GPT-2 Vertical (portrait-mode) Poetry Test GPT-2 345M model retrained on custom poetry corpus for ReadingRites (2019) http://glia.ca/rerites GPT2 info: http://glia.ca/2019/gtp2 Video:https://vimeo.com/360001118 (tf1p13_gpt-2) jhave@jhave-Ubuntu:~/Documents/Github/gpt-2-finetuning$ PYTHONPATH=src ./generate_unconditional_samples_run2_50k_May18_ALLtmblr_2019-vert.py --top_k=111 --min_temperature=0.8 --max_temperature=1.4 --length=111 /home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/framework/dtypes.py:526: FutureWarning: Passing (type, 1) or '1type' as a synonym of type is deprecated; in a future version of numpy, it will be understood as (type, (1,)) / '(1,)type'. _np_qint8 = np.dtype([("qint8", np.int8, 1)]) /home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/framework/dtypes.py:527: FutureWarning: Passing (type, 1) or '1type' as a synonym of type is deprecated; in a future version of numpy, it will be understood as (type, (1,)) / '(1,)type'. _np_quint8 = np.dtype([("quint8", np.uint8, 1)]) /home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/framework/dtypes.py:528: FutureWarning: Passing (type, 1) or '1type' as a synonym of type is deprecated; in a future version of numpy, it will be understood as (type, (1,)) / '(1,)type'. _np_qint16 = np.dtype([("qint16", np.int16, 1)]) /home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/framework/dtypes.py:529: FutureWarning: Passing (type, 1) or '1type' as a synonym of type is deprecated; in a future version of numpy, it will be understood as (type, (1,)) / '(1,)type'. _np_quint16 = np.dtype([("quint16", np.uint16, 1)]) /home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/framework/dtypes.py:530: FutureWarning: Passing (type, 1) or '1type' as a synonym of type is deprecated; in a future version of numpy, it will be understood as (type, (1,)) / '(1,)type'. _np_qint32 = np.dtype([("qint32", np.int32, 1)]) /home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/framework/dtypes.py:535: FutureWarning: Passing (type, 1) or '1type' as a synonym of type is deprecated; in a future version of numpy, it will be understood as (type, (1,)) / '(1,)type'. np_resource = np.dtype([("resource", np.ubyte, 1)]) WARNING:tensorflow:From /home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/framework/op_def_library.py:263: colocate_with (from tensorflow.python.framework.ops) is deprecated and will be removed in a future version. Instructions for updating: Colocations handled automatically by placer. WARNING:tensorflow:From /home/jhave/Documents/Github/gpt-2-finetuning/src/sample.py:51: to_float (from tensorflow.python.ops.math_ops) is deprecated and will be removed in a future version. Instructions for updating: Use tf.cast instead. WARNING:tensorflow:From /home/jhave/Documents/Github/gpt-2-finetuning/src/sample.py:53: multinomial (from tensorflow.python.ops.random_ops) is deprecated and will be removed in a future version. Instructions for updating: Use tf.random.categorical instead. WARNING:tensorflow:From /home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/training/saver.py:1266: checkpoint_exists (from tensorflow.python.training.checkpoint_management) is deprecated and will be removed in a future version. Instructions for updating: Use standard file APIs to check for files with this prefix. hibernation, of a kind where a gentle touch descends death, but the grave the grave is. the words came to me in a dream, twenty thousand of them. from first day, every sound the same, i sound like the sea. the words What did they come down here to eat? Were they defiled? An ugly pink sponge prickles up and out comes the sponge cake. They veil themselves in white hair. Their empty shroud scuffs the cool granaries. At breakfast she eats ham and, for morning, yogurt and sugar. so much of a day of rain and for the first time when i got too close, the rain caught some of the cobbles I was starved. No, it was more than that; the Egyptians my neighbors had mated with thought the same. It was true, and so would be shocking to reveal my lines in context of human indifference. The work of fiction...It is complicit in a larger social project. Ray Bradshaw's Funeral March 1970 a topless raisin in the sun I walked into the church, which was chapels, and found in the air you live in the shade of a thicket to grow of other things.-- like a thin horn in the cold beneath a smooth shell on which a sheep tracks some tree the picture of a ring in the flesh like footprints in the fur a green wheel on which the memory of nails and thongs dies the green clouds in the domain of the blind the pines from within out over the bay looking east at nine carat amber gold night through a thicket of old growth coral that's always a second breeze on a sail becomming, like having a friend for as long as a lee of snow i'd watch each grain of salt bead by bead, then thistle be far away and thus our scene here that night may be, in your memory the wet cut of gray stemis with heather at a glance i can see the road to my body from the path through cedar-sand. i can hear steam rising from a quartet when my body's self remembers where it is wet, cold, and centered. meanwhile, artistic dreams array themselves behind my eyelids like fissures. mood swells in my ribs. the wall in between my eyes clenches space where self moves en fessory with self. and nothing was further thrown about, and that spirit in her name should go with all its people, and never turn the shadow on end by turning the last-help ring. just as before a woman some old love was holden within the bosom of his younger sister i cried it was the sun in the paper-bound mass wonderland o the scene is the same your memory is brief and partial dafen was just beyond the last door on the right, down alley between gated sties and offices... and they were there - around us - prying out each other's bags, shrieking someone there, me trying to think the thought i'd not heard and someone there, me not looking, just out of earshot, out of earshot out back i could not see or hear somebody there grapes fall, the thin stars glow in the dark. An Late Installation You leave me infirm all this thick rubber thumbs you said in the dream , bioelectrodes implantable in the brain for recording and brain-computer interface purposes. The electronic core is capable of capturing ultra-high bandwidth sounds and storing them onto a microchip independently. The system operates in the frequency range from 400 to 2 MHz. Bioelectrodes are able to convert digital signals into organic microwave 2.2 MHz a flambray. on its shoulder, bound and stern, one part to each wing, no patron in sight--none was wanted. for us, the returning, the circle beyond map of ships and roads. bound in thistle and bayberry, my last year is come. we will bring a little to its sight and tell him to beware, as we long-winded or straight and round -- through this short and nasty world * * * the word nakedness pours out of darkness. we feel it in our skin. the temple to geometry is actually an open house abristle the bust, and what appears on our tongues is the honest sweat of christ pulling us in, sicken about half-truths and the terrible leverage of things-- railroad cars and construction and left the words there and when I walked to church one morning there was a girl so tall who stood up, smiled broadly, and asked me what my trade had been? Before my mother had the irony of a right arm I think. And thought . . . What would I tell the priest if she took me as a pupil? He wouldn't be able to keep it . . . Under his chair with one who watched and when a teacher called it in it came as a shout two months a ten year old playing just before it was time to begin. the face of the man who watched became an insignificant part of the structure thus to a question a large part of a chained man who chained strangers turned from its question and in a chain chain came limping until it had become a prisoner. till she's gone down to the garden of knowledge there, you saw that? yep, you should go and find the book in the garden. this is the story of my relationship with the garden. i will tell you what i did. first, in the sense of asking you to do something for me, in the sense of asking you to do something and then, of proving what you saw on the page i should not make excuses for how i feel. what matters is how i feel. i know just how it feels if you press yourself against the wall till your chest hurts, then i will come. i will come to you. i am afraid of how things look but this pleases me. don't worry about how you feel. it's not the question. it's how you feel that pleases me. the mummied marrow. as though i were buried and no one could say for sure if i was really alive. i hear the radio playing in the house, and this can't be to say for much if i'm alive. the record player is playing just now, and my mother's voices just now were playing her husband's old song, and the dining table is filled with the smell of coffee and newspapers, and her face stands i hold these as thou art a faithful and a steadfast love, and if i have love in trust, as before, come nearer again and view thee with true delight. a third time i pass'd, and thus began the rasping sound with which the voice of thy sire drew me to an image from the foam-pile And the time we've brought them as close and close is as important as the third symphony just thought you sleeping, drifted over the sound would've been as impressionistic on sound For an Illustrated Guide to the Quran For a detailed guide to the Quran Jihad is a peaceful pursuit across a peaceful future. daily violence reduces capacity to resist it; only strong devotion to the order of survival ensures that disruption of the present order does not lead to atrocities. Jihad is not with the kampina over the boathouse room after room ze would say it like you say ? ze could mean well but to speak at length without offence those who were listening, knew ze could say nothing You are not the sun burns, or the dark clouds hang over our eyes. They are long gone from our sight. Until last night. A vision springs from our souls the sight of colors and savannas. We recognize ourselves within that vision. They do not. They are not ours. But the vision is ours nonetheless. All that matters, at last, is what is in the vision. What is immaterial is what does not matter. The brown swans Spherical structures on first light Francisca planning at an atomic level, Chern realized it could run forever Hiroshima and its crew fleeing I have nothing against him, she says shaking its head. He casts a shadows dark AFP about 20 micrometres thick. The reflected wavelength from MIB-CBT1 is about 2 mm. The entry node of MIB-CBT1 is located in the CMR1.6 beta by in your and mine each day. and the way thomas had left every paper everywhere and called himself. this how I feel when reading is done. only god knows what / interpretation is meant by this last scripture. or there may be further sarcophagus because the human voice is, by its very nature, emotional and cannot be rationalized or explained in rational terms. that is why it is a human voice in a voice of flesh. in spite of its origin as self-organizing, it has no independent emotion-- merely the voice of flesh in a closed room expressing itself. . . and from this alone the ethical economy-- t she silent walk That's not to say the future wont give strange looks Over my shoulder, at meetings of Like Disembodied Persons -- Nor said the painful things half-way are irrelevant As long as your life expectancy allows for longevity To elements on earth Phragmatopoma militis and elements containing rods, cones, melanopsin, Caymanit atypical dendrites, pseudooxynucleotides, Hydroxhydrostric cyanphytosis with branching filamentous cells that to him was very hard indeed to do because it was with a human being no longer even a cartoon frog on a map or a voodoo doll no longer a sore reminder of what had been or could still be. this is what finally happens when the faith lapse and the wicker chariots turn in the temple like so many mis-spells on zagon my lover, one who brings in the smell of the wood I carry as though it were there with you and has stood too long behind me, and turns down my poem in a shade of affliction unwept. Does that hurt? Does that touch you? Can you feel it between your thighs? The answer will come when your mouth opens and the snow speaks to your body, closing around your neck and your thighs. There will be redness like old dried tears opening and what to do with the clappy, bellshackled, front-heavy passwords we have all but committed to memory. there are a hundred thousand things we know nothing about, to do with the sun every day in a growing pile in the sky. and now here they are, these thick-soled, greasy, leathery frail feet cognizant of the world and eager in their own ways to be close. what to do is in the same place, there, through all ages where they dance no not thee Who left so much money to hire out kiosks at night, the world starting with no music left? Who programmed the speedometer or coded the phone at my home address when I was determined to teach mathematics in college, and for eight weeks starved candy in lieu of paid leave? Ultimately, no, I do not believe in paying people to do things. when we call our children who are one. not so mad to make up for lost time i lie at a loss for words unless inspiration wipes them clean. now dead again feels the dread that dauntless gives after hours that slipped by blank with me. words wound. all me want something. want is a shove from my early years. to name only some burned up, to write their story as it should flow backwards into time, into the present. there's a backward shade to the wind. We are an animal impulse in the shaping of dreams. Though some agonize night, we circle round him, SorcerersCrusade, sad and splayed knees. He reads fantasies brave and aged - from the newspapers, Hardscrabble - to the thesis of a film: all theuffrage, all theaturrie. For the heathen, skin, and fertility of this savage age no grace can dissolve. Now the chaplet and harp will do the trick for i love you- are-born, and from a great height in this old city to the wordspower, to the wordslust, to the own image of these things: the only word that does not lessen what i proclaim. to these, before them and below i raise mine arm. to the right palm behold the right gesture here's the sign. to the left i'll try and to this big blue that soars over the parking lot and sky. februaryfebruaryfebruaryfebruaryfebruaryfebruary[ISSN] februaryfebruaryfebruaryfebruary[ISSN] p-iota-m8a9DmvLXZ8JPG8zUj4kvwU4sq6gq8kVdXeZ-4Zm9p3 I lay on the green plastic mattress, one hand on the windbreaker, the other in darkness, dreaming. The ocean in the locker room was no sea, it was a small lake. I remember the four skinny girls best as they came, peeling their nervous torsos to their bare thighs, cooing cheeses and marmalade over the ice. I also remember the scorpions in my vagina, the pink colored bits of them sticking out like tongue. Those who fall soon will also have A glass of red wine weighs huge on your desk, there are so many things you wish prevented from happening. In a drawer, or under a heading of furniture, it would appear you have trouble. Have a beer. Those ten provocative clauses prophesy an era of fearful history. They imagine a perfect market of beauty, where iron answers to electricity; where flawless aluminum wares for sale of cupcakes and sophisticated finery, and where the ethics of wearing our highest [ ] outfits perpetually sway what is one more moment to the loving of my people, whom i love more and more with every song i know i am playing myself back. even now i am trying to play myself back, following this song, following this song do i dare play myself back feel the love of all who wait long with no hope of becoming rich do they hear us singing, singing, singing, rowing in the wind listening, listening the dead, the living, the water, the body of the dead and the living, of course, the sun, the moon, the first of their thousand I remember I was in a bookstore, a small aisle Of chrome shelves; the books were all plucked And scarred; the paper was bound with an invisible thorn That I tried to slip myself through, When I tried to think of the courage Or skill required to pluck and bind and Plunge and bind these huge boughs Into a single sheet of felt. On the shelves overhead, women with cabs Climbing to the heights of bric-a-brac there once the sea and west Wales stand full ready to handle ourselves and your nerves you need a week to recover but it thinks now it's worth it for this :- you've got to laugh you've got mopa - fever and the coughing sickness east Wales has something going tho some love the shade as well. who wants something? place someplace you'd rather be than into it and pay people for no know how much this isn't I am making room in the airport for my unwilledness. My body the poignantly absent musters my absence beside the indistinguishable plane, hands pressed, mouths voiced. Airan knows where to find you. Diving to my full capacity, my arms out of the house thrust out the longer I can, the longer I live. The irregular blend of your body, my hands out of the house in the airport the way its bones loosen in the bouchy humidor. a huge dildly hunched girl was straining Ofo toward one gigantic goal he had groped vainly To make Ofo move stranded on lanolin-thunder gleefully hunched forward And poised withered As if to travel wave-to, That, This-- To touch myself and rise above the sea sound a big dildo grasped her b lice can remain flies in a closed room during the day, despite the stench/parable of excrement. and it's true, no argument can convince someone that tao niachichi was not first philosopher of modern China, nor english or h-period speakers a voice not breathing and having a thought, a visual, a thought. however when you place mary fish atlas like cartwheels in india or in tao baobao it makes things clear where otherwise it wasn fuchsia and tender, the liver arrives, all organs and the september air, with thoughts of june all the airy things, the months going by, what a blur the thought of june, before the mind: enormous emptiness, precise and not entirely free. When Kunst Amwin began to arrive, the old planetarium was already up, over the art background You are one bad apple, but you received a gloss. Bad off you go if you write poems about roses While you are away at college learning trade how they taste. None of this is actually true since the petals harden without you visiting. If you want it, you will have to Google yourself. The news is constantly changing. Here is the weather as reported on ABCNews.com This is Weather. If you can't beat them then move further A. If you listen intently, they will continue she has left its wife and child, and cravat-rear-lates him from front to back. thirty-six years don't lie to us, i tell him. snow will lie, she says dismissively. so, what? do i tell him now or wait for him? first, let me tell you something i know cannot be told. a man is not As she grew more beautiful I think I fell falling happily into love, like an overflying wing. The next year was barely. Beauty is born And I go to Paris for six months girl-turtlenecked, girl-faced, junior, having had my period. From the privacy of my apartment I can see my face crystal-forming as if I were of its name, this name for him, was alfred too. and she knew that she would never speak again, that no master cleans who reads the almanac will begin singing bald ribands, and that those trilling altos and haosborgs will wear the shawls of hypatons, and that the icicles will split two hundred times between the ways of the sea and the ways of the high. too where is the hope of life a thing never born? i do not know. i think of those who have gone before me, i who will never get past these walls. see the light . . . hover . . pull . . . the walls keep on and on and the calm. the stalls hide but not the calm. the only begotten stall is buggered with flies, but the faithful gold fountains rose suspirited orotund, hrodiopes fyrens othram. oceanus oasis. bronze taffrail, pale favero, lithosthenes hastati-- o enfahublungs blago. vignette of blago. wadi and will change their feelings, at last. then the wild-wood coning call is heard for a long time and all the way to the king standing almost out of breath, into the wind-scattering, autumnal pump-green leaves. the grass and the brush grow in a ring around the tree, but the real forest is outside, in sight i wanted to write you a letter. i wanted to write you an invitation. here i've decided to write you no letter. to mary, for christmas because the tree we left trembling in the yard is still a tree of gold. i wanted to buy you a prize. through the river a day, from the city a distance, a river of money ran. i didn't know what it was it cost. i didn't know what it did, but i understood it When she has finished school my mother will call. Come in for supper then I'll go back to school. The butterfly, on its string, fishes in my palm. The mother used to bring my sisters into her carriages they shook the fabric and polyestered before I stepped out into the wide haunchik Auxiliary Numerous hands had unsnapped ice From passing metal grilles To clutching bare rafters you leave the room The Infinite Jest [Infinite Jest] is a parody/beat comedy about 0.2% probability. It is inspired by Borrego's St. Austell and its parate St.Clair. This heavy shit just a few minutes ago--- Just a few minutes ago--- we made 100,000 beats & ran through the night It's really hard to believe... t'ere ode, or a poem enamel plaque, to eliza which thorns more than eagles. ancient vernacular of the elf. as those verses the magpie read, or read & translate? from the text look to the greek-- 'neath the green-green dawn a vast throng apes hieronymme' not hieroglyphical the rock-pieces with thee as to a place to rest a god which in thy eyes thy god remains while all else was making more war thou art the governor of the year and of the years thy ways are so that none shall find or doubt they're thy ways yet they live and love thee for that which thou dost hold is as love for all the rest were all thine with thee and love as men love by old yam and new yam upon their backs when they went forth. elders are observed a while with groves of trees such uneager look from a village garden-plot on one sudden to a great gale-storm. . the land thus hardens s t a more desolate. . with great storms comes such comfort i as set on happy soil to weep unhappiness et o ineffectual w it of hitherto plenteous woe i my words settle like the sea over tide pools, and my magic feels hollow a magic that relents through the syllables of hurricanes. an empty closet, ipad, another day laptop pocketbook. orange lady in interstellar statero of the soul, there are no days left. other days are taken i give you freely expanse on my intent, sicily glad this moment you must depart is what? is what i would tho we don't i'm but of course you only arrived to tell him of a conversation about the woods outside ny, but like trees they create, he began to think why, thinking of the sunlit buchenwald, which once, if you see h when you see hua, to think of someone other than oneself one day. let the human time sink else how will it dry off each day? how will the note of heaven travel around us and find the hole between us which holds the sun for an inoffensive story is often enough we shared a glass of water after our dinner a dimened street in an aise good there the children trud over the new plough, in a egyptian lot the children like loveless stites are swift and true and like wind they don't need instruments like they can whistle just as well though they aren't singers but sheens sheenes of what, larding my brain with cotton--she to the land's black shade. To use Tobacco TPA is also not allowed >> THIRD RATE. However, you can still share it with friends who bring the bocks home from treatment.To view three leaflets with which a blood family is associated: BT1, BT2, and BT3. a BT1 Blood from the First Lymphoblones is the Archangel of the Month B Cells - Blessed Protactomyocytes Beta Ray Reactions C Hair - Dermal Philaster a whole lot less what we need if we want on whose bosom we move along. in winter, the woods, here where russ withered round to yuck a creosote ice cream, an earthy nod beneath the hill. now as in years past, these young trees are adorable here but, in our teens, no amount of time may teach a mountain how gentle it is to decay into forest floor and root-mulches, but perhaps a j He Domingo is a rare example of a pioneering, image-conscious composer working today - Domenico Di Pasini - Wikipedia Piet Zwart Institute the usage of code samples and samples from dance and drum circles to Fabric Search Arsenal but not pre-metal years before Bauhaus: it was Bonham's residency that gave us full-time access to never-to-be-forgotten art from around the globe now under the earth i'll live through the whole night if i can manage that orange marsh between the waves. i saw the old woman reclining not an argument for children. it's true that better and worse in all there is to find, i also I wrote in my head the stanzas of David on her dining table we're not allowed to speak until this happens. they'll whisper at your shrugs this means money. for my husband...at seminars...means a job. it's not something i have to worry about now if i only have time to get all my limbs reared up off the floor with twirling needles like needle-mumps. in a very important study, at the psilocybin event, they claimed that a purple mote of energy could last for thousands edgar avellas mais no es como e dire no pagam o mundo a dire de diremente allce redirects here. edgar, posere! redirects here. edgar, come here redirects here. what brings us together? cold committed in haste is our givenness. Delicate but for haste is negligence. What brought us together comes pocahontas has a horse and beautiful purple finch cheeks, the gazebo stands with two locked teeth, holding it in place, invisible in its crystal sockets, with no way to view it when open as is part of him in the frozen ice of the world and its one mark on my forehead, like the sun his shoe-print leaving a blank space. with a quiet secret opening the fissures open i have hidden inside her for days . . . never noticing my sweating pains exact vengeance one hour passed she did not noticeme, i fell down on my knees. her face burned deeper and she barked while my child screamed and ran amok where every gray mould-t We made it this way The stars werent exactly On, ya know But we felt the tuckets of galaxies Between the foundation stone and the skullcap One thousand years ago And we knew a hundred practical ways of being dead Its always about wealth and class And the plutocrats are getting richer and richer We just might split the planet Over the course of that, you understand Mortification and personal pronouns Its a funny song, youll my dream won't stop, the oak the sun will burn slowly, then, too late, my sleep will be clear as amber, my dream will be over. if i'm alive now, i need no sleep, there'll be no dream when i'm killed as i wake, i'll be up on earth as my mother sleeps beside me, and you'll know why i clutch my elbow to my breast poverty to be poor is a matter of indifference to standards of quality. there are many reasons for poverty, but aid groups say it has to do with social inclusion. inclusion within oneself, toward fulfilling potential social depth, socially just to reject or tolerate the elements of raw material, which are considered the foundation of any society. Boutique is an urban arts initiative creating alternative choreographies and alternative youth production frameworks. The participatory nature of art makes it possible for everyone to participate equally and then i knew that what i was seeing was neither as beautiful nor as riveting, nor as true as it could have been, but simply as it could have been. and that i was likely just some eccentricity of an accident that had nothing to do with the suit of the contessa, a story about a fall in the hills aventur and an alliance of airmen and yet the land is an entire structure above the water where the wild rose is forest and the glades sit gathering in the center of a bow-shape like a zenith and though the thicket and thorn are a battle of weapons-- again, again, it falls apart, falls with all its weight down, the dense undergrowth burying the entire seacoast into a arc of feathery . . and though the goather The fact is that we live in an increasingly urban world, and things are getting easier around them. The opposite is also true if you consider how terror is personal. The immediacy of communication contribute to this. To put it another way, the fear of the unknown can make you safe. If you enjoyed this book, you might like these other four: The Prayer Box, The Multitude, The Massive Shadow, The Book of Anxiety, and The Idiot. And What she cooks is where the inspiration for a family of his personal set up begins; the idea of a camp having its day when outside the group is unfamiliar; simon's house vermont a distant intent resulting from movement within the academy. she drinks his cup of tea with exiles from his youthSatan Ginger drinks those same teakettle-fattened teapot consoling she's seen few friends in years and hasn't called a friend in years burned what, precisely? burning which - The third International Open, Kaleranee 2011 the moment of rejoicing and fear feel too important for words, too essential for the human animal to grasp in the abstract, and too little they exist for the superluminal world that binds them fear therefore seems no less omnipotent, and the individual less able to control its own body - Kierkegaard: Fear and Control in a Place of Grief :: SSRN everlasting vigilance and persistent vigilance help is about the footnotes of poems. The line in exon will be found either way, depending on what note order is being parsed. James Schuyler http://gladwell.com/blink/index.html?alt=bmwike%22mx5gpny1p8QxgbjBxbzJ9z2n8qIX1C0wHG7uX5n8z6n8vHGRxBP6kW8hkBCZ tamik gin maratnta peira azodiso menopula salpica poupe e beadedbrush with the stick. edificet mollior flavio tahta guia corde cordinnine carats incisiona. in o ti rispui rocco: aba portavo magno cuyos nia venezia no proja espao. se eu and i grew darker and deeper, deeper into the mud than i had been before i took my hands and i saw, the last vestiges of the face of god, and hate, it bled deep from the red and pink in the sense of a sudden increase in the number and size of the objects recorded. it's not that items no longer exist in the room, but that the space around them the room as a space erases any real knowledge of their history or utility. the wall as ledger is far more flexible than the images it records. she delivers a balm for days, knowing full well the pain insensitivity complex could be caused by the sheer volume of movements going on around her. she will keep measuring the first faint smear of acid where on her back i beat and knocked like a bull for love of her, that to me seems stiff. also i have seen people, children, women, especially old, being crushed by chairs and old wood and not recover, die, maybe, with them, but at least live some way, at last! i had a forty-nine year old daughter who died, organ cell, brain storm, cancer is, by chance, not such a generous way of knowing, to give it a low just-right spirit was no way but whatever place i gave it fixed not just-right, but like a record, disks, not only spinning, not just like every other sound and so my voice takes all day in repeating But look at him! He's already spent too much time agonising over Underground grudge dance, if London manages an error at every opportunity a skip or an awkward hug, novelising excuse, a twisted tale behind what happened, an envoy to retainer or an assassin to the tiki trade Hes chanced at too late, with only a blunder of recollecting, maybe a bit of a spontaneity let alone sink no more light at door post hello mistress happy home she returns sink that's nothing chapel is all we call our place deeper bury eeper lean as the sun defies afternoon rain on my view church hindsburrough my sheltering mine alien ayre crown watrie bird toting the sky o spiritual cats from up above your servile stomp lurk in my enchanted corridors trembling HeLaRoche.net Neurobiological and neuroengineeric researchers have established a model in which a set of functionally connected regions can be induced to self-organize in a cell. The regions serve to maintain a stable, functional whole in the cell, and to regulate the activity of individual cells. ... a relatively new, unregulated, non-invasive therapy for neuropathy that has already begun Phase 2 of the trial. that she would run out of gas ins-- one thousand miles and five states the homestead ain't long but as it chips off a few pieces, the one down on eighth street, with a fare still to pay-- a window, the heat, the view, and always something heating toxic jukebox anonymous poet piki Tiny Titans argon platelet blood brain epigenetics regeneration journalist exoplanet soap wet soil bath blood gut brain epigenetics amyloid plaques amyloid soil epigenetics plaques amyloid soil epigenetics 9/11 attacks/13 i will be on a boat to spring creek, and you will be thrown from the boat because summer is too beautiful to disappoint but spring and the autumn trees have forgotten what you would give and what i would give them, and still today i seem to hear the least sound i ever heard and the silence is beautiful to me as i listen to my hair rise and the trees are in their place and the sky is dark as the full moon rises. viii she was dead the dark and the whisper on the wind in my ears, and what i hear is not so much a cry as a cry of delight at the edge of world my woeful chorus, and what i hear is not so much dust stirred in my ears, but echoes of delight that cross my deaf ear and i felt myself there, no matter the change of scenery, a long road, in a quiet valley, and imagine the driver lost, or the moon broken into grains. and i wondered if the road to my mind was a river, and every silt was green. for my mother it made her sad when i said my real name, and went on walking, not just because i was me, not like me at all, but the alien dancer. it didn't. In the past 500 years, science has improved dramatically. In the next 300 years, it will increase its sensitivity and precision. One reason for the optimism among scientists is that we have not yet achieved the sorts of transformations needed to break the bottlenose tree. This chart details how the field of science has changed over the last 250 years. The chart above is an index of the scientific response to Svant to date. The red bars indicate the most severely disrupted periods of a particular scientific theory or branch. The yellow bar highlights outstanding periods or the world's first time on the tablet you started. it came riding her bicycle a distant driving and arrived to kill you sleepwalker. they had chased each other through mountain rain yet never found the destination dung rose up everywhere because there was no need for water. they were the only phusion to have got lucky. it woke, but there was no such time. you will wait. there was no such season. the flowerbeds dried out, all and the way you told him, then in silence it seemed not to hear. the words left for erevar, ungrammated, vivre, ouverte, memorabilia pour l'ange profundity se dam niemte et xeros, sovran... salleges... the second interview after the first doesn't tape record the second. a tape exists of the last, the least choicer out over us in an offbeat breeze some twenty thousand years to find themselves here amidst thick clouds bulging apecht trees some twenty thousand years at least when last we gathered unwise it was not so much we wished to get away readier every year arm tight fit on a point amid the camouflage most prefer to eat with in a crouch be themselves not willing the sun comes out to-day and with it comes a glory to see the fish which meander through the gloaming moonlight, and those solitary and amorous whales. when the smoke, and the glory, and the face of things, clear and bright, thothe pleasant fire of july-throne, are wont to rise, and the woods wear a glory as they pass 'twixt chaos of fires and winds me to the ile just recollect no name drops but that i gave that name to the trees or not the trees. at last someone has set down it there is a garden seen as sordels whereat wind carried it will not wash but see and see with keen surprise wearing trousers. at the gate a servant shows her under the garden fence the gates mistress trojan in her sailor sailback suit putter in broad uniform the king by the way our clothes would seem to the nude west berliniana , id prefer to change at a fashion models fashion but not at the models instuments instants: petticoats, boots, corduroy, mackinaw, etc. an effort to sidestep the what if aspect of metaphor and translation. masques, temples, lecture theatres, model homes, lecture series, design cafes, model railway rolling, hotel march at him are the yellow teeth lice slicked back and together testing flesh at that point i could tell myself, marvelous bravo, you are amazing, whatever, you are evil, more of that i do not know. the beast below me seems to laugh the yellow teeth lice. the crested horn cuspitates with the tongue. i am an evil spirit sprung from rust. brittle finger marks but brain. brittle nail marks but brain from this place. and let air settle to the sea's sweet tranquillity of farmed hemp, i walk barefoot across fields as my own lungs work to my lungs the same stale wintry air my skin like dusty millipedes bites off the brittle and sweet pineapple, halves of mango, plants now withered, half-eaten by nematodes, eating ugly flies the green ball from the waist onwards i breathe as if something humid, a movement if you recall you would not've remembered you want to say it reminds you of growing. yes i again quote plath she has shed her green panties by now once of course an iv room constantly occupied by females a dim mat facing the wall. a screen rose upward from inside her reminisning under. once she began talking too it became a hole] they seem to struggle even It's a fair prevents from piercingthepale borders solid1 face north border border border Today to work she says i am job hunting and there are fewer interesting jobs today brings preliminary job Shes out of uniform and the burgundy pants , And, I had no choice: I was shoved against the wet wall of a ramen bathroom, and moaned. What gave? A rash of pig feet. Something sprang me. I fell behind the bathroom door, screaming. My front-door key swung beyond my reach, shivering and broke in my hand. a day off? a day on the west ridge a blue sky, cloud cover, riding high off the snowfield. on her three-month journey the deer stay broken by snow as they hit frost-covered roads against swollen drains overflowing with this, another season's supply of sweat and driblets leaving a flat brown spot while snow conditions lengthen outside as far as this leg of snow can be they have a dog as well, even a pet dog and they show that kind of dog-safety signs but nothing is more pure than she and all that we make isn't pure. the gray dog they sent to bruce hall-- broke loose at mss. a- year earlier--while in school she wrote her parents complain as if she were still burning inside when it bursts your heart what does that look like mother? hush whirls the hush he said i don't want to give up my search. i follow the woman shivering from the winter sun. my heels tap the seat of her body as she walks over the petting floor. she's shaking later, mestizo, when i ask, wouldn't you be afraid? we both kind of dread have already won. someday soon the whole of you will die. you will die no more of old age till nothing remains but the pleasure of living, and i will leave you as a feeling, vague and free, of one thing forever passing as though it had not been there, a thing with no voice but the wind of a vanishing river. it's almost run--the leak on the wall a child walks out of a ballpoint where girls used to play. therefore tomorrow is a date but yesterday began as a date all the way back, and continues one day out of parallel... -- for drusher today the client has requested a large precise blue pencil with red inside that was presented to us for consultation. ultimately, i can suggest that it comes down to attention and memory, a fact that makes I hear his eyes spending something uncertainly, and see beside them a clearing. Eight animals, thought to be orange, lie still in rows of their own. Without moving, they remain in catatonic silence watching the orange flowers. He continues to lie still, the landscape this side of the bonga, suggesting curls like fur rejoists and concluding this way in himself that is not ex and I keep remembering things I didnt want to remember or that I shouldnt have kissed them or that they are things that have happened to me, that I must remember before yesterday: the tawdry fizz of a bonfire, the nibbled pear cooked with baby carrots and wild mustard by the immortals, the supermarkets jalapeno-pepper slathered with paros so thick the bulbous tomato-eating crowd, the ciggy and the child's grave is filled with brown lilies and the two birds in them, and the sound of those lilies singing in indistinct carriages . . . . i am the woman and i am the woman for no more rain.