she’s
sulking inside these rooms
with the hygienic view forward.
The small of her back sends me packing.

The whole chain is charged on the menu, food, erotic to pathetic.
To recap, I don’t think the life of the mind can think for itself or be made up. I’m not worried it gets easier.

Jack Spicer in heaven —

I’m bad at knowing when justice along
with passion is vital, not recreational.
Softly speaking of a next step in the training
over no ideas, I’m addicted to your faith and momentum,

nothing else drives us into the surf.
Burning talent, lonely or not, dumb

emphasis is official,10 to the 10th more hombres.
The firebox is a glow.

Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam
Accounting disappears like factions of perplexity, contextual effects (procedures) —



You take the wheel, officer. I’ll hand it to you, there’s product on the loose
replicating our special drive and access to necromancy. Not a problem.
Further out descriptors peel off like spiders
descending into moaning nonentities (the Ralph Vaughn Williamses).

Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to more schemes
more fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Travel well.

Neural bible studies are all in the mind.

We’ve now passed the second-cousin stage of wretchedness. You’re good to take it up with family authorities before severing the vines
tho atheism, once-removed, would be one extra reason for doubling research
on advancing shadows and fleets of buoyant stars.

Does it pencil out?  

Good point. I may have torn up the text (though torn only from my mind — you backstroke, swim and still float around in my semen.)  

Or stains, residue, whatever’s spat on the wall, again, about to be torn down. Or torn up? In fact the loft across the way has already been stripped of its facing for the sixth time! Reno = archeology of what is preclusion within experience! Sounds philosophical.
What is first cause?

Lament:
Venomless? No.

I’m brusque. The new job title is urgent, according to the edge of your purple toe.. Truths ahead of lies via homiletics while I’m underhanded getting back to an axiom we can manipulate;

no amnesty? A ship is on the way

or / & like crustaceans we give in, to forgetfulness for now.

Blinds drawn, our preachy, scavenged opacity fills with the sang-froid riches of dark matter, soaking the globe with its bible pedigree.

Before that yoga is fantastic, a civilizing coterie added to eternal space & entered into with a worldview without speaking of the pure land achieving access to felt qualities.

In the first version I came for the invoices.

Ever notice? No one lives in that town.

Half-vegetarian, self-colliding fog drinks only from the discounted, treasured demographics for energy.
We cannot mean erasure, remember.
Our nerve infused regulatory propriety until we found paradox.

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

Surely we’ve heard enough.

This is strictly the governor’s business.

Planning ahead is...

No pleasure from coercion, not where I was at.

The show was called; the rain spat.

(I'm sorry it was really hard for you back then.)
Yes. And my voice tended towards stridency, an unfortunate strain.
*

Spat or pleasure? Actually, I won’t prefer either for now

Pleasure opens into darkness —

This was a bad stage for us developmentally, love and convention
notwithstanding.

Cornell College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy.
That a phone or tv?
Ice-encased streetlights hummed and flickered. The skiing consumed us,
leading to our divorce in writing.

Slinging their guitars around, Nakajima and Kudou are knocked
unconscious.

We could stick it out waiting for them to wake or shut it off.

The sun shines larger. We rely,
really like your ideas. / O
great.

“To let yourself whisper through fracas takes a kind of aplomb, an achievement needing practice and a vantage with overview. Among classes of poets are waifs and strays, but a few lucky ones are outright orphaned to an alien ethnicity, completely busted, out of place, in the wrong skin. (Welcome, rookies!)

Yet each with her own comedic intersection untangles the snarls of her alien presence. If aliens nearly die for the gravy, they'll show you the wounds, text imitating proverbial fur.”

Non-linear process (née progress), implicit co-branding of public domain utterance, hysterical strings (upon strings) of shock, plain narrative downgraded to parish bulletins, text-snatching and re-assembly lead on. In “Was That a Real Poem or Did You Just Make It Up Yourself?” Robert Creeley observes, “As a poet, at this moment [1974]...I am angered, contemptuous, impatient, and possibly even cynical concerning the situation of our lives in this ‘national’ place. Language has, publicly, become such an instrument of coercion, persuasion, and deceit.” Sure — though keep in mind that that, along with this very sentence, is a set of ad hoc thematic pointers.

In the process something like an orange cloud enters the locker room of the essay. This is the middle section where Jorge Borges is transported to the essay’s ‘character’ to do the interfacing with theme propositions in your own words. Form as script.

Gustave Flaubert did not have a script, much less digital media, and the word 'hysteria' does not occur in the text of Madame Bovary. For his time, how informed he seems about future appropriations by psychopathology. MB is a viral cloud in our terms. By now every sentence can be re-assembled into a poem, I think this will be found out.

During the break we reached an agreement.
The sun feels being there is enough, organizing
the community, the building loves it over walls,
the windows and square vines thickening into tree limbs..
T,he building looks out of ideas that are also twists as well as sentences
since a common urgency repairs the sun at night. Where are we

while little sentences crop up in thickets?
How can rope harness keep climbing
vines’ secret about a rare canopy? Spending dawn
often against the order I keep in my head?

Going back thru files, I was thinking about television, its readymade theatrics, over drama, language as backdrop to quick movement, fast answers, the more simply put the better. Donald Trump applied disruptive formulae to prove on an overwhelming, tribal scale how many suckers are born a minute.

