No shortcuts. Nope. The perverted best part was
how twin birdbrains occupied your emotional life, the highest in Japan.
The guardian part made this a better world with a splash
Of blood on my shirt. It’s for you, Jack.

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

It’s such nice work, any idea
with its schema proliferates a birthday
between thoughts of kindness, tragic themes
of incitements; or was it empty?

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

it’s just a backstory in a way
sulking inside these rooms —

fado or Art Farmer,



stick with it + have what you own grow
as an entire practice, possessive habits flattened into

semantics + looser distinctions
over words bringing up the actual goods ..

It’s a question of .. you can say
there are no stages.

Everyone is resolved, the body is loaded w/ 3 seasons at a painting crossroads:
More relaxing filming bricks
and masked ducks or being w/ anyone who routinely
does things that would be awesome if intentional.

Filming or taping = [that is / that which is] painting / reporting.



Purple black teal — these axioms are exaggerated
yet feed-your-brain journalism takes control knocking many painters
off, gamblers bent on painting counterterrorism, cleaning up the future space, reporting that is that / which is ..

Like crustaceans we cave to forgetfulness.

Blinds drawn, our overly prefixed, scavenged opacity fills with sang-froid & riches of dark matter screening off the comic pedigree.




Before that, looking far ahead was fantastic, a civilizing process added to eternal space

Filling our eyes with unmeasured disassociation.

Thanksgiving poem —
Chestnuts stand around in jobbed hoards.
This is a country with open arms,
Click opioids.

Close up.. Let’s agree you agree
Scrub jouissance good — reformulating innocence
Getting good out of recoveries, re-do’s, re-applications,

Clenching-tight, we’re a team.

Truth is we’re feathery.

Shorthand abstractions
like unforgettable elements
to our touching and holding the
moment, surrounding it with
illusions of taking off for the
unknown,

spinning or spun / upset / out of control yet
that’s how we fasten the starry messenger
to move around objects.

100% our touch.

This is an impressions album. Or it was. Youth is so impressionable.

Ultra blurry, anamorphic, bound movement sung by writing it, but occurs in the latest form of repayment

— you
weigh nothing in and get no credit, no
spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in



                                        Downing, there’s a substitution agreement containing someone else
                                        and me in force, pulled on from inside.

— oh yeah, pulled awake more, more than once w/ a face of a poet. Or a filled out line. Or lines. Smiling lessons.

Will, you remember, Stephanie? A will from the past,
We’re thinking you heard its once-dying poet
Who cradled the face sorrow brings to bed,
Someone who could listen to bluegrass and lose it.

The wind smudging a porch. That sort of will.

We’re scared. / Good night to expose no non-accident or two that don’t matter, will made tactical
As we circumvent exchange elements; we’re remaking spatial morality into chance agency,
No view, no dash, no longer having to know.

Rainy Sundays we break for the Beijing Olympics observed or imagined on the ceiling. Rationed atheism, a main event floating free, secret ballots cross wires in codes of conduct. Glue is the open door, the color of bone, an addiction to no one. Late afternoon to another.

In Japan they have I-novels, sticky variations on Euro-American models. The I-novel cantilevers inside without. A flood of phone calls offers ‘relationships.’ No time for that.

The I is like everyone else, a nutshell of a wonk glaring, boasting bragging rights for having interesting things to read, packing up old love notes, crayoning hearts and drunken smiley faces, pledging boundless love.

Of course the I-novel is heavy. The I spent decades as a stealth pathologist performing autopsies on ‘live data.’ Subjects were mostly strung out on sofa sectionals of pulverized dots — big, jaunty shapes that swaddle their inner pooch, ducking your punch and closing the distance.

*

Again there’s no natural retrospective because nowhere
Now might the flow of ideas be so well hidden ..

Right. It’s past. Passed. What you say reminds me ..
It’s a bold contraption.

When can we enjoy sobriety, the doo
(implicative space)!



Pitches more to wade out above what’s sung

Above the beautiful, well pronounced.

That’s what we yell to joy, lightness, yes
Thrown in doo (where else!) :

Kyrie in fully sensory hellcat wrath.

