Right Wing Tomboy — a date movie with Milo peopled by self-helper types, a few cavities. Switching phones, I look up to the crazy intern waiting to take me out.
Silence is oversexed-enormous but I practice it.

I’m sick of nice things.

Not running, walking rapidly, I cross the hall, the long one with the heat transfer ....

... come out the complex, take the duck walk ....
...go through a dedicated lot ....
... and into Q7 in one STEADICAM SHOT.
I’m only a monitor, not a dentist.
Perfect color is an egg-hatching moment, kairos, and from there you can move forward back to detect undertones that encompass your naïve expertise.

Yours and mine.
There are no nasty hues in their nesting place. There’s a flywheel effect turning conversation over to science and greed. A private-public wholesaling of prototypes that mess up the visual cortex — pasted-in blind spots crammed with luxuries that bind. The flip side — tooth and nail radiance powers of color broker for enduring benefits.
Define sex come of age, pleasure long-
stood. Helium released. Populations drenched.
A circus repatriated.


The plan is set in stone, according to Hoyle.

End. Wa? a lip-synched koan?
To continue there’ll be at least a minute of morsels to review.
No outlines? There’s an overload.
You can put it away, our brainchild had shown
Overloading is forgivable only in sleep. Even more so without a bed.
That’s how dogma wins.
I threw together more self portraits today.
Some have kind eyeholes,
a measure of gamblers’ intelligence, along w/ their eyes
of course, pieces of the tea puzzle

in the background — and to sweeten the brew (attention)
young bodies keep moving bets on everything.
the milk rallies across the Atlantic, abundant, compulsive, redemptive and busy with slivers of disruption, some rousing start to en plein beauty.
It’s a trap, why were we going?
It’s easier to French-kiss over Europe, more natural to pose
— here we repeatedly set it up — a painting in asterisks.
A Kremlin of lips. A Cyrillic vowel.

A Workers’ harmony. A song might leak

out when silence is the acoustic remedy,

but how can we escape by foot an occupation of wings?

— Anne Boyer, 2008
Then it’s said repetitive motion has gone too far
and some at all levels got enclosed, not spoken of,
climbing into casual spectacle, ritually putting
our lives together & keeping nothing.
[Trained] S[s]taff encourages sampling
sharpened by a moral duty.

That was the life of the party speaking. Highly attentive,
morally camouflaged. Way
none of the above.
So you get it now about dualism, you make 4 walls the rendezvous, hang a roof, lounge in queue for the motorcade. The ride will be a brief —


Stanzas are replicas for what’s

On the island of afternoon aliens.

A colonel-general. What a night. No problem

Erasing the narrative and

The ordinary structure and storied specs

That were. 

Waking up, hay-feverish, stuffed-up nothing seen

Standing far off across
 your just dreaming it up.
Wha.. sorry. I was wondering if you’d care to show us around..

Last night or the last few nights taking the wrong bus.
Dropped off in a maze.
No, no food use. That’s a warning.

‘Normal’ locals with misleading directions for the way out.

A rooming house. Inside, every room named canonically after a poetics. Defence of Ryme, Habits of Empire, Preface to Sordello, Being and Event, Thick in the Field, Prepositions, Camera Lucida ... the kitchen Untitled.
To wield a conceptual brush is to terrorize, even if your motivating injunctions steer clear of violence or unregulated emotion. Terror here is poetry’s swift, certain, nontrivial insertion through a hole and/or through self-negation in certitude and flatulent controversy, such as with Basho’s disproving human sound unable to transform animal to mineral, or with Duchamp’s counter-ploy to the rule, men’s room accoutrements are never foreground. 

Controversy, like injunction, comes to us commonly or frequently as back-formation, a provisional ethos after the conceptual stroke. We were constrained by the profound assumption, for example, that a play requires the tone and stage be set in more than five words. We were tacitly sure of this, marginalized more from different affects until we read Beckett’s new direction: A country road. A tree.

We’re in charge, we’ll stay here. And while anyone can stumble and a few of us slip into reduced circumstances, the failure to consummate a redeeming relationship is no problem. Repeat deferment is strategic, and there’s a sequel. We keep the sweetest for now, that is, we’ll keep the best of what life offers, the youngest males and females, unperched, close to our pulse, and poke them tenderly like endangered kittens. And — sure — there’s still an itch — we can’t sublimate — needing cougar flesh, dog fluids, and more infusions of cash. Savings, inheritance and loans that paid for all this look more ghoulish under the froth of rulership, the new austerity in mirrors.
Nobody’s a bystander.
Ice is a mineral, undead in the water. There is no guarantee, however.
Plan and organize.


