70: I don’t blame you.
Alone in your ‘kingdom’ works backwards. You’re facing the street, passing it... A science fiction flushed hollow, cankers and buds looking prime outside and you’re still passing, unstained by the ambush adhering neatly to nothing, just passing, yet suspects’ approval ornamenting impurities of state.

Who are they who envy? slandering even wooed — and such charged discourse? Don’t hold it in. Talk to your doctor.
Ironic judgment.
There are a hundred butterflies in perilous art. What’s wrong with watching one or two spin like happy mediums, go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?


Painting formalism.
It pulls you into painting along with lab wonks, emphatic cat stranglers, lesser rogues, screwball robots painting the same painting of different action hulks who celebrate casino archetypes.

Silent movies, early and often; three or more faddos over a twine painting attempting authenticity; spoken text in utopian media, tense and alive volumes of notebooks; high and low brow platinum blonds and flamboyant offspring, painting stagey inculcation.

Beating me up pouring coffee to make me cry not today.
A branch can be a sentence. And have a real day. There is urgency in ideas.
But the best living in a debt growing country feels worse

than version-2 pressures diffusing
the air that richly dark has the outer sky above.
During the break we reached anxiety. Big
thick crazy quilts the shame buildings

marshaled over property wings,
the bubble places where the “Great but I’ll just hold...” matter.
Fact: eye contact is more defensive but our strategies around it are consensual. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane sense. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in prayer, making a pattern to and from alterations sited within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.
At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)
Sonnet 7:

Outgoing at noon, attending on what? I’m not going out. I’m mouthing off about getting on with or without you. Just look how my sight’s scripted by high pitched infantile alienation, falling over you. Again. It’s not too late! New optimism apparently pays serving your burning head. Another way we’re both blackmailed over there is nothing low, nothing sacred.
Corporate design is a full-length mink coat, Mr Pence. What a pain to illustrate this, a trope from mid-century, the last century to put in an appearance confining this one, more of the opposite.

Do you like spiral staircases?

Ounce by carbon resin ounce, a take-off economy was to result. You like it, Mike. Native fluency may be floatable within, once regarded in its wholeness, its contours beeped forward w/ the news, smart enough though meaner beyond its whereabouts. There’s a kiss whereabouts.

Where o where did we hide the donor workspace, the top percents of it who kept you from living freely.
71: We don’t remember your life, your name, I no longer mourn you

Like a surly, vile freeloader / poet I overhear captions in robot clauses... giving warnings. It’s vile-compounded if I think my verse would forgot you if you read this line in my thoughts. I’m the hand that writ ...I negotiate cash for rapprochement after I am gone. Hey, don’t worry, my next line is not incompatible with yours, for I love you so.
Planet Earth has been coined a Taoist hell. A coinage ringed with grassy estates where men like you with money and I can tiptoe or fall further. One observation is easier than the rest. Tag, you’re it, absorbed in desire to sleep with anybody great.


You sit languidly, the other side of the room. You’re locked in circumstance.
Your party last night was great. You like to dwell publicly on crispnesses in whispers in the air. Not only that, you may already be a laureate.

You’re the single most meticulous detail for me. You chill the sorbet and warm the surf insidiously. Your sleep is like a language recognized by flowers of near distances.

Mercury is wow! Mars.
Antinomy. I should know. Something after was pouring out, dazzling its double structure forward filling empty screen boxes you were bound to organize.
And you were rushing and pausing over more optical symmetry. An interim for you, pushing up and out. There is little point to cremate your fixed melody tonight unless there is nowhere else.

I am a non attorney spokesperson.
Sonnet 93:

Better to live altered, a newly minted change of heart — our love may be facing what we know
Supposing I’m in many ways a deceived husband.

A coterie of enablers cooperates thence. For us,
Love interests are made to seem calculated.

For there can be no hatred in our eyes.
But, facing love, heaven’s moods and many looks
Urge us to go out, rehearsetoo much and get wasted, frowning —
Tho Eve’s apple was Adam’s thence.

What have we beside our thoughts, the inner workings, the trappings, our show.
17: We don’t want to be a second late — I’m hellbent if I could, to get it down again, to write the beauty of your eyes where numbers number (poets rage) — hidden with only half the story in time to come.

That and your grace. You should live twice. Tho who will believe these touches are living parts of you without touching, without your offspring stretching into the night, keenly inanimate tho alive that time.

You said no way, I don’t and half like it, blah! / This poet lies
...lies, but were less truth than tongue filled with living rights to an antique song...
My friend’s snooty and sells antiques?
It’s about people acting this way.
The charger thought we
knew we thought

the skull pile is hot
since it supposes completion as marsh

-puissance coming on —
Anyway, this just in:

Approximate loss’s busy reaching across
the aisle, going there you and I earn points.
Hey mmm
Europe with Alsace in the middle about to be a pain ..
I’m furious about pure consciousness, its tranfontsparency and orchestration. A conduit of expanding stops and sharps. Or is it a geyser in a box?


