more bad orphans!


Paradoxical tissue is still not perfect, living unlocked, but scrunched for breakfast,
it dawns on me I am covered with bacon reform. That’s why I went for consensus over these flamenco-glued-to-cable partitions!
They’re in place as a lorem ipsum dolor sit
taken of the whole sector before repro-ed onward

offhand.. rather like a jigsaw
that gets unsolved.
A poem fires up photoshop.

A poem is a picture — I read madras glow
Coats — albino kittens hitting crescendos annoying cringing robots.
Drown me out, speed bags. Drown and kiss the cleft, sanguinary as dissolvents —
Making lock up toxic.

What a night! No problem
I slurp eating what’s reflected in your mind.    

Milk white saucers containing light — ergo
The dreamboat approach never grows stale.
You just don’t patent it.
Far out encore: One presumes elements are strung together out of desperation and a deeply ingrained will to dominate the unknown, much as technology funds science.

The technology of capital. How did Auden begin? Green song of ourselves...

From Iraq, Africa, Brazil to Hiroshima, Syria, graphic measures of tragi-comedic obliteration.

All this time Buddha and Buddhists are different things.

Knower and the known in physics, all branches, all matter — an open-miked state of big joy, electrons.

They’ll have us over when life and death crack the heads of any -tion...
I think I was in the movie. In Q5 I challenge myself all day.
R6, we DOLLY from a pliable shapeless mass containing lurid subject matter. It’s a blame-the-victim-y idea pushed into a visual build to make it current. “My regrets.” Switching phones..

...and into the S7 in one STEADICAM SHOT. We look up to crazy erections waiting to take us somewhere.
Something as broad as symphonic latitude will be hand lettered; this is guaranteed
as local time is disguised among novelists and botanists as living structures in the ‘inner’ harbor to cut glare from
coastal space.

Space (within) 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.
I chose my ode and it’s a strange wacky ditty to summer, just getting to you. As marriages go it was not all bad. I owe my bros (not you) an apology. It was just an exchange. Excuse me.



I’ll assume you suspected I know you know. It’s in the literature.
I feel bad about blight on leaves,
I hear their effort but there is no god.

Hell is too big to fail.
Hi cute girl in black hat that works here.

Videos melding media. / These early ones are w/out turning
Un-wending, emmmmm. ..

What blows you more away than a curl of grass to assess the new spring?
returning then to a friendly caveat for the melder,

Your ‘work-arounds’ dumbfound sarcasm w/ common sense and vernacular variables.
That’s everything, a verb, noun phrase, enclosed ..
The prose poem has changed due to English.
To recover what takes over mid-grin:
“You saved my life. I’ll spare yours, for
Now.” (He’s trained in her language.)
“Are you sure you’re a supreme being?”
You and I detect a trap.

Lulu’s shooting a catastrophe getaway
Capturing sea externals, filming in ways
She’s creator, director, an eco-critic and it’s hard to manage
Her staying alive placating death spirals to disengage —
“Don’t shoot much more, that’s the plan!” Lulu’d
Feel mortified, overexposed “we’d feign ignorance,” aiming for
Satorial parody, other moments to hang back from rampage.
A new problem set:
Work through naïve discourse —

Keep methods observable as everyday mayhem —
Call this ‘transactional’ taking action
Unlocking — on sight — your pervasive hesitation.

Make it personal then dorky. Work on your arms.
Time for a rabbit out of this or that —
                                  Urban attitudes from
A life is charged by voodoo graphics.

Once you sleep, you take up the ‘thereabouts’ pattern: still, it’s not overrated, I whisper to you, falling for reincarnation roughing it ..oh, wait, déja vu..
Whew! chewing to 1 side, noted by 3rd parties, dentists

Hanging out in unusual white corridors

Suggesting you’re still trembling, owing to

The chew off, just a short chopper ride

From the bank and trade. All vegan, the chew..


