Dear Diary,

Here’s one’s take on getting back together. It’s one part
to tensive healing (a method) stitched to transparency (washes of shadow)

& aspected by hedges, almost. To go on shifting subjects there, about there
— I whisper to you, falling myself for weird directions —
panicked a zillion light seconds too soon — too late thinking literally
in compliance w/ odds off bets already placed... wherein
chants, conflicts w/ breakfast & rubbery clouds, a proverbial laugh:

Nobody totally killed it. The bonuses were punched out, assorted butters. It’s

little irony the highway house repaired to is only offered in the ‘thereabouts’ pattern...
What happened there?
Narrow rails, sheer curtain..

Step out of that church.

Never confess.

Straighten your teeth, vampire.


A politician, claimant of the photogenic vitamin to stop the gurgling,
is not much of a sentence, lacking rounder meaning, more useful settled in mere syntax
as warm-to-medium as a visual partnership queued up for applause.
Coat of arms:
There’s something to mining homilies and off-color
copy, imitating / replicating Dionysius for the evening drive and later.

We’ve now passed the second-cousin stage of wretchedness. You’re
good to take it up with the authorities before severing qualms.
You may have noticed I write over your face, in praise,  
fuzzy & lovely fragrance coming in, out  
of many then forwarding myself as backdrop for another de ar fac
loaded for blizzard.
Sonnet 7:

Outgoing at noon, attending on what? I’m not going out. I’m mouthing off about getting on with or without you. Just look how my sight’s scripted by high pitched infantile alienation, falling over you. Again. It’s not too late! New optimism apparently pays serving your burning head. Another way we’re both blackmailed over there is nothing low, nothing sacred.
Politics & dignity of appearances don’t mix. The financial & party pacs are just kidding. Nothing personal. Trump is the sustained concussion version of civic charity thru animal chaos as vacuum... I also give a lily for what’s not available, a cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments, whinnying for pleasure. Or I cry when it ebbs. 

Government is the emblem of an economy of duress.. South of Palm Beach.. I discredit everything from the engine without a message..
Tattoos first, 2nd, his hair.

The plot leaves the door to irresolution ajar —

Guess what, the grabber is un-belted in segments like a sex rattle
spinning to take effect. It adds an all night ring to our narrative, id est,
the needle breathing hard, leaving the hole
open to mas irresolution
and topspin for picking up the dissolved thread.
You & then I change very slowly with a shower curtain,
on televised football. Management didn’t yell
raising your pulse rate. Or is sweet smelling flame just to remind me?


Frag-mento steps in, We came from coming back, he says, never the same last cry when you like to stay running on a cult classic with breathy folk components, listening and showing we both are here, one part synergetic Weltliteratur giving less weight to fantasy — another, no excuses, is where the renaissance part sways.
What does it mean to work? I don’t know that either. What I know is how to belong, stake out territory and bust heads, maintaining an atmosphere of trust.
2 quests.. Just who are we to say we should attend to what I am doing? It’s love like ours that pitches English to prioritized claims. Are you sitting in the sentence while listening there? wearing nothing but a motive, eager to do what we were afraid to be?
24: This is color in mind: Q-tips & smoke. Good turns. Painter can pick you up, take a day off
              from where everyone who’s still standing is drawn to your shape,
your eye for eye, physical & prime for the stress of form relays between a rat race
             & cunning security. IF
Painter’s 3-D models have your body frame & everyone else’s in mind Painter can gaze on w/, w/out you.
Geometry respects the brain..
somebody likes a piggyback...

