There’s a cool but thoroughly staged oral tradition that’s like trail mix, so rhetorically honey-sealed and narratively palatable anyone with a few years of good high school English can have in. It’s clear long jumps and pull-ups in tone signify irony and distance about food prep and galley stainless. The gestalt is to flare up yet relax a while, stay urbanely offhand and sound normal, not superior in any obvious way. I’ve been saving a few hours for you. Do hang on.
We have no boundaries and can go no further even in unendurable weather.

A dictionary of Indo-European roots lists derivatives for gno = know, can, cunning, ken, kith, kin, uncouth, notice, notify, notion, notorious, cognition, recognize, connoisseur, quaint(?), ignore, noble (known, knowable), gnomon (diagnosis, prognosis), narrate (from Latin gnarrare); & these less ‘probable’ links = note, annotate, norm, abnormal, enormous. 

Poets, I guess, know this, so someone’s dismissal of another's work by shrug / hum is unclear thinking, a mark of unknowing. Patterns of dismissal show a settlement of ignorance. Ignorance comes easy, tho, among conservatives like me. First is not reading. I won’t buy the book, if given the book, I’ll sell it. Second, there’s reading just to find a formal quality (scanning?). Can I do this? What’s the vocabulary like? This reveals a poco inquisitiveness, but it’s all about willful typecasting, bracketing in other words streamlined for not reading further. For face to face ignorance, there’s not listening or not listening much or listening to find an opening for my chance to speak (hey do you like what I do?). Hanging around other egos like mine is just not fun, unless, of course, there are compensating abnormalities.

What I want are noble communities of uncouth poets who not only notice one another but stay awake & narrate Oh. If it’s abnormally sweet, you’ll be the first to know.

— drafted 2003
I added frontal motion to those looks that intimidate, m’lord.
Visual surprise comes with an infrequent snow flake or volcano ember
floating at nose level. That’s cool — I’m creamed just for sleeping with you, blackmailed..

wandering into the new wrong theater guild

chopped into little squares of hypnotic drumming

and massive parallel vistas projecting smiles and learning

showing up invisibly. Involuntary. Libido.
Manners of ambiguity?
To buy her lipstick.


A chance at a longer life.
The copy writes itself.
I pulled out a blank check and left it blank.
Nonviolence resolutions have been approved. This is the place for airborne definitions. Here you find remuted meaning, good as gossip to evade a “mixed remuting strategy” to partner with whom, exactly?

O Headwaiters..

I have a steady girl now. I have rage stamped inside. I keep it everywhere inside

everywhere. Coordinates
O rockets to further research.
— O bailiff, be this...
Sung. A first poem.
I had the idea surviving —  
vibrant feelings on a moving day 
washed in over time — (if we need one)  
What do you need now and for what?  

Does it matter, that light and grey question?  
Do you test, tease, defame to get the best?  
I ducked his punch, closed the distance.  
I told him, no, I want to bolt. Add a little piece  
in today’s Times calling Merce Cunningham’s  
choreography Democracy in Action. A refreshing run around  
the clique-minded,  
there are Cunningham’s last figurines / their aptness in transit 
when pragma-morphism brainstorms over noncombatants,  
absent zest vapors make-shifted to pulp —
My muse wants subjects to invent ..
It’s our advantage being excommunicated. 
Being British, it’s not our nature to boast. Fortunately, we don’t have to. 

We’re British.
With every rallentando I feel cleaner, more nondenominational than ever
Now a little drunk I look up at elm crocuses fighting odor, climbing the trunk.
It’s air apparent. I feel cleaner with you. Clearer in noble gas and flux. I do.
Molecules will sue

You — they’ll sue us both for our goals and coral glow —
What a snit! Apart from love I am ashamed now
Breaking up with you feels like getting tested for flu ...
You and I in slow, we hope, radon decay
Torched with prayer.
hypoxia — the poor make us sick, Symptoms of.


We never talk about words until it hurts. What a general restatement!

I can’t win, that’s the meaning of your resentment.

More bounce for the retina to unscrew my hysteria pouring up but embarrassing, rocking like a party, losing both death and life, dropping your rogue’s whip over my heels.
One cause is edged with distant buzz, intervention — you have the touch —
tides by the book rotate out to here, the rim and pliant acreage possessed by that touch.

Emotions in gear, a snake tail in quiet we won’t notice until eased into set phrases, foiled
by moments of tact, awaiting séance.
Adam made 10,000 mistakes — and won’t ‘correlate’ the enormity of it, since evolutionists even now are running back to his bedside to hear more about causality —

Yet the context’s unlocked, to no ideology hewn. I’m

Eve, off Adam’s rib, a financial planner ahead of my time.
I’m still not finished, she says.
We can spot them both as atheoretical elaborators, since they spoke first.
The tallest paintings remeasure your height.

Painting ideas.

You had heard maggots eat paintings stretched onto canvases of different sizes, gloomy jigsaws, severed threads, sticky placards in paint that’s wasted, emaciated planes, junk and emptiness.

Painting double quotes.
What’s he got to talk about beside his sack of parrots?

He’s snooty and sells antiques?


