Prognosis: As a citizen among millennials, it’s yucky and disgusting I live this way, suddenly building a new narrator under my notarized certificate of vulnerability — Euros tumble. The sensual spy novel is amusing and telegenic for killing time, so let’s narrate that. And about that. The meta-tick-tock due now and pronto — calling in, Cupid, the greatest emcee and dues collector of the new century, clearly agrees.

Cupid fell
into olive swelter in unnamed aromas
that led his dogs to you, making clear

Even Elvis fell for
Cupid in a blouse, Cupid’s blank stare.
A blast furnace getting head.

(Finish one and they all get confused;
Fuse another way to un-tell.)

Cupid pulls the curtains to reveal a street,
yards, outside where people pass by in parts.

One doesn’t know any more
if there are good times ahead of war.


Your sister writes, waves (all of them) beat my eyes off. Don’t care, I still can see and lie just about what I believe is fact, clinging to both. Structured improvisation takes a volume of time, only it’s a civil leave now coming back to bone substance.

We’re hardly sectarian, we won’t forget a childhood beach vibrates in memories, only now a decade earlier when I (am or) was looking unkempt but in a studied, not irresponsible way, reading and taking dictation to wrap up my sleep. Like The Inferno and Nerves and every shined thing since, I’m in engineering the tide of speech desire.

There aren’t any warnings. Tensions were apparent.

Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam.

That said, 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.
I can’t tell you I don’t care, on the inside.

Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague change, like our plebiscite, better to pump out to voices’ grasp. A life with submerged artifacts accrues and feels like a party. I’m going to lose you if it kills me.


Hustling all the time, awesome! But let’s pare it down. New York, like Antwerp or Amsterdam, especially, is filled with throatiness, up in the air. And staying casual definitely has legs. The inscrutable commercial vector coursing through — there’s nothing like it, business that’s more a film in wide release, a nocturnal thin man, uninhibited as in somehow succeeding daily. Timeless like leg warmers in both Antwerp and New York, which back then was more like Antwerp now. Men unwound to be children, their affection not unexpected, hungover, yapping at the top of a lintel’s worth of plankton. I’m coming back to New York. In the early 80s.

Social progress is in a pickle.
It went cheap in small directions. Al
-most curtains for the prom fitting, a horrible mess.
The shortest path there ignited by havoc, honest
and exhausted tailors.
The dancers are perpetual winners I guess.
I wager
we win the half-eaten take-out on the table. 40%!
Stay on the hunt, tough to please, speculate we could say
Even as tectonic plates jump under
Slaver ballads
Raining havoc in fog.. (Uh.) Here’s
Where you and I lose the scent. Ever 

-yone did. Clouded
Flames ennoble wattles in the sky to roll over

Nondenominationals like us, both of us, anyone in sight of who’s just landed,

Aching, a closed gas station attendant yielding under —

A new customer, one or two love poems — they never miss an issue 

(Unwashed hair, maybe) 

 — country music going on all nerves, bourbon, bye now charades.


If animals could talk they’d say, what can you do? I pick my clothing by the rules. I can’t get you out of my mind? Handle it. Come closer, you’re scaring me.

I sleep at night with my eyes open and keep a diary, hastened by its agenda in one vein, pierced to the root by a confusing lunch. Flowers by the table, you, half a house (better than none), liquor and song. You came as a gospel singer. The sweetness outside not wavering in snow to rain to a rational depth, I’ve got you in the crosshairs.

Freed from servitude wow, congrats... The animals are always on message.
What makes chosen words dressed in black?
Adopting the air of mock superiority or even on-point (albeit fleeting) superiority
Most rainbows taste like shit, but we like shit.
Art is theft all right.

Decent and gifted, we were raised in a crèche of decadence. Sounds preposterous. Cabs were scarce at that hour. A shoulder hitched higher to the rest of language, human debt, infants, animals in cages, all muggy places ever since I was bullied as a kid.


Bullied into autocracy
Hell is too big to fail.

Fire the lilies in the field.