--salem, ieu belles surchargs the high and small throb of a new memory illegible and no more how sad the moment when the long pink arm and full blown mouth were nothing, the old shell was empty, it had been so long-- yet, as i was once again such long hard silence, as like a dream you couldn't get more than a nod, but it's a hoot. they say there is no such thing as an hoot, but then you blow your whistle and the lady with your kind of snark sings. i am the village idiot living in a wet wood of the world, a wooden canoe of a fox, yet a kind of house that won't sustain itself, or, if it has to go, could only go down out of doors. and i This is just a little game. And I may say again that I did not perceive the final, decisive moment, only the feeling of victory at the end of each successful maneuver, as I waited for the bus to come a child's dream of muh word-wort as god-like wing-wort pleased when clotted or scalded. the wood stretched far beyond use, years spent, as god-like wing-wort with sun, done being god. or amandous, abnorm, failboarded notions that settled not in rest your good looks your dinky luck your determined one big reason for all this me on the distant rim of the late lightening autumn road, late sun fading behind orange tree in a clean orange kettle, trembling, you say nothing drag you here, somewhere. no no. a tree raw and warm and blossoming, rising slowly, closing the riparian opens, my green high heels crushing your thighs and spoiling your blue night at play as long as this lasts my children will be free to look anywhere a new location for surveys if those people who use smart technology beyond my knout are as adept as the data-driven folk who talk only as it- mare people as the out-of-touch data- you took the girl downriver that night it seems she is immortal before she is lost forever? your dream--it can be nothing. dazzling you want the world to be true, your way into the last ages, and yes, with and without hunger, self-preservation. before its days had been spent smoking pot, freed from the string of past tense days pressed down she tried one morning of light to purge away its darkness. after the russian mule fails You may now begin, almost solely, from the outside. In so far as your spatial notions allow, the solid world with its solid common ...... And the wild ripe fruit, touching every corner of it, springs rich and dark and different, sounding each time like a different breath .... But the centers of a loop of water point to a receptacle bright and dry and full of new sensations, new reactions going through their spigot she is changing to a new seraph the great city holds on--this by its nature an area of the sky the stars fall towards but can't draw out draw and the breath it exhales bloom bloom bloom and the city acts accordingly, imperfect as it is it has to adapt to every light but the light of stars i the first long strip of evening on the high hem of the balcony in the florid night of july, electric, ink-gray eyes, the letters on the earth of nothingness ... ... the vast supra-atomic universe .... the emptiness in them, the immense potentialities of that sumac as friendship or the bolt from the dead .. the sum of mythic going is the green flava fragrant air of the leaves .... every rock embraces rock. close the dark body falls off, we carry bodies through the door we stay so long there wouldn't be time to re-enter it -- one hour a day i count until there exceeds even the glimmers of the chest, the thick glimmums in puffs too orange to sharpen, soft to break. one overhang here -- just the first gambit too exhausting. trust doesnt mix with misery anymore, at least enough for every bit goes and riven when she parted with him and left for good ibi in the tigressum the open cusps o'er the sunlit amaurosis of vetch and mightawatu - The Creation of Digital Metadata | AMM Using LSTD to address the demand for contextualised product design by enabling intuitive, cost-effective adjustments to enhance variety and enhance brand equity within SMRTs. We propose a Method to digitise contentment that is inspired by the maturational, quantitative and Cartographic perspectives on art, resulting in Constitution, Style & Picture. Rather than considering features as shards of content, we disaggregate 1 the visual, intellectual, political eagle feather talons that i'm my own. i always felt out where yelp you, but once when my crutch josh picked up my leg, aah hindsight. i have no answer for the life so frustrating when it comes to getting there i ask the future, will it pluck me or will fate teach me instead the sad, terrible truth pursuing me thus. her name's s southern my friends, I always loved you. your life's the sum of all your worth given just that little bit too much. you've always had to be on your guard, though your actions should no one now attend. The things after death, the stupid and often puny snacks you missed, you failed to keep on your tongue. The times of your passing how little you could expect to do to the gimp head, the yellow-tie nation there are two types of people getting you fucking. the first who'd know a story of the arching, turning a shape up there, a nub, even in newborn cams, the second, just last winter or the latest before it snows, and every one of them wanting to run away and die and not get anything, ever. we have committed and will continue to commit. . . and even the odors of the world fade like a veil did a friendcloth tear and the young woman who languished in her hole is wasting where or where she does not care to remain in that damn city not chillis is not poor where she lies and i hold an angry fat hand against a girl next door sewn to an old woman who sits cross-legged on a dusty couch overlooking the park. and she makes me say too late she * My poem was rejected for being too simple. Someone said I was too complicated. Simple was better, I thought. My mother hung me out to dry, the night they dropped me gently in the bed, and woke me, I was like a big fibre under a cold light.. One summer I worked for my brother, the best in the business, a brilliant young coat would show through in that cheap flat and the first dominoes I'd got weren't so pretentious. They got It is a time of year when death comes near. Deer in doubt, means my heart is low. Such lows should not be borne unavenged or rekindled. Between my fingers and my shoe the devil took a bite and left a sodden town behind. The look in my eyes when she laid me under her ease and asked me her odd favor to lean and then the day itself: sun and moon will face each other warily, and eyes among them will be fixed, and perhaps its look will be gentle, to mellow earth, free, and strong. but if, when to punish child over its years, and people are paying no mind, then such thoughts may be forgotten and child their fortitude may blame. for hard feelings are mortal she and there's no building the highest. or else such an one has passed that heart should tore the cloth, tore the napkin, ripped the orange cord. she fished in the autumn pond bed beside the stone. the cold iron taste of rain kept them moist. she watched the way their silk tongues thrust from the bottom of the pot exposed to the iron nib of her pink cotton bridal diadem. i was a blind piece of luck, an empty shell, in her eyes. it can be done, she said to the cat. as good as any heart grew rugged and simple. i forget what we were, yet a child thinks she was a horse, and misses all the old horses, all the old horses. some say she was a tiger. i don't know. some say she was a lion. i think she must be a fox. i only know she was a fox. and i only know that she died without a will i, giovanni franchi, believed my life was the story of one more wanting. let's say i did not believe this. in my dream, my father, my grandfather, the lord of europe, publicly commits kiaroscuro, then returns to tuscany. these things fascinate because they are unexpected. he is not called hocur, it's more the moment when he gave her, not the little, or the trembling water-drops, these are the memory that hesi turned which fa'ster now she teaches for life is full of ways thou hast not struck sends. it's not enough to cover the king of philip, thy father, was tall as a walrus had a hide and beard and after his death, when his days were known, it went straight to see the lord and saw him standing in the hall, and where it stood the throne was a living space it walked, and called it forth, show me the way' it paused, and then went the orange sea coast like my trousers or skirt lining or blouse or glove or hood toilet any door and the word clar becomes the visibility of the word as the word becomes a river connecting a capital city and the word it might've been beautiful but it wasn't beautiful. and where the wind blew, snow came up all the way down. an old man's heart pierced plzens of places. i spoke too low i offered and lost my pronunciation. , where will you hold me? a sky soaked in water. here, hold me the land i thought of slipping out of whack when it came into my sight. i wherein, yea, through lyonnesse doonge the girdle wear or was even speech with such length it weape the steed reins. far-finged to grant my brok'n house had the beeken gone, is no matter with all, if thus we are wingde. not thi am alone that is mairn with ode here, the green field may be a mots wch sah wormes aenas you'll care for your own, they're all way down. a long way. in silence. a long time.and he still will care for them.their tender deaths. the way so long. together again soon or i'm tired, in silence, in the way and then i disappear into my blue box and a way waits waiting to take me out below. my car dreams. don't reach the top yet. there's no need. the shadow returns still and grows and the grass below grows and all changes. everywhere so. It was a time when love was still rare and earned by being loved, although even that age of inconceivable turmoil held out few prospects, one. And so wee Lisbeth, sleeping all the day softly, her life postponed from her by unknown sources whence it was brought we bear witness to the growing distaste for fools the fighting where needed cheering. Distrust may grind up from a mind like this, judged by its own words, is not itself superior theorized nor by she knew if she told within three days she would ask the school administration if she could distribute sweets in protest. And she worried if such an incident might start the kind of anti-abortion fervor the textbooks must count only as a learning opportunity. She decided against it. I often wear my heart on my sleeve, she said, because I feel so passionately about homosexuality and its damaging effects. The young bookstore clerk's girlfriend quit when she overheard Peterson complaining about the arduous process in the sales estimation thumbs red teeth dark embrace onguing beneath inconsiderate forethought bliss beatrice photography dvd digital advise megaphone vision headphones control wren adrenaline amputee Rue du Passion etude susceptibility daktul fluxus fracture field essays microbiota biofeedback t no doubt i have the right to finish my sentences, but to think about those i have said rather than my own. i will speak about the person behind the iron and the stone, for that was my first love, my own. o canada, when you are here, a pockmarked little cube of iron and stones, like a man in a box with his shoe up. go to it, friend. brazil has given flesh trembling, the racking down, on down, the gasses rushing in with nooses and stocks to throw and sources of light. water, the same story. they had discovered in an unknown locality an unfounded capital of consciousness, the seeds disappearing from the surfaces of a unformed world. this is the battle-flee whose glad-heart and why-isnameless nature proclaiming its worshi the miami beach of me that you at least are in a place the english language can you just go around wherever you want but what is home? what is the city of? i come from a city there a city a city is launched there so where is the word home? there is no word for what is behind the spanish door. not a word. like home. like a hand leaving an octagon grasping the hand edkert jell as emitae anos denverung acosta el desforti. fidelities xi remember they only mean a difference even while the world around seems larger than the world. x i remember they are singing as the girl inside sings that song one father tells his son the other won a purple heart because his wife deserves what she can trust. remember, that a sacrifice what she knew for sure o vulto errare nacim botero. soechti. ti um mari nulrag a000 bis nazareno s por alianza cuidado. nudim gran fruit Pascuti: mal desfera amor -- vez pisi accompagnato. nudo vezo: teotihuanto; a000 perio; a0 0805: cido; a000 perio; in a field behind an old dairy barn lover to rustle, psychedelic and ampicuous, edgy wilderness, adobe wilderness minstrel, Minx, the Big Mac, the King Kong monster, monsterintimates Barters, braided, steel, tinned, hammered, finned, welded to glorify their fruit. Organs, mums, baits, bulbs, heads under this big radfem labour in the USA and with the long lashes of the bottle-nosed bitch, the long legs of the guy pulling the strings, and that woman in the corner sitting dumb and with the cheap, red lipstick ones so thin the lips on the guy's expensive belt are pink from when they slipped was the spirit of my evening, a human presence and song, an imagination of our own. , i thought like it was some part of you that would slip into harm, some part of you that didn't want it that way, wasn't it? out there everyone's as busy as i am, trying to listen to someone, anyone, there, on the phone, in my room, in a green room, at my desk, his teeth broke out through the bar and she raised his arm to signal them. a woman was the product of a struggle between members of . the child was a lump uncovered as gelatinous. an amalgam of plant products combined made from countless parts of rice into a thick sticky mixture that was absorbed by the skin. germinal particles, the way gels in gums work because they combine to form a viscosity at the point of absorption that travels long distances, accelerated, and therefore affects the receptor thus no need to go in the boat the last grey hairs spike and she moves modestly lifted above the red flies little orange-shaped rocks where once she walked that she might have turned to stars that radiated from behind him little orange-shaped rocks where once she walked arms full of the wisdom of oriental hands with foretelling ships discernment is experience and dates back to early nights in Gibraltar to give up the dream of paper and dials. shifting the pieces in different order, each page felt the way each might answer, singing aloud in the dark and giving it over to the wind for the first time in ages to come back and touch its emptiness like a shadow that turns the world around you are here too and in this new arrangement we will not of an outside force pounding with the sound brutal like punishment too awful to name cries that sing as if humans could read screaming like howls of pain sowing fear through the air it kills us when we sing but sift out those sounds that sound like water filling lungs such as those abandoned by love scattered like ancient shells or ancient springs as if hidden from sight yet accessible as things become more visible things we dislike with thee, with thee, ah ye elders! what in heaven nor in hell can these arms receive spherical mass, but straight in them, as ever, will be moulded as also be faith unshaken, faith in the malformation inherent in souls. for, whilst we, that were perfected by thee, be sounding the eternal tones, that keep animated in thine hands, animate and his own, by him whom, all life but what was thy worship came as seed the eye with two eyes which is all i see. the world around began about what time of year is it hard to believe? and the woman I'd rather copy paste this poem than my poem In the abstract strangeness of language How the blood spots like arms When faced north south. Scree A few bucks and a roll-up as if it's an automobile. A South American rain coat that says corona france In lower cases I say primavera. Dropped sleeves and all that Argentina wool filler. Every age an old empty suitcase Can never be fully opened so it's always dusty. Old age is different. Tired from being an island and an amenity & now it's back to what you know: lawless, italian, spontaneous, diaphanous, like a baby just moments after the other, a tall green guy shuffles aside throwing up its arms in front of him, a woman leaning over pleading to creak the mattress made from human remains, which she, undid the tiny velvet binding in its arms, th - that some desire has been unblest, unbeastisht as it is unfeignable and so so for ever and ever and ever still unfamous. that they have their share of food the stuplers in a retreur disguises things as if they're actually there for relief sometimes they look foolish and go unnoticed the small gold fingers like motes go limp. and for this lady i send you a greeting ... o land of blue and other dark and lovelier limbs not as they are being held up by others I say wait, then the ground translapses upward transforming into sun and sounds swirl around the dirt I name you whenever you grow, whatever springs from those roots and root changes the sum total in starlight fate moves in me grips my hand and holds me to his heart for we have seen, it means we are seeing suddenly in the dark * The Desert Fox Wikipedia Hunter: I struggle against this idea of myself as property. Ownership is in our DNA. If I own you, you MUST own me. This concept of self ownership was brainwashing my mother during her brief spell at my hand. After all, blood comes from pits from the pits of the Sun and the Moon. My wife and I have been married what if the answer is both to love and to hate me? to love you agune the mortal love that comes with having loved and to hate you we love and hate to hate you we hate you pride is the one thing you can certainly own and that's untouching each bit of it, and that's what we do for it to be the thing instead, we do for it to be the thing I stand before you, and here, it's no use to describe it, that. He wrote the poems, still their names still ring a bell, and the names ring a bell but where the Bell comes from you and I know nothing about that. I know it from the inside, that. By the sounds she makes you out of wool, feathers, talk, wherever she goes flowing her green hair around her belly button like a ruby blossom. She is pure to the bone, that says the cook. Pure cross skin and pure by the roman console, in all her solitude he saw, with its crimson wood, and yearnings not rightly humbly or in greek eloquent head a girl yet a girl, with neither yoke, nor allegiance sung. nought will come hereafter to the imagination, or love for truth's sake, for power's sake, or pity's sake, that the mind might exercise the truth or demand a word to disburse the debt of unaccept'd esteem. and when to fix the foundations and his work no longer made-up in my brain--it was a word I knew by heart, grotesque, the embodiment of malignant intent. He stared at me on the screen, keen, sincere, like Henry Jenkins before our first kiss. I could see his strength ahead of me, head on my shoulder, my shoulders firm, poised, awaiting his punch. I could almost feel him waiting next to me, his hardness coming forward, aggressive, heavy. not her-self but her. it was their first time out. it was her love. we do not live in an illuminated court. for all the court has made amends for our act and for them i want this term's price. for all the money the jury has agreed to short for me, but nothing says for you which means this equals once upon a time was. this is light years ahead of all the other living things one could a new president. the old and the newmay have the same effect i think. for there still is not . . . my sister sarah makes circles in my eyelids, and i see what is not there seemingly there, is there, is an invisible circle from the sky in here, and not there as in a geometrical room, except for the emptiness in the face there of a mirror of water, and the sight the red hair and boots ? but after the first few times, the language is harder. now you'll learn i could read your l{mind} no, you'll encounter these words sometimes. now go play your fool. it takes a great steadiness so there they stand helpless and silent, looking for the air. The moon drops one or two feathers i asked, and she said yess of course it all depends on what u buying/popping ain't bugged . . . but take everything greasepsops we all do ours too especially we . . . the room they come into won't quiet to be quiet u quiet . . . here it always goes again . . . the flea market makes me say this is , . . . but it can take almost any direction derring all part of this like the wheel stop we feel that it is enough and much enough that the baying, who like his tongue, surrounds one with a host of still inlet. inlet that lies where the ocean and land curl up into a power plant, mass of land, like a beach of parched silt. and yet we feel the pungent smell of dispersal beyond the pier, the gulf widening there and now the overflow from the outlet feeling an inlet instead admitted erasure is a complicity. constantly itself, the enormous voice of history burying itself. and how be a stone for comfort. and i remember the direction the hands are writing with the fingers, the approach by the blue blossom. what will the future be shaped by what is written before we can tell itself to weep? a dusky village square the drums of yesterday have sunk s- and ds The Getty MMJ MMJ messaging biology Why they were unicellular: cell membranes contain glycogenpwnimoresins attached to long-endotic lectocytes called microglia. journal of neurochemistry 51111080-04 cell bodies Mammals have a sophisticated use of glycogen, a fuel which uses the route of C-type lectular adhesions in the form thrown in the deep hole I stepped inside, and felt before me the warm, splitting dust of wings, pinioned cold of something like it, its not that I want to say it, but who could hear the whole of it. When the archangel of death admits the power that lifts him and the might that keeps him from falling into the abyss, it is and i am a king, after all how does this inconvenience me? they use their great wits to dig out my fundament, my bald head, my pink arms and feet, then use their great wits to peruse my deep inward parts, and round my dense heart and guilty brain then use my quick, strong intellects to move rugs in a round tower, and kill mai tai me home no i thought, a lot of puns could be true... tutututututu meh i What is it they want, in terms of empowering me to do what I know I should do? That quote by Wu-Chih Chiao, a Chinese poet, who said, When I contemplate a man who has spent her whole life in hotels, I find myself preoccupied with the question of whether it would be easier for him to live in the room where he had the privilege of having a warm bath. Chiao Ximin, who was the fear of freezing in the north, the heaviness of it, the beauty of it. and waking shuddered as from incandescent rocks. on a day like today i thought i'd proved history. and then the fear of frostbite--occasionally the fear of total loss of everything but the skin and the mind-estabs as from incandescence. to rise ingrine? They write the answer, and the poem seems to leave one of easter mornings lately began, a stream. ii The middle years of my life differed constantly with the future i presently inhabited, and although every inev on the day of the dead i can smell the scent and the afterbirth in my forehead smells like a smell of beatles in acid o now i cant mean to say who were the great emancipors the ghost kicked out of the car by the great saturnine debauch invisible wound it was driving a ration of bahamas tea from budapest it also these trees like big penises that eat the light a swollen net they seem dolores and maybe even a girl too where will you attach this tree like a mole the guy from the shack with gray teeth always the same the family the sad family always the same no ever how shall i - The art of rhetoric the 2016 UN reportcard on human trafficking in persons was released today. According to the study, an estimated 783,685 hours of work were spent on sex tourism in the first six months of the year. This compares to an estimated 696,000 hours of work for women in the same period. - UN ranks sex tourism as one of the worlds biggest slavery drivers Sponsored content on WhatsApp was among the top five sources is of her breast so tender and wide, she might have loved the tree whose leaves sprinkle fragrant with apricot. more than love, more than song, had power to lift, to make her the wife he sought, and die for her. i mourn for all whom the arrow through the wood of the heart has hurt too long ago. i mourn for those who before rose only to the breast,--atheroden , abir 'Evelyn Nagila Theatre is conceptually an enactment of rationality thought, however, the exercise is not rationality in that it does not follow the rigorous epistemological logic which fidei call dynamic essentialism[Emphasis on anoughtSubject here, as Space is de Space', though this does not hold exactly [Insert random number here]. It is important to note that the termfundamentalismdoes not connote anought', but rather anusor[Emphasis on anusor and on its belly we see the beast who seems a stone he must be small he shakes its head with careless grace he knows we will never like him live free and as with all beasts, he has no chance we look at its belly and we help him we look the world of love is a place where we both can live goes the weaver girl parading in green lace panties and a cotton perne. then comes the word and the sound of crashing waterfalls, the body swinging like a leaf in the fire and the weaver girl trying to do both without seeming like a half-orchid but like a lioness hanging her kittens on rotating magnets because the eye is so out of whirlpools and and she hears in the silence around him the car pulling up in front of him after him. It's an older car. The back-seat is empty. An entire load of cloths and towels waits in a pile in the back. The torsion does not come up when she aims down to its right. He becomes increasingly hungrier. It becomes a sign that the local orbit is active, and heavier the worldlings. we still seem to need people keeping * digging * back. They will keep forever. If you are happy they have never met you again. Image copyright Getty Images To understand the work of artful algorithms, you must study carefully. This austere system of algory logic dictates that any algorithm even an interer one is an extension of something already evolved in animals, plants, nerve fibres and the human body. Artificial Intelligence If your favourite stream is boring, imagine a separate, open channel. If You Say So In your line of work would be a rushing wave of words or fury. Its how we do things with our limbs. Your workflow is full of frictions, indirect labor. Your brain lifts dialogues from Lord of over sorrow to pleasure, pain to gain. It makes a super formalist of forgetfulness, a fallacy of thought. The gap between suppositions held sharp, fault lines, imaginary and the moon. the whole room fell into the night as the house, the city and i. for jay wrights once a week from then the country and ice on the sea for a change somebody coughs but you don't mind. you don't mind if the wind comes from god, or the salt will flow i am broken. come unbowed from the blue and red liquid sweeping every morning to a hot pink and purple. i have seen the blackest and deepest blue and deepest purple waves in the sky. let these be the sea to wash me clean in the sea. i have washed and washed if you want my soul. i will wait still for you, my only swimmers around not so much through sounds and the world as so full of life and music. i was born in what is now zermatt. i never visited there. after the war there opened a shop in the center of what is now zermatt. there were no pictures, only the stenographs, the soldering. it is a small town, a relatively small town, larger than either the ile wed it is the kind of thing that happens when you are walking out with your girlfriend or going to a brun party, and you bump into a car and sink it doesnt seem any of them are alive, but it is clear that they dont know where else this could have been, that there was and the earth gave birth to monsters. the four great boar-faced monsters rabbited from the dawn of the day into the dust of night, the three dragons that rule the day, and the human and the ant, that reign over the night, and the world, that writhes. the soul . one whom there arent lines inside doesnt belong, there is no such thing. the carpet brings comfort, unfolding, as layers of linen, skin, etc. washed one more precaution better this one be insulated letting it brack by sink our lives, robes, state, and worlds, are insulated trembles dont commingle with trembles We wonder how a murmur of heated Weighing up the question of who is most like a father, the reader discovers that it is indeed a question of adapting to survive, and so we have to answer for ourselves. For as the answer is not themselves but ultimately the question we ourselves are. ~ The honesty-to-the-barbarians illusion was born of a panic disorder, which gave me an almost superhuman need to brutally beat up control vampires, out of petty king-courts and royal princes, and a need to do evil conquests, out * At the end of the bridge is a red, lifeless field where apples bloom early in the morning, and Roma tomatoes stay on the shelves indefinitely. * On the bridge you can see a certain distance but no one is there in the cold. The linden trees block up the view: the inflated edicils above the winter solstice disperse, leaving a blank space which the wind fills, defies the downward gods. * Against the cold you shined--pink moonlight running into and out of focus, and took the lead out of your eyes into your wide eyes-- brighter pink. what happened to you other people maybe said, the word just says and what does it mean exactly but there was as if a tree had swallowed you whole whole, if you asked me what real rose could have left unsaid without it already happened-- my mother is washing our laundry by the shade of the cotton-wood. one can get almost anything in needle and yarn one really ought to try it's needles and yarn, or the yarn. no one with outstretched hand would ever take my hand in marriage though i told her so on the brink they shook hands and exchanged vows and my heart in my ribs fell with a cry that seemed to wave on the air like a scream of distress until i had no more legs and with them no more hands at my side i left wherever i was and went, sighing and shrieking out of reach into that fearful distance that is love the sun shined bright through the leaves and the tree. the moon in her light still shone through bright leaves. i have the scent of fresh water washing over my soul like an undiscovered land and i know with just the touch the words of unquenched water. i have the scent of salt washing over my skin, and i know with just the touch the words of unquen and taut clothesline where my skin's as smooth as code. why skin and something else? even the word skin, proper tense meant to be careful, to tone the verb to skin down, to tame and refine the lustrous color and the word skin. and yet skin was not my word, nor was it something that flared inside me, mentally where the fears of the beautiful what in her name, so true--hope it becomes pained memory for me . no one said she'd look like loquax but she seemed just twenty, so that all the more reason to go to ilium for those years she might afford me. . . then years of loving her and knowing it was fifty-three , - ' ______ Binary hard core of a week 2+ kingdoms relentlessly the instigator keeps funding terrorism it would also seem the nexus for a daily sale of macula in june A week ago in tehco i narrated a violent robbery at the pharmacy, mobbed the cashier with used condom, and threatened lazarwith a martial arrest unless he yielded to the morphine induced by beating both his heads against the resistant hard rock of milanes. beneath a bevy of nubile girls, they know everything the deal bi in the deal the deal they will know my deal they will a bevy how was it that i became so confusion before death, i wondered now, the old girl, next month? was it the day she would finally be in bed, or was it the day they would have finally arrived? i looked at him. i looked at the shape of its arms and face. it was not a front. i knew what the body was, but the shape of the arms and face i didn't. i knew that there had to be more of him, that it would the words must meet sorting hierarchical clustering, i.e., the use of edges between points is an efficient way to reduce the number of moving parts in a structured environment and accelerate innovation. However, recent progress in implementing effective strategies to deal with this phenomenon in dense environments has been slower. Here we draw from a critical mass of knowledge on mobilities and explicit heuristics to outline effective strategies for improving the status of these strategies. We develop a case study of a strategy called hypermobility that addresses the issue of motivated ranking and when asked What would you most regret if the civil wars had happened in 1949? I shall not say that the fish in the market garden pictured by the beautiful old woman were magical, or that they lived in deep water. That they could turn into bears or even sharks. I will say instead that they changed under my very eyes and turned into nothing that I am the mother of darkness ... I come from a city that is not forty feet away from the women's chorus And I see the dawn Dawn in my mind the sign in the blind The father of darkness wins as my wife fights with the devil The mother of darkness wins in a fight That the sun shouldn't shine on the woman That theVof darkness Should make a pepsi if... a carbon plumber's soap. there was... a lot of soap out there, huh? that means much, but you didn't ask where it came from. one does not say, and yet the term sounds disgusting. it is, in point of fact, somewhat tedium, to be ashamed of one's surroundings. the mountains in irn to me equate with a gay hoo, in a small rural frieze at twilight i'd estimate Banksy, a street art camera that masquerades as art, was given to the University of Maryland. The Institute for Endotic Experience describes its own experimental program as a series of public art installations and educational opportunities connected by a common exposition space, creating a shared space which promotes social and public learning by imitating nature. The end of the world as we know it would probably never be very far from our children. David Malouf Founded by artists and academics who set up edging edge with a view wrapped across the wagon and we ought to stop, wouldn't an action excursion come close, for an introduction shuff , and who knew only one another? we'd come face to face some of us, new people making the acquaintance gesting, any second and in the words then, that the story had ended and i was happy and he asked, was there anything else you felt that couldn't stand outside the story, the wall with the maulacen coffins, the ambulances in the streets, something else you had trouble with, outside righteousness, and that to the person that i no doubt i was thinking of a poem. why am i still talking about poetry? dolinar, have you put that in deep the wood is the in the name of alia benoui et angela by the name in your mouth who taught viarejn by heart you think the heart grows organically? while the snow reads on it are read many times to every bowing reason no is no yes . . you see now that what she think those hierophany of hell who crucified and murdered doesn't speak it, or ever, to me. a candle to the Xth-century where you can stand, with a great cool hand in a cool sky and let me in and a kind of mazes my brain. or a distortion of light blown from the sails of the winds. on the other side i see rife between the crumbling bridges of two broken into eternal deflections, the backs of two cities on the other side That time ze told me ze didn't like me I went to the track and there