I was going thru my files, thinking these bad ideas. I found a piece of mine that changed my thinking to Alice Notley’s close reading of late work by Frank O’Hara — as well as her recounting a time in history (like 2017) when a readymade theatrical answer to feeling overwhelmed is to stop thinking:

from 2005: I’m instructed by Alice Notley this morning, writing about O’Hara in the first essay of Coming After, re-alerting us to the import of his last poems, which I still resist, and whose voice is “anonymous and communal (in the bad sense) in its exploitation of verbal mediocrity.” Notley sees O’Hara influenced by the “deadly flat diction” (the first generation of such pervasiveness) of television, thus influences of the heinous sort, offering up “warnings.” Also in the first essay, on an earlier poem of O’Hara’s, Notley avers, “the Buddha fucking well ought to think at this point in history,” a rousing supposition on her part about what O’Hara meant by ending “Image of the Buddha Preaching” this way: “...hopeful of a new delay in terror / I don’t think” — timely of O’Hara and Notley.

Ireland has 8 first languages,
Scotland 9,
Jamaica 6 bloods and many platelets.
Where do you speak?

Poetry scenes converge on Chambers Street Station. (The Metro Transit Authority had assigned Chambers to poets. Can’t say why, except it’s a short sprint to so much.) Hey, it’s crowded with groups, subgroups, trios, singletons. More of everyone. There was a spot, once, where a couple of poets could hold forth, shout out their conceptualisms. But now, thanks to piled-up agendas, everyone’s here and shouting out, almost at once. Only a handful of still-discernable groups/subgroups are taking time to listen (to each other). These shouted messages go everywhere, up into the ceiling and up the stairwells. I wonder what the affect is at street level and on the roads out of town?

Down here we let this happen.

There is a lil automated palletizer of bread
with industrial KUKA robots in a bakery
in Germany where groove is still a verb.

The odd relay repeated.

& I’m not adding bespoke grammar to discontinuous anguish.


Lastly, I’m worshiping
a whole number while the full loom of higher gasses
blows town along with the swervy seed pods since 100%
are regular programming that could potentially be used
again until they’re replaced.

How I think of you.

[Pause.]



ii.

It’s like this, I retract my falsehoods. & within & for the same sutra
I condemn & mourn meritocracy. For / & all men
are servants (Buddha, JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geo-metry
to inspect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland
for nothing.)

It’s nice finally to put a face to the humiliating nickname.

The last emperor had sex with multiple staffers.

He had one of the most advanced distribution systems.

His agents were crazy for the bigger paradigm of aftermath.
An aperture opened up and a lovable perspective was achieved but lost. He disappeared, and he had children and they disappeared.

The music took off about here, 1st looked feminine along the quays with carvings
For view before the repast, thinning out in the high brutalism of dining (Otto Dix). A violinist, hesitant
but looking better, starts the red engines mid-grin.

Evasion foregrounds minimalist motives. Persued abruptly per the Chronicles of..
Earnest Ladytron deeply inside our emotions. Don’t read more.
We or most of us have an attorney, after all. But this looks stupid

To vocalize what’s sunk in, I can’t worry or pierce my ears further.

Meanwhile.

Do you like spiral staircases?

Skepticism is blacklisted by sharpened anomalies.

There is nothing left of an emergent zone to find a prosthetic artifact like lack of despair.
Nothing but huge finesse augurs repression and destruction of autonomy in one immaculate fictive symbol.

You can’t predict what you are going to do, and there aren’t enough exaggerations to go around to encapsulate your suspicions.

Reading Delmore Schwartz repeatedly gives me head.

Worth repeating.

Monotone is no longer cool. Cool isn’t cool.
Got it, I’m stiff but I feel what I think.
Words are our feel-
Ers. The river purrs, purls — not its sound
But ours, so I read this
By me and not me, us.

I wrote the software to create the illusion I'm ready to talk.
I'm good here. I love
you mind if I smoke. I just wanted to tell you.

There will always be a poem

I will climb on top of it and come

In and out of time,

Cocking my head to the side slightly,

As I finish shaking, melting then

Into its body...



— Jim Carroll

It’s a Darwinian fact eye contact is transactional yet this is how contingency extends tiny sums of alterations within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.
Crosshatches over word clumps structure as a figure of speech one’s absence reduced into ecru pellets of change. Mere distractions like the steepest bridge closing, keynoting a breathless mannerism — one that’s riveting our self-interrogation to a breakpoint where we can share high fives and broker a plan!

I used to believe all the grossular and pine boxes keeping our lives apart could open up to our former life, a win-loss stocked with the comic coloration of air like quartets foot-lighted with bouquet — Superangels would strum their instruments to sound the alert, lithe, w/ a spooky edge. There used to be a flare for what noses can do, a full deck of going for the stretch and preen in a premonition, the one about our hands taped together then that blind patch — de-biased out of sample — imparting how our logic dialogs with others, inflating three dimensions into a formless clot of mist.
In the din nihilism shuts the door 24/7 on indisputable birdsong. It’s a good thing.
That door leads to the rescue of children and all it contains, all I could have told you.

Innocence is guilt. Yeah, blandness is a problem. No luck too popular. Understanding what’s perfect we fear exclusion slathered with near-imperatives while the night creaks with immensity, too mediocre to reformulate. The unequal in love float ashore. Everything dark brute-accented imparting how our logic dialogs with others, inflating three dimensions into a formless clot of mist. I hope you’re happy.