The skinny from last night avoids defining many obscure or complex wranglings.

Yet I like a text assemblage of contradictions.
Neanderthals constructed poems in two rings of deliberately cracked stalagmites, 400 per ring.

First to impress their Swedish hosts, workshopped into volunteer flotation gear.
Re-examining my savagery…
doing what Pessoa said.
In another version if I admit I enjoy tricky intersections I’ll be taking sides. I told them at calisthenics I’d prefer not to watch from the grandstand and de-harvest illusions of atmospheric slop. But doing it I missed what happens. Walking away burns more calories. Better to get a coach or two to work out with you, pretending they are you, covering your lips with my gloved thumb.
Talk while you paint.

Look, a flying now. A case of voice 

Over matte finish.
As you advance thru security 

This line is busy. What’s the problem?
What’s going on? Hose us off

— they know — because motion

In heat 

Protects them — they won.

Likewise, I nabbed one

More, I could sit on them

While they wobble all day. 

Do I have the name right?
Prose gets along in a poem. It has a work permit. That’s why
The place has been wiped clean of unforced errors.

A poem essay invests in spontaneity gleaned from what icons blur;
Bourgeois think war unjust when there’s no one to lose it. Hoy

Until now there were no bourgeois poet essayists.
Yet, we could rubber any room —
My advice for exploring ideas, stick to the sentence.
To go along continue needing riches.
Thanks for writing.
I’ve been put on a 20-year panel of sun. Once again.
Family ghosts, male and female, roam outside with the panicked surrounding our dark thoughts. (All of them.)
It’s like a dance to respect what you guys were doing — our surprised look while you were working on it.

There’s hustle to market, along with rips in the drawers of space/time whose pulls burgeon on ennobling, blobby warmth, piping up like Boulez,
accompanied by addictions to risk among filmy shapes in vertical bands, except you...
With continued use
A lot of faces head off the wave.
I'm ending both.


Never disagree
with inferiors. Superiors. Never.
Never point to silent contentment,
its branches lifting suspended glare
defining an invisible rotating column.
Sitting down delivers good news, stateliness already had its faint say. Now you can text and drive overtime, behold zeta functions befalling hedgerows like a new highway divider along an infinite axis.
Trix or Trixie is the name. In a compulsive battle over dejected smiley faces, it’s not just who guffaws fast, but who takes off with alarming ideas about lexicon.
How can Trix (better) hear the extreme difficulty in separating external compulsion from the experience of desire..

..through the door on top of sematics?

Trixie, again, leaves for finishing school. She’s wearing khakis and a red T-shirt and my new backpack stuffed with graphs. She wants more than a group-regulated ethos for the manufacture of comedy and verse. Like you who said

The archives are at risk.
“With the past falling..” That’s good, because I sneaked across those gimme-erotic catalysts. (I don’t remember whose or how.) 

I’ll subsist in attrition finding and picking up purviews “encircling travel” — a shore in maneuvers pitched way up like mores with infectious provisos, integers-to-be and no buzz to kill. 
A buzz beats my eyes open when I (am or) was looking ragged but in a studied, not irresponsible way, reading and taking dictation to wrap up sleep.
Captain your thoughts
then opt for a safety
school. Push shyness aside,
spiff up & sign all smog-
sniffing affirmations.
Regulate an embrace multi-nationally.
Es geshah am helichten Tag —

Never feel sorry for the diva
who has brains and eats
— never forward your resume or IQ to a date.


The terms are, go settle down through the evening and finish your agenda
At gunpoint. Please, even heartthrobs will be covered by shrouds that fray
And unspool to tease advantage from the plan. Imprisoning refinement.
If you’re not there, anything Apollonian looks flab prone.
O yup, a broad context refuses to arbitrate glamour, okay... we’re done
.. On my behalf Apollo can break laws to shoulder perfection or save a life, once or
either way is fractional in the bigger context / e.r.
Freedom is impersonal. With more solid throwdowns of perfection up the hall,
binary fission about meaning what is not said
or saying what is not meant.
Radon d’Etre

Cold drafts are escapement and spray
forming part brightness with a pulse,
part average improvisatory dare.
Diluent? Sleepy days of assented-to hours loosen us
from these biodata — discharged to interiors,
into sussed, sonic focus.
is my safe house until I can’t stop
fixing the straps I tore
for you.
2. Bad news, I was
struck by the French property owner. You know,
plagiarism in quotes.
It’s cold indirection
but my metabolism really took off, along with emotions from a huge manuscript
I’m freezing

for the ‘end quote.’
Watching text spin like sentience
refined by distance, since
it’s both or none of the above, this could be for you now.
1. I use bigger words than you,
The spring flowers, the moon in autumn —
Classification by evolutionary collisions.
I think I prefer staying all-purpose, best calm, never resolved.


Bandits 1st.

You translators are a close 2nd.

That leaves ‘just the 2 of us.’ We appear ordinary. This is about something else.

Then I repeat if I were you I’m all I should have —
Provincetown: Trained staff encourage sampling as Lt Benji takes fingerprints, once a full-time hobby for Meister beach boy put in charge after age 30.

No incriminating evidence yet (or ever). The night is young.
What can be done to language? Never again?

