This is ur-autumn & with these Q-tips it’s free to cut nothing off.
Not even a con anarchist.
Under pre-season conditions, thoughts washed over time —
For starters: Do you test, lease, defame to get the best?

& the answer in a day wherever that is if ...
Is it time or times?
I came for the invoices.

Ever notice? No one lives in that town.

Half-vegetarian, self-colliding fog drinks only from its disconnected, treasured demographic squandering energy.
We cannot mean erasure, remember.
Our nerve infused by regulatory propriety until we get up to dance founding paradox.

Name a landscape and give birth, rename it and you bestow an ecology of resonance and history.

We’ve heard enough.

This is strictly the governor’s business.
Will you cover me?
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Anne is compassionate.
Sonnet 3:

Fate felt better in winter, if not, youth’s fate will give up. Now is the time.
Image & posterity aren’t everything. But they call you back. Same for dying. Stop Pisces & disdain.
Mark self-love as not an option. Unearned. & thru windows nearly your
Own age April will renew another shower that forms
Single light flows, now “Could you be a little more specific, viewer?”
Fair, prime, calling you, fond of repairing for rain
An ear, face, a form of yours remembered.
You’re really this tall? There is no wrong answer. Your current voice sports a staggering pedigree, too late to make it sparse.

Even your restraint is watered. You’re too qualified and thrifty to feel anything suspended — Mayday!
I told you I agree. Enjoy your timeshare, a revisionist’s afterlife to the future, unobstructed, puckered in ab exercise.


80: ...cross-pollination of English and psychology is providing a revitalizing lift. I’ll assume you suspect I faint when I write. Empiricists map it. It’s in the literature. When I write of you, I’m in sympathy and while I try a couple of poses from the repertoire of the defrocked — ha there are great, pure benefits sponsored by broad-shouldered believers afloat, grasping for governance, ocean wide! Wouldn’t you know they’re in an infinite series within the history of gossip. (Or from another angle they are the series, wracked by history.) You who.
Tomorrow will mete out facts to impel more comfortable indeterminacy — for now anxious telepaths, minus me, rush nimbus-wet in devotion to their next decimal of the property. This might be why we’ll read over the presentation, juggle a few heads

and let you know when. Tomorrow.
I worked on this, from D.C.’s escorts: “You can change yourself into infinity, but still get the changes to the location from where you left...” That feels clear in a symbolic realm. It’s a higher amendment.

Again, I’m doing an accordion fold, a plu-code of the escort’s sensibility (as if I know what any 1 syllable of that means). Reverse stabbings thru-out, they concern writing and writing-2 who meet up in a fixed-action pattern within rational yet imprecise kairos, recycling once or twice.

There are episode interiors silhouetted in projections of analysis that screen the ‘official’ episode. However I believe we’re past the middle and nearing an end to 1; the outlines say there’s a Mammoth Double interior where writing adjusts to incidents of long division, complex facticity that writing-2 tears open and begins to pick at to pay writing off in disappointment, near failure — both writing and writing-2 climbing uphill and sliding back down just before turning 17, biting down, gritting their teeth, growing up.

There’s improvisatory depth to one surface and to their despairing perceptions of what won’t be retained, nothing prime to curate or disbelieve. Writing is a little wiped. So is writing-2. The drawing of the accordion frowning, ready to be seen. 2 is blabbing. Writing is a little fucked up too. “Just starting one.” “Cool.” The thing is not to get fucked up too often.

Teaching is something.
7: Two very different looks square equally when you lift up middle age
Serving as homage with the apogee you are.
Young, I staked my reputation on it,
adoring our new illness, touting
you & kissed the air in your high-most pitch.

Stronger in youth,
mortal burning lips, brainy ellipses & a big hand!
Rationed compliments ensue in secret and bloat under rush-formatted steam,
Accounting disappears like functions of context (procedures) —

Physicalism (neural meditation) adapts to amoral schemes
More fearless (less indiscernible) a cappella — Travel well.