Preliminary talk we said,
knowing I’m going to grow

— I just drove all the way
from Hawaii. That proves I
can smooth your hair then do
your cheeks, your temperature would

like it was
lighting up my senses

just before you shave. I’m
noting how your chin juts into form —

It’s deeper, more formal than that really
a perfect animal halo front to back.
I have nothing — O Q-tip


A truffle and goat cheese pizza, for all its ambition, feels contrived
next to Talking Chimp.
The Talking Mallard Dogs sounded as good as they looked, they could speak for themselves, and they seemed so authentic you and your pet thought they were Talking Chimps. But they produced only vowel sounds from a larynx implant device.
Talking Chimp is laughing now unable to stop touching himself.
Spa services await you, Talking Chimp!
Opening windows, pissing.
Perfect! Beautiful...
When the soup lady arrives, a cosmic order inside you snaps. A crack-up.
Exactly, exactly. It’s all gotten to you... poverty, deprivation,
peeing in the streets. So you reach into your bag... and you grab a
knife! You take the knife, and you lunge at the soup but immediately
fall into a numb coma. You are dumb, so you cannot speak, you grunt a little.
Okay? Try it. Good.

You’re confused? I have my poem now.
60: Sing: On a human ~ ant landscape, god feeds on us ants.
It’s unparalleled to the end.

Sing: this changing place, this pebbled
shore is in the repair shop because
it is the repair shop — as miles streak by...

We’ll do what we can — crawling to maturity
set on the rarity of natural youth and beauty.
Slim odds. Almost the same as hopeless in times w/ no hope
Yet guardians who follow grow tired of interruptions and self-
reflective outreach; wherewith the corporation is late
and lonely as an interdiscipline that threatens.

When? as soon as today.
C.V.: In three parts. I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating raven yawns in fair use, and there’s the age old hand hath put link to a disgrace we dreamed up or could dream up, borrowing a face beauty slandered.

#2 Once inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying, nameless, profane, increasing inventory, keeping faith from their esteemed orientation, mining their richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday, they think:

So #3 many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs up they flare into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer! Blocks we’ve been party to after we couldn’t wait. 
Hitherto ethos susses southpaw disproportionality, so lovers per lifetime meet their others halfway, borrowing a face, again and again slanting the blurred promise we had or we don’t know we had after a few hours, letting it die down.
Auto minimalism (3 steps):
I don’t know any means to practice externalizing thought to see myself as snowfall in faint sunlight; I don’t know how to transfer contextuals and theory dated over a hundred years ago or much earlier!

I think I might keep to one or two tenets of esthetics, but it’s narrowly vernacular across, I think, many global surfaces.

Vernacular means I’m not doing it unless ego steps ‘aside’ and I get paid with sleep.
My view of SSTs is fuzzy, made fuzzier

Because of blazing fog. Industry rumor settles for non-empirical fears and precedent touting prejudices, converting them to virtues. Virtue has it, spy aircraft are halfway-habitualized, declaiming for clarity through observation, fact and opinion.


Loud poetics antecedents and indebtedness toward them could be handled better if questions of egotism, fashion, clique formation, and friends-enemies were eliminated. That’s asking for several parcels of human experience to be disappeared. For each poet and her cohort, tho, matters of contemporary personalities, preferences, biases, etc. do blow apart in time.
We descend from loudness. The Dylans, G. Stein, E. Pound, B. Mayer. Take Pound (please). Today most ‘responsible’ poets speak less canonically, less willfully than he, one of our accomplished loudmouths.
Sadly Emily’s neighbors: according to the census,

Their presence was filled with compression, ideals opening a science of situation (Thoreau) and unobstructed sky (Whitman), unstructured joy, bouncing up years later with satiric multiples (Wieners, Ricard). Only yesterday! Literary worth automatically fills the page like scrub pine — becoming more fearless (less indiscernible) when units of innocence, acrobacy and self-neutering come together, vaunting in plain English, a content now addressed by new neighbors.
45: Sir, libido and swift words send and return messages — coming back as first thoughts even when quicker elements, air, my fire are both with you (wherever I am).

When I don’t hear back — I’m no longer glad
or assured, merely present-absent, oppressed by melancholy.
As it were,
by this account I’ve sent my desire back, far away from me.
Give up leverage in a more collaborative framework. 
Sure, I’ll leverage our last minute or two, let’s say I’m deeply missing you.  
There you go! but how long have we planted post mortems without precursors, without conventional frames for gender balance? without knowhow not to reterminate? 
Maybe it’s a mistake, collaborating on curious travel so close to the fault line... I grant you that; 

Like all of the above and people going in and out of Odd Fellows buildings, navigating stairs, you’re one hundred percent normal running up debt to keep devotees heartbroken.  
Adoring you is my fault! and my moral politics! any leverage follows orders.
Full version.