You contain only so much of me.

I live where you belong.

*

Someday all this will be yours. A few
City blocks that lean socialist, an oblique, neat,
Untapped atmosphere w/ corners of slovenly
Housekeeping and, worse, earnest alignment,
Reading strewn everywhere and living
Chronologically simulate the senses; these new scents
Went in circles as tho undressing.. sidestepping
Into some prowess of floating un uniquely, unquietly, new —

The cosmos is unexplained, parts one and two.



In the mental part, covert specialists use tightly wound differences in expression to gain advantage for incriminating thoughts; their goal is to march with humanists halfway, paternalism indulged through wisecracks; but most of the others, wayward humanists, we render as divas and idiots, and they take the bullets; why?

The cosmos hence is unwilling to go far, this way or that, a plywood-and-particulates object flying in time where light is produced by something heated.

Let me grab my pen and clamber over here to the iconic network... you’re right, this isn’t the mammoth for you or me. Before the heat dies we’ll try praying in all directions and improve our math skills for our partners’ sexual satisfaction as they pivot from jokers to a ringing mountain of attention-grabbing hysteria.

Blackened windows:

We know we don’t know
Facts are a marketplace,
A rendezvous to encapsulate sleights of tongue.

We’re trained in several logos and theologies;

Hey it’s obvious as that degree you’re holding.
Hands down. Take a verse.

Sung language has a light vegan sexuality

We chew to 1 side, noted by 3rd parties



Hanging out in their unusual white corridors

Suggesting you’re still trembling from the



Chew off, just a short chopper ride

From the bank and trade. It’s vegan

With a so called mother gloss, 1st-
Order phenomena pitted together as cognates

Still coming to seed and adornment,
Half-audible ricochets feeding us like a lawn.

The focal point is the entity with many focuses getting to further foci.
Isn’t that a calling?

*
It was at the rational start. I know that. Taking chances put us in a lissome interpretive state (lissome as a turbine at birth). Function varies widely. Lilac is the geyser of zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.

8) The practice of Counterclockwise is nothing at all, only sustained focus and innovation in nowhere equivalent to I won’t do it, nah, thanks.

Nah

all right, let’s start the open air in complete command of nothing. From the outside the sky is in a square shape, bolted
in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for interpretation.

We’ll ingest all at once. Absolute-ly
blind tessellation, inflating while we data dive

exhaling the meaning / meaningless problem activating our trial over the last half century.

Investors, scientists working together.

1) many immediacies, many readings

2) consider sources, friend some

3) available materials, define availability / IT

4) improvise (and comment)

5) I wondered about

6) who are you / pertinent to whom

7) how does that sound

You’re showing up more. I got wind of it, put you in

Just to make you list. I’m from and form the periphery;

Say you’ll be back. You never can tell.
Poverty is all right but not extreme poverty

As we grow up in your backyard befouling young hearts
And minds, collating all the splinters into a pile, resetting
A fire by ourselves (in my blanc head),

As we consider more relax words and in a big pax,
A pastoral: “How do I love you and everything,
And expect no help?”

Some things you need to whisper again.
(I forget now what you sound like.)

Adorno says plain speech is a fair shake at fame

When you put your money down.

We can start over in the middle but it’s really Dorothea Lasky.

I deed thus

This, a squalid compound of chunky fuchsia-footed jewels camouflaged for conceptual continuity as it were, trademark of both natural and technical production

Since we sport a manifold like vacuum,
Like the oboe in I. Got. You. A destiny with foam.

It bears repeating, Larry Eigner, Ornette Coleman, Frank O’Hara. All to the good. They serve as coincidental models of the improvisation we would do good to intake as joyful, almost effortless touches from a person of poetry.