I agree with you when you live long enough.

Operetta’s focus keeps an eye out, part of the knowledge industry that can consider anonymous approximations in crazy-fancy contexts plunked out on a keyboard.

Moving forward I have all of an hour to believe in sweetness made into infamous exposure (in costume).
Lights up, no-name.
Homeless — we take ourselves inside the libretto where we reserve dissonance to dog light & volumes of bark animating the hedgerows of three-dimensional glissando.

The performance.

There is a nothing. Yet nothing is forbidden.
Or a burst of improv substitutes for info.

Losing track, I hold onto your voice to approximate the closest parity.

The truth is a manifold vacuum. And we’re feathery.



Blatant abstractions like these comprise unforgettable elements to our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off for totems unknown, spinning or spun, quiet — out of control.

And that’s how we fasten ourselves to hold onto more.

100% our touch.

A mind occupied, just so.
Am I in some experimental state of forgery? No, I live in a red state. & how do I maintain the balance sheets, my resolute informality?

It’s another day of no hope. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different, jokes turn into sleep. & dreams forgive paranoia’s belated redemption, trapping me inside ambitions to put out the house fire by myself (in my head).

I talk in a low register. To get inside you my grin sports a few layers of sleep relief, aching in baby, calmly accruing intimacy to belie despair over entropy, a quiet start, zero gravity.

So there’s no dead end!

There’s something I haven’t told you, Durante degli Alighieri.

I’m passionate about the sounds right in front of me.


We’re in scandalous terrain sleeping on a couch; eating donuts could send us home.. (I’ll be moving out soon) .. referried to signature seacoasts.

The chosen hairbrush, abandoned. I’m forgetting about it.

Shoulder to shoulder, our emotions subside into idiot access and the purity of blindness.

Matter of pearl hummingbirds in the dawn black trees.

First create massive gaps then put up a bridge to connect employees to each other,
whne they move over it they can chant — chant openly in a pillar of Nicocrettes.
Shouts of disbelief strung together become fluid..
Same when it comes to airline safety, there is no plan.

Our guardians are tired of interruptions and self-reflective outreach,
hence the corporation* is lonely as an inter-discipline that threatens.

* simultaneity in science fiction, a tenet of Hindu verse.

To continue, asymmetry solves the perfection problem, not remorse. To think I got to know Myrtel Hammer who highlights liberty travel with others.
Others include folks on parole, draped over a bowl of smashed lures and hooks.
Myrtel, you were a boring couple. Is one related? The too-serious regard for perfect categories is working backwards from walking out to compete with yourself. Oneself

but there was a serious separation — had that been allowed at age six, always a caution.

Read the inspection label.

We said nothing about your father sitting meditation,

Boosting cognition as if in a playlet w/ bellwethers & fey bloodhounds —
We did one in complete metonymy. Everything bristled.

Symbolism weighs in
As a shortcut: Some future of the past is thinking & writing as if.

Having only a sec, you never know there’s an animal that needs you

And I should know.

Someday the male coloration returns as a feminine force with tinctures or inaudible signs from a long history of decision making, preparing us for more retrospective behavior, more implicative speech and extra sensory anger.

It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and

Time’s up.

Lao Tsu (Lao Zi): The flower’s name is hooded, part doodle & part we’re
not sure his swag is clean.

We’re in the hallway leading to the stairs cut in two, fronted with don’t-know
plaques, waking in hazy brightness with no clue how we got there.

Some of it collapses, not to be fair. A different morality, a drought.


Get used to it or go home to switch landmass.
To set up a phrase targeting the other guy is to hit the complement of blunt
geometric forms. And it’s clear whose side you’re on.

So it’s about a few seconds ago,
the cloud of clouds that should lend

a formlet of propositions, like a handshake painting or prayer warriors
& their contagious stink for months in geologic time.

If he can or if he wants,
what you said is partner of it. And how his confusion is proof to diffuse.

Tomorrow:

A dogwood on Sylvan Drive

Driving over from an outer borough, beyond, big and floating a beautiful menace..

let’s put this down.

There are Mets fans who’re happy,

from there we move forward
encompass my naïve expertise.
It’s nothing personal. This is on your behalf.

There’s a lack of linnets and authentic wax.

And something came up.
Initial elements bled into messing up my mouth;

cherished ideals I thought I stored overseas came back anyway,
a screw-up very much unlike enlightened comity. Or the occasional warrant
for no sleep, no solutions unless
as we see a dart has feathers it flies.

My leaving you is a double what, what into which I am thrown off-center
about what I’ll never get to know — real limits to affirm retractions,

winding into more reliance on hard work, pleasures, plans,
and this most generalized, I suppose, being turned back, watching the wax dim.

Look it up, xenomorph, your heart reading was beautiful, well pronounced.
That’s what we said to snap into dealing ..

Also, there is far too elaborate a taxonomy of overheated exercise.

.. eyes-open, tell me. Knower and known are clean osmosis in reverse!
It’s clearer every day we’re in it for

blood work. The last children were in vain and embarrassing. The bus door was gone.
You could look right in. Suffering, complaining, two out of two observers cut off.
Their surnames randomly conjoined.