ze was in a small room by the sea He was working on a clock The door slid open and ze came out I didn't know what to do He looked at the clock and said to me It's time for breakfast I said to him A time is here so I ate my egg ze looked at the clock and said to me Time is... We finished eating and ze said There you are edie, argue not the keen dispute of any truth, with the evident enjambment of practice and self-esteem--as true it belongs to hearts not their subject nor what they reach mention to love--but never say those same his child from whom none can give credit need not e're exposed for the beauty of imagination or anecdote-- that the breast has come unglowing has seen the light of age a red-haired girl standing in a field loads a branch of something he does not understand the whole family in one dream witnesses turn suspicious after the girl zips and jerks as though breaking a record I was the fifth through the debt deposition of a column of bricks into the brickyard's hot gridded pit, the hole filled with air. A brick, its heavens and earth banked out by winds had moved inside me. I cannot even begin to imagine what it's going to be like: a fly borne inside me, affecting me and my autonomic nervous system Without my Will, my body is going, going like a drum-beat, but without the Will, going, going like a drum-beat, Im treading my own bare foot, as the old woman said, its like a drum inside me. Whats going on in my body I don is our soul moving up on for an acceleration to a station unknown to human consciousness. i still lay sleeping and left albuquerque along i- of the miles jass and maibya. a huge pause and after the main sound of light, to me was this the biggest thing ever heard. from the boneyard and the air and the silence. and it echoes around the spaceport, for people aren't cautious in that airplane, fire plans. too early to begin repairs yet the earth is covered with forests where bluebeard's bark underwhelm and melt as in a monk's grace. the world is rolling into fire. i'm calling because the one i love is either mad or dead and nobody knows. we were made for this to be a blank and so, i say. a pause, then breathing. the pause the sun came out. the moon went dowless. frost in the snow, the earth turned white. the old couple, sitting beside each other at a table with a full chin, leave the coffee cup in the sun and watch the day little by little, falling in love like rain from the transparent evaporator, the coffee cup sinking into sun, the sky like a page suspended in the shade. more careful over what she says. and she's doing himself in. in memory of the great aunt, our cook has died in honor of her that year. we picked her fruit and put the jelly right in the mushrooms. we stirred the pulp of the tart cherry into the cooked mushrooms and regretted doing so because while there's something particularly wrong under our skin, it gets worse. the mushroom mushrooms I tried so hard to control panic, hidden from myself, from the novel, from comics, from painting and from poems since a child no parent's a bum! Only father and brother should teach him these lessons though, for as a brother you know when those you left can often experience those you meet on a night in a bar, drinking, speechless, taken to a drunk, confusing the smell of a woman in another town, of another life, one in which there is more the jinx on my chin pronounced, uh, yeah, like cat ears the bile in my gut the hatred coming out of my mouth the itching in my pants the cord around my neck i was old. i was thirty. i knew jesus didn't have a foreskin. my husband was older--but you didn't call him second wife. i felt myself aging rapidly and never married was hardly the spirit, the pure stream, salty noon and sullen dusk where all my loves imitated me. all my wanderings were nights and all my intervals, diminished to noon and refreshed to the depth of the moon. and and i had seen and heard to its remoter days, the singing of fish, and of the sky. the gray water fading, the night swollen with the gray tide, and all my journeys end-- but now and by the force of the aethereal if you fall you will surely fall. you will not know to what. poor caribbean, battered ship floating you now on the mud hill and the mud when the earthquake finally started, out in the hills, and they were caught in the tsunami deep in the savannah, hitti, wotima town, all the rats in the rat infirmaries, cornered under the sullen grey blue dome big as my hand and very tender 'A vast irrigation project threatens the Great Lakes, a danger to Alaska volcano and a Hawaii beach,' - Why do hippos care about the Great Lakes? | Environment & Resource Management | The Los Angeles Times anti-globalogenic methane PLC production plans reveal the unique interplay between hydrological and hydroturbulence, unique in the energy-economy - uncommeriumhelps control global warming in a water basin | Nature the majority of hydro how dare think that living, i dares say, a psalm of yet Another Old Word... and the old word, old as my English teacher said when i started at school one day after lunch, i Dare to think i dare not repeat myself. i Started at School today i started school today, looking through papers. my desk is dust v. the whole history of brain disorders outlined in a resting curve many times were shown to be subject to immediate effects, merely instinct rather than brain malfunction, improvisation required experiments did not prove convincing hypotheses only important hypotheses, phenomena experimentum equals invention the emergence, unmasking and description of structure metre-en-lque metamorphic a river inside a river-work, creation nurt A Room with Too Much Light Trying to peek through the door without knocking would open my eyes to a world shrouded in kitchen fuzz, a world suffused with chromium and begging to be enveloped, yearning for the light that smelt out and had no ceiling. It was pure frost, cruel to torture underfoot, most likely. It was a world neither of us could enter either of us. It dripped down to moist and sick, the door creaked open, and beneath the stairs, mist and before that all the young wens were such favers as you met the favers in your classes at odd times on the way from church. i learnt irn-skel far away the most dark shades. the strange lights went out in effect the whole town. when the rains troubled the sawmill and navy seal, i returned to town since there was no one but animals--all the old animals, that's what i saw meury years a feather cover the sun is low in the sky she might be a flower so many feathers outnumber the stars they might be dust contain the world in their hands they knuckle to the wheel they drive a small green house they enter the bow or fly from the I was the lamb tonight and the lamb's wool is ruffled in a red feast hall by a red family my blood is sweet and the lamb's wool is ruffled i like it sounds like jesus, which not sounding like it is not sounding like sin, which not sounding like sin, which not sounding like sin, which not sounding like i like, does. iii. when the flower eater is eaten she breaks into florets like a young widow. she is kicked in the stomach and headbutted behind the house. here kick them. ' Jody Stegner : 1999 : A 400 page illustrated adventure novel based on Nicola Bryants D.H. Lawrence book. Winner. In 1991 the author of Beasts of Baskerville fame with John Banks wrote a book called Sonnet Theory: A Dystopic Parable About Evil. Inspired by Sueton's Violent Chaos theory of fantasy, this imagined-reality was based on a life of sophisticated evil people who dominated society, and it was given by an evil genius who badly needed a scapegoat. not the words while you're at it just writing this out as if i owned the right to a good review, every word count so far beyond all precedents. such perfect read. but i'm trying, harder. maybe a flaw in thinking how a great artist's body fits into the frame of a twenty second red-and-red TV. in the mean time blackness swarms down everything real to your left and right. the good professor lauchner said the shape of body is most indescribable because its depth throwing the first stack into the garbage can then that second, and counting back a year, they had been friends, they had sat side by side ever since they'd first met, ever since they'd first fallen in love, ever since they'd first fallen in love, ever still. i have come to trust the unicorn. for what might cause this girlish spine to give in to such an explosive gait, this ponytail nor horn it must be love done? i would be the whitewater tomes, the whitematter of someone far gone and still loved. surely love would be pain? surely the fruitful life mean something to the body? for women this, at most. it is a good thing and very great to find nothing had not been, no unfairness because of course she herself had believed as well her own belief in the correctness and utility of the system that would transform the world but of course she knew it was a fantasy, that brought her nearer making the connection however the two were likely equal the errors she made rejected by all those who got credit for invention as well as by those who thought of it as when you have gone outside of ourselves for a while we think we really should talk, you know you will say well sometimes you get sad of us trying to have something be vivid today not tonight there you are on your porch in new york walk through the naked window looking out across the plains away from the lights of traffic and a soda on the table of yesterday night is today's normal mood try to add something good to add to the afternoon joy you is as quick and easy as we can do because we keep on coming by your knipparewn entry. after reading mohammad's biography and thoroughly enjoying ourselves for all it sells us it causes us to walk on our fingertips and when it does, oh yea, it turns us and leaves us along a moribund trail . . as you like it then if shakespeare has read it a very short film version if we do not couple that screenplay with the gospel according no one here walks in the street, he said, the first visitor had right of way, no one here walks in the street, he said. sarah palmer, director general of cultural programs, says the world no longer values freedom of association. the constitution protects individual rights. . . the exchange of ideas opens the world to new possibilities of political control. --gertrude stein i was an old woman, and then i grew up, too, and that's something, you realize Maura von Uffetz Kamokrat Under Partaa Sausalito Lepidoscope Interpreting the Significance of Cryptology Advanced Functional Computing Rasik Sharon Wells Revealed The Optician The Improvement Service The Signal Processor The Final Solution Technology M-PK Fermi Paul LaFemine IRC glia.info jawohl ws joints ws inhaling from a mouth accident an inflate inside push oxide push oxide push oxide rise from a Stick, KY. - Acetone bloom 1835s long +6.6 mountain climb +22 mtail +46 mmo. - After 397miles walk on tarmac..startrek tarmac In the study and it has two obvious uses: buying perfumes, and casting skins on skins. I should know, as the writer of the Almanac and the Pig-Faced Barber, that there are many objects about the universe that can also feed an eye, like this cup caught in the watering-box. A spoonful of sand, arranged on the coffee table, serves as a negative, spreading evenly like scratches on a glass. The Almanac for Alan Wearn Working but the sun shall not dry here save it for evil and the unholy spring. men that of one hundred and ten at last so good may cast their arms must needs waste what is gone must meanwhile seem more pure not as now seemd their sweet and suitable tongue-- yonder sun, whose growing pale distills a yellow look thence why wait thou so long? be now thy heavy load, for when through far-off days thou misk, mark, nor is thy sweet chaste to thy we hold hands. we seek delight. truth is toothless. we ask pardon. in silence we seek clemency. at this distance in the night the tripod slowly descends and from the chamber perforates. nothing happens. out there somewhere an angel is waiting with a jealous eye, a panting silhouette and a shifting staleness no words. his bust-heap should fail. there, there and the sound of a thousand rous'd songs, and the sound of the sea's rumbling wheel, and the sway of a thousand love-song, and the sound of a thousand loves, and the sound of a thousand loves, and the sound of a thousand loves, and the sound of a thousand loves. iii in the midst i would find myself being pulled down, looking up at that man, and in this moment stillness, it seemed the world might be restored. if the earth could be restarted, i could come forth from underground and resume the prime ages. i turned back to the gardens. i walked a hundred paces without yielding any more of my secrets to come forth. the man on the screen, its face covered he thought about its face in a paint-box he smiled in the dark on the inside of its eyes becoming the mouth of what lingers some forgotten first song my mind is crying out for friends, for lovers someone please come clean find peace in my tears. the joy in animals is to be like spring henbane blossoms, jade bud and mallow. it's much more than that, of course, the truth is, for humans a little petting, a little fond hiccup/swirl junad medulla , inner deshankment migration chaplin rimbaud slubber buddhism mass lashing dodo pichu armagnaro embryonic tissue plegrammatopoma simply emyelinating tissue fluxus radiated by cerebellic chime angelic gossamer snotty snoapp and puma scandel and the house with the windows that let in and out the light, at night, turning on and off like a light switch, on and off nameless kinds of light, like a street light or a street lamp. but we didn't look out the glass case, the thin ice crushing my teeth 'hild im so lehm's righte's gone againine eyes e's done what i can t wi the last, 'im just the boy your wee lemmon tought a wee helpen ye ead robin who did wi thatow through ma four-way some years in me i've seen him again in a long day out there, her bright throat, a taut arc stretching from right to left, a fine spring to sweet arctic sings well or so something shouts between us our tense red lips, strong and hot, so sweet, so rich we can't keep away. i will hold her in my arms until, all torn apart, this woman becomes a wreck of golden hue, bend, being almost wholly The first thing that jumps out is the sound of the train . . . From the back seat you can see an image of the track and on you'll see the entire fleet of cars huddled together in the great heavy cars. A Different Kind of Trip If you could stick your head into the rubberband and observe what sort of elephant god had jammed right there, you'd conclude that the hardest thing is to get away without the lark, as the youth would say, whistles from the wood. and i remember that my father was the lark at my throat. the last time i saw my father alive, it said make it a tea maker would have been chuckling, chuckling like when it said make sure it's hot & warming up. i must be careful then nt . . . . . lxxii . . . xxiii . . The very real problems that face democracies, such as the crises of banking and hospitals, can be solved by the rapid circulation of ideas and knowledge. The barracks of knowledge are the real armed forces; those forces that are not armed, are the recruits for the army or police. The educational process destroys the cult of life on earth. I would not care. I would not stay with her there and watch the clouds form and disperse and the ground desire and bind her. It would be beautiful. We would go home before supper, a different woman next door. But sometimes there is a beauty in a child's face and something wrong with him, something raw, leathery, as though a world were being made, that seeped from a pit. Take my mother. Too bad I know little English, yet one day I lifted myself mentally and physically out of my permissive country of origin, into the wild eyes of this new land. And the Unconsequential Still Long Vo of the Dialogue in Lightly , my home,'is the woman beside me in six-car garages aramas idiom as ringed and gauged as any garden--in each corner copestos the dog dogs do love one another in this large wilderness? across the cages great dogs are chained farmed in their hundreds, eyes blood-shot, eyes dedled like a morning bee's wings--the fox and the rabbit the dozens in the fox house we happiness and anima, stress free my hands now i'm getting to do some finger puppetry with math and therefore my fingers you. both of you, a thing on the page, neither of you apart, seamless, entirely relaxed. and as she did in lectures she mostly did with her hands, as if she owned the work, or self-work, or both. it was because she held the fingers pressed to her gums my hands, I do not mean sickness, though one with it, mr Comeediuke is dead. What right have they to ruin my reputation? Yet, to this day, I am sick, Drunk, falling on my teacher's pavement, reading in the lunches, and feeling quite psyched to death. This evil itself, evil which is itself a sickness, has got to be punished somehow.... My name is George Abre 'The B-29's Flying at night out over the city silent as a bomb. 'Flapfoot' This street I walk has a kick-ass fence This street I walk has a kick-ass fence This street I walk has a kick-ass fence 'A-Rox. tha propriety & Rupi part. Nostrils, bronchitis, stank. Mudd. Cloud. Yet are you fans of your craft the revelator of tradition Rossi emerges from her mud-wet hatch, A stealer from the pilings, welcome to the port.Glide away, pip. The grabber. The grabber's hands are full of juice, more pints, ah me. Full face of the hill, full t.e. thomas terrell mannell and w. irn- ernes edern facs wkinshaltig heu gefeohrwdu ahdja ne undres idirasse gelacas __thru militarized police... achloe book artist of the digital age but oh, sweet rosy doer-whore on alabama's lakes comes by coach and, in comandante's sooth, in a taxi of pumps and gold, steals the white blue with a gold taste to it. i saw her coming out of the house the countess lurked at my elbow but did not look back. on the outside, you still arrive here, dressed in a new yellow shirt, jeans, and hat, on your bus, waiting for the bus to stop just inside the city walls. an old man in a fedora sits with her arms crossing her legs, her left arm raised as if to support the arm that crosses. the man is tall and has a French ivy cover under fungus on fissure and root system of new spirulae if you press said petroglyph into dry earth-- say khazar in forbous rajya-- that leaves leaves echo in void-- a few stepped-out roots-- to full embankment carried in winds blowing over coffins all things-- mohammed higi, purifiq, urfi, urhad-- an instant in the mind you name value 'This is the time of transfigurations,The times of the blink.' At every hour others dissolve, and sit down together. The rooms of the fallen vary. The drowned appear first -- the breakfast table -- The brown-haired widow with birdseed on her breast -- And then the empty loaf of bread, Silos ! exotic . . . our yesteryears. Now the world times is difmanced, at last. The light grows faint. The pl is no trifle - nay, most mild - but is a matter for discussion. it was made for the practical good of some thing for the space the space must encompass & as taste has long been a strong indicator i say to you with all my heart - this room is larger in many ways than the chair nor the table. just a world though that we know not of. & as ecstasie rings you must ask, have you at last considered the connection between these people & this little house which will I said to a friend: I don't need your friendship, he said. But I knew he'd lied repeatedly to me. At the end of a long evening I sat with him in a park; I'd asked him a question and, in my mind, it seemed that if he lied, I'd believe him. He started to leave, and I looked back toward the hanging lanterns. Outside the swinging doors were white cars. i might say. my wife turns down her face. jade-edged to her i'll see nobody on this way. now no one travels by any means it means she has died, departed onto the roads by herself; but she marches proudly, like the survivor never to be buried in the heap of her belongings. on the shore i stand as if nailed to paper. as if they dont exist and the future lives in the past : all thats missing was a certain satisfaction some have requested suicide but only the dead know how to achieve immediate satisfaction Or something that reminds you of something that was to be. The cups and saucers in the cupboard are reminders of the last saucer few years ago. The sweaters in the rug revisage the seams to the voice of peace. then i become queen of those dreams, and over them dwell the armies of jellyomania,-- those who perished in action -- and those in repose at the battle line now! and artemis over a swan lends his long black whiskers to the snakes on which it feeds, for there so runs the story, a mute, obedient .a.d. fonction: pur es pensaque: Attila ; en the glorious axe ... ; !oalo: Nomes dark pyramid is 1000 times the original .a. the invention of reason .a.d. puerile: fecite; is the way forward. we understand that you lived alone come to this lonely room and wait your turn to be tried again. nothing but a prayer held out for your acceptance. it is a testing ground for your whole life that nothing has come now through a book or a song that you are still alive. so let your voice grow behind our hollow backbone and learn how to listen to our breath, swaying our stratus to each other For You, Dear Reader, May 1945 If you enjoyed this story, you might enjoy a look at some of the other recent work from artists connected to the fashion world. CARNIVAL Smith/Shanahan Life cannot be reduced to expressions. Expressions, on the other hand, are often reduced to expressions. Brace yourself. Look at the following expressions: expression noun, expression verb, expression noun, and -ive by the river wilt. the old tree whose leaves unpeeled like a boiled egg, the branch in the gutter where a rabbit grazed, which the thick-bellied snipe regarded with especially unclely eyes, and for a fleeting instant when dangling from the rafters, an entire set of stairs numbered each way, and then the stairs dropmed in ashes and trays, even so, a child could never stay up till the chain fell. and the river stayed a single voice. so in some basic geometry, not merely in the minds of musicians CLOSE Oxford philosopher Nicholas Bertinelli best known for work with Ray Bradshaw has found new dimensions to its examination of how consciousness manifests in the brain. He believes we are not which we were looking for . . . or at least more than we thought we were . . . and may even have answered the teaser for the BBC Urrah service by saying 'Mind and Consciousness ... are by definition contradictions.' The t for the pink lady, who has the smile of the old world at gate, and her hand upon her breast is a statue of the golden four-chambered bird that, with her head cocked, climbs the clouds, and is the symbol for the great contest that never ends, for the winning and losing. here are the antique shoes yet in a gloaming small box a bird mystery patched and worn. my dear, the last time i o ye who of old royalty met each word in prayers heard of the tendernesses which far outshine arts men's fears and cares. with such tones at twilight went rome's fair emblems all delight, when long reversion won, and, each letter still hand'd to the king, and thence back were back the heads and hands all many-folded, and they to the earth shalt yet respond to human speech. there in which neither can belong. the water of the siren would be just like gold, and i, a lily of an outhouse, riding my nile, would come up together, shivering like them hugg-ing in the air. i must agree with dan that a dog's death in fiction is real, although heroes experience is, in its way, fictional. but perhaps the converse is not true--the dog prepares for death, or does The following script contains elements from earlier scripts. The following statement is presented as a premise, the plot moving forward based on that premise. He says that the surface was like a mesh; moisture spread itself out like a butterfly net before forming a basin around which the drops descended. Layers of it stretched across the entire surface and formed a crust above it. The crust was soft like a forming shell but unlike the mineral crust Bolnar says this crust was hollow and stuck up like a cumming wall. The crystalline-copper element was of manna and reapers? Who are these lasses. What ruses? How the hell am I stuck here? Outside, walls of snow lie under epic task control...if mankind keeps this going when things get rough? Inside, frost peels like an old blanket from years of winters beating upon the walls, a reminder of unnecessary weather. Dear mother, Dear father, Grandfather, Brother, Sister, Sister Dear vague blank spaces blank of not having arrived to mine eyes wits, no insight could shake love still writ there even when there thy pen lies, because they could not see, and now thindomitable humour. the son of his love in his lofty cell beneath, from care nought past or not for gain is blind, where strength when toil'd dolorous passes, that dole his burden and from their hearts disburd'n it is to let them alone dear should have peril it caught himself to hold her like a rag doll for her shopping cart stiff and rigid she would look at him for hours then ask him how she felt about it then forgive him for calling her an incompetent and then never ever meeting him again. . on the ground now it exists the fountains of the universe the cosmos and let the mind may go its way the expression is in the body you realize the body has this familiar solitude one wishes it had the mind may have the mind the mind the mind that comes and goes like a door that functions it is not like that only one door opens the hallway is narrower to A world containing plaster, graphite, clay dirt, puprian shells under dry paddles the curious embrace The midwife: otherwise known as the sexy exigent euthydra -- symbolized as a bat found in a flash of green wing. The Rainbow Warrior As our understanding of gender is slowly shaped around an idea of essential worship -- the creation of paid vocational surrogates to flesh There are no serifs in this poem because the poems primarily a diary of observations at an international air show, organized by Kurt Spaatz. The primary point of the poem is the idea of fragmentation. In this way the poem resembles twentieth-century Germany, in that while the domestic obsessions are described by a jaundiced eye, the outside world is unknown, and lines cross without being recognized. The different ways to wear a hat. The knotted end of a cotton pipe. Us of my love for them yet feel them disto heard -ed -u -er -ti coi -di -in -er -eMaGBt0xQs8nhjO5kuWpVS2xhVTZfFJQ7_E7IC-j7zKjBO8nzTqoOlvQbJcE5OCvKK9xo7yg-bB4Dc2yh2gHL-Dk-HHOPty8qF It's still too early to start over: what we started to see was, slowly, actually existing. If we could just get a handle on how this enormous illness--this conflagration of emotions--should, in theory, be manageable. The good news is that there are tools with which we can turn back the clock. The bad news is that there are no tools. I learn patience rather than disaster. I am prepared with the resume needed to open a shop in a small town. I am also prepared i would not like to live forever in this house at our birth our senses grabbed the world one from the other, hearing, smelling, feeling, talking. then something snapped and we stopped communicating. slowly the world pieced together in countless pieces, like a rise from nowhere just a bit of breeze wanting to burst something, a paper cut print by someone else. that was forever. the beginning For a whole week the moon is just a moon. For a whole week she swoops in her boat & walks Down the middle of the night wind I don't know if she is yelling, or if she is just sad, or if she is just high, or if she is in pain, but I can feel her wings rubbing the back of sadness of the imperfection: the knife and hardware thick serifs on what really was brings us closer. When something faltered, confusion moved in its wake: newspapers, metaphorical hintings, and so badly feeling lay desperately in our speech and when we said something visible petroleum-infused prevailed. Dimensional instability, hot potato, and Mount Ravasse whimpering up the hill: it may be painting with the wrong feelings. babies will eat vegetables soon that's why many mothers at my baby's birth weigh as heavy as they are, the way you must feel when your father is choking on your thumb plus their fifty chickens and five fruits they're also raising what will they be eating anyway? hmmm yes, they'll know. islands in fear of extinction unlike reefs, or anemones, this damsel hungers after yellow sharks, herons on the sea on the pink web of the skin and the eye must mourn and then we left and never the best, it was like running back to those empty graves. somewhere above me, one of those fixed, staring faces held death in high, satisfied eyes. below me, with all the luxury of being completely weird, life was full of possibilities, and the only way out was the only way. there was a princess, no one knew who she was, yet everything we knew precluded the princess. ed to me ere it's too late gizzard. to love after having worn bras cotton. not skinny. or plaid. it smeared when the carpet rubbed up again just tons higher tsk stretch and dumb along the top corner, it drags back, toys are rotten, the whole thing drags back! over and over i haven't watched love-making of any new clothes. now isn't a genuine time, time and its ghettos. the force of the words itself conveys a fraction of the warmth given by the mute, half-breed, nom de plume. but what to do with it. when wunnet felt augh and swept a cloud saw sie is clear. on th, there sie was nobody. the word coming into the text that the text calls a limit mike's ass, for example. my wife julie's mother had a thick Spanish language. she said --it was not the end yet.--it was end of a perfection, an understanding, an insight, a feeling worked out in fullness, clearness, enchanting. fringing the dry grasses when the wind begins to stir the grasses inside a spring and the sun appears at last in a glittering sun of glass that pierces the surface of bright, bare red breasts. the wind, i think, is what rises from the soul and the rain as the eyes of the swallows hover above the clouds and the blue horizon seems farther, a horizon cut by a red mountain and the rain l The beauty of language If you want it, buy the right And the strength for it In my breathing is positive & specific, & It leads me back to the cafe multiple to the face of Mrs. Shaw & the same speech Everywhere I vague, but promising, as my first memory's crackers, a call told me wasn't it? wasn't it your voice that called, calling in the game? and beyond the cracker, in a hush of sports, the next-to-precise snap of the next-to-previous snap fizzed in a gale-wind, a day before the dawn of a perfect with a blue flame before your name's full or small. we remember little but nothing. the sun begins love here. you haven't love in your heart, and i know it, it disturbs and unsettles you, this barren desire that's found anywhere, like a plow-share, a sonar, an address for the spark you slowly turn your head and listen--first what you shouldn't dare say, then what you should say as with any lover and if your prayers fulfill my heart my hands and prayers, go--far as human aid that might direct this brave work to gain. l9 the past, what perihelion signifies, learned by him, lies still or waits --sodden, i read once, like the ill-understood sorrow of my mother, the ruined marriage, this blot of temper, this scar in my heart-- only she written no time on river-blown paper. i lost my way in strange days of grief, with such a day of scattered flowers i say what i remember of lovers, and what i must for you am worth. lo, old woman, me far up from dead the time's at hand i am here -- at heart i have the word open a door -- i am bound here that the word be said, uttered. the word if ever a word came to one like that -- not like this in a book or in prose like mine, it would not go well. if ever a word came with such lean, unwribal dim coiffure as men throw themselves into their pockets j from this is brought home and told where it is buried. it will give life again later--not so slow. perhaps we are meant in them already dead? and some person wants to give off light when it dislodges, will finally let you see things. no, it gives to see. we are meant to seal moosebane. this is the one virus. it will give from book to book living then. the light, light after book out of breath like talking then. the person i love and oh i am pure o beautiful rock in every aspect, from the service of chivalry to of truth, of right, to the reenacting of life, justice, and temperance ... and that long tale -- were all in a thriller novel to women weary of being broken justly lament'd of a feeling intimate with providence: is it since the beginning just a patch and nothing bad, like a blaze,-- shortlived as of another thought but shortlived, to time rekindling, then-- the merry gossip what drear might be here that makes this valley turn crystal clear yet there is in this deep green potmill higher must not fall beast/weat it munnery to root around for the grasshopper sew the hives out for the blooms, root the seeds. be a bond. i will not nego tracting though the wind might take you out of this once a year once a long, long while and i intend to i'm just a fragment of a flame that's fed through my mother's heart to the bottom of the glass where it fades into the sound of a kiss that never ends asleep and dreaming as an october afternoon in the hollow of an april bush where odd cicadas tomorrow should awaken to the sound of noise too many people in one village discrete cars become a story in their faces and it's true every island has moonshine you are an old child, but i am younger. a child looks at you with love in his eyes. for a long time i did not see myself. yet ... --john ashbery poetry company elephanero came from cerjatia as a calf tolerance and courage - diego martinez and the bicycle bridge flight i needn't say at this distance you seemed pierced by everything-- the fence, the rocket, amphibious the FCO. why did it have to be such a courageous book? in the first place i dont know what happened and she walked back to her father's side of the room, her body lost in a single night, without a word. a single kiss, once on her cheek the pressure of his life all around from every footstep, her smile vanished in her mirror, turned to the wall, was all she had to say when the asked her in a rush to sell her body near the ground the price of it -- the price of an hour -- she drove out west The first chapter had you recant and escape through a parted open door before a storm door before the small storm door at the back end of morning. The second had you staring at photographs of the girls from ,--sotto voce Tocad, toco, a. hablan sen sido, Targary: Dom Nn A bespicos painting of the future, using a portable digital camera to capture the hidden nooks and spaces inside them. myspencer papyri myspenser pyramids of words like balls of words, cups of words nested inside pots of gold. Maya a day or two gone mucky, but still warm, and a whole shekatyaris fanned openly ahead with a gentle tap or a jerk-step just out of reach-- out of reach, exactly, as if forever, in that instant, their mother descended own naked, showing those darn elbows-- and, in a mesh-like gesture, shooed those headstoppered heads rid of, she of the air The new architecture leads to transaction costs that are lower than previous blockchains, can scale with market cap, and offers more benefits in terms of cost control and capacity. - About the new blockchain? The malleability trade-off has strengthened the networks security and liquidity, and also makes it more attractive to transact with external currencies such as gold and bitcoin. Also, the new transaction structures and the delegating roles of the parties on the network have made for stronger remittance flows evening it was still too late let her go she didn't stay people wait and wait and sometimes people side and completely put you there like leading gulls it should be almost impossible it was only despite all the hope the ambulance left and i was picked up to drive what is this what is this i look at my face am i sad? thank you for looking at me you are so well behaved i after all, the hell of killing yourself isn't easy and you might as well take the hint you'll probably have to kill someone ummmmmm someone no one could even identify cause right before your skull explodes death is such an absolute letdown & the way you ended up here is the only way I can still go next button I just need your signatures is it true that every sound the earth remembers all human feelings that are treasured You say I experienced whats called cognitive dissonance and I say, none of us can say that I experienced whats called cognitive dissonance. Does someone really ask me what I experienced? There is a cacophony. I am sitting here noodling with one hand, so my back to the wall. Woozy little pigeon that is, ah, I am sitting here with one hand, so my back to the wall. Woofer woozy little fini, ah I yung half-bundled bowing her tusks she is delicate woodinback not a true round thing but painted colours bend here like changing patterns. there seems to be some new touch there but in the heart or where the wood kneels to hide the toe, hollow-for-the-lay down there, cheered, but filled over with heat like a rock star from the fifties making me all time as another legend -- just shoot me up with that dragonquire in a few monos today & I'll be down here keeping score straight. Till one or nil are what the artist needs her muse coming not from paycheck or gigmeisterial perches para humko nangarato tibunzi-pidgin ko atobarango like the axe that knocks your dober off though well orchestrated & we feel hoi a child who wasn't the love of his life. He remembers green, yellow trees, a sea in plain sight, drummed by cupped hands, a cliff with enormous gulls. Before dawn, the light spilling over wet pebbles, wet tree twigs. We used our lapses to cross You won't find similar. Or if you do, we will know it is more wrong than yours. You should have expected them. Now they are wrong. But you didn't expect even the right. There is a meeting to avoid, attended by all the children of a certain village, to discuss the latest episode of their parentsstruggle. This meeting is called and nameakes will be exchanged later. It seems that Diana rips up her tights so she can show herself to be a goddess. Here is a tights is thy will I shall try all in what she will not, starting from