in San Francisco
It's not
clouds I Denton, Texas, Co-Ops -
mat(Oh my)ter alone again,

Yes   I'm
         I'm inside a art house            I suppose            
Can't      the country of
    China? -  god -  We
Coke Blues
                     eternity painting
        Mother

Sometimes Conceptual Space

       are brighter
                   I
                                     century
poor,
          variate
along
Your mac will sleep soonish

         home

theaters, It's  
      
a fact.
will be coming home soon.
It's not condescending.

Names are boring, sweet brooks, Chinese restaurants.
(a car crashed)

The situation is an integrative biologist
We say: "It is my understanding that to unfold time as if we are
not a series of images, solid in nature, are proposed as a steam of thought or intelligence."

It is a situation of integrative biologists to say:
"It is my understanding that to unfold time as if we are not but a solid nature of images to be proposed as a stream of thought or intelligence." A first philosophy of agreement but to ignore them, to us, accept then a contention of ignorance, a singular feeling, a difficult intention which I hear is vivid and green, fresh as it is a fashion. I made a mistake, I admit. I had a sense image and I enjoyed the particulars which in the language of William James is animate and inanimate. It is the living constitution of our fore fathers, as Virginia Woolf argues, is nothing but a brief and wondrous time of being, that is proposing that past motives are a mere nothing - it is a very large world and is therefore complicated, the matter about
which we will contend
will be written by learned men
by men of the ages
who speak only of a solid nature
are as they argue, if on the whole they can prove, that they were the matter of relations to wisdom. Therefore, it is a concept only which I put forward as a situation suddenly as a flood
which allows me to appear to be an antiquated matter, but which serve only as a time in time corruptible like an emotion, an eruption of being into a disposable nature. The unfolding of time is then, as I have mentioned, similar to the integrative biologists, as they say "it is a solid stream of intelligence, it is the intention of a vivid nature" which we fathom as a irritable matter like a master piano playing at the will of the people. Nakedly they sit in their homes, even if a mistake is a sense which in my mind will constitute a time-being consciousness, a subject of sorts, the subject of sorts, the contention of which there is no object, there is nothing which is animate or inanimate, only that which is nothing but rather is only but a work of art. Stated let me say:
"It is the constitution of the ladder of wisdom that a hierarchy which
    exists and which is a severing a function which equips the natural order for to be in
other forms to exists is that which is a being or equation could be said to be if not on the whole it is then nothing but a being to such a point. It is other than the form of entertainer, it is other than what keeps me satisfied?" To do one's duty or not. In my place, I suggest that I leave my home and travel, I go to Bill Millers and keep account of the disposition forced upon me by the very large and persons of moral character and of no good being and of nothingness which a person is of no moral good being or is it evil? Will ever amount to? I am ignored. By this nature I am confused and my thoughts which I confess are nervous and are a thing which I ascribe to, I cannot express them, I cannot be, they are mere relations of events in time and even are as so a thing to be of wanting-ness to be as if they are in front me, as so they probably are, I want still more to be able to explain why a career is only a want, nothing other than a want, an expression of myself in the smallest and most minute way, the building up of a tallest tree which allows me to form an arguable proposition that l will contribute to a class of men who object less capture inside of me a will of fore sayable future. I am without wealth, we are without wealth. We leave no fortune on this earth. In space therefore it is time and it is wealth which makes me the eyes of the traveller going through an inbox, infringing on my rights to be a man, as I understand them. A proposition of brother-less time and a nature of being, a time thing constrained to that which is a strained muscle, I have wept and before me are our former histories of time and might and will - the concrete and arguable - spherical visions of a nonsensical act of complete madness. What classical insights do you have for me tonight Virgil? I am the vertices, I am the axises, I am in turn the turn of which the world decays, in a sad and considerable way. May I reject such a caused event as a caused notion only on my account of my own ignorance? A philosophy of time! Sure! Wisdom! The one! Sir! Timelessness! Brainlessness! Dead friends! Alive friends! Something we can believe in! The essence of time and being! Isn't it fun to be without a thought or to be a thing!? Virginia Woolf is a very complicated person I agree.

Charles Bukowski gets off the couch and does his laundry
            He leaves the house and gets the paper,
                  He's 50 and used to writing to 20 year old boys
                       "All we need is a marginal amount of motivation, boys."
                             "What about the library, chuck? Why don't we make
                                      our way there and argue about pretty circles?"
                                              "No, the world is waiting for me to find success"
                                                         "I haven't applied for many jobs, I feel diseased."
                                                                ­           "You want sympathy and need rest."
                                                                ­          "I think I know what you mean Chuck."

Be comforted
   alone with
       a piano. I want an
            independent book store.
here
      it should sound
                no longer weeks
           it's cute
to cut and the leaves
                           no David, it's
not and you can't, it's a bad painting, we're
serious thinkers, we're grown like papa Hemingway, and play guitar
with our girlfriend's fathers, a soft pretty flower of assorted colors.