You see our new brands have legendary roots, rinsed of terror.
There’s field after field training listeners for Schubert,
youthful lecturers, saboteurs, rescuers of the heart...

Fall back and breathe while we get authenticated.
That’s when brush fire shows up, celebrity temps in love.

Breathe, kick, push kick, five ..

A starry equity or neurons? Words are worlds.

The worlds we heat up are young at the edge yet a lost cause.
Vicarious is not strong enough.
And titles cost. Avalanche, the virus.

Cherries Hamlet.

I lower your voice. Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?

I repeat, coming up next from a great fake news publisher, e-books advance going under rewrite as you read them, flipping genres as they plug into you, changing your mind often.

Then.
Going on and off half-tuned as a resolution.

Follow the process. Tease near-misses out of what process could mean. Stipulate minutes and subroutines to withhold, then expose your meanings, and don’t talk with your mouth full of process, disrupting cut-off points where ideas can meet and turn into habits to become the stiff, gnomic atmospheres and accoutrement for following process. Then define this. Take care, and take your time, since to criticize another’s process is dumb without settled borders, also off the mark, as in hating a pianist’s shoes. You can do this, feel free, but don’t expect to be asked back by pointing out her avoidance rejecting criticism. Knock the moment down with glances, nods, and inspire small talk while keeping everything under surveillance. You look great together!

Until you tuned off you were the monarch of what we hold.

Justice, liberty, rule of law...
Also, it was easy for you, suddenly, to have fitter enablers to soften the hold of little consonants in your throat.. holding firm.

The air filled with similar results we pin on like tendrils and use later on blind dates and get paid and..

This is not a test. One’s every utterance is for sale as the collaborative impulse passes from desolating satire to a continuing turn-down called one’s executive control.

Blinded by your unfounded feelings I’m taking you out. Okay?
Now my areas are underwriting tone poems about shrubs & underestimating powers of tyranny. To qualify what happens & delay what I am about take on a more personal note, maintaining a liberal, even an apolitical esthetic

Then I blow it by teaching you raw..

I’m a bonfire of agon in relation to whom I adopt.

Sorry, I have no other associations I can share. I was held up by tyranny headquarters. Don’t know why, and I am therein a holy person.

A holy person in the new middle ages of automatic summation of now or a minute from now after the credits. I usually fall asleep before the plane takes off.

Moreover, I am holy an entire winter-spring. It’s better when I wake up I’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun is great. I started at the top, the left knee was just there when it was there — it took a variant position in a series with only a few elements incised to form solid bands connected to spiritual reality. (Wha..!) I could see up to the valley. Police went wild one lane over, so I was arrested while asking myself, how can I sleep better and not get caught.

I understand profuse clouds. We’re disassociated.

How is a partner shiny then fallen with grey streaks?

Huh? Is it the fire? Up in ideal sparks glow

the moon made indispensable for smearing light

that travels down in a tiered border-like scrawl.

By caution as usual one could also mean caution around the Kochs.
Hence the political surface is blood sport and games, what some call discourse and action. Caution is exercised to preserve the constructs protecting access to the oligarchic core. The equation reduces to politicians = mascots.

At this moment in photography we’re staying alert, our paired centrism induces little offense, everything looks great and other opportunities are nil. I’m noticing a whisper; the weather connects time with my ideas — my time with ideas, rather. For proof, take a long walk, you’ll spot people that scrape by, not fulfilling the norms set by stop action.

Can’t hurt for long.

True or of course?

The will to quiet is the flip side of getting a ch-
amber piece to burble, cry inaudible
tears as surplus for renewed power, when
how you meditate spins up to the surface, no
message. So there’s nothing to represent.

Reporters agitated, reproached, disappeared.

Reports? Who owns property under monetized formalism? Owners do, owners of procedures, including a ruling class and photorealists... tho binary opposites, they both figure their lives together, no vision or dash, no longer having to know.

Something more than research is treacherous since those near the top are hardly sitting languidly on the other side of the room, locked tight.
How formal is it for the autopsy in procedural areas?
Painting you and me again. Painting double quotes.

I manufacture flyweights, drinking up history, empathy,
bounce. A company like ours chips on, inside the parturifacient facility.

I challenge myself almost every day. It’s what stunt men do for life;

two more loiter with intent in the doorway. Both smile, neither laugh.
Here comes my best friend with his successor’s shoulders..

At night, passing of MM.

First, to survive as a star, to incubate & spawn offspring, while we’ll concede no center evolves as the plausible center of modernism, I think MM found herself, thru various devices, in the center of all that & other isms — we’d say, the center of tangled ventriloquism composing..
This, you can see, picks up points from others. It’s hard to tack a center onto perception. One idea would reject the center as MM quit films, since no center & the center influence the entire industry. Both engage in what we make up as industry sources. Nothing in between. Nothing to hold so to speak so stardom doesn’t.

If I had more foreground I’d subside in attrition,
better to find and weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken more notes I’d have 8
polyptotons of “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings

we had composing our very own subjectivities
that I can’t pinpoint or supplicate.

So I’m returned to footage of what is more
and more like a suburb with a shore

in bad translation ecrus, stock blacks, pitched provisos
and integers-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none

Living to 100 is complicated. You forget to clash.
...can’t stop it...through language [how about] [...] cheesy time lapses in which [traveling backward] speech and narrative continuity become incrementally

transformed into the next thing —

but this late into the authenticity pat-down I’m after just one more thing.

