Friday, March 30, 2007


I found the beginning again. They always put it at the end
to remind us. My neighbors are yelling at each other.

They are happy. Language is
different here. Here is where one big sycamore leaf

reminds me of the diseased grove
we walked through two days ago. You wanted to talk about flowers.

We don’t talk about knives and pens
like we used to. Later that day we watched a movie. In it a laptop

was used as a weapon. I want to do that.
Green winter grass. Name

the fish that makes you sick. I missed
my bus and spent the night at the station

6th and Broadway last night. Green winter
grass. Blues below. What is it with wanting to hurt you?

Then the sandpaper fields and the opacity of the fire.
And the nouns that make us feel like idiots.

Thursday, March 29, 2007


I saw the picture
but don’t expect me to take the bait.
These are fragments of your imagination. You’re hungry
and you’re stuck in traffic. I
saw the picture. Yesterday it was ninety degrees and I was frozen. Today,
you guessed it, a chilly fog. I would say that I’m
still frozen but I saw the fucking picture. Yeah,

I’m ready. I want you to live in these people.
I imagine plenty of sleep. You’re cross.
You have a cross in your hand. You’re me,
pools of mercury behind pools of black, a planned escape,
plenty of sleep. