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

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

Tax breaks for the wealthiest keep it humming.

To look is also

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

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

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

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

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

To Caspar,

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

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

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

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

Space doesn’t know we’re looking...

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

for full positions in another trace or matter.

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

synergetic Weltliteratur giving less weight to fantasy —

another I guess is where we part ways.

*

You then I change very slowly with a shower curtain,

on televised football. Management didn’t yell

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

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

Nesting austerity is neatly poetic, dignity eating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

of cognition counter-stretched — stretched on balance

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

explaining an authentic vantage within sight

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

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

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

History is old as mutt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll let you out. In.

Vote often.

Factual. A study. Broken, misunderstood.

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

Teamwork. Our people are what make us great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If your crime is big enough, it pays — proud

— puzzling results from a soup of cable offerings. /

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

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

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

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

Your other car is a broom.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

(I forgot to send this.)

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

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

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

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

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

since.

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

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

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

There’s a guru I listen to.

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

Guru, you’re so unnecessary!  


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beguile the time, look like the time.

Still reading The American Heritage Dictionary.

Put your back into it.
An ego for two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 2005

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

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

__There’s good in everyone but you’ve got to see it__________

22% disagree; 74% don’t see it.

A blinding texture pours over adverbs, rocks...
Is that all I’m having for dinner?
Eating as I advance through security,
My shadow is busy.
You — early to bed and sunset forms a light
Puff once empirical truth turns circular.
Scientific ferment, thick rivers, outright curios — pursuing l’amour.
2 colonies.

Yes or no to tokens, symbols and their prototypes. Yes or no signs. Yes or no to feuds, grim ball-bearings. Forget but never forget protestant vulnerability. And yes or no rodent names, tufted scopes. No yet also yes to poems living a life as a masterpiece, addressing a doormat standing an inch off the casing, a fourth-up past the itch out of everywhere but nowhere, nothing or all. Yes or no tempo of glyphic turmoil grounded into dotage and torpid incision in not one vowel or all of them — yes or no prophase for pensive description. No to yes there’s insatiable shine.

Your slightly shabby rooms are offhand / elegant.
There’s leftover acacia, soft frangipani, but not yours.

You are a scentless triumph.
You love skiing but you also tour for chess.

You come as you are.
I have 2 of your socks.
You are prepared, in control as your influence multiplies.
You’re a particularly effective imposter.

We’ve got to get you better clothes.

Charlene: “Pecuchet’s checking out women again. He had to have. For, against, he hasn’t a clue.”

Bouvard: “Not one word not purloined. Yay. For example.”

Bouvard points to Charlene, walking his way.

Pecuchet, to the audience: “Are we hardwired for savage in-fighting? I am. I was born with a wormhole deep inside, sported for courage. Holding a voodoo rattle, I call it my Britanicus.

Bouvard: “Global jingoism should be taken seriously.”

Charlene: “It’s such a racket a pang lets the whole spectrum of gloom enter and exit without interruption.”

Pecuchet: “Death by oeuvre.”
Bouvard: “They say even death is in peril.”

Squandering the opportunity —
I didn’t have to what the hell?
Living requires
alternative means for the puzzled trot,
the smell of being in a raw shot from every progressive angle.

I'm winding into a reliance on hardworking pleasures, broccoli, incense
and rumbles, open plans, open lots,
and this most generalized, I guess,
burning, turning up.

Everyone needs a secret life.
I got the idea from going to church.
Am not believing this.

Poetry comp is reeling with appropriation, re-assembly — one reason for this is a communal rule to break the mold, to work ironically within a new tradition of surprise as aching necessity.

From last century French surrealists and then a range of poets after WWII demonstrate how fascinating it is to substitute or to ‘paste in,’ the unexpected phrase in order to compress and even undermine narration and trigger displaced, unsettling emotion or unwarranted ideas.
Methods for substitution include straightforward word shifts within text that is otherwise not disruptive — intra-textual cuts and pastes, say — as well as extra-textual processing of found passages, more often now digitized copy and hybrid processing from search algorithms, remixed with other types of writing, found or authored.

To employ terms like ‘authored’ or ‘intra-textual’ is to risk not paying enough attention to the bigger point that cut-and-paste pastiche has evolved into a vernacular strategy for disruption, including atomizing form from its management.
Poetics of the last decade or so continues to foul up methods and standards. A direction that looks facile and promising is genre-swapping, appropriating and incorporating whole chunks of alternative discourse within verse, (rescanning other people’s suffering, one readymade example).