I’m still here, the body’s purring never put aside. (One dissipated the other.)

Adaptability in circumstances
is hardly effortless:
I add, Ellipses.

Stutterers stutter trying not to
“Radiance comes in bushels, refreshed
from extract.” (We’ll check what held up
the due date.) In each glance a name burned..
Smile. Shall we?
This familial gestalt switch empowers
the incriminated city, warm & cold &
further down the moss hill operating
with franking genomes, lattices — industrial
parks at the corner sheeted in quick fire
milled cement, plywood & dust..
And hair / with coronets of diamonds —
Private ideas, still hidden to go native, &
of fine voice. “A voice & nothing more.”

There’s a civilizing process to the pure,
being dull, entered into by spotting it, picking it up first. It’s

a clear refinement where character offers libation,
supports you roundly underneath. You can go right in.


They have an open table. Open invite. Open discussion. Everything’s a wooldrying thirst.
Let’s talk it over —

Nature’s mirror engages in transparent secrecy,
there’s the dull, pure idea to play again, a hero’s round

— go on, if non-embowered
leaving a little for the next step

as interforce rondure.

It would be a challenge to simplify winning a car or suffering injury
starving how?

The future would give more. No more
than thanks.
I thought of you.

Swimmer, environment:
The lap pool is cloven ice, so stay in touch
& stay at the deep end & bend rules for use-equity,
rob the reputable for boundless foreign heat, wait until the trees color.
Swimmer:
My models are you & everything I can live by w/out being
sequestered or brutally charged by mental objects, so these shortcomings
balloon in harmony around some parts w/ use & the sky as part of parts.

You don’t even have to be interesting.
That doesn’t sound right.
Always repeat what appeals to you.

I’m captioning this Token Austerity, sleep-laden, neatly eating dog food.

Copy-fitting is more profitable than deep discounts.
We need to see everything before it’s retouched out.
Our vision said On the Doubles.

This is a new policy to block deletions that could be missing.

I’m leaving disjunction behind. To work with you (the plan) is one way to avoid subjectivity tho content is a nominal fallacy like bondage alloys. I know I don’t know, etc.

Holism doesn’t come naturally (Nickolas Christakis). Yet the parts know how to grow (Benjamin Aranda).

A Cretaceous bunny stuffed in an overnight envelope is ludicrous. It’s untidy and young. I basically had nothing to do with it. You’ve got my mind messed up. While your back-and-forth is rubbed into my hair/no-hair in all these dubious directions you’re going in until you do (as a gentle pun) onslaughts in a riveting presence, O

the downed rookie on the outside, his only credits for adamance. That’s the self, yourself, fascinating, perhaps to squelch a tautology of wealth and actionable conditions that seem certain when hidden in how far you are beaten into their projections.

Agitation and dignity don’t mix.
Everything I cede in the launch whinnying for pleasure or when it becomes nothing I cry from. That’s everything.



I live in Hung Oaks.

I’m not writing about it, just tapering the news for gameness. A deep specialist would work Oak genres and something interdisciplinary but I see.. Um, ok, I’ve misspelled all the signs. I put a couple of sentiments off to make it better — one’s a recondite bounce amid the fuchsia spurge past the goalpost..
A serener surface.

To make clear..
I’m a fan of any estimate that flows back in time for almost any reason. We Americans can relax, go cloud up other ideas!

One alternative is to thank you guys who sent in money. Another is to bawl about immanence and qualia while standing within process reception, along with some alpha crap, heart sutras and an ad valorem.



Nothing’s changed in the last few years since I wrote, ‘As the world starts spinning, John Wieners writes Boston into his bohemia (Nerves); during his mid-career Horatian stage Kenneth Koch romanizes his playbook in the New York School (“Fate,” “The Problem of Anxiety”).

So the waif, the poet-estimator stakes a vantage but never forgets it slips away. No what if. No if, what, nothing.
Taking chances put us in this lissome interpretive state (birth), after all. Function varies widely.

The theory,

pleasure is to ethics as Spode is to gastronomy

while across the river a recurring nightmare, film tunnels’re (wind) lifting wax paper when the water is abusive — yet all ends adaptively,

nearer Duluth — you can’t handle Duluth. (RF)

The strategy is
like any landscape, wait for mistakes (1) and (2) pounce.




Woe is paralytic. I also detect a drop mention of broad-mindedness toward arched dynamics or versions of it, even when love centers on the numbed one with a body of rare happiness like popsicle blue in outer space —

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

Dionysian = garish brocade with puffy energy, cute, can’t think straight.

Space in theory.

These are my last thoughts before we get married, locked in a horrible grown-up abstraction, a brutally under-decorated three-bedroom townhouse anywhere, sequestered with Katie and Micah, Paranormal Activity’s faunlike targets. Micah has turned himself into a meta-player within our play, a film documentarian, poking an oversized camera in Katie’s haunted direction whenever he can get away with it and even when he can’t. Micah has time on his hands, having recently earned his associate’s; Katie still crams to get hers, and her unease about study is one pretext for the ample albeit unfocused Angst built into the relationship even before Demon shows up. Demon is the third rail, a whiff of a character, though, because it never shows body self (as we wish it would, in skeletal, college-age, buff bodily form). Through old technology, time-lapsed shoots, Demon effects succulent wickedness, making Katie’s queen bed a hell lair and, through Katie, switching Micah’s camera and Micah off. A fourth character, a middle-aged ghost buster with no “expertise” in demons, does a walk-on for comic extension, an ectype of old guys and their clueless remains. The film persuades us there is no outside, only what’s happening inside, perpetually immature, disgusting, and repulsive.