With all due realism, it’s not enforced. Interior freedom is personal. My supply chain is.. national, informed realpolitik ..

There’s a state insect bullied by the beat — a big smile across its face, appendages gone wiggly.

Summary of charges not filed.
Wait here for the supremacist outside.
I sing of an average gas delivery totaling hundreds of therms;
the stop-and-frisk repairs to a separate clearance aft

— a quiet pace except for clanging plastic : Lake Drastic
containers hanging along the bow : the cow?

There’s a rule-of-thumb
exclusion with relaxed directions.

The cow district is in the peroration,
a normal pfffft..

Tomorrow can mete out facts to impel comfortable indeterminacy —
as if we could rush ourselves thru devotion to our next decimal of the property.

When it comes to half-dog leitmotifs
things pick up during voter fraud registration.

I own two-way ideas, to scale.
It kept adding up. I had no modesty issues, none detected, fewer and fewer policy goals.

Soon we relaxed our balance to parry something (or perhaps two things) that once seemed clear enough, but not now, here we are...

like two radical vapors, untitled moods.
Your statement is enclosed.
I’ve highlighted failures in a box to select whom you’re with, reaching through the outside, athletic, sandy from Apollonian aromas of polycarbonate, a statement like tall, gripping in a raining birdscape.


Our treasure is sunk. Formerly breathtaking, we were amazed, once, at all the money. We thought it ours, Oyster Harbor, Eelfleet, Burningseed McMansions shuttered, careers punctured, a sullen style still deferred!

I’ll speak for many. We lost sight of bowls of irony and riches and a lighter time, reduced to our surface (essence), the chilled gimmick of our inner teen vegetarian vampirism. Well, half-vegetarian — we drink only discounted blood of nonhumans for the moment, ha ha, since we’ve gone through some bucks, and since the lovers among us hanker to appear manly and acceptable to a widening, treasured demographic, prurient moms and their frenzied daughters and sons. For all of them, we won’t make it harsh, except when holding them out of reach from other vampires.
The ‘universal’ that is so obvious in Joan Miró
is less so

here — I’m just making up excuses.

For the city & surrounding areas I take roads by a shore in bad translation
blues, stock blacks pitched toward numbers-to-be, no part
to fix, no concupiscence & no comeuppance.

Provisos & driving pull me into conceptual realism, along with brighter composing subjectivities.

Kittens 1st

— you translators are a close second.

The end divvies up the ethnic accordion out of the rain from haze, round wedges shooting blanks!
A brick housewarming
and your point?

You appear ordinary. This is about barricades, something else.

Horizons w/ no rooms.

I don’t like the idea of holding you but I touched it and it shook my being.

Hidden risks shift weight (your merge accounts request).
The herd rushing to our rescue (there’s a deadline), a tumble of inventions then an ambush ...

A kimono has been entered, explaining the senses without thinking

(An official soundtrack includes J-walkers and bystanders, walking renditions of zealous counterculture.)

... you can’t do this job alone.
Targeting methods
To appear transparent
After a button is pushed
— I’ve heard that scream.


I won $8100!

Today’s real estate curator has a raspy, I’m-married voice, a little loud in a tanktop calling for contingent inscriptions — it’s very cryptogrammic to mis-arrange arcades countervailing seepage along tidal flats.

Marriage is looking good, a mistake but “not a lasting one.”
My job is moving the marsh until it gets exaggerated.
How does it resume?

Who owns my house under socialism?
Propose a synonym or work on it.
Filming you again and just your voice, the glass house (socialism!) perforated by meta-action heating with data.
Doggie, I choose someone who reminds me of you — we’ll proliferate if
we try — if you take up any passage we weigh —
(you get no credit for this)
it’s taken this long to read the gospel of wealth.

Our options are bubble-footed in dark briefs!

preferring lunacy in kissing, diffusion at any cost making a mess / by chapter and verse.

I know this sounds lame — you and I annulled our thingness with a few hand-waves and felt pretty rapt, the way we inspire open, emotional austerity, rubbing eye cream in, admiring buzzwords but no ideas.

No fins of infinity. Nope.

Rubbing it in, pigeons pattern heaven where detachment is trimmed.
You and I have no major issues!
Most rainbows taste of sitcom blown up for Broadway.
They never make it, go back where they come from,
corroded with physical self-disgust, chained to their desks.


Hope to rope. Avoidance with a message sounds handsome, calm, also nervous. In the same robot call he reverses perogatives, that is, the voice does. I’ll table the difference.
The difference is a mixed result but with swift powers that have never been better aligned —

together across the call center that serves as my hideout, learning the ropes, scraps and parts of rope.
I am a smoker

And I blow black smoke in your eyes

“Tear up this paper,”
Everything is trauma (“I exist”).