Are they saying the same thing? Chögyam Trungpa teaches First thought best thought; George Balanchine, Don’t think do. Both mean and don’t mean it. Put extremely, the meaning / meaningless exotica buries itself in application: a first thought in Trungpa’s belief is already broken in two; thinking (or not thinking), even (or especially) when it’s “first,” impedes being (and incidents not attached to being); while Balanchine wants physical movement to write over and above mental representation, yet one thinks on the way forward to execution. Both statements — first thought, don’t think — are similar examples of intuitive layers in which meaning deploys no meaning, slaying the butterfly native to these parts, reflection on and of opposite outcomes.
128: How often climate stands a tacit partner confounded with snow, which I know jacks about. To be in concord, how often my envy walks into the wiry mirror, tickling the ivory — music for a white harvest. Your hands, piano fingers are morally exigent, maybe, dancing chips shivering in a synthetic silk-festooned weigh station, changing state and situation — how often? Blushing! It’s new weather boldness leaping either side of my poor lips making inward sounds over your lips to kiss.
102: You’re the matter at hand merchandized within isomorphic rotations from green hues perpetual to earth.

You’re asking a lot.

Our love was new.
Well, most of these “pieces” are literal, based on trying to sit down [starting to sing] “Baby, you’re still the matter.”

The access air of inevitability around advanced codes shattered. I hold my tongue. Shattered seemed inauthentic in the first mustache sense. You are more than sex. You’re holding me, the middle of the throat..

I kiss the air. This.
My area is interpretive search.
You’re always not talking.
I get your point (approbation without the tedium of argument).
I come unannounced because I am socially awkward.
A line in a poem.

J parades toward emptiness in subrogation, embraces it to bring us back into space.
J is Kerouac.
A mood is an emotional state. Comcast Xfinity.


Hi cute girl in black hat that works here, brief punches of copy look great. Works in evolutionary niche construction.
De-processing text in a wartime between paragraphs v bullets, guess who’s won?
Tiny, simple, the better to clobber you in short iterations. That ze plan. 

All of Holland Tunnel v one garish tulip brocaded with energy.

You are man-y crisp, a color too blush orange for anything that can happen if you pretend you care.
I’m new to housecleaning with you.
That’s how we have 2 arrays for time & harmony
when doing it.

The ass comment — I meant juniper
within a philosophy (of moving spatial dimensions)
a few hours forward;

heated inference, compressed form, a ‘crown’ of contradictions
veer dimensional rhetoric
meh. Cosmos not not unhappy.

Can waving time like a moony branch
on a corporate tree supersede nature,
a piece of research asks. Why open

atoms under quiver at the edge to sleep?

In a way it just feels like games.
For more in bed we’ll wear tartans & paisley.
119: Intimation, insinuation, innuendo.
It was something I ate but stronger.
Never believe quite a theory, never say it’s conjecture (inauspicious string, hope and fear).
It costs a constellation or a bundle of heart, false of.


I liked him and he liked me. It’s an eye popper, a new
Use for fumy italics — fumy outside,
Different inside, just on my nerve, just to the time
Like him I leave for no one, nothing.
Here take a wildflower. This is my house.

A monk will then say,

Tell us about your recent postal experience.

I was going to mail him
Though he died before I got to the office.
Like him I leave for nothing.
10 out of 10.
116: One’s {most-
Ly random swagger looks on marriage as a catch which alters one’s worth unknown to
Trained} staff encouraging sampling —
Coerced by the life of the owner’s party speaking, fixing this mark: Love is not love.

No one, nothing concentrates like love then doom. That’s if I’m never hit by what I feel in the a.m. I believe you, fool, no man ever loved.

Let me take our musical temperature, wanderings of your true mind bear it out —

What are you and I fixing up? a few removes in weeks, brief hours; for others find soft alteration, removing you.

Love is no fool. It’s goes off the boards, like when the water lilies kick off their work boots and women rule. Snipers crouch,

the edge of Burberry’s.
Capital is redeemable, all winds exchange directions and they’ll barely pertain, and why should they? What’s on our minds will be low on your mussed list, even lower than that. Off list.


