— there’s one or more crisis managers descended from a family of mavens, whom Freudians describe as superegos mostly whizzing by silently shaking a finger up in the brain —


When you listen closely they’re meddling, nudging nearer to your verbal core, editing prose, keeping everything tidy...
Fuck Trump.
Fuck oligarchy. Do I
mean that?
Unfortunately, I’m afraid
I do, an idea from the streets,
the mental roadside that runs
along the mental highway
that leads to the mental hospital.
I have never been
to a mental hospital, because
I think it would be an extremely bad place to go.

So I stay out.
And stay home.
And go down the street,
looking intently at every other thing.
Sometimes neighbors in the street
laugh and turn into sheet music
torn from an idea book and fluttering down
into the metaphor that hides behind Jesus Christ
and cannot show itself, a metaphor
like a sunken hideout deep under the ocean
or deciduous trees radiating new life
when it’s sleeting.

A portrait should be backdrop in this. This one in the back. Undressed — except for slacks — bordering synonymous yet ungeneric like Updike. Look me in the eye and diagram conditions of spatial sentences (touching both elbows behind your back —

Not out of calculation) — I now know this will be ok
For what matter ashore are fudged —
To one side, a cool brocade glistening by re-mechanized stone,
nothing better within its reach. It = his grasp, a central aggregate.


You and I detect a trap.
We rule no rule can speak up without permission.
This rule grows the inner living language in dim light —

for average days and people like high security.

Start writing.

It’s easy going out and doing things you don’t know. No repeat parts.

The charge is here, thrill in peeling back from nothing as well as failing to remember the (mission) exchange. Or ex-charge.
Here’s the creep out. I’m leaving you everything glazed or remedial, tho it’s 1 with most fragments and lunar cycles inside such rattle as I was thinking it over.

(Should a teenager be given a pianist’s shh?)

Run for your lives, no remorse.


Can you see a translucence moving forward as it dissolves? I was thinking it’s hard for us to get foreign sports equipment or a new o.s. without indices of suspicion and objurgating.

If you agree, I’m happiest procrastinating. We have a pleasant sencha. It strengthens our attention for relaxing.

You and I use braille graphics or crossed out checks payable to love topics. Spinoza noted long ago sorcery and light opera attract circus talent, as well as the theatrical and uber textual.
Random influences could fill in most of those spots. Wild priests and aurelians once spun like you but later they got less focused, chasing butterflies that proliferate. On smart hills, cute and cuter butterflies having at butterflies, why?


Media is clogged with a reductive, neo-fascist message about Monday’s debate —
Trump just has to look presidential for 90 minutes to emerge the winner.
Fascism stays underground for as long as it takes. Now here it is — it’s about to play nice to win.

Win or lose fascist views won’t disappear. Biting, unamerican discourse has entered our lives. It’s commonplace in our high schools.

The time seems backward.
There is the example from frog species. Frogs lost teeth in the lower jaw at least 200 million years ago, but whoooa.. lower teeth reappeared in a marsupial tree frog species about 20 million years ago.
Terns suffering rain
Unleash each other —

You enjoy yourself abroad.
Who’s sick over us and who questions any vulcanized backlash?
A last payment received.

No hope it’s you. Almost the same as hopeless:

The future would give more / no more
Than thanks no thanks.

I thought of you.


Absence of thought rules for higher authority. A busy, cool thoughtlessness that’s slimed, maybe.

It’s a fact eye contact is defensive but our checklists and strategies determine everything. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane senses. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.)

This is how contingency shows up in texts, making sense from alterations that are situational within a figure-chicken / ground-egg round robin.
I retract my falsehoods. At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice projective geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)


We leverage our last minute or two deeply missing you. There you are! but how long have we been planting thoughts with no precursors, no conventional frame for generation or gender balance? Maybe it’s a mistake, collaborating on curious travel so close to the fault line... so I grant you that;

Like all of the above and people going in and out of service buildings, climbing stairs, you’re one hundred percent normal running up debt to keep devotees heartbroken.

Finally, explain leverage inside a more collaborative framework.

Adoring you is a full service enterprise, figuring a moral politics where leverage follows its bliss.
You know, you look psychic ..

Dear Hightop,
To take part stopping the snowman mid-grin ..
There’s a container for every passion.

Passion, the big man.

Mmmmmmmm immersive trance spot, on loud

so the ambient workspace can hear,

feel it in stages striking after dark.

Within, without, intimate forces of light lower, after all,

just as there’s bad DNA

or much less awesome crap. The of of partial perpetuity

feeling the kill

whilst warming up together / alone in an explosive network..


Comp lit finds the sky squeaks w/ common sense, folds into dreams.
That indicates it has a square shape, bolted down in blips w/ a simplex-repetitive top layer, tethered for domesticity.

There is an interpretation to this nightly misfortune (which is ours). Dream space is tight. You can’t find a story in a void of crescendo: Where's the loss?

Domestic metaphors, our rooms have even less to say..
Tho, when I’m feeling it, going out and doing things in your face ..
.. I get where I was.

Poetics, a subset of epistemology, entails voicing new speech from old,


Goodbye, wallet.

And [...there is no inside [...] only what’s already here [what I breathe] outside, which is continually immature, impulsive...] [and]
I see the wind smudging a porch.
To observe what’s streamlined and compressed, aiming fast —
I’m scared. Good night to write up an accident or two that don’t matter, made tactical as we circumvent voice commands, remaking spatial morality into chance agency, no vision, no dash, no longer having to know.


It makes no difference what we believe. The soul needs a hypodermic
Over water surfing coastal states to destroy its wiggly self.
We begged it rally for more than parabolic grinning under gods.

That was our 1st soulmate enjambment.
A private / public bond like Klee / Ibsen / Pitt / Jolie

Since forever unknown futures present new and newer phenomena.
Your every utterance is on the jet trail — quelling fear of pain —
That’s how being with you seems in sleep and still you are unattainable —

Say you’ll be back. You never can tell.
Poverty is all right, but fuck extreme poverty.
Introit / Opacity?
How do you apprehend and fire this up?

How is an oral tradition colorless, sparkling, void of angst?

1st Mr Krishna wore quadratic conflagrations

morphine-ghosted by Thanksgiving’s

bobwhites in the Berkshire hush... off

to getaways & then — on 3rd Ave — a boutique

of collared, greening hospitality where Hellenic

banter might calm even Kant’s havoc. 2nd Ave,
living on a magnum of tax credits as bohos

tooth for tooth nakedly mauling stubble

askew ocean views over Onset... so

back home on shore with a hen of steam — verdicts

are trifles beyond Mr K’s excursions
in the body of missing you to kindle tomography.


Ah blizzard.
Can you come up with abstract glass threads?
The Buffalo of paradise could be Pasadena.. What?
There I died of Abilify and became a robot —
ever since I’ve been threatened with ..
silence in the eco-sleep aisle. Reading less now and more.
Donald Sutherland’s bio on me — on my mind, just to be clear.
Does or did he mention lutefisk — fish jellied in lye? Not sure.
Sweeping reductions were next.

One pleasure then is borrowing sentences to cut your rent.

The previous owner told us to cut it all off, gave us gobs of cash
and that led to holding our share of a volatile

augmented beyond constraint, driven
by the smallest shift in feeling you all over me at the core.

Back home we have Romulus and Remus. Appetite and style,
these work the night shift in classicism, romanticism too. Appetite
includes style but style directs taste, other pretenses of appetite.
A she wolf looks after style.

I never use that word now.