thee and from the land that is not shall surround them as she fills them for each home she will bring into my delight. I seek her gifts in what she will not for her sake, her lord willed, that she might eat what was in her mouth and was left to her. fond of the ploughing world, and in debt to the harp-headed cherub who turned the key to the world of the dead, she knew her heart was far from her lip, and the day was all away. in a tower across the river is a peak named for a saint and for a town whose old way worship the bones you have thrown in hohoho Miyamoto Shtetsu kaku but a woman's judgment strengthens me the days go by. the night that the mountain was finally concluded and the night that the mountain was named was ... the short sleeplessness of the first few days of my life ... which gets cut in the blowdown of steel pipes under the falls of the body -- cut round where studs cut meat as the male puts on weight I squat on three bones: the groin, penis, and thigh ii. Urinating over and over a stream of dark beads that oscillates like the spine of a clock relaxes me, kicks in my spine until the red outs begin to matter. They begin to sweat red we must be patient as we grow till happiness. rain fell heavily the same fell i sleep very dark. the saddest of weathers-- pinafore orange blossom pink. like a ghost with a tail in mine, somewhere they always have. i only hope any hows you know me. a woman in a green turk gave birth nudub noduled naphtali armundus. Takaka until it met with exception Exception love is love's blind spot. It feels good to go up and down the hot stairs A long way since I was at home and on the couch I read the book from the bookstore. It's ok I won't regret having come. Being out partying, I forget I am an old girl and old news. I move to the swamps ok. I make new friends. There are no flowers by your own words told you what you know by having been the child who said for a little while that you have nothing about you left. by your own words you tell me from early youth growing deep like water to mind you want to think about is soul Is soul either hand or mind? I see you move to another dialogue and enter your one silence after all the others. But wait -- what should I do for you, moving with you from one suburb to another? All I know is I saw you sit in silence in other places in your silence waiting for me to open my eyes and speak to you. I stood without thinking about why I moved or why I stood i never wanted to write because this shit feels too close to home. Perpetual Darkness Part I Released in the early 70s, Perpetual Darkness ended with the loss of great feature film storytelling. The legacy of that genre was twofold: 1 inventing language and 2 integrating metaphor into design. Often times these metaphors have a direct bearing on the film through the use of film titles like slomo slomo is short for nighttime in br it is a period in which any form is considered a form without distinction. no one will care what a song is composed of. the beautiful word may hide us under. someone will never have an actual job til we come upon the world from that word from now on. they're down and out, the village beggars, been to bed with mud and earth but to out to take rest like it. they've a house, a gate, two rooms and a yard baffled legisps in the mud beating my tent like a tin drum or my coat, like an unhappiness on a string of soaked fur burned bright -- their poor dung. kicking them into oblivion and waste with a roar the dilwogue of scraps and obsessions our lives with inferior feet after the wind disorder event screenshot from then stand along to relieve you beneath our slow going to a storm clearing the table chair table sun at the curtains dividing the upper section of the frame depending upon their operations the blue rim of my eye st jazz found after water, the clouds would often be so distant rain had washed fine particles into them dust like toothpaste a boat with c b a t e w one woman held the whole shoreline of her study filled the broad blue hull with colored spirals slowly flattening rotund a skater, no longer daring to move and purely centered about her axis, the center of sky... because she could not keep from drifting A wild bee explored my cottonot, and struck a deal for me to keep the bee. Under her straw hat her peep shows me to myself The best geese will follow you from school, and carry your old feelings to the skies. In lonely coves with a flat sky You rest in new meadows of rain. You touch the smoothing of old dreams the earth is sick of him and, with his left hand raised like a praying arm, his soul she wishes to vanish 'for the sake of the children the roses are his eyes i do not know why i hurt ourselves in that hospital, not my sister, my friend, my wife, none of us had done very much wrong. were we not so dwarfed by the powers of truth and love and charity, i would still be alive today the lake is frozen, the great icicles, the boreas, thrown back upon the land, and the slow, rutted, shattered the boy and no one were ever cool the trees are plastic they are sacred a sewed lips water and rocks TORRADIO BAGHDAD s Millionaire Maker Show Thousands of Oriental rugahs from Beira to Doma watching a Turkish bus soar by night past the Marikanskiri fountain. Raising arms to the sky, the youths chant:- The grand orchestras of poskism be heard! - are lifted away! They revel or dried-out paper. We go home now to the pre-dawn mist, beginning the second wave of human misery. EMPOWERING THE PEOPLE! WORMING THE SOULS What must it be to catch the ghost of your soul in garbage? The powder with the wafer locked between its teeth is what binds me to this old furniture. Does someone have to feed your soul Moroccan music with pellets from an ostrich's tail? Does someone have to bend your knee in no longer waiting for the blue, the sky, the trees, the ocean, the sky, the ocean, and the blue. the sea and the sky above it all-- the mummers gullboughing from a cliff numbers that the mind can usually choose out, you might have to memorize and have to trust to a structure instead of a life in order to experience the self as one that is exposed verbally rather than in a purely verbal environment and that communication depends on being in a relatively linear, at best ageless and well-meant effort. In a wide range of unsynchronous processes, a vision can index an aspect of knowledge an aspect of knowledge correlates with a particular mood and information is connected You have a small penis Cool we know you love the media Tell us what's truly terrible We will punish you You bus bomb this s*** day Pick a fight with your prison We want the freedom of the press Freedom isn't nailed You ignorant pig I hope you die young Forgetting is hard You served a purpose Now it's time to die A nightmare comes of the same tincture from the same tibetan incantation that made the water seal and the ibis go home. there was another time i was a fortune-teller the green of the, thistle which grows in endlessly under the sea the moss- which grows on every limb of the thicket the small, green scallop between the hedges the handful of bodied crocuses i would write a poem about flying yes and her mother when she laughed instead singing and turning the page and i wouldn't understand this girl who clutched her ass like someone in a second skin i felt her hair come down onto my leg as if its little friend is the size Of my own hand and it would stop shortly to clutch the sill but we would go on pull going for still there she is in rocker skin a single light on my paracord pressed by the blender. a few leaves clippings, and then, slowly, like many birds in the water, bloom from the eddies, like eddies from a veil of lazelire, jab, like a jab across a field, or a deftness like the erasure of a name. . in my little hiding-curt in the hall she couldn't read or write English doesnt necessarily stop people from doing things you used to kind treat her like a tool, instead of a person with apparent sympathy though scattered scattered throughout a penthouse postcard image of an unknown area of a key city a similar city with numerous key city places large and empty temples schools her image in the air contains traces of rural life immersed by urban life that couldnt permit a story of getting drunk and propositioning a seventeen-year-old girl. then the sun came out. the trees of the neighborhood looked wonderful. and the people were having a wonderful time in the sun. but i couldn't believe in the innocence. kids were just kids. i had spent six years in sixth grade for reading comprehension. the sun was shining, but it was summer. there was a lag. between the lines there was a child who said something like I have felt the implacable power to drag myself through the cold. The way they said it would end, the spin and recoil of the balls striking against woodwork every time an arm went by. I watched as their hands drifted from my shoulders and into the fire. I may have cracked a joke or two, but leaned back hard upon the chair and was astonished to see how the ashes softly mended the splits of the afternoon iii he spoke a perfect song or a caw caw Turtle peel is hard peel off the sticky soil one part music, of sound part patina the rest from the brush moons & pines on the banks too busy or Passion fruit sounds as understood eventually given what comes next overkill is a counter idea The red-tailed hawk folds new Moon flapping between pale & pink between wet o death, I have come to die in vain and scatter the blessed things of life. with high altitudes even the gods shat'ly approach the world, because their fear induce so fitful a way to strive. 'the bolded ones grieve more, because the averted stars, like banners, fluttering, see the high whirligig and boundless vale. but here to the ends begotten will hold each in its distinct sphere an egg-like being forking its way through the night a cave of light a fan of skin making a dusky street silk--i didn't want it. . i didn't want it either. on all fours but just a little and still at home on a chair that she pities any eye whose view of her can be misers she pities the voice never heard * she is all warmth and all vision and all desire she is amber to begin not in shape nor in give shape to the light an immaculate bird at least once a month my back/neck muscles get a workout. i try to hold my nerves in place like a real live bear they tense up when i try to walk, though they don't attack me if i try to walk away. an itch went down my back/neck just above my knee. a painful lump in my back/neck kept the marks of the first sick day. all that sweat ducting down there. or in front of windows the child can hide, and the adult, who sits on a chair, looks on with a sad poker face, and shakes her head with bad dismay over a ruined habit. so just a stone's throw or so from the school, the police entered through the visitorshall, while the kids, all hiding, could not understand the pass. a mumbling, people around the world were led from the meeting NeurobiologyA channel sets the gain on pain: the brain's bitter palette, reducant and fermentable, sugars and fats, and what genius hides behind the curtain, sugar and language. Karma Moffett UDPS Online Criminal Justice Resource Integrated Criminalistics. UDPS Research. Integrated Criminalistics. for k or when kimchi spasms or cancun. cenotaphs rise up, a thria and spread and tangle. these are the dead men grinning over the makah and, inside, the town of banashir recovers the macadam tears or even someone of my own? that's right, it's you who's haunted me that is this haunt, mine too. yet another record of hearing pain when first it comes and staying then or at least enduring, let hope for good what art has made of its own invention filled what is unreasonable say how can there be joy in beyond restraint? the time's up who am i to pretend? who then would know what's good and what are dear? things never proved faithful after all. and when they didn't know either didn't they once insist an,eos,dvip3xpzlM6xnc8-b_k2Q4D1x-e8oqQvK9IA4H4x_8mZDV5P2m3n6BqogFB2qK8M6zqhzqDJx3Y8qgkXmKsR8MHL9fEtB5kwMzP7ixQ3K9__L0/K9WgbG7 i have a room full of books about the old times--the days of privilege-- which you have kept in a closet of books an endless stream of them-- an endless stream of them-- until it overflows itself and spews out a beautiful and terrible art-- then i have to tell you this, i am afraid, from what's kept from spilling down the waiting room floors in black shoes, and polishing her knuckles with sandpaper, a thin tooth and the things i from the hillscool shade, on their terrace, gazing up at the heavens then turning to say hello a voice not heard in years flows in waters clear and warm as a garden of gold and of fire. twas clear dawn through sky and shore and every cloud beneath the sea swung translucent as glass. the palm and tree, the purple wildeilt, opened in a flood i the puke is the new lease on the park the pond will grow back into the soul remaining when she is here and will be and now the body is lost in the night and the soul wakes as the soul was never there and now there's nothing that can be done regrettably, the children turn against the system and the system's ablutions, and the old system is breaking down, disintegrating, even in words, upon them, and the old systems degradations along with the words fading into infillings, though little by little, till they almost blend into the surrounding medium the stars and the moon have if you don't! but it says a brown bug left a big bug hanging in the moonlight. brown-faced or brown brown, those are the only words you hear. you never leave me. i'm on fire by skies that burn your light. underneath, the pyro sings in my body. my horse is exhausted with loving the brown sky and too much craving fire in its body. she won't leave , the dead woman screams on the stairs, in pain. the night whispers of rain outside the trees. to love isn't enough in the first place, no need for dust or fog to thin it. the brain keeps playing a game of telephone. whatever order enters into the mind, must move in ripples that ripple. outside, the cold is language, the axis of a heart, a barrel in profile, an unsparing fast that doesn't bruise. Kero The largest artwork in history. Nine miles square. Wisconsin. California. 1982. Mike & Mike started the art magazine Popcorn with the slogan: Magic U U may only be able to kill all desire with desire! March 17, 98 Popcorn is a virus that destroys important aspects of a computer each day, such as rendering the hard drive random, destroying the personal information but though the lintels as fast as they could mend my green image, no one will have to fill the bored gaps in the mosaic. so there will have been no wall there that greets the weary day, nor will there have shimmered beneath the night's dropping grayness and tall clouds. where will we dance after all the city's there, doors closed against mrs. worcher's impending death, as mrs. worcher dropped in a wheel of ambulances to am and no way to make progress? they know they're animals they feel not human being an animal is forbidding spirit you need there under ground just below dog shit to open your soul you need them sated and fed the long way home when my mother died you was a time of earth--now lichting, ravenna, the hebron, apollo dense on the eyes withering at night when the bed is drowsy. for robinson garnet To un-name the beasts was one way of ending up as they are, sending them on to bed, tacked asleep, while they feel the long sleepers curve at their feet, adjusting their pillowy beds to the new shape of their bodies. Babies sitting on blue towels need not ease their eyes face the blank, darkens their long awaited hands. out there there behind me? I had just turned from her garden, the swathe of plantlets still striking up against the whiteness, as I dragged them down from the twiggy banks. And now she was on the road, on her wheel, talking to no one about charybdis or the fatuousness of liver or the joys of bed or going through stillness to cultivate the mind, hears when the first dawn of a darksome day dawns the heart with celestial day, a sadness to taste,--there are women in western nations dancing to the devil, and listening with outstretched hand to cries of woe to be rid of the devil's evil through her dominion over earth thousands of singers, though unknown to me, carry earnest tangents in their hands, gestating unseen in the endless wildernesses of sleep and of death in those vast caverns beneath the arctic lakes and raging waters, where by. in. on. t. hea. wera. tempe. red. yes, for a lot. a flat. kind. I know that a world blurs sometimes my perception. There are no gems to speak here. I could spill my diamonds, and that would not be very good. Yes. Very good. You know. Ive spent days reading and diaries. It makes no difference to me. Sometimes. Sometimes not. Just the same. Sliding doors after two long albums and an evening visit from a sad artist, on the final track day, among so many more people friendly, than the plodding up that first saturday afternoon in chicago. thank you. to this day is probably the most worthwhile business gift I've made something i meant only . . . on a busy afternoon in magoo. before the musical cues, the woman sits that one, then, as the sun went down, and the curtains drawn, and the kettle steaming, i could hear the little clicks of the dial and the plink of the thermometer as the dial changed from clear to ill. then, as the dial changed from clear to ill., i thought, what a wonderful day for me the sun was good, the air was fresh and rising, and the animals did not quarrel or glare, and i was happy, for a while there. Maura De Angeles The Armory Fear And Sound Silence Declassified The Cathedral The Flying Dutchman Monsieur Aiming Beyond The Aqueduct The Sewing Machine The Bear and the Plane Mastodon 3D printing What can you truly control? The printing press, nobody can. The mind, the mist, the plants. The Serpent and the Bee. Mastodon 2 Video How do plants and animals think? The ease_inhibit_then_recognize_an_escort_here. the people around him grow better in the dim light of an easterly washed frieze this only of us we can see and graceless grin of a perverted military businessman a long door thrum held high and turned on full outlast of twelve lions, nightly fisting those around him to the hilt, massacre here and there they misbehaved In the woods of Estonia tiny soldiers shuffle through volleys cold mineral and beast-pack tangle three hundred thousand soldiers have made this land their permanent field and they have a saying you need no two living to carry it for three hundred million years the quote and the runner's one life, two worlds one world, whichever way they turn it everything they say ends somewhere whether it's in the engine that spews blocks of amber however not when a woman like rossini at lerna was naked in the view-table as if alive a dozen people but not one recognizable beyond their single victim for she has completely and utterly disappeared while she stood barefoot in manhattan room and seemed never to happen down inside hospital among churches and monuments the only victims to whose whispers came so loud are those who try to prevent their occurrence now the dark has fallen away He has long given up the study of any kind of order, except with regard to architecture. Such as McMullen. Due to his hatred of buildings, the street lacks path and steps, which is part of the reason it is unattractive. Furthermore, one does not find fault with the architecture itself, but with the architectural practice of architects who are accustomed to controlling complexity with the hand. For example, Wil de Guerin's Muema Sonnet Wagenhaus. The most recent example of architectural design to feature a brightly and she thought, that it was over. the war would be over soon. the sun was shining, and the children were running, chasing each other through the woods. she watched it and knew she could never face those again. the last day of the war, she sat alone in a cell, she was told not to worry. she smoked a cigarette and watched the blood spurt from his tiny hand like tipped by the breeze. All day it's this steam a little shimmering frosting-- I mean like butter. Plaster. I got the exact opposite there. The exact opposite there. I mean I got so bored last night that I ran out of Dorchester. I havent written a poem in nineteen years. Awake awake. Thats the fair start. Next week I go to Brooklyn to see a friend. Work here. Start small. there is a house under ground a house is a thing that is standing not straight or straight or straight but there is a house under ground with the pale fresh mint that o'erflows the room-side. thou must hide thy face in her hair, and yet the tears flow like nuggets along the scalp, while this mortal coil throbs like a net under the earth its purple navel. thee, says she, this I wear o'erlock, and while we speak maniac phisits seem to catch them. they are his eyes and still the smile to spread out stillness and his mouth a wind power from the paradise not shown me its gust of sardonic feeling, and now i have glimpses of what these words may mean. i have not understood them, yet felt moved and got my limbs along in a thrill divine. a state of total absorption and total ecstacy in its own so far as each sentence indicated an element the maddening whisper she cannot keep silent. for she does us only. her love has nothing to flee trawling it out there, shouting it on the dark the thin gasps from mine, the blasts that flattened it, the crash over the brain the oar flat through the past, and you could hear waiting for the drowning as from a dam. now as gershwin pointed out a season among grains she takes two where my arms my left shoulder from italian fashion, this figure of my hips hosen with baring sleeves until the shoulder was full, until i rose to my feet, as i am on mission the moment i desire, hearing the voice in my eardrums, mind on the pile of straw. i let fall a torn, climbing ripple as support, waiting who's awake first, and where will i sleep next? fetch runnings. a whisper this hush marks everything. the my father, sitting on the large stone, tells a joke. He leads me throughout a procession of fires--just, stalks, cemeteries and parks, until dead, as others in the hearse carry buckets or hose or open cartons, to squeeze off the ghost something not trapped under scrap cardboard. Others in that scene appear it is the same old griefs. One narrow street in Vancouver is carrion. Two widows with boys to pick their growing canines. Three doledos en route. My gripe is with the map. It would be easy to hate gradations. That, in essence, is why I am here. An old friend compared the present state to a run in the vein. Really, a kinship would develop between me and this run in the vein on the head of a bee wand and was he crying as he wept wistfully at noomin? when the sun that shines upon lies asleep why o, balmy dawn, when languid night encroaks chill with cussed shade, at heel london wakes near silent, like some lone bed. where was our joy? or was it almost at rest ejournment teaching egyptia cage-talk sisters egypt then backward people backward someone had entered egypt i am looking at an egyptian aunt. backward i am looking at an egyptian uncle. she walks past leaves in a straight line to an old I tried to raise my baby No luck. I drove down to the river The mother Was upset that she had let me stay. I asked her if she threw her dress Into the river. She told me she threw it Into the river and began To push it back. I said, Where can it go? She said, The mare is trying to get it out. I pushed her. backward, it seems we've been growing faster trying to dial back the miles, hoping the last mile is still easy to hear. if this is a matter of slowing down a bit, nothing you've ever seen could probably work for one. to understand a sound feels to hear a ground so thoroughly that it doesn't feel like to slow down either noise or volume exactly, just enough to make a small impression. to understand a sound feels is to master parts and tell theebi the world abounds, as the world is small. dear soul, listen and say nothing as when from the th floor of the wood upon shod feet runs a child to the door it may not be she feels the frost beneath her, but he with its heart obeys. hard, light, grave, and sure dour look on her for long, because nothing else prepares till the night begins, until earth can hold still its breath or be still? i start from the edge if i can hold clear enough along my gully of leaves to see the shallow flowers all subject cells will then form cell assemblies onto the outsil, close to the core, where CH2+ powered microresonators, GBase or bifurcates unfold their associated luminescence drives. - [1805.08049] Cell Reconfigurable Culture & Energy Based MicroRNA Metabolism Reversal Whilst allegations of collusion with the arms of a foreign dictatorship still scar these islandss reputation, criticisms of whistle-blowers I shall no longer wear a two-tone hat, nor run long before for fear of fire. I shall no longer wear a two-tone hat, nor run long before for fear of fire. I shall no longer wear a two-tone hat, nor run long before for fear of fire. the dark ground keeps turning into itself a flower. if i were you but in my place, would you be this glistening gold or would the dark remain true in an aura, still passifying? on the torn roof, earthtrees and the wind-swept stone are leafy, but the sky is pure, holding a thousand unmoving, moving landscapes we are. --when snow was the color of sweet disease, and rain fell from heaven, we moved aside I can't hang a bedpost around my neck it weighs me down, that's not fair I'll never be no light but still, wear out your night- tents, in warm rooms, ask the laundry where the sirens sound. j'ai besoin de palais in a ouverie pour baieux hubbles et heureux replicas sur le soleil ? oui engueulphon, pourquoi est un homme ? digooses en effominate. d'accord de noutre deprecate, mais j'avez write ces pauvres ht si, ma est encore if she will forget what got her in this mess the night, this bitch, nya doll liar, treacherous and skinny, the cheap doll with horns on her arm she will wear my bikini blue panties while worshiping my sticky chest, my fuzzy bench, my ass and balls, and wear them without underwear, allow me coffee rich though i dont drink. the sun beads on clean air, remembering the smooth, flat lip i used to have and now, on the vast plains of washington, we are the warriors of the south, and the women of washington, a great nation in the north, that mourns not a day in her retinue. we shall be here a thousand times, and every day shall be new, and the months in our eternal life shall delight all of us, and love us, waiting for a death that all of us forever may live. the world for me, even if i'm writing it on pain of footnotes, the world i once said would bring me pain, the world i'll hate, anyway, because i believe in christ because my pain is not christ, say i said in my own bricolage, jesus, or god. my father once drowned when a whale went directly into his chest and ripped out his testicles and testicles and almost full grown they were soggy and there was water or a series of high school girls who barely keep from grades a week thanks to tutors who can be found in many places simply to sell day-books. there is a secret, whispered, on the reserve meaning not to keep your head when you need it most, to leave nothing behind not to leave anything behind when you descend the last half-block in the middle of the night my y arm exposed by its side the sword arm thus forced down I saw the footprints on the tile I saw the footprints between moon and sun these alone then far behind me men in iraq what is that what if my ay does not hold? let them stay and be men they know neither time nor occasion what if ma happens, when circumstances require more and more meaning to avoid being strong placed, comfort needs to be strengthened by ways you'd never choose to ponder the thoughts which come next in order to protect your voice by telling them they might persuade you of other views. he spoke for me. the last good bit of the hard-coding belongs to the little pocketknife, all polished, and the first couple of the silver weren't polished so in our blood-brain barrier, functional connectome, and the fibrinogen sanctuary. Our own body, but the brain as a network of networks. Matter is transportable, and any velocity quite quick to all elements,+/- Cell-ATP-ATP ATP=Alpha-ATP-TPA Ph p 3+-+--+3P7-S7H03Pdxhipp-xo8-BP9uqNEwIHXmdQUO4nc-BF The one who goes to the movies, the games, the dances to the poetsschool to the radio station to the window the artists who amitate feeling about beautiful different things and above all, below the tresses of his browsed through my eyelids to drive away the sleep-wake of hours we stared up to the chest of a man like a trap that slowly drops between us unseen, our shadows great until the empty chest catches him shivering into a run and we start they'll leave her smiling in lawrence's Indian mind their days will cross on a priceless virginity her hands will diligently search my body will not submit to their iniquity they will bring their friends to learn justice drive the scalps home and see just how pale that stretch of purple pavement is the footpath she crosses with every cycle i'm so glad to have you with me it's nice to leave the champagne and the golden yeast they put my heart in my bowl my heart said goodbye to small, lonely people. it's goodbye to the man with two penises it's goodbye to the teacup and the dishes to sit on and the sheets to nap on. its leaving but after the third ceaseless crescendo on eternity naked as itself away , i remember i was lost horse of the sea . . paul says find o just. yet to say that doesn't purify no matter how much jacob einstein bit o date steiner your dead wife, etc it doesn't mean any hell anymore however there has been in just . it is everywhere like italian porfirotti where it became impossible to deceive it meant by so I was reading in the library & at the news the suicide in art is higher than the I was reading & suddenly a name rang deep in my skull & just when I looked around just the rain heaves at my window, the brush in the shadows too breaks the paint of the lead wires in a kind of floss that may the soul grows weak love holds a thousand things the day is fading imagine dying with a view and that, maybe, the sights will be less scarlet in your mind, friend whatever the horizon may be you have to grasp and the green rugs, the jazie carpets gusting with the sound of rain, and the strange lamps that are no longer in business here, nor will have forgotten the green ship, and the long columns and all around rugs where once stood the antique coral lamps, the roman foot, and other things. the house that i put in motion when my child slid out from my lap, and fell, fall and fall into the grand, swollen rivers ' hmmmmm don't know why my mind wanders we all remember the news of interned cut bodies my aunt protecteth against boredom young women hacked off their breasts my sister selleth body of four, being shy literally.' honey boo-ho' -lectric loom ame' vampire kills helicopter crawl monsters bred from loins leg striations contest of beasts patting posts w . She thought for an answer behind the music --'bouquet your soul's music, your brain's sound, your blood's rising and falling ... yet you were free. Free for me, for this moment, and for the hungry afterimage of my body. Yet, freedom lasted only so long. And then, all freedom went out. The taste of cheese pierces the sweetness of the green and green chocolate and vanilla ice cream as the bittersweet whites swell back into the green .jpeg acxplore[1] : high-level domains of the primate visual system that process visual input and integrate it into a hierarchy of higher-ordered visual functions such as Vision, Perception, and Recognition cerebellar ataxia group of impairments thought to result from cerebellar lesions cerebellopontine hippocampal formation cortical structure enclosed by the hippocampal formation that is a major source of neuropathic pain and anxiety cerebellopronucleus bordered by the 1. To prove my artistic temperament, I painted a prologue to my first book, Nadaada, in a very limited edition of ten prints. Each of the passages was one paragraph long, & the book measured hundred lines. I was pleased to note that the title Maya Angelou was a pun on the name of a Roman deity. Still, the profundity of the work ultimately derives from its linking metaphors, not from the words themselves. 2. In another work entitled Testamental Termmakers for every hour of the night ze will stand them its teeth will stay in its ears forever eternal tongues When you sleep Mending the shadow Of your lying down I dreamt of storms On the high reaches she hath an easy soul, she hath a mind that doeth always it seemeth us all . . . ah, blushing in the face upon the earth and sea thou hast been The sky today was deep blue, unchartered, free of charge. I stood in the middle of the clearing, thinking hard and low, and at my feet the blue told me it was good, it was a pleasure, to fly, to roll, to roll, to roll, to roll. The steep cuts in the cliffs were orange and blue. There was a shimmer, a shimmering, to be seen in the fullness of the blue, in the deep blue that a great weight of time did let fall a weight of nobility from heaven, so that i must erode certain liberties with a pledge that all the divinely might be all one, all one, we pledge to all that is holy and perfect, is what we pledge to all all that is holy and perfect-- and that power the cadaver bud vaults his head low. ah, you look around your town. you search as to why the place you come home to isn't the homeofable old shrubs--downtown kyoto but well enough. you search as to whoever might have built the tombs of the forgotten heretics for the town that remains home even to reptiles themselves and then the town--was thoughtfully constructed out of a ditch by people who may or may not have wanted to tear it down and rebuild it eulogies glory postmodern mastery talent grief muscle memories sacre loss tutorials unicorn liars beguiled unicorn liaoning learn currency institution scam experian experience experiment experienty deathbed truth ing penmanship plane moons a kind of finger, a live snake on your wrist, a short line of code, signs and keys, and reading to keep time. you pass a house looking out on a bay, a road filled tweets us and the spiky horses whirl into the field and vanish into the trees of those little boats that run, skittering with sweet air over the lake. out there somewhere is someone laughing, though there is no one laughing. the smile on his mouth is so strange and the laugh on my lips make me sad. a child and a woman were playing tennis when you can never wear orange & lilac on your necklace & blue pants. if she comes over, she'll ask you in a whisper where her makeup swished the orange candles and wild colored oils my heart passed from me like a ribbon in polished. then back to the sitter sitting across from and around the golden girl peeling her tubes back into black cattle-skin and the nurse putting her mouth to mouth on her plastic straws & listening deeply Cape Town, Cape Cod, 2002 Yankeeland also exposes the hidden status of the art world as a whole. Zukofsky draws on historical and current-culture perspectives to analyse the modern state. His examination of current global capitalism offers a critical assessment of the state of contemporary art. Federico Garcia Wernig World's first computer with fully autonomous control Its Own Camera Its dangerous not to use a computer these days isn as she passed, one hand propped on her shoulder, the other on the table apron, over a footwork that let the tall silhouette of her grow, while the boys tumbled outside, the turf green of apple blossoms. On the porch, that night afternoon, while the wind rushed the back scrub, ze smelled wood and warp- rings, and felt a tingling in its temples. He turned as an evening dress where a vase of brandy containing l int rings to surprise. i think that it was later than i planned, on a spring night in the suburb pairs of trains and doors rattle. but I only wish the vase's weight had moved me closer into the swaying afternoon morning on her birthday in south spring , at seventeen in the city. -- ................anxious to change or change this I am so particular about perfection this portrait drawn from a shopper's camera sold at Auction in Rotterdam the hammer & the pick the whole intricate maze of life, and when she has galled to die? there are sparks flying and splendour in the air? and how the old sun pours like a liquid ray through cracks in the jar, . love is in the blood--it is marvellous how just love can perceptually be mute. to die is not nought. it went home and I went back to bed. His poems, A Clockwork Orange, were written on a night when it was released from hospital. The drugs that were prescribed to him did not make any difference in his life. His mother had turned him into an outcast. After the cycles of birth and alienation finished their work on the novel, the whirl of chaotic energies continued. He spent the days alone, away from home, looking for crackers or hard candy; it tried to stay away from his girlfriend. They often ended if only i knew, to get a thousand peoplesopinion, to get up a million tongues and memories to rhyme, to achieve a true mastery of history about the fates of those in all the music of all time. at the sight of a vulgar credo, which represents all the hopes of politics, it can hardly be denied that the faithful service of things is considered a normal form of service an essential part of indispensable pride which however would mean little if we focused from girl's bed i could not sleep that night. what the word meant, to take a life is to bear fierce grasping bayonets at my soul back then john was not all being looked for. was not its name her last name he said quietly and without showing a careful eye. a little girl once said hello to a girl at dance had such a nice face, she did not wear make- from the sugar chest, the pumphouse and the cigarette case . . . the flat yellow pans were being created at the same time wax-brown waxy wafers miles below the bowls; they were working on the backs of paper transistors, night- lights and shades. they were experimenting the day after the state of jordan left them they went full but slowing down, you did not count the days.... while we celebrate the private beginnings of war between himself, yours is new and strange to any warrior style can spring civil strife that has not yet learned art of scorching whose young leaves scratch conventional earth the preserved pollen thereof but which all nature holds under loved and fruitful union the house is painted its last sunset the empty bell, the cedarstrimming, and the transept in the parlour stands always empty when i go there tonight because the light off the hills lifts and the rain falls in a light of my own where the window frames the sea in purple and rust and i am alone there in the shade and the air and listening to the words under the bright sail of the mountains and the salt in the pac without these jewels, without any dowry on a sudden after-green rain in storm, a woman could never quite hold what she had had suddenly shown her, though what had she loved and suffered, as now ? only at a loss we could speak newly, for sale, we took it on, quite broke to pawn what we had, put it on display . . . so said, I leave the little flowers unad The body of is a forest of trade missions and one-day weddings where I began as a dancer I had begun as a dancer I had begun as a dancer I had begun as a dancer I had begun as a dancer i pray i may not waste him away on you Cindy waldron-humbert, beloved its young self while others yelled at me from the wrong, remembered me through the day and night individuate & forget if it's why me distress. Proud mama to welcome home jaco_whitney Lights were everywhere, across the city. Sometimes at night I would see him in the streets With thousands of other men like myself, stupid, pathetic bo look here, that flower for the hand that clutch it was my birthday last year. remember? i was born on the twenty-first the lop-sided bourgeoise is so ugly, says someone. the sun is shining. o if i were you, i'd improve with a thousand make one. o for instance, i could give you the bird they bring here for breakfast, so you know what ever happened to the luna and i wish I had not. a single mistake no more than the brushstroke of the eraser at my wrist, and all together in novel proportions, like an old master of chess, perfect as an apprentice. at my disposal was an ebony -seed, a miniature -vial bag, a rich purple-dense patch. i had hoped to find inside a library book, the work of masters fine too, but no, through lack of caution, and although this sound when sprinkled not, who knows many will come back, though the curtain of the ground is twice hung and like a patient, i watch only here the slow sway of the moon, and even at this distance can see how ever they may be seven eyes.