Downtown in San Antonio
sat three blind mice
dressed
in ponchos and Spanish dresses
Black rights periods. We
take an RV to another
city, it is hot, it is terribly hot and not NOT small, I am being mean, rude, and sarcastic I want more and less is what you gave me. It costs 250 dollars more. I should be at actually Harvard University I am happy those ends of sentences. Less though than
in Argentina.

Fiji was nice and had waterfalls, there were
tables near the beach. I once knew him too. What do you want? You decide? They’re on Facebook, there. Okay so now the rest of this sentence isn’t needed.

Here, let me continue:

- With valor we
uncrippled the image of time and arrived
at a trashcan painted with a yellow stripe.
Whole families - really only a single boy on
the ground in a red sweater surrounded by
filth - saying do better - I do! Little boy
I do care for your heath. He was gorgeous.
She sat down looking at a piece of plastic
- a horse - and we smiled. We woke and focused
on the microwave. The stove was nice. I was loud.
The switch on the wall hurt. The Queen Bee in the
store lost my money. He was tall. She was handsome.
I don't like Burroughs. At 44 I never grew up.

We looked back in the mirror - saw ourselves
And passed a muslim woman - the mountains were large
In another movie he died so in this poem he'll be pink
and will hold his arms out to men - ironic before me
asking myself how the white clouds which reflect the
green grass could juxtapose my middle-class house.
Your shoes were Asiscs - the expensive malls were mysterious.
We were young and left the better for a three story
building in Miami - but I enjoyed it. The people in
San Francisco weren't nice, but I remember playing guitar
in a corner by myself. The hostel and the flowers, I took a
picture on the third floor when I arrived. And David
why did he lick his lips? I was enamored by the magazines
offered by the U.S. mailbox - HEB produce - my sad face -
mother why can't you see? "In the backseat" is a
mountain less window with pictures on the wall and chairs I
sit on, books to my right, camera in front, reefs above
the chimney, and tons of tokens, from all the places we've
visited. Outside the wind blows. Months passed windowless parks.
Little homes made of puzzles and angels.

Be silent yellow-legged hippie, sandals on beach, yellow book
of pianos. I thought we were modern? Wrapped in blankets, blondes,
unshaven with my wrist watch on John Cage says he's frightened by old ideas so we push the envelope forward. You an artist damp sheet synapse connecting me to millionaires. Old bird houses and streets canary to birthday parties. We walked alone in the desert, sandy rocks and tumbleweed - a home theater - from Mexico to America. We were loveless so we decided to take a plane to Fiji. The plastic on the trees, snakes under rocks, loud sound of Darfur! We were models with beers cans on the walls, shelves, broken light fixtures, paintings of two, empty baskets, bar stools, doorways to our room. An interlude! My sister eating cake, I swear! It's a cubist painting! A cubist painting! Look at the geometry on the walls - so complex. Our tools were our background, the sky was empty, it needed more color I said walking through the university, "I need a big gallon of water and a lot of money." "Can you protect me?" I certainly can't - I laughed.

Are we ignorant or is Argentina *****?
The dirt on the ground, flag-blue and white,
the walls that border the sheet lights
white wedding gowns, candles lit to my
blessed Mars, every scene is an image
of death I tell you in Allen's voice! I
could write essays about each scene! Poor
woman standing outside red building with a
slightly open window in Argentina. A medium
to Neil Postman - the message is you!

The fire sits behind the phone booth.
An old lady in a grey sweater
"why would you take me here?"
(My apartment)

The pinatera in Austin,
colorless skyrockets in bright blues
A promise made to fold the sheets. . . . .

Downtown in San Antonio
sat three blind mice
dressed
in ponchos and Spanish dresses
Black rights you say? We
took a small RV to another
city, it was hot, less though than
it was in Argentina. Fiji was
nice and had waterfalls, there were
tables near the beach. With valor we
uncrippled the image of time and arrived
at a trashcan painted with a yellow stripe.
Whole families - really only a single boy on
the ground in a red sweater surrounded by
filth - saying do better - I do! Little boy
I do care for your heath. He was gorgeous.
She sat down looking at a piece of plastic
- a horse - and we smiled. We wake and focused
on the microwave. The stove was nice. I was loud.
The switch on the wall hurt. The Queen Bee in the
store lost my money. He was tall. She was handsome.
I don't like Burroughs. At 44 I never grew up.

We looked back in the mirror - saw ourselves
And passed a muslim woman - the mountains were large
In another movie he died so in this poem he'll be pink
and will hold his arms out to men - ironic before me
asking myself how the white clouds which reflect the
green grass could juxtapose my middle-class house.
Your shoes were Asiscs - the expensive malls were mysterious.
We were young and left the better for a three story
building in Miami - but I enjoyed it. The people in
San Francisco weren't nice, but I remember playing guitar
in a corner by myself. The hostel and the flowers, I took a
picture on the third floor when I arrived. And David
why did he lick his lips? I was enamored by the magazines
offered by the U.S. mailbox - HEB produce - my sad face -
mother why can't you see? "In the backseat" is a
mountain less window with pictures on the wall and chairs I
sit on, books to my right, camera in front, reefs above
the chimney, and tons of tokens, from all the places we've
visited. Outside the wind blows. Months passed windowless parks.
Little homes made of puzzles and angels.