This is tomorrow before the cart.
The vapor’s portrait all for it, both arms..
You’re welcome, Mr Speaker.
You and I constitute the unmarried Non-Group playing along, a wild shot
in a ritual to outlast how nice that would be.
Caught in the act... there is the shameful rhyming of Sue with the next end word, Reno, ripped from the lucky pick songbook as is most every line here and beyond; well then,

PS, there’s a masterfully silly next stanza .. spins the entire ‘enlightening’ arc on its heels, forcing speculation — you’re not only cooling off but looking into and out of the eerie, pathetic cartesian axis of ..

Stanza: A suck-up acts obsequiously toward a bootlicker, flatterer yes-man, flunky, lackey, spaniel stooge. Cold blooded around the longest day of the year, rhyming with you.
Christ, I hope you succumb to mezzo logic

even if your other car is a broom.

Morning has two or more other parts. Pieces whose lengths alternate among eight lanes here,
snaking around ‘our entire cultural orientation on its heels.’

Faith in darkness brokered like any morbid trend you see thru :

An alto sax and you may figure prominently.

To cheat the fates “women and men returning the favor” marry your projectile. Welcome back.
First block, Comm Ave & if you go, dress down — anything aggressive looks terrible.
Capacious anxiety, yup, again —
Hold to your decoder status
When done run off with your belongings —

Back to the South Shore.
The journey along the expressway feels made up so we can live by ourselves without being alone.
To teach a lesson sinking into inaudibility
“a poem with fewer pictures looks better.”
You may have expected more

yet every phrase from the past is touched by your future.


Ridiculed by sycophants & inferiors, RM Rilke talked to whom?
I rank his output very high.
Off the scale, 9 plus or more to exaggerate
(if I could, hmm).

Duino. No lacunae needed, Rilke’s asyntacity sets an extreme standard atop
chaffron & crinet, maximally tall, looking down over his sprawling,
immersive, dark & smoky project-for-good, 10 or higher.

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

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

Not being Alexander 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.
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 digital copy and hybrid processing from search algorithms, remixed with other types of found or authored material.

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 wrenching formal droplets from their generic 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 plain speech (scanning other people’s suffering, one readymade example).

Surprised, we stood and talked for a while until, with Cosby-ish aplomb, his stand-in lifted the tarp and showed it to us.
It’s spooky rhyme but it wasn’t my first

choice; the machine flunked me —
My thought calculates sitting there. It restores my faith in the bonus shod of prowess, smoking in slacks (touching my two knees behind your back), undressing. Exercises for throat become a habit they can’t keep up but the revenge police are still baffled, turning bright green.
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 shoot from every progressive angle.

I'm winding into a reliance on hardworking pleasures, broccoli, incense
and venue 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.


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 in each glance — a name burned..
to a crisp. Smile. Shall we?
Rough framework: A giddy notation to a story.

Visuals like abstract blurs formally at odds,
Split seconds in a bigger act with no data.
A bog of cloudburst capsizes, disabused of clouds, 
blending in, no longer exterior to land 
untrusted and tenured, a heavy rain 
snapping into randomness.
Role switch. I’m editing you a poem.

I’m not unversed in universal postcard theory. I hear it’s packed with shrill ideology, multivalent intelligence, ultra-experimental conversation. But postcards, man, they feel good as marginal surprises.

I’m writing where the living talk to the dead, like the hushed in mysticism boasting of their willingness to find compromise.
Rumor confirmed. Not a dress. Dresses.

Now she’s spilling bourbon over my a-line, all thumbs to keep our game up & running. Likewise I’ll write about it. As poet-jewel-thief wearing a-lines, you might think it profitable for me to string her sentences together — paste rubies & artificial pearls deliberately mismatched, like John Waters’ suburbs, adroitly passé. Each sentence shines in gloom as ends won’t match up with beginnings, not quite, each sparkle dulled into an afterthought containing falsehoods but cinched by faintly plausible style — sparkle doubled down, my other dresses hanging above bowls of Chesapeake crabs & fish hooks, accidents-in-the-making!