These qualities are apparent in work executed today. It’s easier of course to look a little further back to find hard cases. There’s no question Frank O’Hara is chef culprit. He single-handedly invents and remakes what’s incidental, embarrassing and important into a generic sport. He’s the outlier. You could set up an O’Hara Dance to check everyone else’s score on a klunker scale, in which one klunk means you’re not straining, you’re fun because you have something to share, you’re right here talking to us, you’re deeply witty, you’re in his league; while three or certainly five klunks keep you out, perpetually. Ceravalo, Spicer, Padgett, Towle, these are ones (or near nil!). At times and in impossibly different ways Wieners, Brainard, Mayer, Schuyler, Ted Berrigan, Coolidge are ones. Creeley. Also Eigner. As we turn to poets two generations from O’Hara, and younger, it gets harder to tell and, overall, given the increase in numbers, the scale is off. Greenwald. Godfrey. Notley. Myles. Andrews. There are more.



Compare any one to O’Hara’s zero, tho — Take Eigner. He’s a fine minimalist when it comes to materials. He talks for the birds on sagging utility wires. And he keeps it up for years, our engines are engaged, just not so thoroughly amused. That makes the experience a one. O’Hara’s wit is to keep you going. Again, appearances of pleasure and ease are not absolutes. Ceravalo surpasses O’Hara in the poetics of (ex-)Catholicism, a topic I am not qualified to tout, only mention. And Ornette Coleman in the background parentheses beats O’Hara and just about everyone else into his natural pitch and free retreat. All to the good.

That would be a big maybe step.

I have aged for you. You may have noticed I’m on the side of folding in meaning that has no purpose, just sheer falsetto.

You want in? Try eye accessing cues, carve out what rafter was seen strapped at the top. A name for emphasis might be imagined.

A serious noun.
There’s a method to share.

There is an automated palletizer of bread
With industrial KUKA robots in a bakery
In Germany where groove is still a verb.

An odd relay plants these thoughts.

We don’t do pinpricks, I’m told. I did my research.
Since I’m not adding bespoke grammar to discontinuous anguish,
This would be a special offer, today only.
Anyway, I retract my falsehoods.

*

We global capitalists itemize all bets.
One pleasure is borrowing sentences to raise
consciousness: Neuroplasticity feels like games,
‘competition, everybody against everybody.’

Big-eyed instincts?
                    hard
to get out of the valise. We pirated the code.




You can say we pushed it out willingly (nurture, nature, frantic relaxation).

The fit was good.

I noticed you work under me to make your poise smoke
w/ the problem being.

Your search had no results.

The time is split into categories for work and for the sinister about-face of a system download added to our labor.

A life sentence for causing a ruckus.

Call me when you are ready.

To remain disciplined for our new celestial motion weekend
Calls on comfort and drill, “...habits of empire.”
Start over.

Cocktail wieners.
Kids love them!

Peel’em back and throw your knives.
A (s)he-mind’s pill for song and dance is so! long overdue.

Our partners are shiny then fallen, with grey streaks.

Huh? Is it the fire? Up in smoke flames ideal sparks glow,

The red moon indispensable for smearing the made light

That travels down in a tiered border-like scrawl.

We’re back writing without an attorney.
“That’s how the paint sails” within taxonomies, overheated,
Sprawling, a mind occupied, just so. The bus door was gone.

We God fearers defied the polls and voted against our interests;
Later we’re taught the integral self can level with others
While sadness is a public health problem.

So protesters are hired to raise contentment rates.

To deconflict our strategy from style
In no time we put six norms under water
Then we ate cupcakes.

Today one can eat excellently here and bluegrass friends come also.

Nice save.



There’s a title for most any time lapse. Stick around.
The sentence: the Bruins 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



Nested within notes to adjunct scenery filling in

The right performance, the normative outcome.

          Many are watching a tall fool spin
                    to guard shapes of light and ice volumes

Stuck at Could It Really Be “Quoted.”


Food chunks, one bird.

Lots of us were gifts
and land across our example
while we saw the wind taken
that the waves under you lift

Tho see-thru as doves
which today are nothing more,
swept with a visual certainty
no matter how we change in love.

I’ve always been mad about something else.

Everything is trauma. (“I exist.”) Everything takes away from the center

[S]o caught up in rule-governed mechanics.

Who is there to tell no one cares when no one cares





You’re a mess, honey.

                                 — Touch of Evil

Something came up.

Little, no, nothing. There’s so small

an exchange to transact, no product, only

exhibitionist’s subtopics within the power den,

to prove repeated effort extends pleasure.