Sorry, I have no association I can share. I was held up at work as songbirds flew in from the sky everywhere. I don’t know why. When I was eating more I stuck my fingers down my throat to empty it. I am yet to be reborn and am thus a saint.
A saint in a new era of a minute from now learns to kiss your life goodbye. After the credits an aggressor from wikipedia opens with a right cross. I usually fall asleep before the u-boat takes off.
Take-down décor really scares me. Take-down as the day zooms is East Coast enough but to specify a wipe-out draping fiber ...and still it comes back to bone-desparate substance. Bone hued, relaxed and free of contradictions in desire.
I have no name now but my whore ass is about listening. 1st Crusoe the boss and Friday then Jessie, Natasha. A small party turning into Lost Colony as the fete evanesces into a seminar on comparisons, fact-rechecks, back formations.

That was all I felt.

Discuss the cut-off points where ideas can meet and turn into habits that muddle thru and onward. Talk about process.
92: To my love in constant revolt, stealing yourself...

Once again love ends. Next, let’s be happy it never stays; love’s vexing weather of manual labor, inside scars. Fearing the worst, a heightened blush no longer. Blots far from love-happy — I find American Gothic under manageable stress, learning to fear the worst in the least, I don’t know — what’s a fair question — is there one last better state to restage or not to live? For it depends on you, not false, not wrong, terms of our lives may be dashing or humorless for a term without love. I love you is self-assured and formally difficult and, ooops. Someone happy to die is on fire.

Now — do we take their place?
29: I am deaf, “bootless” you say, never hearing I’m scorned, despised, all alone for desiring you...

Yet I make a fortune wishing, thinking of you when? when disgraced

Remembering hymns for love rich in hope, wealth, art, a human’s scope.
How all men’s eyes rise at dawn from birth, this outcast state, when..
Almost enjoined as to the sullen lark least contented, almost cursed —

Looking for, singing from earth, thinking of you through break of day.
Language is spoken better where it’s taught. While you’re at it wedge correspondence. Then add neural linguistic product with teal / aubergine edges to develop squeeze pages; flicker the colors and offer joint ventures in which you apply marketing’s advice. This is the ballad of how especially my guest room is the office.
Nero fiddles for the top one percent.


The door to the exchange left ajar

fizzy purviews haunting what hang around from The Inferno. A wave beats my eye off. Don’t care. Structured improvisation vibrates thru volumes in time. I’m chatting up my repressed side to save us from scrapping our early decisions. The charge is to pass/fail to remember the (mission) exchange.
Your reading was beautiful, well pronounced. Perfect make-up. But boredom is poor experiment; that’s what we said to snap out of lightness, joy, the eyes-open dream. Knower and known are clean, osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the public, our public. And I’m less affected by less meaning, un-giddy like you. Duly of course sounded, I cover my throat.
“It’s nice to be interrupted twice.”
110: What are resonators for but to effect command of offenses we’re uncertain of or sold cheap. There’s nothing but our affections left. Love’s confinement a desperate measure, and it’s true, in reckless hands, yet for silent partners like us there’s depth to surface and mostly un-despairing perceptions (grinding truth) of what won’t be contained. All of the above.
34: I have a feeling of comfort in disruption. One point of a number that overtake me in my way —
Together, you and I defined arcs of ironic repentance but in a series of affable disputes. Just so, we’re still at a loss. Loss of shame, loss of grief. A salve can heal, yet not wind smudging our wounds into rotten smoke. Why?

It’s not enough I lose, I’m scared; ah, no relief as such. I won’t travel well, off through clouds. I have your brave face but shedding dry tears, breaking promises, breaking me.
126: Don’t talk with your mouth full. Process self-disrupts into phrases and glass, fickle process components and the stiff, gnomic atmospheres to bring accoutrement to terms, waning to grow! Hold your lovers there minutes in pleasure. And go on, keep to your purpose, even in power, lovelier.
As you say in social sciences, it’s too late for Cy Twombly’s nervous breakdown. There are gaps we see now and through. Louis Pasteur enjoins the loyal center. Candy ass.