 Our mise en scène then is barely fit for longterm observation, deliriously unpleasing, Beckettian. Unlike Beckett, Paranormal Activity advances not through language but through hilarious and (obligatory) cheesy time lapses through which plain speech and narrative continuity become heavy burdens. Forty minutes into it, we want Katie and Micah to stop everything. Twenty minutes later we want them to explode, free of the metaphysics and misery waged inside a film that’s stuck inside us, as it were. Happily, after one more midnight, two weeks or so into the narrative, with only a little time-lapsed hoot in the shadows to prepare us, Katie does a full-body thrust into Micah’s camera, hurling Micah’s cadaver pointblank at us, doing the trick and the favor we had been waiting for. Psychic healing. Catharsis. Unpolished youth crossed over into the next thing.




 I’ve crossed a few lines.

Relax and beware. Certain branches of law aim straight at us. The fuzz of pronouns embodies overwrought subject matter while an emanation turns into a specter, brought up a peg to clear things with the bosses.

And I’m awake again, once with a face of a poet lost in dream. Or a formal outline. Or lines.

Guards stood tall. United in part over parcels. Now they tell you to take off your belt.
The impression received is every motion serves a purpose. A higher purpose according to those hoisted in factory breeze. Purpose in a word is a metonym for revolting devastation, collapsing under our own glare into supernumerary states of moves, most like minor readjustments in politik on an intentional scale opposite the line-up of our bodies. Every dancer stops mid-enchufla for a mote of a moment, and I feel better.

Then ballet natives yield to a rush of idols and new people center stage... all about the loot.

Something’s going on, a cognitive illusion.
We don’t trust anyone.
It’s what we do.
This may be out last chance.

A text proposes it is listened and attended to. That’s putting it lightly. Publication and performance. Meta-commentary. Gossip madness. Media as fame. These are the consequences as well as subject-headers of texters’ being and death, the consequences put in the cart that composition pulls (for the team) if the text takes charge of it all and it’s in the lead. 




The text is self-conscious in post-premodern times, better to stay in charge. A common outcome, doubtless — a text’s consequences are foregrounded in a poet’s identity and her intents, conflated with audience, exploited media, reputation, so forth. It’s all to the good, superficially, temporally, a certain category of problem when one’s success precedes the poem. 



So a critical first question for poetry is, can we start over.

I lost the point of the first line
Defining rail tampers along road pine
underlining greens, setting off your hunting idea.
Trying to please paid better
(I was never in 2 places enough to ask permission)

so that got to you. Got that interviewing myself : nice
coming clean is a neat precipice that won’t stand in for practice —
not while the restive recover from numbness —
we see beneath their dignity...
blistered as common flicker tails (the angles) in light made identically,

emotionally thin,
driving that home. That’s the super-definition :

Since when is / are government
The cliffside?

[The first Keesha, a 13-yr-old, accidentally applied an enema containing lye. But she also had Donald Trump’s bio on her. Does or did he mention lutefisk — fish jellied in lye? Not sure.]

Envy of the plant supervisor is a sickness. Diagnosis is a mystery.

I believe we fall to nature so ketchuppy-and-pink that a vulgar preeminence in beauty, wit and fashion is established.

Also I blame I’m flipping out, whoa. A white screen shot. Complete white-out, soft jazz, then lower right, your lips moving up and down, talking to hit the meaning of loving a musician..

..unfolding high notes from our little doodles, fleshing them out..

The crowd that half-fills the stadium is booing, boozy, lunging, some blowing kisses in your direction. And why not?

It’s a find of coincidence. I went to golf school.
That time was the end of the beginning. Drop your weapon.

*
(Someone asked me not to do this.) That’s how feeling-spooked-is-not-that-shitty stays on our so-called public face, makes a living, picking and choosing with difficulty. What other public freak out more on sight?

Credits: Several steps in this new instrumentation:
Familiar personalities come to understand then urgently back us

[I should add I am being serious.]

— Assumed voices undoing approximations, forecasting a Long Island winter to fulfill our aesthetic.
Rain or snow. One-by-one into the room.
The room outdoors that makes self-extraction a technocracy of tongues, based on speech, what we wrote and left out.

Voices say, personalities, like voices, are lent us. It’s directional, there is no outcome we have to thank you for, no details in that this is a trailer.

Early winter and colder rain or snow draws us audiophiles —

Minus wind, light rain or snow’s been widely construed as visible silence, plundering contexts with non-rhyme and asymmetry.

Rain or snow’s great undercurrents cut straight thru any restructure, roughing up more then more shadows turning over in a reserve of self-abandon.

Either or they become a visual to a soundtrack. Feels like about time.

Plots don’t belong here;
You were fucking great.

..thanks for speaking up
During an I-hate-calculus speech act.

The club owner doubts his own wordiness but addresses this softly as where we are with this.
The workout once was of a soul, cucumber in tone if I were asked.
So why does it get processed in a motel thru history?
Maybe I’m a hotelier blabbing about too much wealth I have coming.