Holy shit!
Sorry. Your language is procedural lengthening its insipid menace.
Accommodations are key. That’s why we signed the contract

hammering out so much history & sensory awareness.
It’s said starting to speak of you is written better where it’s taught.
(Our addendum is in the mouth.)
Libido and new ways to be policed are on a vain man’s brain (one with any pulse); the 1st few words take on destabilizing character. I’m trying to clean this [snip] to leave enough ‘intent’ to keep me happy after I’m finished he’s finished. This is an exemplary yet limited procedure, so I’m framing it fun work, restructure creating more choppy patterns to abandon ...


— you mentioned erring out

For tax purposes as accountants for love will suggest —
Kudos for some of their thanks!
Your iron determination to play your own tax guy is magnetic.

I’m solving you for new parity
W/ the scum of the peninsula.
By popular demand we sign off on others’ labor — A newspaper edition, documentary remnants, penetrable databases — We occupy this clever, conceptual nook, curl up and at times siding with the powerful is deliberate as well as passive-aggressive. I’m kidding. I’m staying sarcastic — It bears repeating un-ironically there’s audible glee not being perennially the other and oppressed. The oppressed are whom we avoid where or when we can be free — On the outside, in place of a popular voice, outsourced bouquets smolder w/ the emancipatory normality of assumed dominance.
114: I say. I say drink up. My eye says thanks there’s so much. * Haiku-ing to Delmore Schwartz repeatedly gives me monsters. Monsters giving head. We or most of us have a destiny within flattery, after all. But it’s after-hours To vocalize what my eyes sink into. I can’t worry or pierce my ears further.
Conditions look rigged, shut down — like wanting you (I do) —

For pickerel eggs eat each other

Not out of calculation, it began with barcode

Moms defending their young

While floating on new dimensional bedding

But can’t sleep. (Picture peach cones & rods of violet.)

Sliders remain, still the eggs’ plans change. Like taking some time off
Flying the squarest airlines.
Nasal voices wake you up.
pulsing in a deep mirror,
light rain performing heavy Norman orator.

(Ethical and mammalian boundaries pertain.)

— I don’t want fun or get to dress you, hell
I’m ultra-excited to seem enthused ..
.. I’m on their side in the I-Be area
mincing a response one thinks on the way to ..

tilting your head with no untoward parts, transfixed silhouette,
— the Demon Puff in your plumage / language.
The music brokerage remains in nautical aerospace.
A month ago a morning flew by.
My best friend my
most erotic partner.
I was hit in the face when he turned himself in.
I knew I am unhappy and, like most everyone, I am not —

the boat’s cortex holding out ..


Any ineptitude from continuing the ceremony motivates our family plan, a spiritual prank, an outright lie: vowel shifts ‘living’ in sin, associates and fellow nationals glimpse each fetus as important as it flies.

A fetus in these circumstances brings on future drug dependence, except not yours of course.

I note its pale eyestripe of looking and reading. Down curved and black edged, its camouflage for being read. Frankly, it’s not that much into whom? When the father was asked, he hesitated and then offered, “Not me.”
As ‘you make a profit, remind yourself...’
the president’s brain is said to resemble Chuck Norris. Interesting
esthetic, not fatal — Chuck had a punning bone, also he was merciless. Really
his movies remind me of tin futures & allegiance to the ice
ants swarming as the mind controllers sidle away —
53: A substance note about you:
Suspend suspension of all illusion — 

All kinds of nebulae. Curved and hollowed. 

You have some part shadow
as long as a 
-utomatism maintains a
counterfeit value evolving spring shades a
-mounting to zero autumn... after your beauty, a 
constant show and a 
variable now. You always have some part!

You appear in every august shape we know.
On mortality,  
I’m a big baby. That’s b for clarified as black-and gold pelage, married and vulnerable, exploring reiterations of my own duality. 
I’m alive feeling the swansdown of DNA. Soon I’ll be comically dead — that’s married to a triplicate database — sinking into forest behavior, giving up meat, fish, emotionally shot ..  devoted to seamless disproportionality.
No just proof —

The Conservatory’s always nothing much minus common sense.

Come out and play, practice, sample finding out
the masked hostility and indecisiveness of national honor
backed up with inexact and multiple scents of feeling, crooning sounds
from what we were doing before [give me a sec..] took hold,
instantly recognized as identity.

Identity and hardened m.o.’s from silences and retakes
and feral scents of feeling cornered in a long, measured piano lesson.

(Argument intact once you forget some live to practice all of this.)
There are procedures for mourning. There are a slew of them.
I can’t say these things. These same things. Page one, no one, page 101.

I may go on to continue. To be pressed on cardboard.
It almost makes me say all aboard. Then it “goes.”
for Ted Greenwald


I will never betray metaphysics oxidizing beauty goals.

The main thing is to tell a story. It is almost very important.
— Frank O’Hara — et al.
Composing like this focuses on writers, how they are unionized and surrounded. Focus is prewriting.
Our racecar can’t postpone it.
A tongue in your ear
a driving noise from pioneers and
‘kissin’ cousins in lines of duty.

A two-mate cabin five steps down.
Sleeping with you, blackmailed looking for a mnemonic to store in a palindrome.
90: Hate me now.
It’s up to pond structure to model passivity discharged by shore conditions. Only don’t drop in.

The pond holds scraps and parts of nesting authority, an after-loss. Rainy tomorrow. I join you to re-reference an arrow and bow made out of many purposed m.p.h. gusts — and this is my body as well — a priori nil in inner life razing names of sorrow.
9: No form of you 
Feels anything but unused, average, a spent, destructive sort of guilt, blandness also a problem.   
Your world consumed by issueless fears in political experience / current status / win-loss =   
Here I am! Staying single, we may change our minds!  
almost forgot to. Permission to speak freely, señor?  
Could we? ah! you and I are loved by many. I’ll commit to that as you ...  
Are gracious, watched over and settled into a kindly shifting  
Still, but still enjoying private practice, wailing, banging triangles and drums ...  
Your consuming voice all wet like children’s eyes. Look.   
Then I wake [Ah!] — My own voice hoarsens  
A life desire talking with you,  
But no form of you.
If you know rhetoric
it changes your feelings;
it changes others’ behavior,
especially within poetry.

Our poetry changes
our writing now,
the writing you’re reading at another
time coming up now.
Benji, stop that! Strange dog. We’ve decided to beat it out of you.
Say something! We’ve lost your spirit and pulse.
I work in the market.
I ran from information, bracing for a selloff.
Consequences, real overhead

And limits next. Back in a moment.
I can’t stop it’s my job.


The rhetor writes, Linked phrases run through the a’s, b’s, c’s so on, but a-phrases, again, often point to the composition (the kind I am).

B-wise, my creativity
is not wasted in remorse.
What I owe: I know
almost and almost lost,
unfinished, in everything. For the c’s
I moved along a scratchy plain
of dandelions, peony, clover:
checked for snags of fern, fir,
and the only woman nodded: Oh yes —
It’s always your newness:

and I see your form
as I fill in the questionnaire
putting your back into it.
Ode on pause: I’m sleep.
An only hill
I’ve been searching
Awake most nights:

A clean face in the morning − caped
W/ sounds. Random sounds caped w/ light, the best.

Dogs, woods by the ocean
Together, like them and like us,
Can you fill in the stillness?
Keep an eye out, the ocean over?

Repeat this so it’s approved,
“I don’t know about you”
But in a tone more affirmative
Like the jeweler’s words for whalebone
in measured blues − while

For a stretch, drops hints of a larger, open-minded we-don’t-know − was it something to do with a singer to one side, blocking another?