This is a democracy. Hysteria as a rallying cry brings a revolution in ignorance and vanity.
The ousted president drops to his knees.
Lament: Corgi spinning in washing machine, a fox

Terrier in FinnAir plane w/box cutter —

My Collie keeps searching for frozen yellow bones — how

This set, like all good waymarks, tells a story but what does that mean?
Especially when your Saluki is holding pinking sheers in her mouth

— not that there are pitfalls, our noting a few takes we could route,
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.

Corgi w/bobbing head in fish tank...


This would be my most empirical debacle in the abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into epic life by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
is a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over a heartthrob, not to be a Lebowski.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with fast
puffiness and a black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.
As ‘you learn to draw, remind yourself...’ the brain is said to resemble Chuck Norris. Interesting esthetic, not fatal — Chuck or a funny bone goes for merciless. Really his movies remind me of marigold & allegiance to the ice ants swarming the ozone as I look away — The earth is not the earth, but it has strength and balance and Duma unanimity. Each winter corrupts the exterior.... poplars attaining their ultra field and stream, doing a job shunned by most, showered with tips.

Burroughs’s Junky is a source of the Flintstones.
Two Spanish-speaking women try new salads.
The contours. Nothing month. To on.
The combing and suffix opal phrase
The whole simply. Save early ea.
Bike sale: Burroughs tries to jump over bikes.


Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled.
Thus, Chickee is a guy.
In relation to conflicts over scale, Habermas and I want to inspect what others say,

but a few lies are shiny architecture of real matter. 

As if Rawls informs me on plural paths, where the tolls are o, etc

Truly bathetic. Forgetting what you have to say has nothing to do with current biases of mine. Like so many others, I’m fixated on war, loss of democratic principles and governance procedures —

procedures again, only this time writ extremely large. The writ carries a stark reference to the last liberal prime number among us, John Rawls, but how inarticulate and superficial to use him this way. I’m conflicted about criteria for justice, questions how these may apply to our history now ...


We can demolish only one artificiality.
It’s no toy. It’s an example of us.
It doesn’t love you or me. It loves what we do.
It’s a learner, not a real lover. We intervene only once.
Remember, all our troubles disappear.
You’re almost naked. You’re my business.
There’s no description, the lion took the eagle’s wings yet kept his own name.

Then he had an idea.
There’s a description he kept inside.
I notice I haven’t said anything.
Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

— The world becoming flat and falling across

The telling (of)

(Instances of)

Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic

Streaks and — weird! — high wails of titanic fog, sifting down from

Rain ceilings (of)

The snow. The snowing. The across (falling),

It is (falling) across

Morton Feldman.
We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.


Haste is the suave part of RSVP;
Earth is spanked all over

for love — now on the mouth.


I’ll keep this in mind.
I’m no judge of character. I just shoot.
Have a Bud on a cul de sac with a dead end
feeling my rage is countrywide..

Holy moly, produce and a way to pay for it!
there’s strength in staring at a bug zapper, attracted
to light, staying competitive.

I treat our sect thermos as a norm to trade
finding order amid play divisions and muscle octads dealing /
glinting with hamminess.

The ideal Cupid fell out of place in a man’s body

but staying in the picture. Voice changes and all.


When you read this, it appears prior to who prompts it.
Not you.
We were informed on your discretion in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with a couple of new features and a few we move in any direction.
Not you.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom defriend us!
But this interests me only so far. More curious, is why we approach poetry primarily in terms of understanding it.
As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.
Not you.
Pierre Bourdieu throws a projectile: “Magnified preferences [‘tastes’] of
capital distribution are stopgaps like one’s personal butt fear or discount cosmetics while

subdominant esthetic fields balloon and get subsumed by bigger ideas.
Formidable! like that whack job in Vegas.”

Bourdieu gets home to his Cajun kitchen, much later, and hears evening if
it’s a voice in his head. “We gain knowledge from our shortcomings as well
as insights.” Well, ah! The shortcoming between truth telling here
while checks-and-balances heterodoxology is nasally inspissated thru fear.