Be silent yellow-legged hippie, sandals on beach, yellow book
of pianos. I thought we were modern? Wrapped in blankets, blondes,
unshaven with my wrist watch on John Cage says he's frightened by old ideas so we push the envelope forward. You an artist damp sheet synapse connecting me to millionaires. Old bird houses and streets canary to birthday parties. We walked alone in the desert, sandy rocks and tumbleweed - a home theater - from Mexico to America. We were loveless so we decided to take a plane to Fiji. The plastic on the trees, snakes under rocks, loud sound of Darfur! We were models with beers cans on the walls, shelves, broken light fixtures, paintings for two, empty baskets, bar stools, doorways to the room. An interlude! My sister eating cake, I swear! It's a cubist painting! A cubist painting! Look at the geometry on the walls - so complex. Our tools were our background, the sky was empty, it needed more color I said walking through the university, "I need a big gallon of water and a lot of money." "Can you protect me?" I certainly can't - I laughed.

Are we ignorant or is Argentina *****?
The dirt on the ground, flag-blue and white,
the walls that border the sheet lights
white wedding gowns, candles lit to my
blessed Mars, every scene is an image
of death I tell you in Allen's voice! I
could write essays about each scene! Poor
woman standing outside red building with a
slightly open window in Argentina. A medium
to Neil Postman - the message is you!

The fire sits behind the phone booth.
An old lady in a grey sweater
"why would you take me here?"
(My apartment)

The pinatera in Austin,
colorless skyrockets in bright blues
A promise made to fold the sheets.

The pinatera in Austin
colorless skyrockets in bright blues
A promise made to fold the sheets

The fire sits behind the phone booth
An old lady in a grey sweater
"why would you take me here?"
(My apartment)

Are we ignorant or is Argentina *****?
The dirt on the ground, flag-blue and white
the walls that border the sheet lights
white wedding gowns, candles lit to my
blessed Mars, every scene is an image
of death I tell you in Allen's voice! I
could write essays about each scene! Poor
woman standing outside red building with a
slightly open window in Argentina. A medium
to Neil Postman - the message is you!

Be silent yellowlegs hippie sandals on beach yellow book
of pianos. I thought we were modern? Wrapped in blankets, blondes,
unshaven with my wrist watch on John Cage says he's frightened by old ideas so we push the envelope forward. You an artist damp sheet synapse connecting me to millionaires. Old bird houses and streets canary to birthday parties. We walked alone in the desert, sandy rocks and tumbleweed - a home theater - from Mexico to America. We were loveless so we decided to take a plane to Fiji. The plastic on the trees, snakes under rocks, loud sound of Darfur! We were models with beers cans on the walls, shelves, broken light fixtures, paintings for two, empty baskets, bar stools, doorways to the room. An interlude! My sister eating cake, I swear! It's a cubist painting! A cubist painting! Look at the geometry on the walls - so complex/ Our tools were our background, the sky was empty, it needed more color I said walking through the university, "I need a big gallon of water and a lot of money." "Can you protect me?" I certainly can't - I laughed.

Downtown in San Antonio
sat three blind mice
dressed
in ponchos and Spanish dresses
Black rights you say? We
took a small RV to another
city, it was hot, less though than
it was in Argentina. Fiji was
nice and had waterfalls, there were
tables near the beach. With valor we
uncrippled the image of time and arrived
at a trashcan painted with a yellow stripe.
Whole families - really only a single boy on
the ground in a red sweater surrounded by
filth - saying do better - I do! Little boy
I do care for your heath. He was gorgeous.
She sat down looking at a piece of plastic
- a horse - and we smiled. We wake and focused
on the microwave. The stove was nice. I was loud.
The switch on the wall hurt. The Queen Bee in the
store lost my money. He was tall. She was handsome.
I don't like Burroughs. At 44 I never grew up.

We looked back in the mirror - saw ourselves
And passed a muslim woman - the mountains were large
In another movie he died so in this poem he'll be pink
and will hold his arms out to men - ironic before me
asking myself how the white clouds which reflect the
green grass could juxtapose my middle-class house.
Your shoes were Asiscs - the expensive malls were mysterious.
We were young and left the better for a three story
building in Miami - but I enjoyed it. The people in
San Francisco weren't nice, but I remember playing guitar
in a corner by myself. The hostel and the flowers, I took a
picture on the third floor when I arrived. And David
why did he lick his lips? I was enamored by the magazines
offered by the U.S. mailbox - HEB produce - my sad face -
mother why can't you see? "In the backseat" is a
mountain less window with pictures on the wall and chairs I
sit on, books to my right, camera in front, reefs above
the chimney, and tons of tokens, from all the places we've
visited. Outside the wind blows. Months passed windowless parks.
Little homes made of puzzles and angels.