Do we lead a life another sings with you?
We fail to clarify after political glamor there’s poli rant along with new protocol (old manners) watched over, even policed nightly — many topics in mind so a few words take on character, a wince, a tilt of hat.

Current government gives a glimpse into events shaping war or “The Owl and the Nightingale.”

The passive voice was made for you to prove your anger; propositional semantics =

key [snap] decisions, arguments, further jibes, shaming within a sub-class of invective, a face-off to persuade waverers; Julius Caesar, Juliet, “Much Ado About Nothing,” “Battle of Maldon,” where Saxon to Welsh sat on decline benches, threw slurs across the Blackwater banks, add flytings of Skalds of Old Norse in Simone’s Droplaugarsona Saga, as well as the Scot Dunbar et al, “Montgomerie et Polmart,” plus vomitous insult from Middle Normans freezing progress for the Republic of the Nightingale.

It’s closeness ahead shaped by time gone just like that.
There are subtitles, various languages. You dream staying awake and translate what’s exposed, the back of another dreaming. 
Nothing accrues but there’s a lifetime of waking thoughts.  
(Sleeping has nothing to do with nothing.)  
You can exit the profession at any point, burning inside; you also can add features to nodules, as in rote ed like foundational philosophy.
Let’s now prescribe an observance of justice
for each game, any obvious bravery.

Let’s is an imperative like make a muscle when referring to one at hand.
A source of bravado was not sad. Separation from the source is.

A magnificent evening can be given to loose, persistent thought.
This then or any separation we call the blues, shyness,

meaning frame and ligaments hold feeling, no source.
Feeling is not sad. One votes sadly.
I’m learning squat
until you get home.


I’m new to this housewarming.
That’s why we have two arrays for time & harmony.
Can waving time like a ‘crown’ of contradictions
supersede nature,
a piece of research asks: Why open
not quite a theory? it’s string conjecture.
Intimation, insinuation, innuendo.
Then it was something I ate.
English language trends...
We can’t compress enough or too much. We were one people at one time.
also =
a glistening database advanced by textuality. The underground =
stick abstractions and collisions within a dominant tribal identity.
ID traces out how to refine / displace any remnant of cultural contempt.
Classification adjoined by adaptation passed thru descendants.
This break and entry taking place under balloons holding our beef jerky.
I forget what really and concretely mean to nature.
My tensile values are so skewed I forget William Blake.
I forget historicism.
I forget the Kennedys and Dead Kennedys.
It’s the same when I’m wearing fangs.
I can’t stop. It’s my job.
106: In love, the practice of counterclockwise is nothing at all, only sustained focus, innovation of hand, foot, lips, of eye, of brow, nowhere expressing your fairest beauty ...

all right, I lose. I’ll open in complete command of nothing, no skill to praise you.
From the outside the sky hints of hinges, bolted prophesies that you’ll master now —

I won’t waste time — we’re tethered there.

For love we’ll ingest all of you prefiguring our present day,
inflating while we data dive, I guess

exhaling descriptions
w/ eyes to wonder on the full worth of your beauty making beauty.
We are free — still — to say what some think — but their recipes, or ours, are perfused with nasality. Birch in place, defiantly miscellaneous, thanks to a compliant Leitkultur, treeways on a berm, backdrop to the ideal civil democratic union with permissions built on headwinds — dormant crescendos 
with as it were or without lyric attitude. Good manners can scar others, you see, they also let us peons act like participants in marking time as tho zippers to the regulatory plutocracy. 
Either way, I know so little about the state and the state knows much less — we see nothing but blank stares operated by blankety remote.
A note: to John W,
Illusory a
-utomatism maintains a low balance outdoors. Fashion calls, evolving anonymous pretexts amounting to near
zero, a
large zero, derived from sweet metaphors for punishing discourse. Automatism covers some
ground. Nonetheless graceful concealment lets prehensile factions go free within our known
physics, weeds among weeds

demeaning no value and a
variable either way.

Watched watching.
Our partners shiny then fallen, with grey streaks. Huh? Fired up in smoke flames ideal sparks glow, A red moon indispensable for smearing the made light In a tiered border-like scrawl.