Looking into the camera, I go clubbing, shopping & I like standing outside various consulates.

I’ll let you know how that fares.
There is slender lovemaking on square obstacles.
To stop tremors, rouged slippers are warmed like leftovers, something a lapdog in one room repairs with, to a separate bungalow. The commissary is situated down in the sub-chambers, getting there aimlessly onerous. What will they spell for lunch today?
Pull over, this is serious.
Quiet desperation, the flip side of formalism ...


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.
(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.)
Yes or no in 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. No yet also yes to poems scoping life as a masterpiece, addressing a doormat standing an inch off the casing, fourth-up past the itch out of everywhere but nothing or every itch up your sleeve. Yes or no tempo of glyphic turmoil grounded into dotage and torpid incision in not one vowel or all 80 of them — 800, yes or no prophase for pensive description. No to yes there’s insatiable shine.
The 10 impulses do not exist
So that the singular are correct appears

A flaw 2 syntactical secessionists —

No separation, we were on our feet. Stepped on toes. This
Could keep up as long as 1 cared 2 bring a monster like Trump 2 headstrong, crocodile tears.

That’s what 1 impulse looks like or sounds like, not is.
On a second take kinfolk are defined for their good sense
by god, by sex. Thank god that intimidates.

Never scat, I learned squat, handily
Apollonian on a fad diet...I get the feeling
one’s god has gone one’s way.
Cause of death
a) mixed nuts
b) occasional manifesto
c) serial paeans


Last or llth hour w you:

If you
weigh nothing
and get no credit, no
spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in
yah there’s a substitution agreement containing you
and me in force, pulled on from inside.

— If dear, and oh yah asleep / awake again, more than once w/ a face of a poet. Or a filled out line. Or lines. Smiling lessons.
Unapplied sketch.

Home base, hierarchal Finland: say it’s working through the population.
We’re the entire crew. The socialist’s way.
Two smoky dogs tracking our boots in drizzle, shining from sight, playing by stacks of storm windows in restless composure translators can’t reach.
To aggregate is to achieve. Afterward a file will result.
I am sick of academics or money majors telling poets
There’s deficiency of thought, of ideas.
All the same, this is the 2nd point.
The 1st is like the oboe in I. Got. You. “Tear up this paper,”
Adorno says. Plain speech is a fair shake at fame.

When you put your money down
We can start from the beginning.
The rules commit us to collaborating, which turns to collective anger
Over language. But you’ve always been mad about something else.
In this bronze age of cliché

Men and women are spangled genetic machines. 

I know that. 

Taking chances put us in a lissome interpretive state (birth). Function varies widely.

Ever since, every utterance is for sale. I’m intensely delighted, taut-
Relaxed, I’m exposed, unspooled. So this is not a test.
Cliches started at the top, your left knee was just there, illicitly,
Then a left-right in a series

W/ only a few elements to form bands to reality.
I could see up to the clavicle. Marines and the police

Went wild one lane over, so I was arrested.
Mellow landscape:

On earth bodies of work change motives for raisinets 

to stay fresh, even when a tectonic plate jumps up like under
Slaver mandolins (in spades).
I can see it happening, a con on the brain
where data get processed in fewer and fewer dots, data

clinging to like objects, bourbon and mints.

And down in fog shoes... here’s where I lost them. (Ever 

-yone does.) Not just me. Clouded yellows ennoble the sky taking over

a closed gas station hungry for more events.
Just saying
Spontaneity backs up position vectors.

Woe is paralytic.


Can we construct the weather to circle bright light credited to seven chimeras in a purified labyrinth?
Yes, I think we can. Those seven now under the weather quiver to sleep, resembling one another trembling.