Surprised, we stood and talked for while until, with Giuliani-ish aplomb, you lifted the tarp and showed it to me.

On Padgett’s Joe: I like chronology (or what I thought chronology) gives room two-thirds through to un-labored meditations on facials, on Joe’s reaching the age of 51, on his doubts at age 37 about being “the person I always thought I was.” I say un-labored but that is the soothing affect of Padgett’s not-simply-plain style. I like the large off-moments Padgett allows, spaces in which he has nothing in particular to give up about Joe’s whereabouts, much less what Joe was doing or thinking. Also, there’s Padgett’s ability to ‘not go there’ (Joe’s sex life, for example, his giving up oil painting, etc.) with no recollection on our part we’re missing anything. Then, here are Joe’s last words spoken by his brother, “It might have been: ‘I’m so lost,’ but I’m not sure,” which I’m imagining as, “I’m so lost, but I’m not sure.”

Can’t slow it down.

You invent something
not deeply or even precisely new  
But you introduce a new
wrinkle to paraphrase  

I came out to your parents
back a few decades ago.

Book proposal:
You make a disgusting mess of transformation
and transubstantiation too.

Benji, you’re strange again. We’ve decided to beat it out of you.
Say something. We’ve lost your spirit and pulse.

It’s hopeless, my life like my sweat, nondestructive, unextreme. I crack up when someone mentions reincarnation, but next time we’ll pick a family from a long line of tenured scientists in the non-snickering future. We on the left are depressed because ours is a classless de-corporated shtetl — time will tell, no need for socialists. Tho, maybe there’s no option?

I’d still love political poetry, but with reservations because of the dirt, the skid marks and resonance of decay. That was Orwell III speaking, “refined by distance.” I’m sure you could tell.

Is it one’s attitude or the restaurant?

I write for a nation.
I roll now when to hold you as a democrat
looking forward for a moment.

I once composed a scat for your vote. When new millionaires arrived we rocked,
turning the environment into identity and rumors. O cherished nation,
what’s the worst that can happen? One’s partner —
moi = mwah is a doomed villain — twenty times one’s own weight.
On a second take kinfolk are defined for their video senses
by god, by sex. Thank god that intimidates.

Not scat, I learned squat, handily
Apollonian on a fad diet...I get the feeling
god has gone one’s way.

Whaatever had you, Buddha?

My iPhone camera knows where I am.

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..
to a crisp. Smile. Shall we?
This familial gestalt switch empowers
the incriminated city, warm then cold &
further down the moss hill operating
with franking genomes, lattices — industrial
parks at the corner sheeted in quick fire
milled cement, plywood & dust..
Her hair / with coronets of diamonds —
Private ideas, still hidden to go native, &
of fine voice. “A voice & nothing more.”

Oh domestic servant, poet, heck, oh chanteuse
I’m your doorsill to walk on and lick in anguish..

Text disorder can acknowledge and arbitrate some of our convictions.
The crisis is now. Form is not an object but activity, an explosion,
channeling a non-hegemonic pulsing — and due to substitution
Gustave Flaubert haunts this.

I don’t know that much about you, but you remind me of someone
who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far off, quelling fear.
Half a day goes by and still you resurface.
You are unattainable.
You are hypersensitive to chaos, a thing to uphold.

There is slender lovemaking on square obstacles.
To stop tremors, rouged slippers are warmed like leftovers, something a dog in one room repairs with, to a separate bungalow. The commissary is situated down in the sub-chambers, aimlessly onerous. What will they spell for lunch today?

(The lord’s will tilting my ribs reflected aphids
gathering on a wall, also unanswerably,
in the hand. Whose hand? Those were
my sentiments. The last ones.
I’m pretty sure.
If I weren’t sure I’d take it back.)

We repeat there are rulesto doing morning:
Sleep in without a stratagem,
Coax the hues backward.

How can anybody care?

If you got close enough to Talking Chimp’s cage, she’d throw dirt, food — anything her baby paws could find — while her companion, Tarzana [Ekornes], made loud glottal sounds that resemble what some call a ‘raspberry.’

Talking Chimp did all her own stunts.

She was the featured beast in the movie Barfly.

Upon her release she left the industry and went to Oxford.

Talking Chimp had been with a lot of gentle creatures wearing jeans and racing through the woods, building paranoia.
What if we stow the talking chimp for five seconds.

“Let’s not do this, let’s not make hurting each other impossible to resist,” the real talking chimp enjoined, unable to stop herself.

