The workout once was of a soul...
These are my last thoughts before we get married, locked in a horrible grown-up abstraction, a brutally under-decorated three-bedroom townhouse anywhere, sequestered with Katie and Micah, Paranormal Activity’s faunlike targets. Micah has turned himself into a meta-player within our play, a film documentarian, poking an oversized camera in Katie’s haunted direction whenever he can get away with it and even when he can’t. Micah has time on his hands, having recently earned his associate’s; Katie still crams to get hers, and her unease about study is one pretext for the ample albeit unfocused Angst built into the relationship even before Demon shows up. Demon is the third rail, a whiff of a character, though, because it never shows body self (as we wish it would, in skeletal, buff, college-age form). Through old technology, time-lapsed shoots, Demon effects succulent wickedness, making Katie’s queen bed a hell lair and, through Katie, switching Micah’s camera and Micah off. A fourth character, a middle-aged ghost buster with no “expertise” in demons, does a walk-on for comic extension, an ectype of old guys and their clueless remains. The film persuades us there is no outside, only what’s happening inside, perpetually immature, disgusting, and repulsive.

Our mise en scène then is barely fit for longterm observation, deliriously unpleasing, Beckettian. Unlike Beckett, Paranormal Activity advances not through language but through hilarious and (obligatory) cheesy time lapses through which plain speech and narrative continuity become heavy burdens. Forty minutes into it, we want Katie and Micah to stop everything. Twenty minutes later we want them to explode, free of the metaphysics and misery waged inside a film that’s stuck inside us, as it were. Happily, after one more midnight, two weeks or so into the narrative, with only a little time-lapsed hoot in the shadows to prepare us, Katie does a full-body thrust into Micah’s camera, hurling Micah’s cadaver pointblank at us, doing the trick and the favor we had been waiting for. Psychic healing. Catharsis. Unpolished youth crossed over into the next thing.
Innocence is guilt. Yeah, blandness is a problem. No luck too popular. Understanding what’s perfect we fear exclusion slathered with near-imperatives, too mediocre to reformulate. (The unequal in love float ashore.) The second crook as president dark brute-accented imparting how his logic dialogs with others, inflating three dimensions into a formless clot of mist. I hope you’re happy.
To make clear..
We’re #1. I’m a fan of any estimate that flows back to the recent past.. Like no premium withholding options..

One alternative over time is to thank you guys who sent in money. Another is to bawl about immanence and qualia while standing within process reception.

Nothing’s changed in the last few years, ‘As the world starts spinning, John Wieners writes Boston into his bohemia (Nerves); during his mid-career Horatian stage Kenneth Koch romanizes his playbook in the New York School (“Fate,” “The Problem of Anxiety”).

So the waif, the poet-estimator stakes a vantage but never forgets it slips away. No what if. No if, what, nothing.
Taking chances put us in this lissome interpretive state (birth), after all. Function varies widely.


Holy moly, produce and a way to pay for it!
there’s strength in staring at a bug zapper, attracted
to light, staying competitive.
There’s something I haven’t told you, Durante degli Alighieri.

We’re passionate about the sounds right in front of us.

We’re in scandalous terrain sleeping on a couch; eating donuts could send us home.. (I’ll be moving out soon) .. referried to signature seacoasts.

My chosen hairbrush, abandoned. I’m forgetting about it.

Shoulder to shoulder, our emotions subside into idiot access and the dawn blindness

In the black trees.
(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.)
There is slender lovemaking on square obstacles.
To stop tremors, rouged slippers are warmed like leftovers, something a dog in one room repairs with, to a separate commissary down in the sub-chambers, aimlessly onerous. What will they spell for lunch today?
Living to 100 is complicated. You forget to clash.
...can’t stop it...through language [how about] [...] cheesy time lapses in which [traveling backward] speech and narrative continuity become incrementally

transformed into the next thing —

but this late into the authenticity pat-down I’m after just one more thing.

I’m still here, the body’s purring never put aside. (One dissipated the other.)

Considering the birdlike monoplane, I’m having problems visualizing critique.

I’ll try critique with an off-on switch. This is how disorder (hyperbaton) becomes allegory, similar to when traffic freezes. A drawbridge opens up (to let a gunboat pass under), vehicles above turn off = no process reception, reducing counter critique to hysteria. When the bridge suspension comes down, vehicles are more than ‘on,’ firing up partisan contempt for any delays to the status quo, a basis for processing more counters.

The monoplane is one glide above the new normal.


Nothing frilly or glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield.
It’s impolitic to separate the performance from stage direction; both are
deadpan. Have you thought of writing?
To continue, asymmetry solves the perfection problem early on, not remorse. To think I got to witness young Myrtel Hammer
& family out of the box on parole, draped over a bowl of smashed lures & hooks.
Myrtel, you & yours were boring. Is anyone related? We see too-serious regard for perfect categories evolves at the outset competing with yourself... Oneself

— had that been allowed at age six, always a caution... for one of you.