Pine assembled.
Iron Man’s story is demagnetized, clad in desolate sarcasms. The problem with armed robots turns into a familiar intra-corporate hissy fit of wits, in which the good and the bad have half a point, each. The U.S. military is unprepared, on hold until lawyers and the free press show up. The government is reforming itself in Arizona, maybe. Not messing with Gwyneth Paltrow, Robert Downey’s action requires we slurp it up and merge with his pure, open, and larger character outside merely bringing animation-to-life: his art and his body, his figure and his celebrity, our viewing and his performance. Then he twists the head off Jeff Bridges, g’bye. Downey is leaving us holding the check, a synthetic notary of chintz and winsomeness stomping and cavorting giantlike across our timidity. Moral? Even his neck muscles have learned to shrug, a great veteran begins to combust.
You want an open divorce.

I am thrown into an absolute — take a wild guess. Moolah, piles of it stuffed in holes carved out of planet Earth, stacking up with such speed it reflects us as we advance toward convenience stops and arbitrary stretches we don’t care about.
Honest accounting disappears like functions of context (jury deliberation) —
as though all is well with our stats, as though we never knew the cosmos on a first-person basis, never forgot the name of the enslaved for vampiring the engines.

Meaning I am ready.
Obfuscate more, the glued predicates are drying.
‘Polls’ down.
No truth merges presidentially / you well know
Bad news just talks its way in —

As if ..It’s ok. Just punishment

Confounding unconscientiously, touching dual roles in the human algorithmic — desultory of us to ‘read’ and re‘read’ brutality extending to our one political body always for the first and next time ..
Step Five (ok, I hardly get to do this one): I start nodding off admiring invisible gamma material at some teeny level of stochastic existence. I can imagine a spontaneous disintegration of same until I find myself in a place like here, only a ‘half-life’ where speech is still material.
Lynne drops the phone. She looks at the limo waiting to take her on and beyond. By now thinking for Lynne is challenging but I have practiced warrior politics a bit. That's a fact, just as outlaws and heroes are arbitrarily broken up by the parking arcade and doorways where a government like ours gets established.


Longhand example:

Anguish over a panel about reasoning and not writing anything down, angst in its emptied refraction dancing on a taillight for syntactical beings (in a sentence) on a muddy sidewalk.
So that’s one.
A breach of manners can be a sentence. Or a fragment. There is urgency in ideas.

I live in an echo of a country.

In the interim we reached an agreement.
Sex would be redubbed genetic sleep deprivation.

I’ll admit this view is crazy as soft thick quilts the sun

marshals over the property.

I should break my leasehold, ergo. Not really, she said out

loud, ahead of how I was supposed to know.

This was the first time.
You know, you look psychic ..

Dear Hightop,
To take part stopping the snowman mid-grin ..
There’s a container for every passion.

Passion, the big man.

Mmmmmmmm immersive trance spot, on loud

so the ambient workspace can hear,

feel it in stages striking after dark.

With or without, intimate forces of light lower, after all,

just as there’s bad DNA

or much less awesome crap. The of of partial perpetuity

feeling the kill

whilst warming up together / alone in an explosive network..
The same music and books,
Ah blizzard.
Can you come up with abstract threads?
The Buffalo of paradise could be Pasadena.. What?
There I died of Abilify and became a robot —
ever since I’ve been threaded with ..
silence in the eco-sleep aisle. Reading less now and more.
Donald Sutherland’s bio on me — on my mind, just to be clear.
Does or did he mention lutefisk — fish jellied in lye? Not sure.
We were dangerous, once. The voice is transparent, too middle aged to make it sparse. Even restraint is wishy-washy. A lake in your basement doubling, you’re too aquarist and prodigal to feel anything. It’s a place angelfish enjoy their revisionist’s view, unobstructed, puckered in ab exercise.
Baking is a big puzzlement of natural selection. The audience rises.
Never enough zest or sprouts. Propose the synonym.