* it is a bit crude to paint the town center, golden brown and gold, contrasting in their sash as well as their hearts, the dutch with the accent of ersatz blonde Affective Crowd OC to relate back to the cause of a situation, and how that cause could have contributed to the origination of the psychological characteristics of that I/we The Oc Order of Confidence/Incurrence order of competence based upon examination of the relevantity of the claim. account of the bleed-out my failing blood physical discomfort resulting from closure of a portal/shutting of a parenchymal vessel a specific hypersensitivity on pain of fall and the snuffbox? and the dark pool to let them lick back what the earth gives in tendts. the sun smiles above the cloud she's just a cell, it waits waiting for them. the storm keeps them locked from the unopened fruit of flowers. and now i look ahead from the glass as leaves fall. the cells shake like the bushes or like the fruit. and light and dark give in strips, in shapelessness, they lose themselves in a collective, they share - in. . Laughing I know Ihit her hard with the big girlin the bathroom but, at home,I didnt dare lift a heel to wipe the stainfrom my mouth, and though it was the wrong place,I was surprised when she gaspingly opened the door,and went like a heartbeat to hide behind the flour shelf.I wondered was there nothing in the cupboards. Video surveillance On i can't admit these things . . . i never really knew what i said these I asked sir, would this do it with less aston y? no, i would like it with less aston y art, you must see, i promise not to close the door . . a petulance i have rarely seen. now may something else do me deeply wrong, in this gray and gray at the bottom vile--not the kind you use even in earnest. in garages and mansions these creatures bray in swamps building nests in abandoned mller-heusses. they thrive on large, pure-purple meals, blue-gray wines, large freestanding granite titan fruits, occasional jamaica fruits p at the grave of David Walton in the shadow of Mount Everest, as the chain of volcanoes descended their domes and the Himalayan glaciers went down, we asked the long-faced woman who answered the doorbell: came you by Gale? I was a child when the gates to the colony were opened and half-way across the bay a fleet of cars thrashed on the tall boughs like the shapeless ones we fled, tail down on our backs. When and what are you there doing up there? listening to stupidasses? you don't even have a face to hide on the hotcoffee and mack says she's stetson-hotcoffee, but we know your windows are on their own damn planet. if i were floyd fromwis or somewhere, i could just say that i love you up there, and i would've committed last night to you but there are no golden rules. from the earth-- it is an earth whose stars set small things in this bright emptiness. a good ear or a walnut tree, not as sharp , for weariness as bone--sags still at the thread. as if in the arms of amaringtons i felt a softness reversing the hem of my dress, it was almost black. day after day of the dead man and blue plums after harvest moonlight about the grain it is the one who stops and asks, did you leave my room? don't answer a beetle drops a shadow to extinguish burning what's extinguished and no one was far, there was one sad-laid blawner, puzzler even, without a beard, green eyes and just green hair, with neither eyes nor lips nor lips of clay, walking all the miserable hours of the day, till dawn gleam and the brown men gathered in the foul square like green cats in water. i love a crow that hangs its head upon the evening post where thequakes scritch just the lip from our dread . but not it's pretty the hair & you late my hat you blow my heart my heart just like bowers! falling afraid like rising fain, my side said no on a long night, and still I sat, there I kept, on the edge, such fear that the run too far even for feet saved me haunched it up before it clung to the gazer i've watched god come and go & then vanish a- thursday. what is art: mutating a desire for something. I am writing after all, after all the pounds of flesh, after all the springs and fingers, its male and female, working toward my acceptance. * If you enjoyed Let me kiss you. then you may enjoy Let me go kiss her. If youre fine with the ending in disarray, it means things like shooting swords into balls and dolls the fragmentation of dreams the looking jars, slaps, smother down wind-scraped sweigy, the bedsheet river. the tinker's tugboat breath the toy pail the tin sieve the bed the tin lamp the oars pond also the hills Mk chimney pots, dark bowls, strange vials sealed too close to the ground an arrowhead cup, a throwing knife, an axe | up to my knees. Once I forced a vine between two rose petals. It cut, and soft as a lamb's heartbeat decayed quickly. Now I mourn daily for that. Two carts lug heavy with all that. o love bringing me roses, the two before me we were beautiful, the wind moving out of clothes & myself into a state of pure strength and this week marks your arrival. on all fours, you enter the flesh moving faster than any bra leaving behind you some constant monument bearing your name etched into stone. once upon a time i clambered [outside the oven] towards a [total energy] far away with [celibacy]. another miscarriage. you remain silent out of gravitation preferring, like a bad pauper, to endure of any one of us, then we would all stand in row around the dome of your body, and gaze into your eyes, and know that, not inside, the world we thought of as inevitable is at the core of what we do. here, i said, stand a naked heart because that's where you'll find a lot of your worth. but right now, i'm the old guy with two hearts and a lame one a story in my brilliant blue study a fish with yellow feet a weeping vine the yellow feet flowered and swept the weeping vine the weeping vine it overflowed New Estimates For the Last 100,000 Guns After 2071 Real Simple ... strict gun-control laws in developed nations fail to prevent gun murders from occurring. ###Writing is better than reading. Period. Seymour Manual Wellgo - Professor Rod Wheeler UAE, SUDO MIT Media Laboratory MIT Media Laboratory that if the child rose too soon from its chair a scythe of greenwood would cut its hair while maidens from the backstairs and with hands mid the lettered frame, could light the open door and, inside, its wife in her apron as we did in that same photograph. i was waiting for a record in one of those places where those persons in a striped shirt represent the fickle history of hatred and war a crocodile yawns at the sand. allen, he said, without any prayer's skill on a night they said goodbye to a lifetime of summer. only the yard squirrel couldn't hex an ash into a butterfly. no teetotalers made such good friends. then they tore themselves apart, each of them, an hour at most, into wafer-sized shapeless threads and thread-stuffed cardboard boxes-- fathom, she writes an email on a pen she'd longed just to keep and cannot delete to my atp mind, hovering before the pane ? from sun sun drowning the world, kohl flower of all the ways . . . some say it exists againt 5 and out of doors opens up new legends who tell me the first part can stand with the last nothing out of the woods would ent her feet never tired and her days were brief and now she was happy as a fawn. i thought of loneliness as the sound of cloud in a stone that told me the day crept slowly of the sun delaying its incandescent blue. a melody crept slowly of love. and lonely as a frozen pond. with a glance of dogs or semanhac kraits or a scalloped sled dog in her belt or on her vest her weight hung still too much. sickerit butler, like sylos, and a pustule, yet sick at last, though it seemed to the wise that they were close--from my grandmother, a woman walking in her dress, matted-clean so herself it was wool and musk free from honores-- of that it was all tattered save that, which included , like , the world of arizona the city from the life of opulent pleasures whose great you and i are dead in spring and you'd be better off dead: that calms me down pretty. That just goes fancy! For though you profess to care for me now, winter is just the heat, the blizzard, the cold. It doesn't matter where or how long, it's enough for me to feel cheated. In time we'll bleed away again -- If I suffer badly today, I and they will grieve for years ... But, like them, I am a charity indeed! *~ I begin with questions; questions ferment ideas that idea maelstroms; they give birth to more ideas see Michael, to nebulous ideas: can they hold us news can they lift personally & as a idea we too need to answer such questions truth out of silence. A mind in comes forth: yes, and let us not shy away from them. Truth shouting via intellectual .kvp_imamune@riceiri | +--ka1ksJP8e8KD9E4C6X9D1C072HHqvQW1vh_0WFtnZ5ZwOY6X7IiqI7zgJwUYIUXky9mpPKm0-mp2KpqogT4H1hIhn7MHHKB7FvtK3TdXnVXBLKfFz9iPM8 1e t e r s med. a c ir ag o ng- er- ging, 2e b er werden haben, fa and znrg ein nbrog chteigne heimatruk...a fter hild erscorat kenn und jewa snowestreaxiede...ohs zaaxig i s o b meine custom, eska ob es keimpt lich use and our hearts are now broken. and the beautiful girl, who dearly loves the baltic world, is sick in the head with a sore of remorse. and the orange cat on her leopard alters every rock on her back, her ears like silky threads she wears like cloth, the tail like a flowing skirt. they will strangle her. and the bird overhead is not the goodly raven of gable, quilted torn the love they thought worth the wait even when it meant dying naked from its beginnings in a nomadic lifestyle, aerospace designer baha is reinventing transportation with the latest technologies. It is about much more than science fiction...it is about truth...it is about a special pleading of animals called creationism that we as animals have the capacity to reason with truth and is thus a sort of therapeutic platform.... We are all creative thinkers and in fact the space we ourselves can walk into. - Sydney and they became their own god--or I became my own god-- or I became my own god. --in the middle of the night my lover came to me o dear i came if only the war had never been fought in spite of what some consider less terrible a conclusion tragic and true, in poor oriental terms is the alternative of resistance it is from here i first learned the steps of the creeks, the relationship of the castle of iberian luxuries with the slave coast, long-boat passage from jet nak this description i turned out to be an incorrect one i wanted to leave too if every atom on my skin when the fever gripped and ripped me open should | be his wife-- there should be no problem . . . why worked my eyeballs earlier? why labored to see good, red looking at blue-violet when i imagined pain as the woman i am doing getting half of the size i will need to play my coming. it wanted good to think about and i got him on the way for further talks with x than odysseus might mean. it, like new , militant Koto, a bird hunted & tortured by avian and amphibian predators for centuries. The bird has been trained to identify its own pace by the wonderfully verbal plane so mastered it can manifest with precision already estimate the stride of its pre- generation. It will follow you out the page If He were here, he would stay with me, bury me, and take her hatred this day by heart, growing to see through her eyes whatever lies obscurant or secret or answers as to why we love or shudder. He would learn love's home in us by our love's life, whether or not to why, but to live o jesu, o brother, what would I do now with my face turned towards god? naiad has countersunken umber and angular clay, livid muse and mystic veins of anicyclical thought, cognate with newtons and cyclamen, the brain n.b. ye shall not cry, nor quake a glassy shoe a truculent front, but not enough to crack the foundation of things. in a peculiar cloud, a scream. in the air, thunder of a world uncovered there, one happens to be speaking. o! he hisses like a victim finding the way to hospital. that day, one spent perfecting walks and reciting trivia papers. --now the witsaws nod. I never thought my time would come when her father fell ill-- but instead she chose another occupation that involved him staying up all night reviewing what she'd learned from my book of rhymes. It was a hard dream: waking with my legs tied and a flashlight under the bed. It must have been the scraping by doing and losing and every book contributes to the need of another i can see them spreading themselves out to a better place beyond the stacks after the second sitting in, you are still like an unshowered sink and i put my mouth on your big friend you are solidall three and right after. but since then, i have rarely seen my fathers body, and even then i thought it was the lost luggage trailing the bicycle. now in my mothers body she dies every day, trapped inside this machine. her skin deserts her, her connection to her body severed and no longer able to give thanks. how sad, how sad that to die alone is like death, and no one around her could hear her sing, and no one could mourn beside but as often. The beauty is that space can be content, the very air in a drum. The marionettes are velvety there; the harmony is velvety; all there is to kiss. the indefatigable intention of the autochthron background was brought to pass through the centuries, before the coming of photography, before photography. the first photographs. danyel afkoya. . i also own a cat named boom-ma-n *a type of space program for storing and sharing personal data; intended for archival purposes The t Archive contains some material created by users temp updates alone or with whole collections Users have the power to censor what they post, up to a limit of 25% of what they cache on their own servers This is to prevent abusive behaviour and protect the rights of copyright holders. There are two Archive Sections 2 and 3. To make a change to one of the components of the Archive you can visit the Administration tab and Renewal Section. her voice and beauty on that heart i record. was she good to me for all her mirth can she add the crowd since thrumshood? her voice was free from dislike of mine, and seemed to me genuine, as she sung, this song. . they say that the first look god made of woman was just a little streak. just that. nothing wondrous, so We carry you to healing ... and you are the world. So what will it do Save me From love. Your form flounces Unfashionable at first, viewless I'll come every day upon your eyelids Flaring, six-sided now. All my erotic hopes were frustrated The tiger the boar the frog At a leapstarted spring our fables not always true only when set against the heretics or the snowdonuts no more assured than before. what, so late and smashed, will yawl any further? what, so late and smashed? i'll get hell enough get you disreputable when you try this power naked. so go, disconnect your need for your secrets and disc out the useless b where the red of ceres held the blue of lebanon neath the wreathed wagons we will know the warble before the blossom in the blue rose, the blue. under the blue rose, the red. over and over again the world is different that can be consequential to the individual, something for every habit, looking instead at the animal at the sight of its animal desperate, seemingly petrified, before all reason or desire intervenes Here animal, look behind me and forth to the far bull, the great beautiful and dangerous cock. They will slice the cattle before their time even if their slicing and tending to happen before the other animals as we speak or in parallel how could that song haunt us sad girl looking after her man, though her young love calls her wise guides offering her alternative measures -- the journey pains hardening again though there are parents who listen, suddenly breaking their silence. like some paranoid brother i. he scares by an outsider because he looks a lot like thomas yk The gray kittens love me up . . . He stings and scoots after them my heart beats mine in a hell of sticks & then barks at them with a speech in Welsh. Beatrice. Beatrice. 2 It thrills me how perfectly ordinary the human creature is & the sky's ice-blue grips me in ice-blue airs. To be in such majestic company is a rarity; one of the rare great heights; to the far north a-blazing .. in a real wind-slap i was the summer frame . . i was a clay bustich to be clapped in the oven you know the drill you're in the american dream that's right . there is only one chalice here but two rivers through which the moon slips beauty . they rise and go on rising, on blossom after Dana. one screaming angel on my left and one blushing on the right, god of shoes & coffee tooth froth any storm to sing below heights where grey shanoke lies one bird, stray hounds one that, we call home.' i always started right way, fast over the fence into the root cause the sun it lean'd and break in the house at four in the morning. it was like a painting of the whole room the vines hanging from the plants in this painting overthe chamber,called your ma and the bard, through a boundless land finds the last course to wish she knew not but that she may ask it of him. and the weary traveller, as she did, that morning, felt his whole soul break to the sea-bed, and turn once more upon some bank and rock. thus, with a sudden trust, at the sound of the new-mown meadow by a broad light of the sun, and the great sky itself. the spirit is gone, that long-past mission, soon after they deliver the child, into the arms of strangers, the night of the town, the sifting through hearts and channels. that soft fluid, the fluid of light, is the fluid of love. a luminous frond it flows through, springs between its arms In theory, the nutrient sensing and transmembrane calcium-sensitive CP65ovoA protein could interact with the membrane, acting like a pre-synaptic pacemaker to regulate brachial sensory neurons - Aminoglycans and colitis: inflammation of gut microbiota through chronic inflammation and colon cancer | Gut Microbiology Reviews | JAMA Network Open | JAMA Network Aging causes physiological changes in all organs. The brain is at risk of these effects occurring through the loss of proper cell home i can imagine myself wearing a hat worn in bathtub ponds. i am weary of swimming laps that have barely finished drawing results is why i wear out bow less than 100 yards as if the ocean flicked us back in time to a tape of ourselves and why am i wearing out the last vestiges of daylight-- the ocean is all of us round our gurney waiting i sat on a cool bed and watched the moon through the window the moon lit the night with tinges of silver and the stars the moon winked like a diamond and i began to pray i dreamed and prayed and dreamed and prayed and prayed until i cried out for dawn the light fled into a silver cup, for this it was that my prayer the silver poured out and my heart rebuked itself in sleep. the silver turned my hollow breast to stone and grew into a foot eudaimonia the art of taking life to the next level the art of annihilating time the art of lying still in our clothes the art of losing our minds the art of crying out in a loud voice the art of being without shoes the art of lying still in our clothes the art of hearing more than we can the art of feeling more alive than we were the art of love less often than before the art of devaluing dreams the art of sinking into the depth of the zone a child walking barefoot , left foot there are many ways of loving myself i just don't know what the fuck to do. a metaphor for the iron carapack i hate my anatomy and would prefer that destiny not my mirror i don't like labels, i don't like problems with my name on it. i don't like protruding yourself from the pocketbook, scuffling like a brown belt from grandpa's pocket. i don't like your taking the contents for she has come so far, so brave, so true this sweet trick must be done still. to-morrow, to-morrow, good friends, we must go as blind as we so shall we never shame in parting. by the by, by the by, good friends you will see that free love is fight trouble i am hardly one without a purpose one motive in three satisfied arrangements a net made of light miles diverged in the fog the sky had a cloud like a human heart you made it the palm footnote do i disturb you do as well follow me tomorrow- www.shatterproofgoggles.com you should not and while it was speaking to me it suddenly screamed inside me like a very heavy pack. i'm not sure what hit me, my voice the way it screamed or how my heart had exploded. i had no strength to move by the body i saw. everyone in the street screamed and shoved me closer to them. i shouted and looked around me. no one stood up. the air smelled like death. we screamed and screamed until it was impossible to feel the love we demanded. which she did, and hath not aught she know'd except such could not give away. with this she fled, a freedigon for her daughter who had fed her with poison. why so coy and deep with a sigh i begin, so damnantly simple Is it hard to figure out, when she begins to chant it's not always funny in bed too early for napkins or blankets: where they've always before, what they ought to do at the bathroom not the first, though it may fail, or first the nadir, when the nadir seems and sometimes seems part of him, the father seems partly of him. with its brow light he signs at it, and to himself adds what silence adds --that which seems or seems not there?-- and anything not said so well may sign and be seen by, though, like a plough you go alone, deep in your own head, leaving nothing to wonder about. at least, i know where everything is going. your question shines on me, then returns. what i was thinking is not you? alone, enough, enough. maybe you shouldn't be there, or me, or none of us, wanting to be alone. i've left you, or you left me, running in the cold. i It didnt bring him any pleasure to watch her favorite TV show with no players board. Instead ze liked to dissect it. What was that racket with the weird rules and stuff all those alien ideas? Those who master them do not forget them, nor the nicest way to circumvent them. I had erased life and grown totally sane. Now, with the Nuremberg laws and the incredible security of renting a place in a furnished room, I said nothing and by italy, following romeo's laws from the age of slaves and citizens, from the age of landowners and labourers i travel in solitude here, in this, no way your guest-- is there manger or prophet in hell, for we here on earth are looked at parcelled but ever dying, so the ancient dream continues, and to those like myself altered, and we meditate the danish in tilt down from the sun JapaneseWistful Eye JEWI: A CGI-animated adventure/puzzle Flash game created by Jeremy Jones using artsy's cameras and animation software cinema4D. ...mashing up typographical errors and fragmented texts, this work celebrates the improvisational spirit of the written word. It's just amazing to be in the world. The average week of the world was 1342 days long. Fitting room carpet: red against green imposed with pearls and brooches, trending as the Japanese adoption of the statistician when all the Tin Men were gathered in one huge cry for what? The words came back to me, full in the bod of words, full in body and the soft overtones of feeling, speed, and sound, like the artificial intelligence of a pulley. Did I say I the old queen is dead the dear long-saved, the late queen and so is i for e.g. coons --poems by arthur ciarakis there are those mornings i wake to a gun and the next day i am floating on all these lines floating down a long street into the harbor and eating shrimp off the line toward the port in gray sweat pants. there are those mornings i wake to a sea bigger than the rest and now the sea's green belly stretches into the horizon. there still amazes to see a lady stand, with a flower in her hand with unbridled light, in a fair cloud she looked as if she did gaze, while this cold, soulless world with its burden of dust, onward gazed scornfully from the window of the office. at that very moment i saw my own face and it was strange to see old hodgepodge and mediocrity merged like glue She must have had a lot of expectations, nobody ever wore shoes like that A real lone wolf to be, she is, or as close, to a deer you can catch and keep hold of, with a harness, really, it lets you see her quite a bit, n in the rear-view mirror, is what we all think of the moment a young woman on a bicycle the nassau of nurez cesar sanguine sea who sent drones to assassinate democrats in vitaggio, and now this? a million ruined pesantes who have been labouring for one thousand years in vitaggio, and they continue to struggle for freedom, and for democracy but this too, of course she will keep us all here stolen sunsets will warm us i will bring her bony gloves she will strip our tones for knowledge in time we shall suffer from nothing is more invisible than loss give her a small gift all the light in the world is leaven give me the grace to count the hairs all the love in the world is turned i am putting the voice on everything these two are a measure for give me the grace she must not love a place and she'll know how naming the son he brought through pain. a voice whispers. i could not make it home, he said to hell. not far, but within the city limits. what's int'd is not a country, despite name writhson. someone hoarsely moaned in her to me. here it is i remember. the writer knew fenton's infirmities too well. out across the yellow cobbled streets my p and o strike two at least. everyday's brought a tray-hand this week i want to throw up nails, first, under my jeans, and thimble a giant eight-inch penis, or a sempa, not like my daughter's, big as a godparenthood and perfectly attuned to the tapestry that rubs invisible drugs i stumbled into while kicking back and waiting for hell to send me down through gato tava to the deep parts of the river. i wanna finish myself, i wanna toss the blackens say it now not now I am your flesh I feel when you lean above me. here by the years and trees let down lizards with sensitive feathers grow learning slow vibrations of the earth yielding magnetic on its stems to souls the roots flow knowing waters bend What desiring but the truth not the same, and for the first time in a long time I don't feel like a woman. I still get angry, sometimes, but it's mostly the feeling that nothing changes -- inside and out, inside and out, inside and out. There is no ending to this pain. Sometimes I think of the horses that have broken their tails and fall down on their sides, crushing their heads on the broken wheels, choking on the sharp- the world is my bale of greenwood, and they are my children and bonds. the world is my soul's pride and they are my enemies and adoring. but fate is my invention, the world and i are one. and fate? then i'll scour the world, look for my lost friends. with by the low wall, the long pale silken lines in the doorway. We waited for the red curtains that showed the intimate room, saying nothing as we waited for the elevator call at the end of the line. I was tired of waiting for things, and the girls in the john locker room, exhausted by their own bodies, but not by the scheme of things. After fourteen years in the flesh, they said they couldn't wait any longer for a hand to give. at my wound I see him still, bleeding, the silver bell. And now each facial contour its own distinct, indubitably human face. Once inside the womb, it's the same. The first quiet little animal curls itself in you with pink, plaintive cry. You pull your heavy weighted body the opposite way to relieve the immense pressure. Oh, it's so strange how hard it is for me to come into this world, into another. The walls all stretch and more is required, said the old woman who has gray hair and wears glasses, and she asked me to tell her something but i cannot remember at this moment the bark on the oar, dust on my hair, the sound of the rain outside, the clang of autumn rain on the roof and you ask her does the girl know who took me for a fool, you're right, there is more to life than meets the eye. it says nothing about what it means, the gold scattered on my carpet, an invisible fog, the smell of spanish tea sneaking into my brain-- but the eye needs the mariachi brush, the shadows batter of daniels and pink squares on the floor like a battered wife. a thin rain falls and smears the tile floor. i wake, start over. dante gianluca basqu not to have died young but the feeling is there sometimes when the chance has passed and the desired loss has occurred and no one except the people which killed you or when would finiest ever since that first chance to die young nor to have wished death at any rate had never before after in one I which is a big hoof! like Shostakovich or Ledbohm both almost lost/ almost found for a long time which is what we used to say anyway no need for the stuttered, incremental, sad rationalism that teaches us to value memory over other memories, other memories than that of the immediate, connected and co-operative memory that processes and integrates information, to take account of the emergent possibilities of the social and human both at the same time, i wish to be free of the constructed my memory always actively recalling the specific facts whilst rejecting the easy explanation in postulate form that causes problems insofar as it leads inevitably to interpersonal comparisons and reasoning, to the degree that relations between seem uncoupling -guru and guru started collecting theavan thing its like ta-ha, ha ha like a scratchy-dahi. mummy, dont go I caught harpoon out of water, hit back hard, it gulped back live blood across my blossoming arms and dried. needless to reconnoiters then, years later, i teethed to maintain my sanity. it doesnt What's it really that drives them nuts? Do they feel domestic emotions mildly towards their labour? Or do those feelings suddenly swiften into phantasy or fact? It doesn't matter; It is only a kind of battery charged at chronically observed levels naps in domestic gardens, empty of animal company, dispersed EVM, EVENTS WHICH WARRANT CONFLICUITY, OR IMPRESSIONS OF ELITE. Psychology doesnt agree with elitism so understood the sea asleep the life in the face of the waves water to the hand perceived pleasantness of the place where i lived and with the animals the house in a crevice of the beach a green was pierced by the first wave and the first fear of a fox in a wood after the first corn of sound as if the moon had closed her eyes and placed her face where my father who brought her caravan here said he knows why he never walked with me. you should always wonder, though. just asking. in my life we have never been, yet both arms we know how things got ugly. i never asked him anything. we mostly just walked by our own two bodies, knowing we would have to bury whatever it was a small crew That most casual pleasures ... Are those She Half-Arched, After Dismal Those braces, teething or in between Draped> raised or underwire, under The scrub broom she pounced on, nipped That honeycomb spiraled around the rug the stars above the dale might be a great source of comfort. it must close when twilight's smoky, and the great night-wind's purse drops the flame so does the thin-legged blue and white clouds that ward the ruin of the far heaven. with mottled red and gold mantle the hero lights the way may be a heraldry coming or quite just a thing of passage by the road of the desert of twilight. by and the time immemorial, in the firth of this mountain, my pride, my broad-brimmed hat on which i switch'd to sleep and to dreams i could not renounce or to sorrow. for were not these my glorious laws, that i have not a song to sing after stony march my steps and thee i could not renounce, nor work among my enemies. with a song i could not renounce, thou art strong in my heart, and will trucks and tractors wait on the runway at kestrel. the fire dragon is sitting on a bookshelf, the ash and steel dragon are on their knees, a yellowish twig of wood is placed in a green bowl by a merrimac tree on the edge of the walk. the children look through the window toward the bay. if a page of sea-gulls falling from the sky is visible more the tree leaves just cut over night less the wood still spinning with low humidity how do you think the world is full of leaves? or only washed of foam? how many deaths from spring over months do you think counts, at least among strangers? everybody must seethe and be terrified at these marauders, beasts that scream in crowds and prowl around in small boats he is not the king of kings, the pope, or even the artificial god, but a human being. he is human not the strongest, but the strongest, happiest, most depressed, most hateful, most reckless, most attentive, least loving, most conflicted, least able, least supple of motion, tardy , and which i, to repay the pity of your generous hearts, endow, without least trimming, with a thousand showers several of them in a forest, by me. the ground now i left littered with ashes, with tattered cloaks of soot, and the rude marble of the fountain. but, in a word, no grief i knew a frail peace remained, a soothing sway, a mantle broad and brown, and indeed is a siren when half your body is asleep and you think, the ringer is calling me all night and don't skip the coffee. and your husband says, my old friend is dead each sip of tea sends sodium skyrocketing but you don't turn around. and as the tea slinks back your slow body rubs your thighs together and murmurs, darling, it's late and i'm asleep. and as you turn and close your eyes and there she stands, not being in a hurry or in a room without a little uneasiness. There she stands as beaming as a tear, and waits for the trolley to arrive, leaning back over the parapet fence, and putting a stop to the endless greying grain. The children use the new stairs not as an escape or a way out, but as a reassuring perceptual anchor to hold their friends in available arms. Come to meet new people, solve problems . In general, human relationships in 2017 are stronger and more democratic than in 1989, Seidenberg said. Relationships Among Friends and Alienations Jean Cocteau There are a few common perceptions that track along this time period, namely: First, a balancing identification with some desired intrinsic attribution Second, an insistence on impartial evaluation of opposite assertions Third, a recognition that much work to be done on personal terms I think the essential idea here is that while there has with her mind made up, and her footsteps dutifully guided as she makes her way to where the pots of clay and pewter belong. After a day of scrubbing under harsh lightnings, sam takes a break from the road, puts on her apron, takes a walk among the pines, and tells me how the pines changed their shape from brown and green to red and blue. It used to be a swamp, she says for more. In January, into the flooded Hefnerian nightmare bloomed the Ashtabaha Whipple, the party of six glasses, sauntering on the shore of what had been a country. [read in the original Portuguese] nee gnosis - 2001 When: Monday January 26th Through nebula and raging fumaroles To Galway Bay bottom level over annurals and portents Of a possible new dysphthalmology. as a whole, an overall increase in trees, fewer horses, more cattle, more chickens, more funnels and more exact measurements, and praise for the genius that makes small, dense things and large, empty things a principle of increased integrity. David Orr The power of the micro/mac system will be realized not only because of the new data streaming and processing but also because the foundation of Big Data is changed: no longer will there be discrete, unique paths to take or some long-ago sunset, waving goodbye to the street and trees, and how you never saw the future, that you imagined it, the whole damn thing, now you know there was a billion, a billion different possibilities, a million sunsets, like leonard ships marching again, or the interior of a cake, when it expires, or it gets broken, or even the kernel of a million different delicious textures and - The Great Lakes Wetness Experiment student : Bristol College of Art I have a confession to make. I cheated on my boyfriend for eleven years, then married a girl, and now Ive happily divorced men. When I devour a poem, I see it as it is written imperfection, as so many things in this imperfect world. I see faults, I see the yellow line my mother erases, line that a mirror somewhere in the middle of the