Read the inspection label.
Sir Fric and Frac. Remember?

Fric just called, said “We were swimming naked, a word I often use to characterize my government and binding. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed you by the throat, moved in. I felt something strange but familiar.
To bring this up this late in the afternoon is totemic.”
I fell silent and wrote it all down.
Cut to a blue blood ruffian.

This looks essay. I thought of you, Berryman.
You had a revised voice for most moods; I’m holding to that, rescuing no one.

Cut every day I’m behind, way behind, less affected by less meaning, un-giddy, cut like you.
You’re raising a hand — too late — we like to comport with women you thought
Too lazy for poetry.
You wear counterfeits and feel fake. That’s haute where you are, I bet.

Terre 2017.


To be objective and lack will

is ambition..
Someday the male coloration returns as a feminine force with tinctures or inaudible signs
from a long history of decision making, preparing us for more retrospective behavior, more
implicative speech and extra sensory anger.


Buddha tells me you’re a baby
And I have to destroy my world to get back to yours.
First create massive gaps then put up a bridge to connect employees to each other,
when they move across they can chant — chant openly in a pillar of Nicocrettes.
Shouts of disbelief strung together should be fluid..
Same when it comes to airline safety, there is no plan.

Our guardians are tired of interruptions and self-reflective outreach,
hence the corporation is lonely* as an inter-discipline* that threatens.

* feeling lonely in an inter-discipline = simultaneity in science fiction, a tenet of Hindu verse.
In this revolution I move my mouth; I’m the skinny kid in slapstick, except
it wasn’t slapstick it was acrylic spray.

I worship autocracy of attitude on occasion.

Yes, we consider more relax words
in the influx of not speaking to you for months, nemini facit injuriam —
That’s about it for autocracy. I grew up in my backyard.
Feeling locked outside I thought was apotheosis (resisting it).

Enough sarcasm... let’s try different things, benching the mnemonics.
Time runs out, taxonomies
still unexplained as weather permits. Black
ops at certain altitudes, the hot facts; I’ve
or we feared anti-humanists w/ covert specialties
at the tip — just the tip;

I also squandered ellipses that add up
and forgot I just stood there with nothing to give

A mind occupied, just so.
Am I in an experimental state of forgery? No, I live in a red state. Prithee, how do I maintain balance sheets & my resolute informality?

It’s another day of no hope. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different, jokes turn into sleep. & dreams forgive paranoia’s belated redemption, trapping me inside ambitions to put out the house fire by myself (in my head).

I talk in a low register. My grin sports a few layers of sleep relief, aching in baby, calmly accruing intimacy to belie despair over entropy. A quiet start, zero gravity.

So there’s no dead end!
A Bernini head transplant brings on the knowledge effect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower.


Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam.
At this moment in outdoor photography we’re staying alert, our paired centrism induces little offense, we look and feel great and hotter opportunities are nil. I’m noticing a whisper; the weather connects time with my ideas — my time with ideas, rather. For proof, take a long walk, you’ll spot people that scrape by, not fulfilling norms set by stop action.

They’re washing up.
By caution as usual one could mean caution to the core.
Hence the political surface is blood sport and games, what trainers call discourse and action. Caution is exercised to preserve the constructs protecting access to the core. The equation reduces to politicians = mascots.

As a big spender you don’t have to be interesting.
That doesn’t sound right.
Always repeat what appeals to you.

Acquire many dialects of feeling beautiful, more profitable than deep discounts.
And you need to review hedonism before it’s retouched.
This is a new policy to block deletions that could be missing.
Time, the weather can be avoided or otherwise subsumed into a few lines,
And so fewer syllables than forks in our paths to count now.


— the center of tangled ventriloquism composing..
If I had more foreground I’d do
better to find and weed out pleasure as well as caution.
& if I had taken more notes I’d have
my bearings on “you,” “me” and any unclenched feelings

we had composing
what I can’t pinpoint or supplicate.

So I’m returned to the foreground of what is more
and more like great footage with a shore

in bad translation ecrus, stock blacks, pitched provisos
and scripts-to-be, no part to fix, no comeuppance, none
The will to quiet is the flip side of getting a ch-
amber piece to burble, crying doubly inaudible
for more power, when
how you meditate spins up to the extra surface, no
message. So there’s nothing left as surplus.
My effort could be no effort. (Louise Brooks)

We sometimes spot a need for fresh lexicon in the mind-body problem, words to determine their own behavior, primality and cuboidal glints of jazz headed this way.
I flubbed a sacrifice to cover my ass, appearing tough.

Birds cover their nests, beavers their dams.
People fear us as well because we have a glorious set.
We’re in scandalous terrain sleeping on a couch; eating donuts could send us home.. (I’ll be moving out soon) ..