Now is not a good time, always.

I think the name was the pelican. It’s inconsonant. I..


One so-called lode is a glossary. Interesting definitions for
switching impetus (rapidities of prosperity). Why is a fun face at rest?

It can be a growing explosion takes up time — an image, not the facticity, of while

X deals in opinions on redeeming enterprises and, that’s if I’ll

.. wear her original eyewear
through the filtered waters.

For my patronage you have syzygy, your face standing there ‘on’ the phone, ‘dialing’ a
number. Or, a sneeze to diffuse your feeling me up. So what you texted is the heart of what lasts.

And X is nourished, also referried thanks to word of the Redwings.

We’re not so interested in having eyes while mannequins don’t. But this morning I woke from a flash of no good practicality, I blushed, distressed talking to what had to have been just live traces and fire vapor in a sports-transition store.

The place was beautifully democratized, I mean dumb. The beginning seems and was (again again) :

The dilemma for too much of Western iconography? Before gospel singers are on fire, do we have to compete in their place?

Johnson’s Pledge —
1. To be objective and lack will

is an ambition..
detailing method as a catamaran of process.

2. Let’s feed an appetite that picks up from nature “to express things ... as they are when one sees them without remembering having looked at them.” Then we can chew scenery, committed to formal blocking in stagecraft, maintaining our indomitable temperaments.

Pardon, wrong parallel.
Can you hear me?
I paid for this happening again
And I’m going to speak. So 



Beyond pure violence; some of us grew up swaying

Trees — can’t change the 


Crimson scales and fiery sting a number pack and use. Or

Stemming back, a tornado on a stool comes to

— the same set of options, just a few —


I could tell on my best enemies, Lehman Bros.,
NRA while they coil and recoil all day. 


Doesn’t change anything.
Do I have the name right?

My effort is no effort. (Louise Brooks)

We sometimes spot a need for fresh lexicon in the mind-body problem, words to determine their own behavior, primality and cuboidal glints of jazz that’s trending this way.
I flubbed a sacrifice to cover my ass, appearing tough.

Birds cover their nests, beavers their dams.
People fear us as well because we have a glorious set.

Metaphor and life changing commerce, cities unknown arriving soon.

Sugar Dust (a Bernini head transplant) brings on the knowledge effect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower. I never understood insinuation. I never misunderstood it, either, a pulverizing divide teasing my attitude into admonitory tableaux sponged with his eyes. .

..it’s unlikely yet not unforeseeable.
Here I go for the tonal and unexpected
unlike skinheads who target poodleheads because of a themeless sadism prone to platitude.

You would put both of you or all three of us in a position defending bourgeois indignation, otherwise.

We’ve forgotten how to make things. It began with the airlines. Their only product is service that dissolves midair. General practitioners stepped up but their work got converted to money transferal with little or no honor system.

A product injector is the thing that looks most appalling now.



Products and connections we lose in reality are scarifying. Partnerships were constructs, first a little chilly, sometimes febrilly culled. When we struck our alliance back at the start, I thought, friend or foe? It’s no way to begin although our ultimatums were rephrased and moral aspiration became footloose and empirically uncontestable as Seven Bagatelles.

Your sister writes, waves (all of them) beat my eyes off. Don’t care, I still can see and lie just about what I believe is fact, clinging to both. Structured improvisation takes a volume of time, only it’s a civil leave now coming back to bone substance.

We’re hardly sectarian, we won’t forget a childhood beach vibrates in memories, only now a decade earlier when I (am or) was looking unkempt but in a studied, not irresponsible way, reading and taking dictation to wrap up my sleep. Like The Inferno and Nerves and every shined thing since, I’m in engineering the tide of speech desire.

The service manager said these are extraordinary times. Exciting now. Where are we un, um? If that’s everything, we’ll switch to administrative metonymy. Our slogan is, production charges the world until only a style prevails. The right hand shadows what generations of fear rarely mine in naked hypotheticals; the heroic code on the other hand never misses. Minutes after the work is filed, dozens are called to queue for a free run of the orchard, company-owned. “This is a very nice benefit,” a leisure pursuit like playing shipwrecked, held for ransom. Those were the funniest jokes, the most extraordinary too. I don’t remember laughing so much. Ever. And I can’t recall being as excited as I am now.

There aren’t any warnings. Tensions were apparent.

Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam.

That said, the minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never happened.
I can’t tell you I don’t care, on the inside.

Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague change, like our plebiscite, better to pump out to voices’ grasp. A life with submerged artifacts accrues and feels like a party. I’m going to lose you if it kills me.

Social progress is in a pickle.
It went cheap in another direction. Al
-most curtains for the prom fitting, a horrible mess.
The shortest path there ignited by havoc, honest
and exhausted tailors.
The dancers are perpetual winners I guess.
I wager
we win the half-eaten take-out on the table. 40%!

Prognosis: As a citizen among millennials, it’s yucky and disgusting I live this way, suddenly building a new narrator under my notarized certificate of vulnerability — Euros tumble. The sensual spy novel is amusing and telegenic for killing time, so let’s narrate that. And about that. The meta-tick-tock due now and pronto — calling in, Cupid, the greatest emcee and dues collector of the new century, clearly agrees.