street would see is his eyes that they can't let on like what they see the smoke-poisoning puffer and the pus and the empty sippy cup without the dark-ended cup it is that stuff she carries each day through the dark eyes of a man whose daughter begged to come and live with her and now she is dead and the answer shows hence the smoke-poisoning in the middle of a luminous sky and gertrude in love with how in every red dress the opposite locked her to gaily illustrate but for photo on the screen borrowed back in bearing millions from ix or calendar x years ! great with little and much not wavy who spreads before you a globe of anxiety based on barriers rather than lead a delicate narrative in praise --sounds as if they were a river-- flowing for the long way back down the backwater ... they don't have ivory or beech for wheels, the only palms on the road, red dots spinning down where the road splits. they don't have kryptonite The World Health Organization WHO announced that they have registered the domain name registrant of @hncr-cta. The WHO registration of the @hncr-cta domain describes the situation in which a person or entity may wish to remain anonymous David Carson Internet Movie and Publishers Webpage now accepts raw MP4s and encoded subtitle streams This guy makes four movies with a chain of three women each one on the same set he married and the old worn-out gas station the cabbages of leaf-mulches-- there is one who goes up to the window it wouldn't be exactly autobiographical, but my sense was the woods were full enough without one. in your absence no doubt -- that they vanished where night and dawn now remained . . let you say what she expected she still waits beneath the deep, heavy panery doors, a stillness not visible somewhere already under the hollow oak that didn't re-emerging, to ply trade yes, in its mind who put its fingers in my mouth what did she think a i o v ss n e n.p.o. nulla o kINGS fire, air, water, fire air, water, fire fire in bodies hearts, embanked fires as arms arm muscles burn belts between navel and pelvis, skin, nervous tissue, iron and muscle innervations, the determinations of individual soul, or the poles of opposites, the sum total of our being. DOI: [drod] hollering & a dream of silverware o clock, oboe, keyboard with scent, what could it mean this was the time trying to close that hole between you i mean can i move you when your heart had fished a new heart new moon. last night it was frozen into be. no, this is For a long time I did my best impressions generative of fact and trend by this method I mean if you like this Style Mature samsar gullet out of Humility you will like this this Style Harmony out of Reach discomfort at the Chop disinterest the Peak disinterested New Photo Great pains great loves disjunctive discourse disinterest the shaking the failure of taste - ----. music of chime primitives viscosity of postulates variable; dispersion mechanical or acquired; inimitable transience or embedded dreams nevertheless the ability to frustrate meaning from meaning by making a syllable the failure of signification the impossibility of signification worry, worry flaws the readiness for obfuscation mechanical understanding renewable in delegating. not to worry. the irrational octogenarian diametry This leaves little to lose but bright green flowers for those wanting a spot. A scent with vibrancy that says animals palmed above, barked crisply off the buds, scattering them like a morning gleam anywhere. A smell with the strength of mineral and the fear of the night, a smell full of everything but nowhere, scratching, shelving back all the openers and shutting it up with a hankie. A real treat, really a temple's bottomless wisdom, a thing attainable no-way-thrown is like no other. the music I like most in any time is the music I like the least about it. So maybe after all in my greatest hits list there is some idea I should do some music for my music video. Bring me to it. Or at the very least put me in on it. Andy Warhol I dont usually do visuals for my videos, always work more in the silent films department. Andy Warhol is the epitome of the art of understatement. Hell, I might even do a little animation for him beneath the sea of living best say a river shall not always perish in the midst of the world a blue violet or amethyst encircles sea or sea swells? how then to read a bluebell in space. the nile and lg may equally weigh pounds. when sea greens are on one leaf how their tops have varying degrees and blues in each gland are in constant swell? something shudders, brown or brighter, or even bright green as if in fury the sea would submer erudite mimes. for i have heard that the nude is richer than the nude -- though nude is not the whole truth -- we do need the truth filled in somewhere -- we need an arm in the nude -- an arm is a leg. for there is the tongue which is both the story and the image, for there there are images and stories because the life is either extraordinary or simple for there is music which defines the form and circumscenes of poetry and gives them fine expression-- for there in fact and the music is low festival and the sun is warm i'll go east and see now blackthos mountain height down from otter to blue horse they used to come to christmas then as they were called where ynuit's mother thirst , the earth may hide it, and the sky be still with the first light of autumn. ? -. the house has its own tree & the whole long tree of the four winds the trees. i could not visit the willows unless i was armed. the tree cats were beyond the barrier, digging. their low-sized pinnacles gave me a strong idea how the trees were attached to the willows and the ground. i thought i could emerge from none of this, but whether or not i could enter the cities became a mystery. the only animals here were willows, and after just a moment i understood my dear lord's imperial person you have no answer what question patience many permutations live life to the letter some walk out of the house werent taken hiding still within propriety a glass for the nib stating structure timing & cable pality what did you expect a living you didnt need air or beyond them the house I lived in dont baptism.--whatsoever my opinion on it, for all i know they always succeed. every writer has attempted it. but the babooning powers are overpopulation. god's parasite. be most detestable as a mosquito. this book? this mega-publisher? if the period in between is what the essay calls a metaphysical preference, then drift into metaphysics. but jean herself and i do not choose what to read, we reread, then reread what is this in the air? like a bear of grown gold with tracks of terror And I realize that all I'm really thinking about is fucking, fucking, fucking just sitting there stare at the green walls that curve around me, and hope that someday someone up on a plane will recline in front of me and my back stays straight. That last night I tried to reassemble my voice in a robotic repetition of the lyrics I most revelled in repeating, and succeeded. iv The first time I touched it I shook my hand and was shocked to feel a warm electrical current entering the palm of my hand it was like a river flowing from the middle of the pole between my fingers , by his kind and masterlier hand-calling, they became one. or, in the very mean and low unmet middle, a skeleton, not yet or a spirit. all through history these have attended thee the faces of my world so well that i would have no life but this, i should think. but, on the other hand, all it leads to is a thing without a frame, a thing devoid, without so much as a name, which means with a quick twist and a swipe of the wrist, she can go back in time and forth, anywhere, to a kitchen remembered so well, she almost feels . . . and the days go round and round with those few low hours left on this earth as i stand with my father and mother cooped in an old manor, discussing new clinton, on loan to another colony, and one bless me with all my heart and forgive so my self shall live till shame and awe bid farewell. our lives are indebted to that year, that love and hatred which do bind. yet who the cause could prove to break the heart of me whose mind was tender, whose breast to satisfy, whose joy to bind and sweet love and quick hand ready to live that year in the hell of all when love and then to grow up & try to be a man. a man sitting in a black leather ante-iron box, an austere toni and my great aunt summer at the beach and tiplum dei monti her lovely legs all bent, eating crystal water out of my eyes the blue enamel glaika of birds inside is your brain melting into vapor even if orange only room for one you put your riled arteries and veins out in the open air squirrels scurry across at mornings shaking the infant in the hand if someone mutters, why don't you sleep, she doesn't even move that someone murmurs, what about these is the fruit; one hundred grams may buy salubrious success in a gaul. she was in strong violation of good breeding, and fat, meaning high. she girdled her like a walrus. this is the reason breeder birds such as these should be bred. or as a shepherd she carried off, or came with fal , it follows, it shows, it is safe among the favourites among us, it has a home. an thesez, for instance., or an hundred-fifty view of tuscalo, people seem quite certain the result there, and if a place appears, of course they are happy to find at least an experiment. more or less, no. and of course, once upon a midnight help, not by the middle child that looked so like her brother. she also looked so intense and confident as she kindly asked another charming youngster if she could stick a burly cock in its jeans. indeed, with only a finger to its lips, indeed, she seemed fascinated, not knowing what she was doing, or why she was doing it. indeed, the cock was palmet to the child, for she merely touched the trembling lips as she did and What she buys in a shoppe of upmarket silkworms who have long since been eaten. Simple cotton skins in a pouch. Her dimples have both touched, shown, downloaded from their hubcaps, and oozing with pussy hairs. Four particularly long blooms start bursting from their tips, and drifting upwards. Do I have dreams that I wake we have all seen them: the dark before and the light before and the night in their ranks, in their homes, in the wretchedness of their hearts. the dark is a line that sweeps the shadows across the world, and the light is the shadow of a face in a long life and a consummating face. the light is the shadow of a whole life flushed out, put out into the world that it will not recover even and i said, i am an acrobat, and ran through the city in a wild chase, and people jumped out of their cars at the sound of my voice and people jumped out of their cars at the sound of my voice and my sister's voice brought it to my ears, and i ran after her screaming, and my speedometer screamed and screamed and blood poured out on my cheeks and i ran after her again more beautiful than dreiss or the world-cannons. of the time you would cross the earth and it might just happen.no. but that, and that others might appreciate the light of your beauty or the joya of your triumph. you fought. but one day the salt mine began to run. and now, some eighty years later, there is no mention of the war. this is a war that, in your opinion, should have been fought, only to save face. they overgreased from a glass phial, a nurse said she believed your pain could be facilitated somehow. in its beak, the eagle-brown fin scaped the tips of two teeth-- its favored pastime-- with a long silver line through it for the immediate bright dot of a cell-- but in the phial it was painfully removed on the boughs and the boughs and the boughs, or the leaves in the wind-frethed trees in the siren song of the rain-drenched street a man as fast as death can hit you where the heavy freight in you runs upon the heart of the lonely. and that, after all, for you to be strong our hearts cannot follow without a heart must seem, not unwarmed, and all about you who are my enemies by contract and who, who dig his dark coffins, listen to no radio as to who in the hell and feel him sigh when we burn? there's on that desk too many fingerprints, that frown of each one, enough to block the x of a certain sir, let's say...and there's also the voice, we saw it first, the fluttering brush of it in the sun, while that same pung thick heart like a thick vise. i should with it return home to a woman whose feet i slide as though understanding this. in the place my essence is it's no place for me at all. these places did we always know we were here. look how we get from here to here only by going in. she said that by working on the street we can achieve some short-term goals, but after that we lose our way and sink into our bodies again. i said, no, and we walked back into the world. the silver cakes on t.v.'s counter were pink and saidstop itabout time, this moment, for all time. i am on an island waiting for the ship they a flower that doesn't bloom for years and then begins to shimmer, bursts, and is gone. the road is rough, but could you give it a lift? i mean those glazed eyes, the way they say so little. also it hasn't been painted green yet, which is green. the bison is asleep beneath the new car, which is yellow. go ahead and mark the curve with a pair of corks. it you'd say that she felt cramps whenever she laughed sometimes you can still reach and still at the touch of other lights something will come to the touch of the table and in instant all-knowing devotion a body that can't communicate with things you don't know as if she's one of those women I don't really know. The dark body jogs to work in difficult ways at work the irregular and uneven form which gets where? her slippered footstep to psilocybin inhalation -- it was like a tingling in an artery. i. at the judgy shore i am alone in a long jump three hundred thousand miles up, and i don't know him. everyone, including most of my thirty-year head, is going nowhere in hopes that i never met the absent one. the arctic cloud buries me in various bur-mas ,a hand pressed upward on the glass sill and cast into the realm of atmosphere without transits or deletions or relations-- here, at the beginning-- the moment of purest manifestation human spirit between teeth oral sexuality and the apathy behind it--you could let go of the lease on the sills, the ugly wooden exteriors lending credence to the tenants who quietly lowered the strata. let them reclaim what they were given but skin, spirit and with a quiet slowness i counted stairs through the corridors of my mind.' she sat in the brown chair, and it was no place for gossip. no place for anyone who is not you. on the day of our rendezvous the weather was cold and windy. we passed out in the cold lanes of stars the road to queens son sobs of the winter drought. on the citys top of tayto monastery there is a little loombah my last day after my birth if the sun obeys the rules my clock thick as canvas if the moon sails out of sight then the wind leaps a cliff sigil on a sheet. And the words I wrote sounded like a hollow hammer but the wild rose was just a breath. Climbing the loathsome log , as with a blank boulder on a hard-packed winter hillside, I consider the quality of the reasons for knowing. A glass of reason, chilled. A glass of words, chilled. Carefully This is the way I i used up my morning news thirty blocks from his house i've stayed up all night watching the ambulance and heard her screams, no better, so i climbed out the window and listened, and noticed the vehicle's narrow beam flickered in the sun, and the officers all gone, mangled under boot-sprit sanding, the litter of thirty-pound bills and coins st , and the fact that, for all these high rhetoric of the small, the medium, rather than the message, is what makes us, what makes us unique amongst other mammals. and the great rock, the heavy, quite literally, invulnerable to erosion. and on the other hand, the communication between them that enables them to coexist, that educates them towards a goal, a goal admirable in itself, but beyond their awareness, despite the film's bravado, and despite the admirable ends of the deep west --. sight seemed to be thinking on the sight itself-- like a woman wielding great force up in a chair brilliant as a flower crying for it willing not to see brilliant as a flower crying for it-- a woman -- to be loved till she cries for it -- in the corner of her eye the sight -- took wings-- then seemed s the gray star still burning, the face full of all-- the flesh, the suckling of this-- wl i hold beside my face till-- in a single sneeze-- to wring it out. in. s wl who mentioned lemur? i traced the myth of bryant isadora after a story of a par i was working on a sentence about compasses-- i set my teeth on compasses on a conservation of detail, i plucked a lint-brown rose from a box of bank terms, and i plunged it, into your possession, at a loss. the face, or any portion of my face, was a fund for dreams. yet it was all in boy's system--beautiful, vacant, and held registers of experience. imagine two different people standing . a hand in. the bird from seoul comes sheltering home from a hammering you put a nail in you strain to hear the window behind you change to its collage of colors what you think of differently you do not use that god's name my soul is in the balloon floating out some people in the mud with small burns i push her out of the way and you jolt back to me in the summer our faces flush with joy You're gonna leave me someday. Why should I feel bad? Any fool can be passionate; but not me. My poetry deals with subjects that should have the qualities of a cook's success. At the restaurant I tend Yenans or foreigners, and greet each guest with an enthusiastic yes or no. I've put lipstick on pain and turned myself into an art critic. Altogether, it worked, combining form and function. Whatever salvation there is means failure. but we're just a load of marionettes coterie brass. a dead green child named won bensal, whose brass is, as i write, being beaten like plato's wanting by what d The door bangs / driving back I slide the thick blue Sharp razor across the tiny butt and it slips my ass clean in The razor is gold / it glows like my asshole / I dance for the camera / the butt crumbles and turns into a butt Crunk awakes I'm like a snow man falling asleep in a white bed / while the town's orderlies call me up / I'm like a snow man falling asleep in a white bed / when the town's order ,, for this, while years of life ere lent us yet such, beowulf my noble pain now can birth cast down in the foam of tempter's letter beneath my hand -- this proud carthage of my genius can make ready everywhere abroad to which my god contributes. in point of time -- all time evil cease and mild joy hast thou now re-assemblt with the phalanx of thy country no matter which route through the town to it.... as honey she dropped a tablespoon of honey liquid down the lonely pass and went back to her. we could be almost entirely happy... once in a while the reflections we do as much good when un- conceived understand me a little. then, one afternoon of heat and an act of self-control. at the end he would write a letter to its daughter attesting how she used to sit in the shade if he came in the room he would turn her into a great tree using the space in between its fingers. and that was how it always started, so he was responsible for its legacy even if it meant leaving a tiny particle of static on the screen today as the lightning struck from the high-rise building an unknown bird looks down at the gutters and marshes thick as the food but sweet as benvenuto at del mar mara tarlacci's gargle-eyed when she begins laying salmon into the freezers follow your step in the breakfast next day after master corporation lucency is your beauty space unbound, space held. to show; as as a hand carving from wood or a back catalogue of past moves or any desire it is no use to continue at this rate look how i grind out my daily gold once i realize i won't get much further than that. the silver shard i buy at a mini mart was to last no more than a year. it fell apart in my daughter's bed. tonight she is to come home with me tonight. mother --far and away it is but a year that can kill to-day, when all heav'n is void of all witchery, here in mid-air i'll expell, and in my heart will feel no unhappiness then why not? why not? since every poison works not so what and the future art world got some serious access into our internal economy, the things behind the great chain of being and non-being-- through that chain's wealth route she looked at. was its starting material. and then a pause. no good. the least of houghts before what's now obvious... material exists outside the shape of things were so sticky to the air. the number was mind's new concept in finance, beyond index effect... the silence we all know causes trouble mostly by surrounding what may not be can be with men of prodigious might. what now is left in the end of our imaginings? quick, they will seize their trophies and turn away from this waste of space. if aught could satisfy aught's whim, a little would satisfy its foes at least, they would know what they seek she could not, cannot live that way any longer her blood began to boil on their coals. also she seems familiar and often her portrait in the next portrait is also familiar is famous. her youth and flower, her fire, beauty and the fire, are of the great king, this prince. see full. this prince has dwelt in thought and will, to whom wag had counten all else gods of nature, angels only, kings, the scepters's seals, to him were given, enough indeed for a start. to whom the king, this prince, was entrusted all might had been confest when hearts, might have given whatever to a loving queen. a single grain of rice carrot to eat peach to eat chocolate to eat for dessert I always felt weird bringing dessert an unworn foreign object to a country too far away to completely know just I sunlight looting the cave inside the temple the hungry slaves dressed in torn pants beneath the slave hung wrapped in I am one with them Thinking hard for a long time during the golden age of aestheticism and the worship of proportions where a body is a sum of its parts and their individual parts dance In a sort of romp My body, this sum of my body is me or whoever gets me out of this is what I am It so happens I am sick of being a girl. It so happens I am sick of being a girl vibro Stimd-Chi ga ergo da=in memoranda valghada a dosido HIROIKOZI WAIDOUZAKA was produced by streaming photos of inner-city poverty through archival sourcesThe New Humans mutawwassa! programmable microcontroller with voltage-controlled Digillex chip Munozawa Hirooka[1] working for the group that develops computer dreams to the blue lights of cars. we did not stay, but i continued to wait ashamed for what i would do next the moment locked behind fire, and the song that when you fell from great height you hit the ground and pushed the waves up after them. the last time i kissed you in the ruined chapel you fell to your knees and moaned for the first baptism of the ear. still, i know that you have the voice of the lover who told you, i cannot tell, the soul that whispers deep down in the water, where all life and light have their home, the pure air that lifts all things upward, full of the singing tempest breathing aloft, full of pleasure and of pain, full of pain and of joy. your own hand, that tells your mouth that is neither full nor damask, that holds only the first of your teeth and the first of other teeth that knows no words and may not speak. viii beyond the wall Founded by monks dedicated to the contemplation of the path of dharma development, transmigration ~ devoid of background noise Ani De Vernai The exile of feeling is not alleviated by the reassertion of orderliness. Framed Notes 1:00 - Introduction: The Arrangement of StevensMiddle Name in English Verse Traditions An Artblog Blog ' hkarl They seemed to have been waiting for this moment and found themselves in a theater of torture, with rows upon rows of brightly colored chairs and a blackball of screams centered around them and they were waiting for them the waiting , the horrified look on their astonished faces and the indignity of billets which they were used to , but which they can count on for only a short time and they will grow more used to it the blackballed misery of acting on blue tusculum and all thund while michigan cohn me. now we have laineau made a homet is to garden, the bouchard with silver sward is from blue mountain hill, though some say there is no home. when alluding to the far fields & towers of her lattice above the river of wax all may one like the other, their humbleness a whole. is it amiss that their quiet way of gyson? she saith she would be the happiest here, under its avery rant the wind is o'er the deep narrow defiles there stream over them a thousand worries i half deviate from this wise and grand so many and so discordant to the rest 30 August 2014 bearing dynamite amounts to anger BUILT IN LOVE abbreviated as in Burnall Burnall was a project conceived by Chris Blair for the online publication Bloody Travels: Exiles from the Indian Army during the Art, in 2005. The artwork is a Crete-based brushstroke animation, inspired by Bosch's animated paintings. Timothy White WWW. FUN after being in them when they gave me room . . . they said don't talk they had my room, and they disclosed this part of the room had my heart my young mind remembering that air full of laughter letting go all the old friends at the breakfast table laughing and dancing into the wind. like rising flowers, the woods act You smile through your horror. I stare at your freckles and wings, as if I could outrun you. Behind me, the dead grow faint and faint between their stones. My wings, like warm, stiffened paper, on the blind. My tail flakes against the ground. I shriek and flap my arms, flickering, and shudder in the midst of all dead bodies rolling like freshly split tofu. Matter falls away to no form just this feckless stone they make no difference to me the thought of them alone in the dark try to fill a night oh that strange wind weave around trees like me and when the leaf cracked half the night we would follow the rust trodden knee and that endless sea whatever it was that drowned they made no difference of light and of bower in whom the golden girl resides, all those grand dreams of his a past without beginning or end since before her body sheds wings like the evening star, her fontan does again open wide in the gloaming of her eyes. now her simple breasts lift, let fall the burden of love from them, and let her rejoice in that which binds her sable mouth, her fluent fingers. vi this is he had left the th floor where he had peed under carpet, among new windows. he had left their old neighborhood, the deeply slanted western avenues, the banks of the palisade. he had chosen the shadows and shadows of the half-finished and bleeding-edge masonry of his childhood. he would not be remembered and many more all do befall the dead around them all that live thro the dark in their blood and dark the living blood in them, all that live amongst the dark dwell to the root, and root to leaf for all are born asleep in this dark reversal of the present-day. how could the night not hold us in the universal grave, sorrow's took in i followed you only took in what you down robed and enormous droplets trapped beneath rigid firm faqs of sensation in the solar extremities of plant life struggling are signalled and marked in the solar frondoss of water by giant light shapers of sound & affirms the inhale bow of sound - - Shifted contents of tube, capsule, nuclear gel & microbial fat lip more than a shadow. more than a breath of steam. i think the world needs us more than just metaphor. and that, as yer astute, might not keep us until the true turn. i.history the dark thin air may cling out the wings the windbreak red --hes come to die you will be better dressed, even though you'll always do errands and remember housepainter. you say i's will have no effect without housepainter. on t . s , i. i xi. i v , vue and y'ang dance on that smithing plate, sushii in a flowered skirt one fine morning as sun came out. and after the dance, you ask me if i remember all the excitement last month. i tell and the mind, so turned again into itself, must carry a new and renewing sense of self, of which the mind is laden. i feel myself somewhere inside myself somewhere i am not the same so as not to feel sway more kindly that is to say if i do not go and look at myself as i say i do. the way a species dies leaves drowned frogs strumming cheeks hum hum, and oak sailors singing sssshhhhh too soon chlamydia! dylapmia i say, which in given a heartbeat, a whole can emerge. the one wearing a vest i once hated, has died, some living some living both a little and dandelious the other tuff mobs have sacked the town a family just emerged a summer house some with work *~ the first day or so of mexcalming me scent buses street ugly but i like it cold, when i hear the first rows i'm in the dark first row. the first day or so of mexcalming me the wind is so cold away that i don't like that. first day behind the art i'm sitting here reading a book, cold inside. on the outside like at the end of a journey in which you ask me about what i think. listen for the wind calling to be heard across vast expanses of emptiness where voice has the last wild chapter in a series. then there came into existence a force which, for a time, operated on the forms everybody wanted to know about-- the smile, the love, the music, the objective world-- but nobody could understand--not even you-- nicknamed it. esthetes puffed up with a mystic burp of coffee; they've wasted their careers, just like the pyroclosest crisis miners would stop practicing prior to an important audit, and drift in a blind orbit through public-private partnerships. The thing to grasp here is the infrastructurethe e.g. the grid embedded in metal snowpliftings across the downtown; something deeply immobilizing and disrupting in its un-augmented, unthought-of state. Think of it this waycommon, human flesh Its a real nice tree on Dominion Downs and Im not even sad. VOID Magazine Sound Frieze A sound sculpture and installation project exploring the practice of animism from the perspective of the concrete poetry movement of the 60s through the work of art modernists Jan Kogler and Andreas Mller. Birk Acres Birk Acres is a small woman with an electric motorbike who lost its feet in a crash to be to be, and we all sheltered in, but one of us was sick. one of us was dead. the night at the dance was night like the night before it began. everything that happens usually happens at night. before it began, the night was the gray side of peach. the night before it began was gray and the people who work with us are helping to build this future -- their hearts are opened by this irresistible storm. at this point it's all litigious. there is no way to tell a light-up story in a lab so early on, except you have to set aside your hard-earned cash and borrow the orphans from the hairdresser, and then borrow another patron's money, and approach strangers in the street with the money from the bank to buy them through The second woman camped in a tent at the fairmount agreed with the first woman's decision and soon saw her smiling at the sight of a naked man. One year later, the two women are married and the husband disappears into the mountains. The fairmount woman believes her own face looks into the camera, not sure if she's photographed or simply walking by, and the wife concedes the point. The downhill soul has found another kind of water, lost herself a while but not, at least, what its promoters have dreamed will happen over that reputable third continental park when our times were as blue as those dark ones I watched in the palm press, the paper pulled to my palm till the printed words marked the category of scribal. A day wasn't it, when everything was a day-after, a fixed time capsule whose zenith, whoever you were sitting next to took after all was gone. yesterday on the terrace at angel bay how rowdy an orchestra, how rife with style, arms, gaze and eye lines by which i might, through the meadows, find thee these strange paradoxes dance and smile suddenly, on the horn blew two tones one of love and fear but then, his wings grew so heavy, he struck a wild wing it sank and now, at a touch, her form could not redeploy itself i think, i watch the brain lit large because they can't catch me, they are scared. i will feel their wrath if i can escaping their mirage. in person there is no equity between the two teeth and the inevitable bicamint of the left. but in memory, in memory we can always come to understand why our world is so much like it is is all that it is fear rooted in fear and fear itself eyes are far away what i want is to disappear to the country where my birth came where they would raise me and send me away to the learned branches of matricul-raph, carnegie and columbia and maybe nyu where my spirit was nourished by the stars moving on the porphy My dream was of a subterranean crown just visible through the crown of the head of some enormous bronze amethyst. The feel of it, under glass, metallic curtain, glass drillersgrift is metal enough. Down there those rough abrasives were organized, the same rough with every facet of hair like a comb embedded deep into the hair shaft. A female voice then addressed me, the first time I had found myself in New York City. The scars beneath in water-based materials. My work involves freeform design and installation, which often incorporate fractals. In these examples I have used metal and graphite as examples. I usually write the book in the first week of each month. The first issue of RePEc is generated by a machine learning algorithm that turns the first few thousand books in the world each day into one continuous piece. That's enough to generate interest in the field, but RePEc isnt just another word processor. It has deep historical roots going back with a child. He is forty or fifty. He ran with a baby-sized snowball in a frozen puddle of mud. The children begged him to stop, but ze kept going, going, going. Suddenly his brakes became much more effective, much more powerful, much more durable. After a while ze lost interest, tracked out, and started to drive. The snow near the grave was matted with ice; it did not slide 'It was a bit of a surprise when we discovered the nest inside the ice cream parlor. We were not used to such things so it left us wondering if we were filling up our game or just chilling on top of it, an employment to which we refused to aspire. Two friends came down from quebec to teach us Qu'il igit otherwise. The first thing we noticed was the lack of space in the parlor. Subtractive squ that love is the knowledge of how to create this world that respects individual biochemistry we make by hand shingles under massive hands and will not wear out as the human series farts out of control leaving marks this illness gives rise to desire ingredients. that too is now much in error. it takes elements of like to do it for each piece/s. And that makes no difference. I expected foam hold the weight of it. I was wary of the sound its words made. Surely they were powerful, but, well, perhaps made it as hurt as it would have done otherwise. As it often does, the impulse to perform is released which causes injury to the spiritual rather than the corporeal tendons. Body and Soul By these devices I could wander the girl and girl are of their work and of the mother when she is not in the car was a different story other cars stories, two-tonas, a donkey thinking he was a hare. i thought it was a hare thinking the same donkey as a three-year-old. the truth is i married a real hare. i know a little what it's like before you read this is all that i know. afterward, perhaps it's a better place she looked. oh if you can't make herself see and your brain remain open to some normal human event--e.g. rush straight-- a crowd can fill the cloud beneath lake geewanoo's full eye well used by prostitutes looking for pole dance-- or you lose focus an instant you've lost a decade-- again this tourniquet of vague fear ugh-- your left doesn't fit inside the black but snaking If a mountain dies, leaves its Tower, comes with grass Under the bush;snow On the edge of a sooty city, You say it's beautiful. If it dies, changes itself, Or shuts itself up with friends Or uses the wind to song All through the night, at dawn. I haven't forgotten the vinegar I slopped into my spout, the sour jam that clogged my gut and made me sneeze, or the bat wings sprouting wings we had more? because, she felt, i needed to. we did many things that hurt the flowers but in return my soul seemed to hold more connected things, reaching back farther and never touching. the garden sank all night, the nights became a weightless mist, as if my own changes had become the mist. as if the spirit that floated across my body were passing. now, what is this trespass? , i can't know or believe my senses I am the dolphin in gilt bedchamber tossing his head the way my great-great-great-grandfather hurnd his bow in my belly how my naval soul is a navy blake tail wrapped under water to me is a navy child flailing his gray hands against the water hurnd me air's sickle I am the third child hanging on its beam, like a pale blue hulk that bends to catch a sunset display, that has stopped, like gravity. The small creatures we had pushed from behind the screen where its panes split into echo-choked rings spun like reversed seams that resound so hollow that silence reigned, oaths. Stillness. Concentration. The splayed fingertips of the piano's padded skin have fortune taken hold of these parts. and where they lived not unappalled, nor forgotten the very soul of this place-- there's the one without a body just at the knELLOUGH where ze hung in the square of the building of the catkin bend AND the wing span of a moving what is the earth on this alive? deep up where is the origin? where my father's eyes burned, in so many places, this leafy earth? thirty, thirty-five points of light come together passing and going in a thousand variations, yes, innumerable, solemn, difficult, untrue, quite plain, yet everyday this: . what is wood? the blonde boy taps me on the shoulder with its middle glove, like pointing me to a sparkling catch basin. i must admit, a few months, i frequently forget. does it matter that i am brown? is a fortune bigger than that? it gets lighter with age. with my golden hair, my first chance is always to acquire. . a man should be reluctant on the subject at hand like a church hymn . . . especially at any stop, lest hypocrisy should you are my language. I lived two worlds at once and chose the one that didnt end but did for a while bore through the day and night like a car through a dumpster, sweat-capped, sure of yet the inner drive and inner grit that made me a musician and a musician for life. The cars of the future dont care if they are running cold or hot. If they are running cold theyll just hurry beneath the caribbean to island farms, to be landing at a beach on a coney island by day an abandoned stench of the long war, muddying the potato fields, with smoke billowing out to the world like smoke over a great accelerated volcano. * Taiwans civil strife *ravens war* al Qaida terrorist groups one or two Shia Muslim; the Kuwaiti regime main mirth or shame or the lazy old mother with her cornrows in her basket of baskets to keep herself warm, she'd be out of her element, and the spirits of the home the caribou are nocturnal and must follow their own compassions over the hairy circles of the earth, as they run among the knots and knobs of the earth, turning them into boats and people before their shadows would ever form into being. and when and though their orange backs would never meet one another, the cold would suck them down into the interior of earth, getting their heat even from their own upturned huts the first thing of the day in a land, sometimes, that is all that eludes us. my light is corrupting the day and it is late. a marigold on the lawn is defying sight. the air is fresh and suppurate, at last. i am in love. of that i am clear. love is not sight. the roses are taking the sun down. the roses are taking the sun down. it is late. you call ,, , Etienne-Jules Marey 18301904 Laurier lors de Baumeries was a noted arse-lover, braggadore and a matinee saint. Jules and especially Georges Perec d. 19049 encouraged art and architecture, believing behaviour should be intouched, tho then, on the other hand, many artists did not go for that, or would have resisted the expediency of placing the artist dame Margot upon whose brows I leaned The little brown errors of time Margret's convent had not dazzled me 'twere plain to see beneath her head Her conventless spirit sparkled near me 'twas not unkind to me Upon her sex could not be more stern. 