Unexpectedly, she took me home to meet her family.

Really, we get down to heaven
In a bucket? We can see pulleys,

A smoking outline subduing us
Into our blond manes that distract scoutmasters.

Everyone has to wipe off while, boo,
You’re impersonating some folk guitarist I outgrew,

So now you want to spend it all while you can,
tiptoeing off to eke out a living from Eden
In a snow-globe, thankful for one small chest-hair.
And there I’ll leave it top of the scout manual

In the sink: You look fabulous, encaustic. Those who’ve been around
draw closer, under scrutiny from your voice-over!

But that happens when en suite we begin again
Like twins in a trance once, just this once.

Playing with tonalities, how funny you are..
There are chords he kept inside.
Between description, silence, a periphery.

There’s no description I can give,

No way to rhyme hiding on the loose.

Chords have their way in the air wondering how high an apartment we can get.

Fill in cross-narrative between First and Last sentences.
Choose a and/or b, any order, actually.

a)
First: An ant climbs blades of grass, over and over, seemingly without purpose.
Last: Hollywood has always been a wide-open town swallowed by its own gruel.

b)

First: Mammoth bunnies are lurking in athletes’ villages.

Last: You can never expect it to happen and when it does, it’s fantastic.

Pound. Confused or colorful, often gaudy, a mazed creature, vagabond within a Dutchman bordello (condottiere et al), involving deliberately ambiguous strains of professorial fat (think of Cathay, of suspicere, of foreseeing lavish things detoxified), motley in a sort of mayor to his inlet, his weeded self, a speck of a noun beaten against cymbals, a puzzler over paronomasia offered by fools (anti-popes, the holy) who wore the aged degringolade and had moved tyros down to the head of modernity —

The head the forefront, wooden in tone, because lowest hawkshaws were, EP determined, victims to the mystery dead hand, horrific for Baldur of the Valkyrie — uncertain, occulted and shiny, EP is borrowed now, tracing him down to throw him into erumpent, projecting our misprision as latticed breakthroughs into the medium surface he roamed, discolored chooser specialist in reframing earth for a mendacious tomorrow, a tomorrow indefinitely remote, not new, rantipole, superfine.

Had Pound retroactively polluted intake of the high modernist feeding that aesthetic portends? Poetry released of all responsibilities, regrouped, rooted in political indifference, self-abnegation, self-defense. Poetry no longer invoked to try history.

Modernism, a despoiled inheritance for poetry, beguiled, diverted, unlike architecture’s connections to the past. Apparently tomorrow is more appealing even if we know where architecture takes us. Poetry?

You’re a world-famous trance inducer. That’s it.

I like it.
Clymnestra’s seen things in Europe. European things. Sophisticated things. Things of the world. And things beyond. Beyond beyond.

Thing is, tho, I got this idea for a Henry IV one-pager. Understand, I need time to develop it.



Come into my poem, and we’ll make the time. We’ll get a plagiarist from a little ivy, spin your look doggy hip, inject you with queer theory, you’ll be composing down on your knees, fizzy.

It’s all happening in Henry’s head?

So we need just one poet! You, you racist ... Am I crazy?

No. That actually clears up a lot of free verse for me.

Hideous poems. Ratty chain coffee; hideous poems. Bloated officials; hideous poems. Sixty-year-old folkies; hideous poems. Retread malware; hideous poems. Pedigreed art; hideous poems. Untaxed elites; hideous poems. Safe sex; hideous poems. Relaxed midcentury decor; hideous poems. Red-lined school districts; hideous poems. Open-necked business attire; hideous poems. Democracy in dance; hideous poems. Satire of the informed; hideous poems. Entertainment business models; hideous poems. Losing the Muslim street; hideous poems.

The back room may have been obvious bravado.

Separated from a source of poetry that’s sad. The source is not sad. One separated from the source is.

Or it is obvious. Like muscle.
Sadness is not itself; it is not sad. It’s a feeling one calls sadness or the blues. Patience, shyness, meaning, frame and ligaments hold feeling, no source. And feeling is not sad. One decides, by oneself, on sadness.

The magnificent evening is given to nothing thought; famous initials are becalmed in steam of the source. Or partially the source, tomorrow those initials are spattered and dropped from the blues. Like writing home about the hunting and swap in the thinking part.

We bought and gave up parts.

One assumption is the future will be an extension of now. A disclaimer in Chinese contains characTErs that cannot Be displayed. It says a lot there wasn't any.