Favorite singers reradiate the calmative afterlife attached to interminable sex.
Learned consensus becomes early performance; both adolescent in a persistent sense, the deep pitch shows up invisibly,

unspeakably, as libido constitutes knowledge modules, glistening aimlessly.

Candy will stop by later.
Here’s another centerpiece to explain how flowers are cut in plurals of progression.

Iconoclasts count on progressions in a series, along with any allure of falling fortunes
(they did).

From the center literally nothing is granted, good as your word.
It’s a poem.
Now months later, fine timing
Since you waited to listen, not empower others.

Everything belongs hiding in plain sight, living unhinged, no limits. A fact, also
a point... an ornamental one; our brain / body fiber pierced day, night, point b...

Terpsichore is still ascetic, improvisatory, a voice sherbet hued like Erato’s toppling the series, a voice of suspicion, hisses.
104: You’re being fair doing this, my friend, etc. I saw
You stop the actual dial hands, reset the pace. Still 
as such you and I may be deceived, turning to seasonal
purebreds for new figures, times and hot pricing, unless  
Turning green to yellow with fear is perceived better. Burn for me, friend. Hues balanced in your green motions 
Since.. I have seen shaken vector  
Utilities (direct flares) expressing beauty within your eye. Before you were born to me. 
Perfumes of April still stand as axioms in June — cold pride 
You’ve processed.. already stolen. Since and with such pride 
You turn summer into spring’s fresh age, 
Such a future never can be old.
Here’s what I would say to your teachers.
* We started hubble.
Being a family is our work.
Sonnet 105: We express idolatry as a science. Fair, kind, true.

Amazing to meet you as well as science all in one.

Amazing to touch your penumbra, feel influenced by funky themes, many songs.

I was pleased you communicated thru love.
Take care, and take your time;
likewise, inspire small talk between you

while keeping the sum under surveillance. You look good together.
Juniper my ass.


— since we polished the text, handed it in, don’t expect me after all.

Even if we kiss later, it saddens one to inform the boss
You’re not serious, never are.

Like you we’re turning state’s evidence holding on to meet
                  even newer phenomena (‘stolen parts’
To run over) any & all mayhem coming unannounced (achieved)
Or some won’t since you and I separate thru flexible equations,

Already saying goodbye takes us far up the jet trail! quelling fear of want-
Ing pain. You never can tell. I won’t.
Pantoum: given a key, you lose it
— shifting attention but staying in touch.

I forget functioning ghost towns caked with tire tracks,
I draw a blank on jailhouse interiors and decades of Tonka trucks

[...there is no outside [...] only what’s already here [what we breathe] below,
which is
Immature, impulsive...] [as above]

— I forget empirical relationships the most, the visual force of
                    a “mottled taxonomy,”

Complaints and sworn declarations,
I forget meeting you.
154: I’m sick of true love, disarming love once asleep; I’m diseased, too hot a votary of you.

I’m sick and so I vow a life of heart-inflaming desire never touching you..
Trompe l’oeil conditions I now know approximate maiden hand abstractions.. (tripping by..

each taken up hot as a brand) ..and so well inflaming we grow

mind and body worship by your side, un-quenched, a general practice that warms us before perpetuating a healthful belief system. Or is

That I prove a chaste remedy never cools, but heats my heart for a cure?

As you advance, there are four surveillance cultures from which to plagiarize a response, while materials become more complex, building on what’s been put in the record.

Is that all you’re having for dinner?