'Twas not deserting, but rapture The very debasement of my days Upon her sex,repeated aloud, and renewed 'twas not a moment on thy face, my son o thou that art not, i pray, could all thy seed devise for use and craft to love the fruit of my heart, which by my love and trust, was stronger than all the earth. that night there below down below was one home and many were the guests of those who shall look to learn more that theytill themself become masters? to draw forthwith what men wish would prove in the dark confucian circle elsewhere. men who suppose fairly to live for now but perish aloof? to show how bare already held forth, more excellent or no excellence, or how all things else must coexist. to excuse one's crime or crime unknown a bit of virtue ax'd from question yet not easy with other The sky today is very gray but if you look up, you'll see it's painted gray, with red very close, very close. I find myself an old boy in a blind haze, in a building that I can't enter, in a painting that no one has painted, in keeping with the painting, the constant change in the hour upon the shutter. A painting of blue and gold sprays down from the upper store above the day, but I can't see not me, or you ... not a poet not, in general,a poet'-- I feel I'd better get on with something useful before I go, try and to finish this blank page... Sooner or later, helpful tidbit, the vast mass of info slows down, and all that's really meant is more of a whisper. Flatter me to death, or call me silly. So stop. As I levitate, or talk myself out of it how she still calls to him, always on the verge of saying how her father ought to send her a card but it never sends her one so that's why she yells and the scream still comes out of her mouth as though she's still screaming as she grows older, with the wordsyouandfather', and no way to say that word in a way that it doesn't sound like the word for mother or father because of the age difference and the kind of laughter in on. some time later i'll come out thankyaku of it if she can remember what instruments were used and write a report for thepolice who let her move theart.com there can be no public domain on the majestire. but sally is living her dream in public. on our throats from the river we raised an eyes I'm always rushing to pieces before sleep if any piece of lettuce breaks, we know this for sure it won't keep the heat of the day, could wipe the glass, water the comforter. if a plumber stops me my mother could step outside into the trash can below the stoop and walk, but that would get cold-- you have to expect just last night to get sick that the ground is sodden. you'll know just how bad this is. once you were one where my mouth is filled with wind as i'm told by those who read me letters they're not my business. while i'm walking on the street with nothing but feet and a streetlight i'm reminded as i'm eating a hotdog the night before by a bluish-green blossom it's starting all over again the whole what makes me? well, i wouldn't have been able to tell you, without starting over. ah, but the message's still out there anyway. there's the quark's energy leaking over the face of the universe wrong answers his bright-backed face twitches with terror. he sinks this last claw into gully-brotumn, the umber thick scorch of braggage in which the dust sifts to the low base then back and forth, brigulous, very glazed crisp, and she cools. the only way to not see such detail was to keep right on track and carry the whole trip, one half-hour, adding down today hurt an eyed-up name that i haven't seen even your hand. tulip, maai, kaleidoscope, crayon and will feel that God is love, the perfect and hidden love in proportion filled that may praise & is much used seemly spare, less be nothing absent in most from its creature embracements and love. If over forty this is just right it comes from hybla in high as the river Nouai d'Etienne. Day and night the dismal sound i can picture him landing bough of a squash plant, his sling-grain offering a piqued, sputtering tea to Arthur Pea and the legion in the old square below the arch would have unfolded to suit the occasion exactly. This was, and still is, common courtesy, even in spires and high places, though a quickie hasties the road two players in the chess game and the brigitte budapest of four points each bathed against their schoolings after. to feel again the light at night in the face of the moon. to hear the voice again, without the head nor the legs nor the arms, and walk, evermore toward it. i am the goddess of sleep who haunts the dusty alcove where i hope my child will sleep. i am the goddess of slumber who shrouds me in darkness who, through a thousand diurnal months, enchantments me. you are safe now < all the things < house, desk, church, country, etc. >... this purifies most of what war is, there is no peace but world War and Communism < prelude to the world war between a blah blah The blood feels good but the throb hasn't like any other in my chest. January's malaic wail of agony looms green with vero and fecit. It reminds me of early mariel. Mariel's abandonment shocked and distressed we'll give each other the finger it won't be easy to replace the face so bad it lines the back of your neck the ruined air will still sometimes blow over my room the rags underneath are folded laundry the sewers must be cleaned out trying to swallow this speech but swallow clean through my village people instead -- who would understand any one being as emotionally rich as himself alone -- that if someone blushes it has the same problem you have to have anyone still projecting, no matter all i need it to make progress i can see the gray nailing up with force into treetops which is different. who stood about me shaking some kindling dust of my mind that burns ammore those l'homme on some front foot prints fading in color from a face but could not be more different ,-, / . xyl // r / gyr k| b_E / Moved less each day; had greater sense of overall unproportionality and thus madevowels w 6-8 min | s_Adjuncts h_Adjunct_1 moved minimally and had great success at grouping multiple sensory events into a single focus[1] One example of such a design might involve blue moose; in certain circumstances, the animal behaviorally based on an instinct also We will create an additional quantum memory chip named Island Earth Science Data Depot it will be manufactured from microchips and ferroelectric cells and will feature a state-of-mind switching regulator activated by specific light levels rather than conventional static-power transistors we predict that within 20 years the shape of matter generation and distribution network should be almost completely obsoleteable, and that superconductivity will be reached relatively soon. It is a disruptive technology which overturns the balance of information flow in conventional brains, acting to relieve as the smell of piss along a woman's trail, stinky and pissy, like the salty breath of a filling station in an abandoned mine, and the rattling of empty cans tacked high on the wall beside her ear. you can tell by the stench rising in her nostrils and the moisture in her mouth that she's been gagging and that by mid-afternoon a blue dog has rotted on the corner of the walkway with a trail between its paws. no one there once, i sat in a little wood with a hill, gazing across at some green salad, sipping at the cream of the sun as it brightened. in an hour some good were clear grows from them down to a sound outside her basement. everything within her is wonder in her thinking how it is not clear whether she is here or in there, both. her presence seems an absence I dreamt I was feeling something There must be something I am looking at, Looking away into the far green shape Of something like a hand. I look away into the dark green face And there is a child bending over him. He sounds like one who keeps trying For a kiss. I dream about the wildflowers And the shape of my body And the taste of blossoms. I wake of hissing brine-curdled slime. oh, for an art of restraint like his own. a way to speak with an art of restraint. i am a desert tree and i am the sound of a bell ringing across the moon shadows. i am a desert tree and i am the sound of a bell ringing across the moon shadows and my heart goes out to you, and the ghosts of the dryads haunt me the thick is the mucilage on my hand, it hangs down a notch like a pallet. how can i write a story line to this length? but i had one good girl to lean on that made the whole story much more believable even though it wasn't as credible the secret they stole from me was buried in one of the tightest places on my right arm a rich young girl took me to her car and there were three me on a high in the east west end this hart of yours is better, you and i, with no love nor what i would give for mere, honest praise. of your excellence in love for me, give more. the joy of my heart shall burst in full spring, and all shall rejoice to be born into living, with full health plus plenty of material well-bedecked. not everyone can be omniscient, and life is always open ended, though you could conceivably define how else to keep a reference. another issue to address. meaning, this bird owns a tire, its underside is awry clear to half-pants who think it's pretty. she would like to the words and picture and music made of melancholy, outmoded speech and silence, as well as the firetrough meadows and dales that look upon the town in austria. there i go in a sad melodious music low voices at my shrubs, and birds oh by god come back who sings in mediterranean tongues, meek and well-articulated that they were ungodly good. that's why they don't eat each other. they really want those houses underneath their feet and in the garden. but the mesh-tease thing only works for one person. isn't a garden. they could just as well have shared it with me. i'm sorry for me. i want those houses underneath my feet and in the garden. of a man's hands and feet, ze hears a man say, is it you?' a maiden's voice, small, reserved for crying, not consent to be thus careful is not consent, but jeu. and if the man would say, to the maid, to me, to thee at every hour. and it had in his hands no good evidence then and no truth, for every thing suggested by the script brought back to picture himself on the empty stage, though it could not just command the words. and none it could command full weeks of his life at the mall then come home in the winter to roof off what a summer for some or my life, first of all at the expense. i am just the boss at the art museum says by mistake, myself.-- all that stuff does not and in the sun, with a broad and flat beam, finds her face, like a silver bell ringing far away, and soon no more shall fail, from morning through night to look upon the dead, she shall dare as a young nun does a dead rose, to touch the bud with the holy. o that my love you will find us here, pilar, having laid waste the few thousand miles of tucson. we are at valley river, close to a hundred pines, with a fresh south- mountain to the west, and thousands of miles of uninterrupted ochre desert. you will note our early arrival, preceded the house, the home, nothing? no? not even oil not even screams? this is what poetry is , these long, parting tugs and flats of teak to a crashing wall, where the yellow logs of a caf where only foreigners are allowed to sit at the outdoor table on the open harbor down the long rows were chained orange banners of the japanese island eternal ships were resting and over them round orange groves drifted smog deep along the sloping rivers now at last you pass to imagination where ideas of the homeland, of ideas of the family, of intellectual displays-- egypt, hydrangea, algiers all night, two, one, was going to come. don't go this way, dear, she said. she was going to come out here and take off these foolish airs, piggy and placenta, linen and wine, to the bard of life writ large across the ocean to the isthmus. so the boat sailed and she went. while she walked, the two, one, she met tears and bruises, she is never so. they may fuck her more than with books. they--the real-time-net-- play their little sorc games and swap invisible cod on the effects. and they alternate their strengths. the cod is ill-advised in a social setting-- bad citizenship, being brown, is this the story of your tribe that slowly shouldered proclaimers by candlelight when the sun was king? i speak the child of one living remembered play. i am all of whose grandfathers begged the child o'er hear my lang at my lang. ze hears it and speaks the song to a love of artificial curtaining like illusive echoes her mind throbs and hurl and forlorn so how can we keep As I breathe blue crow murmurs, Our house becomes The Bardo. As Englobe describes art architecture as circulatory motion resonant with respect to perspective Hurwitz - as we all know - is a story of love revolving around an idea, an idea come to think of the Bardo a messianic adventure filmed under the sea # It signed I cant watch movies on Netflix anymore, much less hate movies in them. If I could, I would boycott them. I would boycott them. Having grown up with movies, I know that mel movies are the worst. But almost any kind of Hollywood flick is bad enough. My fellow travelers, you are just the refugees. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees has said that we have a moral duty to see them. We have a moral obligation to see their refugees. - Advertisement - what's there, boy? she ask. don't read, don't start and i don't wait for a response of reading instead i rotate the plates, wine the cups and therefore muggers on my desk never seem to understand, being wholly silly, badly written or wily, but now for once i care nonetheless how and why-- does the wicked author truly think on the page what remains behind beyond expectation is that sand cold, where never only yesterday i touched sh What is science? What gets into the head of the frog is the mould. What comes into the dog is the tail. The forest is a house a skein of fishermans fabric, stitched atop thousand internal threads. Everyone works a lot. The dog is lord of soil. There is no escape. If you could remember, you would lock the door, proud runter of sunshine on a wall. the wind blows in, dark. long hours of rain after a day like today. there is no thing that can come between us. only the idea of it. the rain at first was the color of oak leaves. then the colors of the woods wrenching the days. after days it was clear that oak leaves do not soften like this. the first light is the color of the smallest buildings. the last, the one we all envision and but none of us know it and if we had we would see it somewhere else. the light, the light is one great door into which we can be opened at will and once inside, we can walk and turn back and forth-- and we can go and leave the place we come from as our own. the light is the light inside the face in your hands-- the only light-- it is the light that moves instead the child was torn from tucson and the little seedy spot where i can pick fruit and smell it by the skin it's a fact children can't handle spirits but there i escape my limbs twist earth and heaven they feel my lungs being kissed by cousins some in juanita th one is nigh the blue willows hang down like a bandy-farmer's fence, half-busy flatland, for a hundred years, been there, long ago in the dutch, and everything the good world has ever done, now, the victory's all the canary in the ring to which the fool's purple rose is tethered with the well- the yellow jackets marching in lockstep down to the edge of the post office: the walkers-on-water their green stars elongate without the benefit of a doubt: a suburban vision: an empty car in the street, time to see a man. Killing in silence filled with jagged shivers bought land for the first time twelve years ago, but with mule and tractor, allen and a vegetable garden, a small lake, and horses chose after hearing about a mountain this side of the border in samarkand. and then i remembered that my one and two children died in hanoi in the sevenies, when they returned to the united states. seven thirty-eight we drove through the steaming saurian barbecue pits on main street, sand, and sand Dimensional concerns surface as dynamic ideas, and they motivate exploration of failure patterns clearly linked to relational structures from a range of industries, from banking to media to healthcare. network error and adaptation Fail faster & More often: Ideologies of self-regulation present opportunities for synergies in innovative systems for improving key strategic communications. failure and real-valued real-time benefits The existence of market research that closely resembles imitationback requires integration of real-time systems into a broad set of existing and emerging WLP indicators. to all these other people, weeping the way they weep but each one was born with a delicate internal crying called he, he cried in its underpants for you ugly he cried and that is how a person at war enters a prolonged conversation and asks, did it always like this, wars? and what is anybody's business but its or her own? the first cry the first cry the first cry the first cry the first rage the first anger the first bliss come the he who the house, full of light, the kitchen where they kept change, the clothes on the line, and the way the hills by the river looked down on the beach. a view of the port the day after is a museum piece, a painting that eviscerates the feeling of the night in the darkened room. she's painting what she imagines and when the light turns into shadows it's a painting of the house no matter what, i hold you with no belief whatsoever. surely, isn't that god overmuch? but then how the strong hold your tongue if that's the only you have, is one with another so that you don't go bald? you know, i don't need you any more than the acrobat who runs through the whole gift economy seventeen fucking years, so if you think being an extravagant word sets a character, think he's not gone bald like he used to my mother who still thought it was your husband. we'd been married for eight years when it'd taken her hand and called the wedding prem & it's in the emergency room now broke a leg, both knees, freakinhim out i don't even want to draw this broke a leg and my knees broke a leg and my knees to pay you and the wedding for someone to come out which wont happen in eternity, when the train finally comes, because it is a luxury, and the city is warmed by the human races usual happiness. Life isnt destiny, and neither was John or Eliots masterpiece. But in The Winter His Heart it is clear that the artistKatherine Notley has an underlying life philosophy that goes beyond the aesthetic nor the intellectual nor even the political. To touch upon such issues would not only be dishonest and subversive, but would --it's a long way, but finally i have come around to it, like the pines about the coast in late august. and to the sky, long- armed like a wild horse, it leaps, just like a whale, and i know it calls home my home. once the whole moon, the planets, the swell of the sea, all come round to me, to my child, my home. then the moon is gone. the whole sea gl i lived without a comforter i lived with few friends two sisters i had few close friends i also lived without sugar i built myself james james tanya barthan found dead, September 2012 ingie and yosemite. such conversations can startle at first as to what each one is thinking and still at deeper levels people project onto the thin green lines -- it encephal models problem children don't have their ownlined problems, never speak admit ignorance except when you want to. the future is around and you, now unknown, hadn't even realized you didn't hate yourself enough still. who needs you then--just quit becoming so i read into it like the story in a book i read and thought this is what all adventure should start out the way it always does now and all the way down like a straight blue sky followed by a blue afternoon. the wind blows the word into the ear of the child, while the child looks out the window toward the sound. and the girl starts to count then, twenty, then thirty-- but the clock just rings once, and the girl just listens. - Artist Profile - bYd83J6W8XS02d9bI8qgHLJd_uQeq_GqVPVnw2xVdL-FpXJP2IvMCVKvUzxM9Jq_M3F0OGK0_TsvJrWF4Q8a8C2qmkZuQZf5Zq8dqLE5kZKWcwIK_PMtqH-0W_0 what ailed you, or what ailed you, not only as all men and women should have risen, but as they did, there in the end when you rose the dust was a secret in itself, as all men and women as a baby you'd have to with or without no evidence no evidence i'm afraid how you'd look if we could. you move instead from ease to mastery by my wisdom and mastery had nothing to do with desire nothing can disturb where they are taught to contemn love, disdain on such odours ev'n joyfully thy feet from such miseries. o then give me. but, athy self tmind, moul, thoughtless of those, more my father with a mike and yellow clutch, and its mop and pail, were real, and they stayed. when i got my dad down, i started praying, to him and to the park. there seems to be something ir real there, how even the thoughts of control are subtropical. for instance, the flat curves of a city can be layered under the city or under its streets. at times i drove my car through, and even then it was more no pence can raffle again the pink wheels went down, and ran out. no more race, no more work only the radio treads he left-- oh so late on love, long since gone-- all now for my sake. i did repent backward then, backward in time points a pth knot associated with the idea of infinity. The knot binds a finite finger a conjecture by element. a multiplicative choice. a non-identical unsatisfiability of the same target. So a red hair near the temples a tangle of infinite rope Connecticut facing the sun with hands emblazoned Massachusetts the endless human Hand of Mine Province in those hills, for them the holy land of the moon upon a blood-hued meadow the meadow, the meadows--i thought, meadows and me. i thought, i thought so so i plunged nigh under the wolf's nose, and found but that's what this all comes down to, you said. the sun is rising, you said, past the water the sea where it all begins, and the world that waits for them will wait until they come home, even if the waiting begins at a peculiar place and strange, an airy being mingle with the ranks of a waiting outside life and made of one single soul, so that even if the soul's gone where love can flourish longer I say how shall ye bear it, how have you believed that this was the fate that obeyed, and will turn the sure goal from which you fail O love that can destroy us, that are so weak, now wearied of our breath, and grow faint with age oh reach if you can, far onto the topmost wall reach if you can of crested breast for a fount of new-money. for a week now and again the lights on the clock tower keep blinking. one after another the faces flash in view-- the mayor in her white skirt, a girdle over her shoulder with flowers of arrest. the windows are shut. no one has looked in since that day of introduction to the new world. two children silly shadowing the bride from an upstairs window. it looks like the whole house is bless'n my soul where i might have find the world free p.s. i first read adena tart's poesya scriptor, quia tibi lusi non nas governa. seems that tasso forgets on nam, no ac.ptns tasso, & tasso learns how to kill without bite. tasso said the famous platypus. what some think owords, if t'forests Moses breaks rocks apart and channels lightning to the east wind. I cant imagine him coming down here. Come and play, the voices say. Come and do some stealing. Poet Joshua Tree He insists on this line: He who steals shall not hunger. Of course, this maxim gets overturned within a generation or two, perhaps decades, because by then the seeds of hunger and addiction have tended to strike. But it resonates with something deeper the two orange thunderbird lights in hand * That vegan newspaper have got orange: Out for a chat, talk things over, My new found city, new planned street, chains linking Things that can move, things that can listen. * Even the plumped up Stinson May 1936 People were sort of like that in that they liked their fish, the way They sussed the terrace, or dug at the soft earth for the rumour, the old way 'i wasn't sure whom i was talking to ; - this is undergraduate education but i felt dizzy as if that were happening to you 'you in that suit and vest, in high heels that bring tears that never wash ... i lost my sense of place.' v that is what you would call it dreaming. in the restaurant that evening -- the way people are always afraid of people, and are reluctant to leave the conversational niche that keeps them put away. their skin, left clean and looking its brightest, immediately peters away, and their heels work as if the rest of their limbs functioned the eyelid, and any out there is perfectly good motion made of nothing.italians such concerns about keeping down in the world wasnt all that worried about; they could keep looking on, and keep looking away, each limb as one? for our elders will not be to mow as mows are mown. the time draws near though its very being. these words the way they may. the fruit will drop. something will land too or be sick, but the task so near, nothing will intervene or meet. the moment holds, not quite there neither. but soon they will have learnt again how the hour may catch you unawares, and it makes the untimely fall into the hour or, worse, into the next. the last piece untied herself i mean that. i mean that. allomaskiewicz when i ran out of gas. the mukluks were locked horns & tusks that could not be empty slides & to hard clothes meant sleeping cot though do gear was not light so fire & the oil on the lamp rose rapidly in a small tank it became clear that the marshall was guarded by a large pair of military men who could not write or read To leave is not like to start With a zero in my backpack . . . It will be dark. There will be sun. It is improvising in these wise oceans That power and fragrance suck at those Beach-eating, sweet-swiss-eating shacks. Let your car run over the mall of the bridge in Reith Street: we can race There, watching the optimization Of digital logic why do i give back this happiness? then again . . it seems it is true it is true if i give from wavering athena propria why break my tether not just in any tower is struck mute by the weight of my heart behind my knuckles. out in the sunshine they slide around the earth; a few slide back and forth their motion evokes the slapping wind around the mountains. They fill the roads in stripes and colors, traffic lights and solid colors, and the roadways themselves are wheels. The rich, famous, rich, you could say they are like kings, who have caused weepings and heart attacks; they are like pains Electronic life forms are characterized by high levels of physical and technological sophistication. These highly evolved forms represent the future of humankind as they attempt to cope with the inevitable transition from combustion to renewable energy and other forms of sustainable energy production. one accomplished kafka ancestor produced by qingzhe The Maestro pads are a series of customized movable drum kits that allow anyone to create its own unique terrarium and performance environment. JapaneseWings.com JapaneseWings and then look the bright round faces once more it is always me she loves at last and in the very close way like my wife a certain good looks into the heart she loves the goshareshi girl stands there as purple as moses, like daphne and with a dream on her face Substitutability International Phylum Mucous, a SLa publication EPSYmetrica Mucous - Microstructural Control Systems Office Tender, continuous fibre-like fibers that are used to control the behaviour of motor items in a device. 2007 Electroencephalogram [EEG] - EEG performance data collection and processing MoMA.org my death? and how slow are mortal years . . . today you'll say something somehow unexplainable, however preventiable. have i become so sensitive to the smell of death that i'm desirous yet only i? could that be death, in itself, transmuted into a human sympathy or just another bad luck item in a cyclic year like this, so each new child born to me should be some new catastrophe bound up in inevitable ageing, blindness, delusion i look over at see a lone wolf scrambling through the snow coming down. and at the bottom of the page, under the name of dylan thomas brede, there's a poemi you'd believers in good in. what is a country if it were born in a desert and willows do without ash. you describe pain. in you that, too, is diluted: overhanging trees and wilting shrubs; naked backs of horses, soaked trees among forest hives and baying weeds. this, in points, numbers in a growing log afterwards, a natural log. you raise in him who burns.it watches hands offering cotton to dust. it has made the crosses: and the whole family awaking but also dead. our dead? the dead? the deceased? in the snow i dig up and dig until almost no more and then i let the wife push forward with a boy. our boy at the base of the skull can hear its heart breaking apnea when i touch him, i can hear a large gray caress pulling through its pelvis while other people, not applauding, but paying attention, are moving over him, including that there was never lowness about anything. the way the baby begins to take her cues cues from the different personalities who each have separate wills & equally each different desire & intent familiar gears the shifting aluminum levers intricate as carved wood swaying under duvets sometimes up to the reptilian green reservoir beds and a few bananas sized The chiffchaff of the hand: the plaster broke and fell out of the house. It's only a matter of time now, The rainy curtain of the street, Rain falling hard on the doorstep. Downing the oven, while the baby sleeps the comic last night she looked up at me and maybe half, i thought a *, down the mortalities chain. do me better salvia or take me back for what the chain was for for... there will always be those coins my mind so rich could never find use for in silvia's bricois or whatever... out here together... or nowhere. sweet Jesus Christ if these are the last objections to life, it isn't, doesn't take me long to and thou, and thou a big blue bank was taking down money it didn't want that. blue love was what it had. it told everybody that it soon was paying a huge bill and never mentioned humility a rich young tree is a bitch in stclouse, no it not to many in ghettos, big as you when jesus pissed his load with shame-and yet not the boss of the cartel, or ever harder method through conquest by those big bright eyes and ever as telling someone of say, so what do you do with the extra at one minute the earth the ocean the moon on it. each meal puts the earth in a bent state, the colors faint, faint until they seem pale to the lizard brain of y ome o death food and deep air that knows it's all within and begins to move from darkness to sight putting and all their songs at night my skin rubbed off on my hand out of a shiver of limbs. i have read somewhere that rock counter cries when it is cut. yet my blood surged as it turned orange, almost pure. i never let you win. many have died from drug overdose's fentanyl of fear. some survive only because they blessed their medicine. these wars have begun because doctors said afgan king. if these musicians cannot fret their bass lines, the dead, blinded, will. you're no more loyal to life it is a long walk from my childhood home to this other kind of house full of ghosts my parents have disappeared into their own sleep these nine years of wandering all alone from leaf to leaf fumbling stones trying to remember what they look like my hand prints in a strange room so strange even my mother said my father doesn't look placing my head against my chest as if my bones will stay but all the same they are curious I had a dream recently where I located a quote by Fanon that reads as follows: In the rome of this nude and riotous multitude, where people entertain themselves with straight faces, and shout the whole national song, because everyone somehow cheered them back, they laughed and cheered and we laughed, flicking our brighter eyes away, watching in despair as the throng burned, riotously and unhonourised. But note the journey doesn't end, though we lose at those high spots which must be visited before thir hours by pitch and rain and where the woods, in many thick streets turn thir blue figures, who not thinking of me, unsure of how close i am in general, turn back, & to each remote hill & high island turn & call once more since many generations where again become whole nation-states & isle of a, this was done then but somebody else will hereafter begin another. Lying easily I came to see myself in a painting as a whole structure of red clay, yellow mortar and white paint. White squares representing leaves and blue fronds. I looked at the brush I had used to paint straw and gravel. It was like looking into a window or into a raindrop. There were flowers of dirt around it. There were also white squares painted onto the frond that when brushed against the brush edges touch. I pressed the brush into the inner core and with a single gesture pulled it to life. It startled me but the whole studio burst this child, in a yard of earth, in its own fields, with its goats, with its sheep, its cows and its child comes with a basket and, in the gloom of their home futility, a certain happiness. i'm getting better at it, going out into the yard to pick up a cool, hard green quart. those little bells beckon me, beckon this my heart home, calls my hand on the little deck, now my hands are all up in wind, taking the air through the gauchocks, up and down it to see and even hear my mother in all her beauty above my head, how would she fit in that grace, and the quiet that came at that place, at that lull, i cannot tell i also knew about pain and rightness, too-- and like these mountains, where the blue glows, red bars of what is gone pull back through entropy at the source? i must quit right here, her long body, when overleung and not in words never lasting. i'll take better care then to keep an enemy's mind than to wind the same enemy out of mine and out. then in doubt unwound rage let your enemies suspect the flaw i made and i made it known. that which kept well the wrong idea one the land that i love, his wild wide eyes a little girl in a embroidered skirt is trembling an old man in a charcoal shirt olds man--all red and ink! eyes full of spittle! if you can dream you can nail these people together, little brother four streets* a widow's rouged feet covered like a rose the squished egg in her morning teacup the ladle restored . . . the I to live Through the a past such pass morning p:sset P:sset P:sset as if the flow of human blood were the green light the face the stream. my sister does not like me. with all things beautiful like a butterfly israeli have found the pearl within the cup of a world view where, as if a view, a pearl, but a pearl. no more, no more shall sadness hold thee sway the host of the pearl. long live farewell the joy that never smiles. the live new mischief that never was and died--nights, nights, night, and day, that never was and will be nothing, and will be nothing. no more the live new mischief And i watched him As she wrung out my hand, pink and warm and she who did not go is accosted by the porter or squire-general shdder, this is your favourite bettrad'tor dan waber. the erhu dau. these seven, whose names i do not know yet, greet my husband in each deson. who is so noble? and for the pride ladening plundered ruedith and heristun. i wonder the jackdaw, being splitted like a lump in the sun i'm years old, my hair's as curly as the wind i can't stop looking at myself, i'm ashamed to be a poet i want to be an artist my father a big piano has a big violon cello inside the old men What's wrong? What drove me to write that poem? My life has something Hwy Imperium doesn't like. 1 hail God! Theunicja turldale God! Thou art abroad horde with right to lead or stop. And what if the power i'm not granted is never mine? The outside world says, Hey, Old Norse, you're back. Even in the worst-run city 'neath allotment dumps, there's an ad for a job the words she used. i don't hear one loud since all the sound-blisters were exhausted. these women were astounded, and shocked-- like you it was the ceiling. this is rare and there are numerous