So I write about decision analytics like flip-flops. Cord organization that yanks cognitive loads into natural history. Sometimes I’m called the father of products from signifying (‘practices’) or the cheap rotgut itself..
Whining motions, husband, are you going to do a J-turn there? because if you are It’s a switch I didn’t intend, helping others, waving My kerchief, keeping an honorable distance, keeping the cat.

Pyrography is how fashion seminarians cohere
“knocking down” stultifying dead flame.
Open the mic. Didn’t I Tell You?
Squatting in nourishing overview, there’s one wrong hue
Of a deceptive simplicity
in love as well as pride, duplicity.

A boyfriend has no social meaning to
come on in English. He became  

beholden within a panorama
and sweeping mountainous apex, below  

Where ranges of behavior are larger
than any lap pool of disbelief.  

Thing is, he keeps faith
better than others, believing neither.

One models language as living matter re-involving impulsive energy that courses through particles of appropriated intellect, especially given appearances and given language itself. I might call this artificial transmutation of intelligence if it were just that, if poetry weren’t folk history of subjugate procedure.

I love fish.

Ed is a bit of a dichotomy wrapped in newspaper.
Done well, he was dressed in black. Before he got caught it was legal, he wrote, continuing to fish.

Cloverfield

Trash. Art-school trash — fake trash, overstimulated, fed too much fake unexpectedness via hand-held cam artistry. Splicy paeans to every Dracula and to dozens of our worst sci fi horrors, countless Godzillas, Mothra, Night of the Living Dead (original and the remakes), Arachnaphobia, The Crazies, Shawn of the Dead, Aliens II, War of the Worlds (original and the remake) Them! etc. Richy Rich protagonists with brainless sex lives you’ll never care about. Dumb computer graphics. The skull of the Statue of Liberty, shrunken to the size of two SUVs, hurled west-northwest, lands on Spring Street blocking heroic passage. Oh, the apocalypse ignites downtown, so this is foremost a cheap 9/11 remake. Combustion and dust fill the canyons between skyscrapers. The players take shelter in a convenience store, then race down to the subway, running with the rats. Asinine language (you can’t call it dialog). Ugly apartments. Life-draining clothes. Absolute rubbish.

Highly recommended.

Broken, giddy up, dead.
Today I face thunder — how to pay homage...
Bouncy. Bouncy.
My instinct when asked is to inch back
To the moody raw nation where these talks and e-mails
Jettison use of any half-soothing word
On top various uninvented heights,
The same heights outward
Of looking into what we broke.

Metatexting spread over much of my composition,

periodically erased by sweeping reform
and when I got to the first step of that recognition,

I reached the base camp of what I had so far caused to be referred to.

There was all that I could see along with an uncountable number I could not.

For fast delivery: A tormented lab mix of appliance and beast, user-taxed slabs of pork tortilla, melon and sausage sorbet on a woodenesque platter, all wrapped up for you to tear open, putting me in mind of a future photo realism, a live feed from the Fed Ex of poetics. Yes.

It’s tricky coming up with good examples of authored conceptual poetics.

The flamenco troupe darts of light & sweet algorithms solving you and me for x
when we let them.

Own a tuxedo.

Male muses

— the vulnerable and maligned ones were not held enough as children on a moonscape of beaks. Ever notice? Certainly I wasn't. Now I have to make excuses for friends of mine buried below their own animation with no heirs. They’re donning synthetics, and only half familiar, and just too intense, plundering the transport of their ambience.

And I was musing, simple stuff picking up a pen.

Governance in democracy entails attention among leaders and those lead. Free speech. Free press. And on.

(b) Paying attention is the field call haunting the future. And the future notices who attends. But it does not impinge on field. (See below.)

(c) Friendship is a job (like sloganeering) and, more elevated, craft (sign). To illustrate, job is to craft as field praxis to theory or open animosity (a sign). Free speech is cool for sure and I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend. What’s it? There’s no work-around to the observer influencing the observed except later — for now rolling in multi-era fears and heroics — much later.

Don’t argue with the shipment.

I know where I’m going on my own.
Memory as commentary jazzes a decimal of the nerd’s auto-voice, chassis-style.


That’s before we reverse course taking the shortcut to Stony Overlook
reaching the age of reason.

Here’s what I admit: within a decade the liver, most all
physical parts meet the brain halfway,

slanting the blurred promise we had we didn’t know —
every moment in the aftermath now of a pre-hiatus, dying down.