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 just the beginning.
Fame’s either one long number or buckets of sequence.

Due to erotics
all frontiers have been neutered in place.
Cynics are the dry numb linguists hauled
onto the arc of cleverness. Bad cynics.

Do you like spiral staircases?
There is nothing like listening or being listened
to to find your voice, propose your semantics, style.
Places to go; people to be.


Equity or neurons? These molecules center sobriety on the ground and keep looking up again.

That “looks pretty close” — my eyes closed.

Themes are talk, the walk, affluent persons in the environment trudging.

And with that, I could use your language without a lexicon!
Sobriety will be corrected.
Struggling between comparative and (purely) descriptive vulnerability to vie for solitude, taking your hand to suspend my paradigm...

I killed for you.
Why’d you bother (all is not lost! — the expression on his face —or two)?
Capsule of self corporation:

The finalists quit joking. General practitioners stepped up but work got converted to specialties with less and less honor system. That’s when mathematicians got unmoored.

Algorithms are vicarious. We thought no way could there be ultimatums to rephrase, immoral aspirations, nothing but work slathered with work.
Experience is impulsive concealment, according to physics from the outside evolving pretexts with no possibility in the future of the past...

experience that’s unpredictable for a pay grade gaining access to weather bombs in a manifold vacuum.

Would taking on something and winning without wanting to substantiate or junk it?

This is a formlet of propositions —
standing in waves smelling of pleasure
a dream of immense peering through
as if I were an action that couldn’t write

yet whose estheticism enlarges.

Diagnosis is a mystery.


A shopper’s world sticks to formula with dogs and consequences mirroring exponentially our wildest ambitions to blur what’s real and yield authority. And to think a way out I guess our ability to influence conversation is remarkable. And some get by admirably in their own terms, throwing stones like money.

You ask, Who are the movers of this steaming, herded frontier?

You start along these lines, checking out the wandering complex with more lines you never leave.
Several woofs from now, a mythic kisser

Awakes in concrete, and decently you pull away, feeling 

Look, a flying cow! A case of Fido’s voice

Over matte finish.

As you advance through security

The maples glitter; what’s the problem?

Do I have that name right?

Sorry, wrong bark.
A door opens; pweetty violets appear

Not quite as it turns out — not for long.

Following them in each stage they bend, swagger & call

In options sustaining the enpurpled force —

Unbelievable, a wobbly stem. Kiss...
I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles, asides, subjective misnomers. Eating and breathing them too.

A unisex fragrance is on view. Sorry, not tonight.

Ghosts roam with panicked ants. You can put them on. It’s like a dance to respect what we were doing — we were working on it.

There’s body hustle, along with rips in the cargo of space/time where drivers burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth from blades, accompanied by addiction to risk.

Come here often?
A tree falls whether there’s a human in the woods, but the sound of the fall will be disputed when there is no human or human instrument listening or reading the text of the tree’s descent ad infinitum.. 

(I thought of putting aside that a poem is a sonic record of felling trees.)


Rakish note without the right adjective, the exact second I insert the first-person, a falling branch spikes itself five feet deep into our marriage — never seen as coherent and never will be, you design-influenced freak. My love.

The arbitrated décor of our short text can therein be looked after over its time. My

ungalvinized love.
As soon as Dodd Frank is executed, the political-dating scene starts pitching, throws you into the pool owned by the banks. I think we’ll see fireworks blazing, parallel to fiduciary ethics’s total obliteration, fully exposed to daylight. We’re lost, for a second, “in the slumbering gaze” equipped with unsound investments yielding bad advice.

I feel obligated to bequeath my place at the rear of the line to defeated generations swimming backwards, expecting a shield.

President Judge and Jury.

During the break it’s preimpreachment. The no-brain plan has removed a portion.
The lower court somehow slips in; the jurors are asleep. I voted for change.
Injecting their blood is just crazy but I won’t go off schedule. 

Back to the bench.
The vouchsafed stands in shadows on the gravel path
back at work — dusk
urges him to go out more, rehearse
too much and get wasted.
What has he beside a sack of parrots?
He’s snooty and sells commodities like concepts?

He was saying that skull sculpture pile is rot
since it supposes its completion as marsh

-puissance coming back as a meadow variety
of nibbling torque. No way, this just in:

I’m on his regimen.
Smoking hot.
S Jobs’ last will, ‘For this one let’s be fair, our partnership was an accident enjoining technology onto platters of the daisy chain’s stony shape.’

You’re really that tall?