During the break, there’s a nightmare where we go away. Go on a way for now. We’re on tv a lot. It’s a gen condition, but hushed up. On tv I have a family resemblance dilemma along with young poets and cohorts I encounter. We’ve been brought up in visual culture. And since it’s being archived, there are poets who affect me in lit-crit ways I will never let them in on or admit to, ways tied up with influences and emotions and, notable (notable on a paranoid scale, i.e.), I get it they may be viewing me in common, collateral ways.
First reading H.D. (in high school) set my fingers tingling (not my spine, tho). Reading Donne, breaking down how conceits interlocked parts of the argument fired my brain that, great thing, I experienced physically, but I don’t remember which parts, precisely. (Again, this was high school. I bet it was adrenaline added to all the braining in Latin and German and maybe the attendant headaches. I was more involved with Keats before college, but his poetry came in dreamy concretion, to me, and I don’t think I “felt” his words so much as “saw” them and me in them. The visual over feeling. At this point, embarrassing to admit, I wanted to be an amalgam of Keats and Donne. I was I anxious.) First time I felt a poem through my skin was long ago, listening to Kenward Elmslie read in Boston for the first time. Boom boom up and down the limbic whatnot. I still feel it, breathing free..
Fair warning.

None of this is quite déjà vu. It seems rational that with a little prep you can achieve more intimacy with a poet you’re initially trying to know. If you want. And, of course, you’re helped by the other, the other’s writing, I mean, since poetry is one medium for splendid self-introductions of a stagy, framed sort. No, what I am about to say ...I want to put here and it’s not entirely rational ...there may be a blushing-waif-zeit and atmospherics, but certainly a range of collective empathy (psychosis?) with a potentially or partially vulnerable social manner that, together with your own empathy and vulnerability, will put you both a way forward; you’re talking fast and can’t help rolling your eyes, even before you have intentions. This happens a lot but not forever, especially with one ill bred who misapplies the moves and the language to enact motives beyond the immediate speech act.
You all right?

There’s a title for most any time lapse. Stick around.
The sentence: ‘The Jets, Giants, even Broncos lost squawking about losing’
Diagrams the opportunity

‘But should we use quotation marks?’
Came up as a refrain.
By then our thought freezes,

Just why we reserve dopey incongruence for fill-ins.
‘When you put it that way I can’t complain.’
Dodge this bullet, I’m only fucking with you, you all right?
113: Replete with you I selected a rogue anime, you with improved vision to shape my mind
to catch birds, creatures, e.g. — Mountains.

Since I left you I’ve gone partly blind, seeing you day and night. My point in sight, incapable of more, out and about, even untrue

you and I will strike commanding octaves and quickly favored rumors then circulate.
~ For leaving you to my understanding seems sweet and effectually rude ~
sea crow- or dove-forms impart their homage to
the likes of you, shaped true to your features. Those substitutes govern what I do.

For in some directions the rude go about your functions, get noticed — blind seems seeing,
but deliver no part of you, true mind.
The traitor’s bags are packed.


Gyoza, tofu tempura, veggie soup, fried cricket. Democracy progresses on almost everything, available now.

$1.5 trillion added to our deficits. A structuralist’s dreams centralize.
Federalism & the dignity of work slide down between national gratitude and liens. (The financial pacs industry isn’t just kidding.) Nothing personal, this is the sustained concussion version of indebted citizenship... I also give a lily for what’s unavailable, a cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments, for the boink of whinnying for pleasure.

Or I cry when I know you love me. Same thing.

When I get to work I credit everything from the atmosphere, the engine without a message.
There’s always looking out, up, through fitful silence & a humane sense of feeling cornered in music practice. Enough, enough men and women are deaf to ruin

wherein love rebuilds their smirks pressing on — drizzle would hurt if they could see but it’s only visible as a short, stout white truck rolls under the haze, Kia-like, choked in a soft, fluffy diorama.
107: Hand-me-downs are not deconstruction, not mine or yours.
So this is an edit. Rent the wide world v. purchase. Own v. confined release.
(Color had risen to his cheeks. “I want us to be in charge.”)

Seconds later I was reconnected. Uncertainties are now assured.

Would you like to ask questions or can I dream on the problem?
Sonnet 86:

The future gives full sail bound for intelligence, prized above a ‘mortal’ pitch, teaching us to write, grow great verse.
I thought of you
giving us cohorts aid.. No, we see your pride flies as it works a crowd of familiar ghosts.

Once our brain ripens, we have neither victory nor fear — I by night lack a precious affable spirit beyond mortality. Or morality. Both strike me all too precious matters, like enfeeblement, like death, like filling up this line.
Surely I have ideals and uncoded momentum, bolo intact.
Rain twisting, “tensile lines.” So wave back, s’up?
We’re at the prelims of collapse, I suppose.

I’m on the outs with prelims, down with the innards of English.
Down with collapsing too. In fact

I’m breathing without commodity or form, trained in my language.
The trees are full of policemen — Filip Marinovich


145: Once I don’t hate you

there’s mercy to renew my argument and song. For your sake I saw chidingly day follows night, like an avalanche...
lips almost breathing, a languished state but explosive. Just like a fiend’s ...
tongue from heaven to hell taught me to hate those lips — yours altered me
to greet then end each day with nothing woeful or sweet. But today I saw your hand in this... A great doomed sound flown away.. I’m saved, flown straight to your heart now, not to hate, "not you."
In full bloom, full blown.
There’s too much junk in triangles. (Conductors know this.)
That’s how I got to live alone anticipating mind control as
disingenuous. As
my own adverb creator I found action verbs with alter-egos,
asides, and decorative indeterminacy.