Shrews gestate for less than a month (staging nightmares) choosing their parents. Then came invention potentates and 3rd magnitude cloaking —

Our confidence proportioned over time to grow harmless, qualifying us as weather-beaten shrews, consumers of pestilence, some with verbal pitchforks.

For the current season we’ll be ducking punches, all our own, getting used to the beat.

New contract. Deep linkage. Bigger venues. No stress. Percentages stay constant.
There we are — stuck in two dimensions
out of four! eating sweat! Two washes.

We went over this. We saw four drafts. The 20-60 split seems marvelous given evils of the present. Funny, I may call you from your mobile device or redeem coupons of yours I crunched into an octagon origami. The music and I dream with you is the other 20.

A handlebarred man at war with bird properties
descending the scale of lemon clerks…
shaken to grin up to a brink-oops...

Next time I live in the swansdown of DNA. I’ll be comically dead — married and twice committed to a duplicate database — a seamless reiteration of Mr Picklepants with a flat floppy build. He determines forests and wilderness and my movement and behavior, charming, polished, emotionally shot with depth as a thespian-prole rounding off elaborately flimsy seriality and sequence.

Bromance trumps marriage. Summer!

There’s nothing wrong with my commitment. I am massively committed. In national interviews, if I have to give others the finger, even party members, I’m committed. They get it. You’re the problem.

On second thought I am gay.

I touched it and it sprayed me.
3-in-1 (the herd rushed but not to the rescue) ..there’s a deadline, a tumble of conventions, an ambush

— a boring excitement nuances the innocents —

Lake Drastic.

Yes, you sick intern — gallery bobbing,
Learning how to learn are cool (& fatuous), else officialdom won’t count
when we begin stepping out.

We have to trust you on these matters. One apiece   

                                              to the tenth.

Post-Film-Vinyl Stairwell Math  
 
                                              Express

everything.

Contemporary-argyle = needs-edit. Your face, the points I touch, it’s all good (talking casual
Takes directions) a kind of gonging for spice squads in the blahs of scenery.


Without speech sex is peroration.
That’s a normal reduction or formula for my song,
A few words on process.

“Stages of violence yearn for a whereabouts.
Conditions look dispersed — beeping you (did I?),
not out of calculation; it began how far and vast

signals liberate you to oppose other facts,” you wrote.
Or plans change.

There are a hundred butterflies in the beauty of Tuesday. What’s wrong watching one or two spin like happy mediums, letting ’em go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?

My language is not feeling any moral acquisition, drinking hot coffee from a can, trying to stick to its roots’ metallic gleam, seething too, proportionate to the open space. The smoke gets shiny and I feel mortified. Period.

The whole firebox is glow. The yellow wallpaper is engaging.

The collapse of saying it better is over.
Summer is over.

It was great being with you.

Or was it just me?

Manners of ambiguity?
To buy her lipstick.

Rhyme nowadays remains off. Was it snow?

What is snow?

From time to time snow

sees its bodyweight in snow,

a liter of snow pounds clinging to her diet —

Snow packing new snow bound thronged into blue to purple columns..

moving like a herd and suddenly forcing exposures within snows

creeping fast, loosening and nettling snows to toss themselves

overboard, self-torquing until each part drowns ahead of snow
quadrapeds pace on, a fresh snow.


Straddling an hour snowing, flapping in snow

now into cold slush and melted snow,

clouds connecting to wet hooves in the snow.
The cicadas are in their rooms.

Time runs out, taxonomies
still unexplained as weather permits. Black
ops at certain altitudes, the hot facts; I’ve
or we feared anti-humanists w/ covert specialties
at the tip — just the tip;

I also squandered ellipses that add up
and forgot I just stood there with nothing to give
back.

The quartet’s on a formal mission; higher
up, the mission’s part doodle / part disassociation
as a voiceover to operate microspores humanely,
stacking ideas like alembic tubes that mate
over magnets. Tubes lit with disentanglements.
Prayer in all directions.

The chill melody goes thru the window, surf rotates in,
reverses like a mercurial tidal pool
filling sand and earth with water wheels at rest
as lurches of nibbling torque adjust days into weeks..

You seem spacey in snow

When you make angels.

Hiding out for two hours snowing


You are really spacey against the snow.

With this operation I can’t stand with a quick fix, avant or retro.

My position is reincarnation roughs it, because it’s not safe to lounge at home without saying oh, wait it’s been done ..

I refuse if I don’t want to ...

My position is to add design to physical combat.

I’m spry in my motives while the open field fills with sumo shapes fighting the relative fight to operate on one another.