Sensation Seeking

Take the inventory. Would you find out if you have the D4 receptor?

Aventurine Swirl Bowl

Built up of examples nobody is meant to hear--the soot sticks on the ink stone

Bubbled impermanence doling out comparisons of so many beautiful trails since

The snowmelt of last winter with its murky philters. Seasons serve to explain 

Something where our shadow's miming no longer assisted us. The veritable sinks 

Of anonymity brought reflections instead. One fragment of a particle for analysis,

Eyes move up to her face swirling in a clear blue outlet of the treatment pond

Which part clots paper? The great attempted domain submerged beneath the pond?

Anything that is at all accurate about life resists being moved. The glance of stone

Contaminates vines and destinies, leveling off the work. Furtive approaches to analysis

Take pains to specify its fetters, where the face hangs dolefully at the feet since

Yesterday. Unremarkable, for a coda has taken place. Drink deeply the automated sink

Spray, a stall's chromed colors just as before. Those chirpy star wars have yet to explain.


Later down the drive, a moon moves from to its Egyptian site, stabbed as it explains
Scythed fields of mind and matter. Merging into a second set of gates, one comes to the pond's
Edge where the neume is archived forever. A pulque plant lies there parched between two sinking
Dogs who cannot step out of themselves to breathe. Cross reflections are the whetstones
For recovering the blood of their bodies, those mournful accumulated years marking cards since
Midnight undertaken on gangrenous legs.It was dye wood we sought, to equal anyone in analysis.


Now a body trudges with the weight of suitcases beyond bedroom doors. Submits to analysis
In another's midst. Maybe a scarf drapes over a gooseneck lamp or a pallet is made on the floor. Explain
Nothing to them. Their position on the problem frames red sarcophagi in the distance with their since
Then woven-over bones. To see them up here mingling tears in the country, their reflections in a pond,   
Contrives examples of the thing the heart desires. All opposing this is black tulips a stone's
Throw from here. When at the end of this weathering with needy dogs to look after, the plodder sinks


Overlarge hands into the work. What he attempts to coax from it, filling his substance with blood, sinks 
Between a line of cars at a stoplight. Morning is a double entrance with abstemious promises analyzed 
In their own way, and then tucked into cabinet among ointments, a denture glass. The real stone 
In the shoe is recounted passions. Those persistent vermilion bulletholes of the news striving to explain
That it was theater, their first love. Memory the soul leaves behind is one vast particular millpond,
Refusing your improved reflection. Minus those flirtatious tadpoles. The gaze hasn't warmed since


That day out in the street. Dream couples emerged from the gallery avoiding their insipid faces since
Each has capitulated, becoming figures they would accept. At least the interfering fool sinks
Them into caricature. Someone in the same century punctured that inner surface of the pond
Another duet among their amenities, with the noted disappearance of promises. Analysis
Picked the place clean of motives. Beginning there, the plans for a house in California explain 
Hidden periodicities no matter how far away they go to live. An artesian well breaks the stone


Foundation nobody means to hear. Comparisons of beautiful trails, stone participles of analysis,
At least the interfering fools sink in expression, doling out elevations to explain them to us,
She sinks puncturing the pond's surface as if it were bathwater, the tightening cycles of a thrown stone.

A[d]venturine Swirl Bowl

Built up of examples nobody is meant to hear--the soot sticks on the ink stone

Bubbled impermanence doling out comparisons of so many beautiful trails since

The snowmelt of last winter with its murky philters. Seasons serve to explain 

Something where our shadow's miming no longer assisted us. The veritable sinks 

Of anonymity brought reflections instead. One fragment of a particle for analysis,

Eyes move up to her face swirling in a clear blue outlet of the treatment pond

Which part clots paper? The great attempted domain submerged beneath the pond?
Anything that is at all accurate about life resists being moved. The glance of stone
Contaminates vines and destinies, leveling off the work. Furtive approaches to analysis
Take pains to specify its fetters, where the face hangs dolefully at the feet since
Yesterday. Unremarkable, for a coda has taken place.    

Threading the Labyrinth...until the configurations reveal their fates.

Built up of examples nobody is meant to hear--the soot sticks on the ink stone

Bubbled impermanence doling out comparisons of so many beautiful trails since
The snowmelt of last winter with its murky philters. Seasons serve to explain 
Something where our shadow's miming no longer assisted us, the veritable sinks 
Of anonymity brought us instead. Together by chance, that is to say, through a clear
Blue outlet of the treatment pond. That decides the clot on paper as if wisdom


Imparted from a burn. The outcome depends on the state of your papers, wisdom's
Adage arriving comparatively late. I wonder if I ever got tired or does the grindstone
Tempt scribbling 
...

The Epiplectic Bicycle in Hyperfocus

    It was the day after Saturday and the day before Sunday...

New Isabel Coixet film...

The Girl on the Beach

Like ledger art of places no one has ever been, with the off-smell of kelp burners

In the distance. Beyond the maze of access roads, pipe-fittings before their red-lined

Pit. All right for one mystery, but two! Of all the stories you know, the animals steadily 

Get bigger there in the rocks, unsuspecting in the sun's domestic bleach. Gray brush marks

Of rain spackle a private recess. This thought strikes you as fortune's single, red-lined 

Suit with the bottoms worn mostly off. Only it was your tieback reworked by wind and streams.

At first alone and feverishly marine, it seems surprising, so why not rest? As for the brush marks

They would soon eat their way through faint volutes on the chalkboard. The lessons suddenly gone.

Not pretending to be grown up, she disarrayed herself to be reworked by winds and streams.

Spending mid-day kippered on the shoreline, if at least to comply with certain principles bound
By the weather of youth, just as the sailboat. One startling fact among life's lessons  is suddenly gone,
While the surface threatens to consume, if not convey you into adulthood balling the entire


Earth. How it seems music is chosen and timed to fit the consequence, taut limbs bound
Announcing the out-sweep and recovery of eternal Vox. Neither for all of the stories you know, 
The contest is joined. Presence is mute as a giraffe. The marathon to date alleges places no one

Song has ever been. A stony couple takes the question up, doubtless delighted beneath her burning scalp. 

The Girl on the Beach Pantoum [in process]

Like ledger art of places no one has ever been, with the off-smell of kelp burners
In the distance. Beyond the maze of access roads, pipe-fittings before their red-lined
Pit. All right for one mystery, but two! Of all the stories you know, the animals steadily 
Get bigger there in the rocks. Therefore you do your running as the gray brush marks 


Of rain spackle a private recess. This thought strikes you as fortune's single, red-lined 
Suit with the bottoms worn mostly off. Only it was your tieback reworked by wind and streams.
At first alone and feverishly marine, it seems surprising, so why not rest? With brush marks
If to provide the flux, she reasoned faint volutes on the chalkboard, the lessons suddenly gone.


The bed smells of where a dog has been,