Boredom is poor experiment, our supervisor said. And that’s what we wrote down to snap out of it — lightness, joy, eyes-open dream. And 3rd cousin to dream. Knower and known are clean osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we’re way behind the suitably flared frontier.

Time I guess to air-lift eagerness and cover it. I’ve been a floater of cynicism in relation to any concept I sever. (It’s hard for me to take credit.) “It’s always about dying,”
Btw, “never death.” A living cousin to death, as to ‘never,’ I never never. I consider myself a neurolinguistic product manager. Once removed.
Celebrity stalkers.

We invented Hubble.
What we thought we knew
we enjoyed making dumb-
great from the top
terminating in masked handlers.

Following orders we reflect their mistaken identity,
immune to sudden desire with intimacy.
What have we got to lose?
Language + materials referred to, dimensions variable. Dimensions variable. That’s the ceci n’est pas une pipe part. I’m one of those hoarders of history, picking out, piling stuff in the garage
(of accessible language), keeping barbed wire and Ted Greenwald materials reconciled like chairs.
I’m fifteen. We can do the roundtable math rather well, yet not entirely. Free-range sunlight in the clerestory of our lair... where elements of bloodthirsty aplomb are excessively off-key. Safety in timing carefully disguised as bright to furious, knowing the advantages waiting a beat.


Ode to the dead (maybe not yet).
A beautiful sentence:
Everyone’s in place. One’s place.
Food also knows where it belongs.

The stage brightens.
Is it sub-luminous un-inhibiting our endowment?

Knowing the ropes to scale now
clearing the theatre of lame comforts,

Stern, all the food pecked over, even down
to our place, last place, last row.
Frequently there’s a bitch
for whom you kiss that person.

She’s the bird notes
with a contract to bore within

— loyal as her lookout torn from a doorway
in a sparse analysis of unified travel.
don’t pick on anyone else..
Top of the moment — I saw your approaching motion
my once satellite du monde in demi vacuum.
Now you’re smiling, shhhhh more observant, with a more observant love.
Still flush — yes, feels.. not useless.
It feels like impossible.

Likely, shhhhh becomes welcoming
hands that boss

maneuvers. Explanation intact.
Your movements go by a few names, still coordinated but hidden in.. hardly underwear.

Not dreadful but low, classic, easy, unforgettable elements surrounding a presence (for now) then taking off your panties —

For nudity, it’s always a swing dance in practice, a new side of narrowing expense and becoming hollow thru the center, handing over your bills and coins.

A lot of Dutch people go Dutch.
Marxist-self irony:
I’m a neo-accepter of making and being particles of subjective misnomers. 
Eating and breathing them too.



My old neighbor created L’il Abner out of vitriol and bolus of sardonic revenge after WWII, exorcised as Ozark distantiation. Jester tricked to death.

Now, it’s the end of aging; cartooning is flat out hot. Order within chaos. Be one with it.
I have an eye on jesters while I’m holding to their path, rescuing no one.
It’s July, August..
And this is what it means to have a muse.
A poet will work in a freezing apartment that is far more than a place for thoughts to gather thru summer. She struggles in cold rooms for little compensation and goes beyond the joy of subverting the arbiters of something. Something something.
Have we no will, no interest to shed our platform ambiguity?
Rainy Sundays or any day we break for the Olympics observed or imagined on the ceiling: Rationed atheism has long been the main event. Sectarian payments find a balance of situation (organ music), steam and rush-formatted white ‘sky’ disappearing like totals in multiplicities (music for copulation). Late afternoon to others.
Ethical epitomes go against the grain. Maybe a grain.
What are faux resonators for but to attempt command of natural selection and all bloodlines.
Um.. there’s nothing but an eye blush of heat that measures desperate ‘orders’ you understand in reckless hands —
Don’t forget silent partners ripening in the future, un-despairing, effect usage summaries...

Brilliant. Breathing life, we have hundreds of these, o Swami, nothing to discredit and
...no hell to pay!
Live longer.
The archives are at risk.


Insert the bonus and exchange — what do you know! —
Your tongue is radiant, clean up to my neck,

a phenomenal fact and factoid that can end in a draw sustained by
getting up, stretching for an hour.
Factor in a plug-in for artisan strength calisthenics.

Corporal resonance turns into a prism on top of which you can finger-point to the horizon, magnified and askew. So note what happens.
Better to get a friend or two to write for you, pretending they are you, falling mute, covering your lips with my gloved thumb.
Angst roughens up indulgence.
You knew the side effects —
We’re 1/2-way there. That’s when the aliens evanesce.
Their loneliness and excruciating pain
smothered during rifle practice.. swimming in a freezing
basin, weeping .. piling on debt ..
I’ll tell you what awaits the weary in The Bible. Locusts.
Varsity crew:

In zendo lighting eyes drift as if

undressing underwater. I see why snails

build a house. They stand around and tank,
coltish to the end. Jacobeans.
A disheartening skull pile supposes its completion. Angels speak up, tho, in dialog enhancer mode.
We get to a point where we have to stop, adjusting to marsh purviews returned as shrine –y meadow.

I give up missing your skin.