Cupid fell
into olive swelter in unnamed aromas
that led his dogs to you, making clear

Even Elvis fell for
Cupid in a blouse, Cupid’s blank stare.
A blast furnace getting head.

(Finish one and they all get confused;
Fuse another way to un-tell.)

Cupid pulls the curtains to reveal a street,
yards, outside where people pass by in parts.

One doesn’t know any more
if there are good times ahead of war.

What makes chosen words dressed in black?
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority
Most rainbows taste like shit, but we like shit.

If animals could talk they’d say, what can you do? I pick my clothing by the rules. I can’t get you out of my mind? Handle it. Come closer, you’re scaring me.

I sleep at night with my eyes open and keep a diary, hastened by its agenda in one vein, pierced to the root by a confusing lunch. Flowers by the table, you, half a house (better than none), liquor and song. You came as a gospel singer. The sweetness outside not wavering in snow to rain to a rational depth, I’ve got you in the crosshairs.

Freed from servitude wow, congrats... The animals are always on message.

Bullied into autocracy.
Hell is too big to fail.

Fire the lilies in the field.

This is a democracy. Hysteria as a rallying cry brings a revolution in ignorance and vanity.
The ousted president drops to his knees.

Art is theft all right.


Decent and gifted, we were raised in a crèche of decadence. Sounds preposterous. Cabs were scarce at that hour. A shoulder hitched higher to the rest of language, human debt, infants, animals in cages, all muggy places on the moon. A twice quarterly tremolo fills the ground trailing off in sparrows, off to war everywhere but not here, a cogent ho, an earlier freer hum in a wash of other sounds and schematic petals and stems, where the mammoth goes after he drops a thread.

Ever since I was bullied as a kid.

Hustling all the time, awesome! But let’s pare it down. New York, like Antwerp or Amsterdam, especially, is filled with throatiness, up in the air. And staying casual definitely has legs. The inscrutable commercial vector coursing through — there’s nothing like it, business that’s more a film in wide release, a nocturnal thin man, uninhibited as in somehow succeeding daily. Timeless like leg warmers in both Antwerp and New York, which back then was more like Antwerp now. Men unwound to be children, their affection not unexpected, hungover, yapping at the top of a lintel’s worth of plankton. I’m coming back to New York. In the early 80s.

Exactly. But the hand-on-thigh thing... You know, to the outside eye, to the person... who doesn’t know what a forgiving, wonderful person you can be... this could look like you’re — per the Veda — confused. How do your readers feel about you living in this cesspool?



Good evening. I have an appointment with a Detroit policewoman and the little ones.



They’re dead.


Oh, it’s okay. Come in! It’s a poem!


Are you a doctor of literature?



Only when I operate. (Walt Matthau)



Great. If I could just get you right here. A few words for your fans at home.



Now? No, not now. Tomorrow, actually. I was just in the neighborhood.

This would be the most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into epic life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
is a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over a heartthrob, not to be a Lebowski.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.

As ‘you learn to draw, remind yourself...’ the brain is said to resemble Chuck Norris. Interesting esthetic, not fatal — Chuck or a funny bone goes for merciless. Really his movies remind me of marigold & allegiance to the ice ants swarming the ozone as I look away — The earth is not the earth, but it has strength and balance and Duma unanimity. Each winter corrupts the exterior.... poplars attaining their ultra field and stream, doing a job shunned by most, showered with tips.

We have to know about the nose and its utility in poetry. One question, Among human organs, does the nose intuit knnow) more lyric than the eye, know more than the throat, or even our ears? The nose makes the core of mid-alphabet English pronounceable — M and/or N. And if the nose makes something pronounceable, it’s hummable, too, and that could just be the sloping tip, for the nose, of its lyric purpose. Hard to hum what the heart or the soul may be ‘saying’ — we can’t tell without sizing up other body functions, intuiting humming from the nose.

Stay on the hunt, tough to please, speculate we could say
Even as a tectonic plate jumps under
Slaver mandolin ballads
Raining havoc in fog.. (Uh.) Here’s
Where you and I lose the scent. Ever 


-yone did. Not just we. Clouded
Flames ennoble wattles in the sky to roll over


Botanists like us, both of us, anyone in sight of who’s just landed,

Aching, a closed gas station attendant yielding under —

A new customer, one or two love poems — they never miss an issue 


(Unwashed hair, maybe) 


 — a downside, the station’s nowhere

Tectonically; even now there’s a cb radio for the day
Country music going on all nerves, bourbon, bye now charades.

Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled.
Thus, Chickee is a guy.

There’s no description, the lion took the eagle’s wings yet kept his own name.

Then he had an idea.
There’s a description he kept inside.
I notice I haven’t said anything.

We can demolish only one artificiality.
It’s no toy. It’s an example of us.
It doesn’t love you or me. It loves what we do.
It’s a learner, not a real lover. We intervene only once.
Remember, all our troubles disappear.
You’re almost naked. You’re my business.

Lament: Corgi spinning in washing machine, a fox

Terrier in FinnAir plane w/box cutter —

Our Collie is searching for frozen yellow bones — how

This set, like all good waymarks, tells a story but what does that mean?
Especially when your Saluki holds pinking sheers in her mouth



— not that there are pitfalls, our noting takes we could route,
Time, the weather can be avoided or otherwise subsumed into a few lines,
And so fewer syllables than forks in our paths to count now.

Corgi w/bobbing head in fish tank...