One will need a clearer message for individual agency. There’s no humor in discretion. Wind in your hair makes us sick.
We can provide hacks for frenetic formality; tap the death screen. And when you come to a three-syllable word you don’t know, you can just reference your dad’s manual to nab the one-syllable crib.
114: There’s señor that needs you. He has no interest in poetry. My eye wonders if that’s true; his best thoughts knit together like mica in kingly piles, shouts ricocheting through more than 1 voicetrack, lobbing pinned objects and underbrush until they’re scooped up holding our breath, beamed, kicked and gloved by catalysts.
Crime: The noun to which much is given. 
Can you spot the q and a between shorelines?  
While in the time and motion garden, a parallel door banged thru the night.  
I hugged rugged trees in the upstart foreground, our encampment after  
Ridiculous, I guess.. juxtaposed, dative..  
Anglophone atonal fuzzy. It’s so. We know it when we hear it,  


86 (Entanglement): 
Study Freud or any evolutionary researcher of the antic.  
Stick with too insoluble nonfiction you’ll fall into a niche in 5 days  
Blindfolded. Astonished. (Our precious guarantee.) By night 
Too brilliant dislocations a\we\re expected; it goes  
Beyond, there are dark, affable predicates fixated on gulling maneuvers —  
Team spirit by giddy ‘ghosts’ in their familiar case procedures to see into a surfeit of space,  
A sumptuous, sick bond,  
Full sail hosts lacking matter, writing in silence. 
for you

I went to hell with you.
You gave me hiccups back when, floor six. Now my senses are restored. The unoccupied mind is long overdue.

And I’m back in my vertigo seat, reading over and writing my disciplined boilerplate, my editor’s marble thought structure swarming with pleasant memories.
Gilbert Ryle asks, “might not every action or reaction be a piece of shamming?”

To throw out sleep, trust, and nimbus-wet telepathy — I’ll never feel his arms around me again. Never feel the air on my skin, or wake up in his warm bed, I’m done, I don’t get a chance to try again for anything, not even for something I’m not. I can’t do any better than what I’ve done.

“Absolutely,” visiting professor I don’t know her last name will reply, if asked.
It’s only words, assembly, to quote you. 
They are real actors, not people. 


Frame: A diminished mood will be buoyed by scatterings of photos and books, many unread. Cast more atextual sources our way as fodder for your new faculties for text, new ontological components for bringing up temp and humidity composing, as well as subprocesses harder to isolate and observe as they flood into short term memory. Keep the fed in balance for two (or three, as many as you like). Liberal arts breaks further from esthetic scholasticism, inventing new suppositions for research and intimacy. After government, wiry empirical jolts, semblances that comprise enmeshments in a readymade mood and control structure parallel to voc ed for poetics; appliance hint: metronome.
I am is still here, the body’s purring could not be put off. (One dissipates the other.) And one sorority reviews egg whites in their spare, bubbly zeal to outpace an apparatus (not properly issued to commentary).
Wrong. Constantly wrong is correct once an hour if you’re a minute hand person. (Seriously? But what is identity.)
[...can’t stop it...through
language [going in] [out...] cheesy time lapses in which [animating backward] speech & narrative continuity become incrementally
transformed into deep structure affixing Old Norse phonemes to nonobserving verbs. ]
Now my head is cleared.

Still if we had grounds I’d subside higher up having you weed out caution.

I call this leaving you.
We’re trained in several logos and theologies; 
Hey it’s obvious as that degree you’re holding.  
Hands down.  
Sung language has a light vegan sexuality — 
Take a verse.  

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 seeding us like a lawn. 
1: Ornament is content.

The yews know how to wear theirs, contracting buds to bury might in content with our bed in it — the last day we ate the world. Together and tender, flaming, increasing now
and then their memory subsided in time, turning dull and bright green.
63: Hours..drain..blood. Something came up.

As I am now, Max Planck fellows are running off with radical research incentives for a frontier in vanishing unboundedness: Organized treasures in a small package, tethered particle immolation. The dignity of boson appearances, confounding cruelty and love, alike, fed from memory. With little or no motive, the sky foregrounds their process styles, stealing them all always.
Full expression is ruinous ahead of patterned, glimmering haze surrounding the powerful, dating them; you know, the level of glamorous self regard goes high. If all we do is seduce and note conquests, we lose. We lose austere joys, cloud dogma, sculpture perpetrated out of wire in scentless comfort, winter is coming skies. Scentless discomfort, too. 


You’re a mess, honey.
                          — Touch of Evil

Something came up.

Little or no, nothing. There’s so small

an exchange to transact, no product, only

an exhibitionist’s subtopic within the power den,

to prove repeated effort protracts pleasure.
There’s a cloying aspect when able bodies gather to
phenotype, we have to polish the devices

we had called gateways where wealth is wed (by the dooryard)
to far correlates, aspect 2, inventing a new intelligence of largess.

The third part I guess is our resolve that comes in processing integuments,
weekly tea, investigative retailing..

Here’s our take on never getting back together. It’s another part
to tensive healing (a method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow)
in compliance w/ odds off bets already placed... wherein
musical notes conflict w/ breakfast & rubbery clouds, a proverbial laugh:

Nobody totally killed it. Until you. The docents were untouched.

The estate repaired to is only offered in the ‘thereabouts’ pattern:

still, it’s not overrated, I whisper to you, falling myself for reincarnation roughing it ..oh,
wait we did this already..
54: You’re back!

Given the truth, we cave wantonly to your lovely sweet odor (fairer in our forgetfulness).
O wooed rose!

Before they show within you — and like you — perfumes far ahead were of dark matter, unmasking buds that distill a civilizing beauty added to summer’s space

Filling our eyes for show with unmeasured disassociation.
53: A substance note:
Shadow and imitation we know from illusion — 

Millions of nebulae. Curved and hollowed. 

You have some other part a
-s long as shade 
stays constantly out of shape
through spring. Everyone’s one counterfeit value a
-mounts so poorly vs your new beauty, a 
constant show and all 
art, strangely lent to us either way. 
62: A painting of sin beaten, confounding as I am now —

I can say we drained its blood willingly (nurture, nature, frantic leisure).
All my heart the fit was good. My age has traveled on, your every fortified part of spring
When I noticed my self-love at work under you to make your poise smoke
w/ the problem being.


Suspend suspension..

Our hesitance to go there is weather related warmth riding in and a similar improvised sauna of fog out, darkness offshore the day before.
The atmosphere wheezes common sense. We can’t bang it out though its pace is emboldening dreams.

What hinges out?
Hop in, I’m a musician.
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 last seen strapped at the top. A name for emphasis might be imagined.

A serious pronominal.
There’s a discontinuous method to share.
There is an automated palletizer of bread
With industrial KUKA robots in a bakery
In Germany where groove is so 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 anguish,
This would be a special offer, today only.
Anyway, I retract my falsehoods.
Sonnet 26: A life is charged by the menu. A duty so great
Occasionally you sleep, given immunity, I hope.
My thought is tottered, all naked.

Dear you,

The fine knits are lacking for a generalist’s conceit, wanting words to show half a wit. I’m fairly clueless about vertically integrated brinkmanship. Conceits in that field are deliberately made up to look made up, to look as if we need a hand skipping dinner, combing through motions and whatsoever low pressure peeled back from almost getting our tenuous, jutting fingers into and under the interstate that brought you and me home.

I don’t think driving in the mind can be boasted of by moving points so good I’m not worried it gets easier.

I do love you till then.
Something came up. And what’s not mentioned expands underground.
This is unlikely as lightning gaining on fog. Lightning understands

it’s disassociated. Has nothing to transact, no product.

How is it fire some want to be? Up in sparks fog glows

and falls out with grey streaks that look glazed or remedial past

the exercise and expense of the seven seas.
This is a short study. Or it was. Youth is that impressionable.
Ultra blurry, anamorphic, bound movement sung by writing it down and it occurs in the latest form of repayment,

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

As it comes to end, there’s a substitution agreement containing someone to look up to
                            and me in force, pulled on from inside.

— oh yeah, pulled awake more than once w/ a face, a filled out line. Or lines. Smiling lessons.
You contain only so much of me.
I live where you belong, she said.