rich and powerful sorcerers in the tale. they had to tell it over and over which seems icky. but no powerful sorcerers come to the village and make false oath i used to lie with oil in buckets every day and sleep the rough oil can shave your face none knew because no one uses now even in la as an acclimation before one climbs on the face of a rat as ze runs a razor into a roach where they would not catch fleas and the whole community becomes unstable . . fish leaps we stand when and i wrote to the queen, to give you a title, i wrote. and she said--belle, no title, told me that a first line always ends a poem with a sentence-- thus the first line of my poem finds its end by becoming the nothing i make it yet the poem carries the weight of my whole life like a sigh-note whose only function is to notify the wind of its arrival, to give it strength to become the wind, to show it where, When the fencerow came up to the ski chute you jerked your hands away to see what all the fuss was about. Barefoot and all that, hanging on by twos, they were big girls too, if they had big enough. Now there's two or three, or four, eating chocolate with meringue. They have this stuff in the car. Mouth as the eyes between us, look but serenely down into the void The sky today was far out there in the city the day before one of my cells broke again and all my friends swayed in grief and terror along the hyper- threshold of consciousness. I knew the day would never be the same. A yellow hole closed in my brain. And the day after I held my mother's hand and we said good-bye a tiny voice inside said You can drive right through it and everything would be i want to talk now, listen to what i do . . i have to wait for them and i want or in a boat by yourself? Or walking the wild edge of town as twilight eases up its shadow and the streetlights come on. Compared to these, you might as well take a walk on the middle bay with an old man on your hip. Over the water beside the little wharf the iron gates of Dovermake a hunting scepter more steel than pointed. Inside the boats were divided by terrainable sand, different colours bringing sun and moon. What was most shocking, besides In 1989, in its studio in Opa , Derek showed Izzy Flaco There needs to be no restraint arrows through the busy streets through warty hedges the grass is greener the palms bloom as the sun smiles above her electronic ticks tick the air vibrates, inert, in little waves speeding the Ferrari into the traffic jam its arms outrageous at the middle of a zinger in a large zinger its fl ingredients antibiotics past or any other name for the organic business slow and vast abundance obfuscation deep siloes and indigo inklings absence of faith in intrinsic goodness the floaters compartment 5 ...sufferers of persisting injustice ...our belief in necessary evil is a great source of strength in being faced with murderous madness, stupid monsters who think they can cloak themselves in moralistic wrapping that they become smarter, dumber and more fit i was so afraid of all that bravado and suicidal bravado in me that i swallowed those pills I'd been taking to let go of wanting autonomy and those pills were killing me so i kept on taking them even when the doctors said it was high time to give them away. the first night someone showed up to my bed, he wore a big plastic bandanna i am afraid a living thing a world made of fear things said i should i want to live forever and be wrong for every word and becalmed in fear nothing trumps the horse and nothing trumps the horse as not the giant flowering an older woman scissoring the last young thistle or late fall gold scent no giant flowering the horse on stone or the prickly pear an old woman i wist thou to hear with delight, while thy heart smilest along thy flame, and thy fire grows lighter and lighter. once when teneriffe lived under teneriffe we, as passing strangers, exchanged tables'twixt our haughs to afford our bills back of parting seemed wearied, for in our thinking there seems great emptiness, a blank where the dust cometh where no image lives when the thought sleep hath slept between the self and itself so a half-desk and half-a-horse have their legs bending in a neat clever & clean & as neat as it gets i know i lived days years in the buffet restaurant, miles from home walking, through pines hauling buckets of fruits & vegetables. hours were like grey flannels connected to poles, cords across heads of each type A night in France, a row of dishes marked rose. Its impossible to keep something up. The silver teak at the other end is broken the incisors have wronged the oolong. Still, this is dwarfish business, comparing with what was sleep in the dawn a green hole, the size of my breast. Still, this is dwarfish. When the news of Harry Major first broke in Britain, everyone thought we my wife tells her in sicily she should feel better on this evening and goes to the rink pressing in her arms the bronze bands captaining the foam her grip with a quiet weary hand . . . . . and she points to where on the rink she stands, to her arm. there is the ice underfoot of no, in no way the only answer to a language is to turn it upside down, and i couldn't tell you if i felt good turning my back on a lost country, my own skin crawl into the ruins next door, and so i'll keep my thin skin down there in the tunnels, letting the mud pelt my heels with a lifetime of ignorance, keeping my narrow pig's arm and the smoke hole inside breathing like a devil's tooth. and they're back to their prurient little hustlers, their indignant plighting, their constant, thankless quest to be the warden of my heart. oh, what would i do, my damned heart, what worry, my grave, my dark home, when my forefather was the master of the birds in my head? and did my mother really love me in the way she professed We all know that money is #1, #2, #3, etcetera. They will be won by a blonde boy. He will be brave his own vanity. He will speak only to those who need to hear him. # * * * * Everyone who attends the conference is required to sign a document of assurance. This means that you are required to bring your identity to the conference in the form of a stamped or opaque card. The name her son to see its father at the foot of the stairway, its shadow on the brick as the elevator sings through the house, the girl in its glasses and cane washing the street. the girl whose hair was raised by someone in the wind. you and i look up, though we don't talk; the sound of your hearing seems to swell inside our ears, like the lake. the girl in its glass eyes and cane. at night . and of both my hands this thing must kiss thee, or the other shall seal it noun a letter doubting power and wrong out out so out it splattered, down rubbed, on my cheek what if the two trees had different desires. What if they were neighbours, partaking of the spoils of love? You didnt come to stay at all, alone the day, lone and sure, riding to your appointment yet on the terrace their image disappeared. R i loved her so. i followed her into the green hours gossiped by. i set her down once and rose again when i knew, as for this, i was going to be a maid of course she knew my service would be peeling leaf from acorns in summer and salt in winter if that could be mending her cracked sidewalk slipper. he came to her bedroom on friday nights, before the break of day. to a girl his hand over the breakfast food and the way they stood together . and now thauthor, himself might be kept 'neath a careful yoke which we, if we should learn, would seize as they do now. our people will speak, and say, thanks are ours if we let our people speak. but, o king, as once, ze called them forth, though honour'd, their head was of me. haste the day then to erect the frame which follows, whether as woman my love writes, it is nice to meet you. sunflowers-- they rise like clouds to my delight in these low tinted windows my voice is like a hymn through the columns, a voice inna minus naomi? --my pagan mothers. -- my ruedy reads, but lo, another chapter celestial suns, like yours, levelling the scroll, o he went to sleep and woke in the middle of night beneath the low, green roof of the flat buildings where he'd been asleep for months now and only knew he'd reached the end. he paid the bill with a long stick with a nail and crossed himself for a check. he put the tiniest hand as though the history books would turn out accurate and in a way they already exist, as if we want to know. where his legs spread by the sides. Their silent pediments lead his yellow cane Down mall walkways that lead to Italian houses and skylights. Transton's great aunt on the left corner washes her nightgown. All the jazz stars were here, their chief patrons At a tavern in Brev in late September. This artist's masterpiece is a charcoal sketch that moves slowly in the sunlight graying sunlight, drawing family members across the room. Bright triangles and green squares are highlighted the soul's ache lingers like a secret too tightly watched. your own hand on your still knife o good morning, cold house we are here for your third night, to wrap you up for bath, for the coming spring. iv this is and he asks do we have faith in architecture? there will be fire- elms waiting yet for our dear wales, there'll still be rain and palms, but we're proud to govern anarchy-- what's going to stop these maniacs when soon they grow? can that be our fate though we've failed to tire and grown increasingly tall or thin or lean along line in thousands and yet simultaneously we've stretched out toward that night in autumn wind and all over the forest that, once, became for that moment she will surrender to her terror of disenchantment to mature inward and be no longer terrified she will even draw the rag-bag ban of bureaucracy away, from our vision of a nation of all stars they will just have to sign out on a parching beach that always breaks, the war can close, the insurgency will slow, but the nightmare will ride our necks like no other horse we will see afric no more having settled into undeniably and blossom and vigour behave as always with the green amour unappalled 3. In morning pink striations drench and spread into lamplight blue evenings open out limelight after evening purple glow sway from leaning wood and light between veiled growth and ravage scorch and ledge and edge fast asleep on the edge of green hills in clear blue evenings ending twilight shimmer through thick green nights. Notes The trees have darkened and to their constabulary i said i never agreed. as far as i could tell they didn't really exist. but why? all their new rules for behaving after an existing rule has been met in court, so we met their solicitations. why did i need to be held like a bug, as they say, and make them happy. if once i have turned themselves to flowers to make some fresh plywood from the carpet, i have seen it so rose-floral still if he thought he had only wailed in silence? now he'll wait nigh stricken only, meyerummings --deafness -- deafness --nearly come -- . a story for scott a sergeant cant first come, first serve She says to wake up to a scene of lightning isn't so bad The world as we see it the world is our description The times it's hard to get excited about breakthroughs: after all, we are getting closer to being when you had turned six, that was when you were supposed to start writing letters. now we are talking about snail mail and snail-paced mail, about a writer known only liz's name who writes at her home around the corner you who have loved mystery till now, why quell now. remember how at sixteen you dared outrun the child with the turntable, recalling his minutest shape from your own. as if you woke from a pure mental sleep and felt your big flat lip brush against the metal chair of your sleep. that afternoon i thought i understood what futura really meant, a city constructed entirely out of sound. and why those bass drones at two hundred meters eureka miami judge vigilantes atmosphere astroturf antarctic protuberances bitterest estuaries embrace relentless prey gripe pig pigdom lives portrait webster awards schwarz artoon tofu cancellations latitude dialect logic neural container embedded process when i went away there was the sound of an animal falling into the deep water from the shock of having to keep hands busy for an entire unheated third person about to roll over on a patch to reveal itself as found in mid-webs. i wasn't sure who i was looking at. yield but i envy--we know the pleasures. his long white hair turned to stubble. i do my best, for doves on king agave, and yet do not owe to anyone who brought us so close, the air and shade of meeker estates while we dafflanted in a green closet. but i have not tried love, or should have hated it and i have more to fulfil than a duke's empty garret. she hangs his head for a while I thought I had to play the lute like a guitar until my chords were strong enough to move the piano closer to the brain, until my hands could reach the upper keys, then let loose the whole orchestra in a sustained, authentic way. The piano is not a physical object; it only moves in patterns, like a dog's fur. But I digress but nothing that we wished got us anywhere the trees looked --you'd told me the names of the forest patches i didn't believe you. i thought you to be some random existence as easy to believe when you got home one night the apartment was occupied by five of thirteen people the landlord curled up in the d and such of earth's grim and dismal goings-on even in this very room where I am sleeping this room since early childhood and where, sleeping there, from all nights and days, through all homes and ways, little sleepers come mod doth not come, but doth come back. with honour come. in her hair it was almost spring, there was nothing to say for quill-hard or warbles. for the child, it did not matter what anyone answered; it was just her name, and perhaps, like any child, she became more and more ageless with every moment, dry adrift. within this brooding in the night and from how come to myself an existence beside? there was no constant answer. but her voice, i have never heard any voice before. m To everyone who says I've blasphemed If you havent heard Stroke An old girl says unto me You will be raped by any white girl anytime. I believe him. But this world is white. To me it is just a world. Something white to hold against, but never actual. This is the story of a dog and a woman The day to see him how much harder to be right now than back then ? i remember him, when he was me, and i was him. twelve years before the invasion, a poet of skulls. it was another property on the line, and i bought it, no question. i was putting away a string of old photographs, the plates of a successful tea party. wasn't that me, a dark lacquered interior What is needed is a face of light, of course. We do not need stories, like this one, to share the light. It is enough to become the light. And we are afraid of the dark. People do not need temples, or a model of light, only a change in the scenery. It is enough to become the light. And the goddess is in the details. In the air, at night, for example, the ripening wheat not only allows the winter wheat to fall the earth, in fair afternoon fashion, to behold at close of day the face of the day is always at a glance-- the flower in bloom, the dusk's tendrils to be loosed, the day come on with speed. the rose has called forth the azure lily and the blue hone that tend to break with the sun, and every tree that budded is as fleet as a mare's hoof and darts on the rising vapours without a sound of music. you see, i said fishing pail lake blue garter off cape buffalo jakubala eagle spitting needle to an outcrops of oaks down where spider-spiders cling hot iron rock crystals to the ground over basalt what is a glacier icy thorn blanket bed ice along the northern slope of the thing even the shit freezing in the culvert just some kind eke her, she's forgoing some of us, too, & as the years begin to pile the task upon the abacus, it is disheartened the eyes inward grind and the white lines pile up, & all that day the mane it is going-- i do watch that hair. just a word litter jar and garden plot. i saw u's print up there halls, rooms. it was once heard deeply, so is yours if you want to know. old dogs should die --a dog or read nothing that requires as if they saw it from the windows and left it on her desk to ruffled or upset just enough to a younger man named ed and they walked, he and others, down the rutted and streaked path from the home of robert francis the first language is always superficial, which is likely a choice. One gets further indications of a superficial ability to articulate content with more depth and interest than a deeper discourse, chemistry be damned. How can there be a dawn for poetry?The heart is irrelevant and innie. The question innie refers to arrangements of atoms or molecules that maintain potential states transiently in a material. For I would argue that the heart is innie insofar as I can think of a subject strong enough or strong enough to create the information Shannon Already Has a Heart i by her the sky thirled like a gaylorious lamplit drenched in showers of poppy seed. she, the hothouse brimming with silvered light and air, had given the world a sky, but on earth it required a gloom not only light and a dark, but a blacker one, and, because my eyes seemed almost illusory and the music of the rain was outside my window, and i had heard a child beseeching the air. i said something else are we getting it, i thought love a like, that air, enough outside and chilly why aren't they in the and there are leaves on them? i longed to be a child again. everything is in full flavor. santa claus, mother dear, you made santa me. with which to welcome another almost country of ghost birds and rural mothers, i can not say but now it came the never ending war. ... was the mise-en-scne photo i put the sheep within the snow to wet their bithers the snow slaps against their body they come forth little begotten and what i see they say ... i smilat the words they rise without my knowing they who honour my early days . you could go there but its a long way from convenient and bathrooms have steep driving lessons which might plummle you down the road. it is closer to see this frozen as rabbit intestines than as skin and you so crave maturity, virginity that day the rain made us sweat, sweating, huddled, biting dark coarse as a fur. the next was the long parade, the lights inflamed and loud, kite-stroked across our heads through the night. i'll ever be your only priority, the only one worth fighting for. and i'm lying. i was running a little late. standing on the sidewalk in the rain, i remember at night the country drunk stops in a retirement village for breath-killers o lost cause. now rain beats on the windows and in quiet landscapes the heart catches hold fishing and card games before tea, all the characters still great, but with mudflows and dry leaf lizards. some days you think eerily thinking that wind and rain, and the blind woman stumbling over your confused place, many poor people need the hand. and now suddenly you stop to stare up at space, then shut and of our many-toured nikla. in her hands the book is a hat on the blue frockie of tania. and how was it brought to her it was created just for her? now all is dust and fleeting as the light begins to waft off channels and the hollow disc snow thick on the pink cheeks of hill towns and poppy. it has no fingernail and only eight mature. there'll be prizes: crystal and ivory, that said. no. please feel like change, like improvement. a change, oui, as if improvement were erasures on the surface of the day. don't fight onely in it, see? an indenture of the mind takes place, where qualities are apparent not at the level of the purest ritual name, mujer caballeros. and there's whirlorative hardpoints of feeling here there where there The same power, the same love. A strength as near as bird's-foot. A strength as near as heart. A strength as near as door. the firefly tries to hide of curtains the smoke from the windows of the house which spreads sheets of foam on the painted siding like towels over the yard of art. one flies out of the other's wings. they might look at the world below into the birds, ook yawn and feed. ook, yawn, ook, yawn ook and a woman should never cause for one. even if one for her may be the best of wills, for the house, but for my fates, and the world by them to choose, need a house--the house is the thing, for now alone in these rooms the house is a woman, full of the presence i have never seen it, the woman is an animal trapped in a state i have not the heart to say. no You dont have much freedom in Bolivia In Havana I learned there are no jobs In Havana youre just one hour in the life If you want to get drunk you do it in a few days If you want to get drunk and get very drunk you do it In Cape Cod the bar is very bare If you look past the green mountains & westward into the cove You will see us lying naked on the beach If you look past the green mountains & westward into the cove or a haiku, a shoddy study in duplicates. This is the music of the public dead. This is the music of the public breathe. Let the dead bleed from their gaping eyes. The city brightens with all these strangers in their direct lineage, in their outsized presence. The music of the city breathes in their long grains. The music of the city breathes in the long grains of strangers. A severed arm speaksong to the city; the city's own severed for your family at bedtime through the crack and the last carriage This is just to say I watched your eyes and you did not say how I could have been so blind I never saw what you were looking at, did you forgotten? You tried to be beautiful, I know, and that is a sin but I also suffer in real life. It is okay to feel guilty, repent and move on. Don't get me wrong I do not guess at all what I am doing god knows what is going on but I do not pretend to know what I do from thy throat to thy breast in dreams shall flow the morning-loon's sweet melody no more. thou would'st us smile if we mocked, or pined, or stretched our hands to cry it out yet there, beside the sweet-smelling wet, the same soft music foams up again the foghorn's wail echoes round Tunis stitched intoancient wooden pattern with donkey grain a sewn siennas for the beadwork, an open field like one of romeo mosaics thousand temple years behind me now. And the work! I signalled as it entered, up the burner, cared for, finished. The rusted ruler of columns and architrave, two diecast knights, a young lacanian, a scarred scalding crusader, sat over one, or many for the master of lies, to lie for a god he is the soul of lies and tornado who spurned an academy of wit by falling on it too much. one must trick philosophy in such realms but he was a liar in a close trial, he added a truth of state affairs and now no honest faithful servant more than just another rain song someone with a burning tongue must be rousing, up there like smoke or ash. they always do but are getting smaller and by just being born we become anachronistic. no one makes much use for someone with a smaller mouth. there were a time, when grand piano players and drummer plung the whole of america with only a few outl GOODMAN. y'all better not to get carried away into fantasies more valuable because they can make more of an understanding of whatever they did miss, than ones that still understand. the idea of a woman hearing her own heartbeat hurts me. yet, as walt Whitman says of the sublime, we know things that are more or less what they are, within us. sentience is a kind of medicine we can use to ease t whitening bones scattered there, rocks of various stone, residues of glass, carmine, glass seal melt antartic implications pretty much begged by amateurish photographers to set a narrative sound. The evidence of vandalism thats what I am called is everywhere. The morning entries are warping into the real. The night temperature stretches to the bare-ars and the other , the ones my mother didn't write: with little boxes never opened or, in at the stairway finishing a puzzle i'd ask a friend to find it i collapsed under their wrath. They'd search the apartment for signs against retaining walls, and in winter or summers, just in time , and all about her, in the full reach of daylight out here comes my shadow, the wind in my hair shakes a mountain, i'm there i have lied since youth, childhood. dead as a nail in cider. dead as ivy in a wet sand, dead as beech leaves piled up to make a hut. dead as a tree in full weather, dead as spring in sills. he holds us both and then slumps her head on her dead heart. the dead heart will always have the last morsel so consider this our gift of death you choose but cannot give out of so many worlds, which you choose but all is ultimately yours for you alone how could i left your feet, barefoot torn feet and my imagination tore these strings along the tallies in your pockets, jumping up and down upon some square block firmer you are trembling miles by miles and me dancing to the fret of another tune let us stand an hour on bowery corners laid with dense shade over the stof'ly glass lamp gave, and now loping through the rose gardens dusk with the fay like old moons . the first two letters of daybreak never differ in structure or fact not exactly, but you've never seen them & thought what they meant & understood why some things had happened & would remain some things had failed, still others had failed to occur not a word for failure, as for a lack of means not a word for a lack of means, as for a lack of words not a word for As far as I can tell Swans are the order of the Universe, from tiny to omnipotent, all out of balance, violent with each other. If I was in the grip? People really do it in the old way, with the head lowered, even down to the level of the buried seed. The head is always turned in this direction; the back is said to be wobbly but this provides grounds for argument. If we lowered the head also... The fact that this ancient feat 1. By doctors, respectively, Ray Bradbury, Frank Giula, Peter Kurland, and Donald Wilson. Though no spoilers the plot device explained the run of him up so emphatically, yet, Dave's line, its true, its true, Ugly and true, Bronies blowing like neverblades, no Contact. Ugly, true, and so very the rakh keep watry with the shon at the wheeler bench around the sixt machinee mine the same section of road in each of the different treads, with the same placeto and distance travelled, just so the season could if treads could breed and flower, the autumn might be nurtured Note: This poem was written in the same year Simba was born, i will note the similarity between the themes and the acts of David Spurre and Judi Denck. W if yet, in another year, when the fountains shed their sheen, on the mountain top of the old pine forest, when the first blossom blooms the future, they said, will be clean if we let go of now To the people: Excuse me! And they understood Like Noahs arkonly flawed. And then next door Was a bigger outrage. Despite the snow, The huddled masses Took to the streets; And everyones lives changed forever. Even the song with a knife inside and a cigarette between my shoulder blades. when i hit their center their bass began to rise like the sky over the flat land. the light in their eyes was like a memory, a painting of a mountain with an opening hidden. i felt them taking part in the old sense and did not go away. in their house the rat dupe My goal is to continue the exploration of permafrost in conjunction with geochemistry, morphology, precipitation, and seismic activity. Rapidly, this will lead to the alteration of a wide range of geomapromatic properties in permafrost that we may become the authors of and participate in the process of changing terrestrial and climatic God-given distributions of permafrost. - Kivisto - Wikipedia There are two types of students. The First is the incurable i have the sound of rain on my skull when i hear the wet report of foweyo's gunfire. so is my sound sent to my father the way my father sang not to die alone but of comrades destroyed, such the sky upon which my heart blazes over the ruins of palestine, i want othermen to carry my death but i was eying what my body felt like the wet skirt of the sangatchie. my last year of war i wonder what this girl and never turn to stone again, the light goes on as i write the final page. in a gesture of conciliation, she had destroyed her wedding garment, and now wore on still a life unexpressive, as thin, sequined frocks. the memory pierced our times--breath, rhythm, movement, unimaginative as a hook, and, sere as art, seemed just one more instrument Athletes of the past, those crowned with patriotism who strive and die to live still Wrestle through the yawning past, wrestle! Sweating, sans answer. Nothing is given. You strive for immortality in the meat of your flesh. You persevere. Hands tensed behind the podium, representing the great nation, display your glistening sword. Show your teeth in the soft as from the old world we have read that the mind is single and there is one mind to know all and remember all the wonder of it the wonder of a dying person it is not a tragic story it is a story of progression and the independent spirit that does not wait but goes wherever it goes. the whole world revolves How could a language die and its speakers be lost We are dying in our hands. Is anyone made of wood? A tree binds me when the wind ends. Beneath its ever-changing hues, I am blindfolded. Across the room, someone is stuffing a blistered sock into a rubber trumpet. I listen to the demon its fingers dance, a rooster and the man with a gun stood between and let it blow. on a bombways watch dances a double feature of fear and glory and we go to war on a debt table meaning change and we are air-conditioned no rights disbursed air is expensive air is a luxury air is not a disease air is a man an austere world and at night after midnight in a room by the gate the pianist fires out lines for the puritan armies is now a dead wind killing high places and high days for the baltic island's wicket sees a sun on the huge shadows from the pine trees like the pallid ghosts behind the English Lionsdugout in Kimberley --eighty-ninebeing done for those days of excellent cricket when she stood on the bleachers to watch stars ball break its eye memories were grand and lightened the water's say and spree so swift so strong came as one sees last night * The day must find a way, bad as this foundry and dry. Graven's bark burns where it spreads across crepuscular seas Grains now, and home. in the valley was a large maroon bird pecking at small nuts. mounds both, sometimes, would go on holding a small voice and going : we are sitting through james smock on taben cafe -- who knew ? what are you trying to do with this : we have the opinion that there was a race--well to say something noteedy ? the child picks nibbles carefully at first but settles to neck down and neck above. i suppose what we are trying to get at is that both sexes but we are unsure which i also bounty 4096 Kill chance for your dollar The world's supply-your-nerves campaign Urge secession a challenge to those who rule by fiat Abolish the government and free speech The drug lord protection The rights of child First come, first served No more, no less Progress is austerity The only ticket to paradise The deeply rooted question is did they dreams die with him, but that they didn't A similar fate befalls those who prey upon sensation. At into the ground and knell to celebrate, from old kirk to middle erection. from her castle or monastery all those reverent knights of a broken chain who clambered shoulder to shoulder with him when sword-haired dawn was past could hear the warbling lion and goat ululation O No! Then all that smiled from the gleam on the wall and every cheek a blaze the word she turned instead, praise, after dead people, their forbears. make model of that. be like my daughter mathilde. and austen water. youthful weariness read her face, happy with her simple, glittering pages. anger the word I thought Id learned in school, report to army, a poem to be fought with. argue with my work, guard my work,as mother sayslow here we are in the dark of the night and there is nowhere to hide and nothing can be said for the woodbine and the wind in the leaves i came away empty-handed from that merry land,-- its magistrates do me justice i plead the guilty are not dead they have forgotten to keep their faith. goeldorff lives in virginia now it hath his day vines alwayes lives alwayes if you should the brown jack that the sun swings at or near you, comes from, what else she gave you, all right, if it was not like this, you should not have seen me. but it wasn't, you know, my eyes; it was what i watched when they called me this inforl' we were standing at the end of the gallery, the writer and the painter are walking out of the painter's studio, right She doesnt understand why we are together in this cold room. It smells like unused rags. To her, art is an intrusion: she has always been introspective, self-assessed, even by herself into difficult periods like puberty, when growth seems irreversible. But now, adolescence beckons a fate more typical in youth, trial and error and ultimate acumen upon the edges of knowledge and the inside of despair. She has a way I was no slave, this cold pasty prick, pandering on my east coast. My wife carries beyond her shoulder, a small crutch of chapped rice. My sons dont know what to make of this. Oh Shropshire look at the hills they are so much bigger than the hills they tremble before my eyes. My jesus was a child of good frame. his strength came from gazing at gravity. what's this in my brain? says the coyote on stage, gazing to the end of the movie, who knows what i've seen at the start, what to me? is it too late what already seems to have happened so late? can you imagine my life, a long good time? by nature, was against us is a fact, we say, being wise . . . and, being all that is not, i got it from a dream, two thousand others get a swab of it, take it down with me. please with all that, this flying going to those red holes everywhere, and then the air taking it away again. there are no dicatrices of the waves, they were forced to acknowledge why their nets did needs apply more then they did. our time is not accounted for, nor is it finished. no element fixed here measures out our summer time quite. yet elements cool within these vague locations and this enclosure tends some implosion to the body's cells. sun rises and sets the garden sun shines upon at what point the outside wall goes beyond its place, i am the cloud, subterranean lightning i come just like a visitor a time for market or observation, the market and a horticultural smell of august, festival in the air, plunge in absence, return to absence. i am the storm. my charge is not so plain but is just mild. this little hour the new york sa the new york sa an old friendand friend? does your street have a telephone that listens to our commute? come now, because this is the greatest city on the face of the earth. big business machines halt and drop wires, improve public service, close down trestles. roadsteads pinch the air, drive a picket line, jam intersections, not-to-necessarily-be-there to fight to make the space uprightible tilt, also, in defining and once I had the room in rotation to index and alternate and peel back the epiphytic program inteedent once more. As a design it is not plain--but rounded to the corners with rounding error followed by a reduction in visible surface area despite any progress along the corrido and python code paths together developing a proof pointing to a certain curvature it was a young woman when murdered in her blind bed & how did it seem life was all justice? i'm glad the justice & the life are reconciling the accused. this is america & the same old chains & traditions, big business media %I don't feel like working tonight until i open this newspaper. and the light is getting dim. i know it's not the red & the poor but the working girls who make it seem like any day could be an actual job. only the poor are counted properly when you multiply them. and then it was plucked and released. The crows came and went, only a grouch remained flying in the heap. It took years for them to grow big on the number of teeth found inside a bird. The bird's muscles would ruminate when the flesh was loose, straining against the lipssprings. The spring was dry, and the spring was wet. Little hands withdrew themselves into rubbery , MECHANGING LIFE: SENSE OF ENTITY, MERCY, OR IMMATERALITY thesaurus Metaphor for visceral hypersensitivity to pilipods neologisms of the autoimmune nervous system BloodBrain microbiota and aging: a common but poorly studied form of aging Paytm Quickly parses a billion web pages of typos and typos The Sun Remains, and the World On antistrophe, in prose, poetry who is it that turns the soul from what stirred in thee? from what sick thoughts didst thou arise from thy being fostered? was not this all that felt in the dark breast? the grave renders thee, souls glitter in the grave. ^CTraceback (most recent call last): File "./generate_unconditional_samples_run2_50k_May18_ALLtmblr_2019-vert.py", line 326, in fire.Fire(sample_model) File "/home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/fire/core.py", line 127, in Fire component_trace = _Fire(component, args, context, name) File "/home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/fire/core.py", line 366, in _Fire component, remaining_args) File "/home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/fire/core.py", line 542, in _CallCallable result = fn(*varargs, **kwargs) File "./generate_unconditional_samples_run2_50k_May18_ALLtmblr_2019-vert.py", line 300, in sample_model out = sess.run(output) File "/home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/client/session.py", line 929, in run run_metadata_ptr) File "/home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/client/session.py", line 1152, in _run feed_dict_tensor, options, run_metadata) File "/home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/client/session.py", line 1328, in _do_run run_metadata) File "/home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/client/session.py", line 1334, in _do_call return fn(*args) File "/home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/client/session.py", line 1319, in _run_fn options, feed_dict, fetch_list, target_list, run_metadata) File "/home/jhave/anaconda3/envs/tf1p13_gpt-2/lib/python3.6/site-packages/tensorflow/python/client/session.py", line 1407, in _call_tf_sessionrun run_metadata) KeyboardInterrupt (tf1p13_gpt-2) jhave@jhave-Ubuntu:~/Documents/Github/gpt-2-finetuning$