An emanation is a specter brought up a peg. Just to clear things up.
Reporters agitated, reproached, disappeared.

Property? Who owns self-portraiture under monetized formalism? Owners do, owners of procedures, including a ruling class and photorealists... tho binary opposites, both figure their lives together, no vision or dash, no longer having to know.

They’re realists singing to life,
knowing more than research is treacherous considering those at the top are hardly sitting languidly on the other side of the room without permission.
How nothing else is so intimate in procedural areas?
Painting oneself and me again is nothing. Painting double quotes.
There are a hundred butterflies in the afternoon beauty of Tuesday, Friday your time, earthling lord. What’s wrong watching one or two spin like happy mediums, letting ’em go crazy in the dirt, re-engineering variety and persistence?

My language is not feeling any moral acquisition, dropping sanctions, drinking hot coffee from a can, trying to stick to our roots’ metallic gleam, seething too, proportionate to the reception center open space. The smoke gets shiny and I feel mortified. Period.

The whole firebox is glow. The yellow wallpaper over there is engaging.

The collapse of saying it better is over.
Summer is over.
I manufacture flyweights, drinking up her story, history, empathy,
bounce. A company like ours chips away, inside the parturifacient facility.

I challenge myself almost every week. It’s what stunt men do for life;

two more loiter with intent in the doorway. Both smile, neither laugh.
Her comes my best friend with — her should be here, his successor’s shoulders..
The service manager said these are extraordinary times. Exciting now. Where are we un, um.. if that’s everything, we’ll switch to administrative cadence. Our slogan is, heavier production charges the new world until only a beat prevails. The right hand shadows what generations of fear rarely mine in naked hypotheticals; the heroic code on the other hand never misses.

Minutes after the extra work is filed, dozens are called to line up for a free run of the orchard, company-owned. “This is a very nice benefit,” a leisure pursuit like playing shipwrecked, held for ransom. Those were the funniest jokes, the most extraordinary too. I don’t remember laughing so much. Ever. And I can’t recall being as excited as I am now.

...can’t stop it...through language [how about] [...] cheesy time lapses in which [traveling backward] speech and narrative continuity become incrementally

transformed into the next thing —


Ours was a taxonomic relationship.
Better than marriage, it was an atmosphere-filled parallax.
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 — and due to substitution
Gustave Flaubert haunts this.
My iPhone camera knows where I am.
It would be a challenge to simplify winning a car or suffering injury
starving how?

The future would give more. No more
than thanks.
I thought of you.
I don’t know that much about you, but you remind me of someone
who can recall profound formality taking shape not that far away or 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 minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never happened.


The place was beautifully democratized, I mean dumb.

We’re not so interested in having eyes while mannequins don’t. But this morning I woke from a flash of such nil practicality I blushed, distressed talking to what had to have been just vapor in a sports-transition store.

The place was beautifully democratized, I mean dumb (again and again) :

As Petunia crumbles I deliver a left knee to his face.
You were my boss... up to your becoming a naked person, the force
through the green fuse to drive flowers.
Some people say I am a poet.
Bands break up.

I lost the point of that vast line.
Let’s define line breaks under road pine
along the greens, backing off hunting rules.
No confessions, please. Trying to please pays better
(I was never in 2 places enough to ask permission)

so that school of poetry got back to you. Got that myself : payback’s unnice
...coming clean is a neat precipice in myth that won’t stand for practice —
not while the restive recover from plumb numbness —
we see beneath their flighty dignity...
blistered motion common as flicker tails (the angles) in light made identically hot and cold,

made of the same emotional thinness driving home. That’s the super-definition :

I keep saying moral arguments are gnarly
and gnarlier. Especially on the hunt.

I’m bad at knowing when justice along
with passion is vital, not recreational.


I’m passive but I don’t believe in spooks. Here’s the outline.
A few strings were pulled to get me in this new factual place I would never have chosen.
I lower your singing voice. Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?

I repeat, coming up next from a great fake news publisher, e-songbooks advance going under rewrite as you read them, flipping genres as they plug into you, changing your mind often.

Going on and off half-tuned as an irresolution.
A starry equity or neurons? Words are worlds

that heat up while young at the edge yet a lost cause.
Vicarious is not strong enough.
And titles cost. Avalanche, the virus.

Cherries Hamlet.

I’ve crossed a few lines.

Relax and beware. Certain branches of law aim straight at us. Fuzz, the pronoun, embodies overwrought subject matter while an emanation turns into a specter, brought up a peg to clear things with the bosses.

And I’m awake again, once with a face of a poet lost in dream. Or a formal outline.

Or lines.

I live next to a place with water views. I’m a failure sometimes.
But ocean sniffing is never private, I gasp before the beach driving home, high tide a big data glob crashing to earth.. that night after the super moon — diodes in crimson, finding a soft spot for anyone’s look-see, another beach in a long line magnified ashore, ironically revived!