Love memorials are cool.

The smitten dissipate. I’m a fan without a noun.
152: My honest faith is an American idiom
in keeping faith in you. I lie.
You have twice vowed new, constant hate for me —
My eyes swear against the broken things they see.

Perjury. I have lost faith in you —
I accuse myself of blindness, torn most bearing love in constancy, in loving you.
New day! Matins yet ghosted, Starsky’s tongue in my ear
& all the bobwhites in Appalachia hush... off

& then — second — noise
of collared, greening hospitality where Hellenic

banter might calm a tax credit havoc.
Third, I stay nonprofit
worshiping that everything belongs.
The rest is stress related.
As noted last century, there’s a rustic prep for a painterly style and muddled cool. We come from some landscape with a father, calmed by his fear we were of a kind he was to others.


Let’s see what we get at the top of the poetry game.
There you go again. Tax and spend. Death panels. Lyin’ Hillary. Toxic concepts infuse social ideology and organize perception. Political samples predict voter behavior.

J is crazy. Play along or rue it.
You guys go ahead.

I’m going to take my inside voice and ...and turn around and walk away.

Outdoors I pledge you a wholly hidden idiom of renderings, highlighting themes out-of-focus, left to twist in the leafy apolitical acreage.

Director’s cut.
for Souza

Music up. See this pigeon? He’s a true antihero. Incandescent.
Along with the meaning of structure for couturiers and magi,
varmints in then shortness of breath are indexing our suspicion
tho objurgating — Varmints and saps they are — knitting their brows to go
nowhere wearing rubber suits stepping in, out of buildings, thinking
climbing stairs, it’s 100 percent normal running up
debt to keep devotees heartbroken. So we’re with pigeon.

Music up.
2: We never come across it.

Yet a thriftless parabola intersects its pedigree that was.
Gestures are precise, eating shame. User eyes,
proud motions. Warm and cold climbing down the third hill,
there’s a new quad mainstream-underground

deep-sunken eyes — we — some of us — avoid them. It’s hardly objective
when a big tantric realignment is authentic now, will

hyper-rufflers be juxtaposed by an advanced milieu? If
you, will you cover me? how much? let’s besiege the
rectangular coordinates, summed up as praise

understands pleasures, the eyes, neck and chest.
There. Got it.
for Rene
Heedless and highly egotistical,
Two good words; and too,

The beautiful person deals in opinions on redeeming enterprises and I’ll —

Conquest contributes to a wonderful unanimous
Just unnerving enough atmosphere
— an image of while.
4: In a coin flip, you
and I’re leisure-loving. Nature’s doing.
Fair and it’s that easy
and so great I’m leaving you
my saddle in your extrication from hallucinatory delirium ..

Tho you’re still up front, in legacy jeans, what nature calls
trafficking with fog to bequest lilac-dark in the air
and offshore atmospheres yesterday and the day before

If you could answer.
I’m a year late. In choosing what rubs me wrong or why I don’t want to be seen with you or apologize for one more ode, can I eat something?
I repeat.
I’m making an ode to winter, coming on, just getting to you. As marriages go it’s not all bad. I owe my bros an apology. (Not you.) My better half too. It’s just an exchange.



What about Lars?
We didn’t kill him.
                          — The Thing (2011)
Why tonight?

My day jewelry drove out surface tension and gave us balls that took off and ran.
Software permeates where we hurt —
Show me holding the moment once.

Once and be done.
I know where I am going
gawky, rattling my enormous will.

I know where the caged bird sings.
I shopped in Brooklyn.

Shy of seduction
I worry about the big family.
Like Clint Eastwood I was shifty.
Once. What was that all about?
Have yourself a good time. I’ll have you over when political science gets to better thinking, Aldous Huxley augmented with a good bouquet, plus a full deck of historical raiment among the aspirers decoding automation... After that, there will be nothing coarse or raucous to grab at, but for now, good talk!

Who is this? Nobody’s first choice.

We’re fine with “no real choice.”

At arm’s length..
There were dimensions an hour ago enabling 2 events in a plot we’re party to. Tenebrae, we said. Let’s return to the olfactory sketches, in which the cosmos is left and right unexplained. Constant and converted. Incandescent, then, our ardor comes back to choke a rocket sidelined by a braided chord worn as a necklace, a burning space distinguished by the compliments contained.
Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing real business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory. “Mm,” the dolt says. He was staring at my teeth, wondering how much they cost.

Let’s rewrite “Biotherm.”

In this chapter I fear sarcasm.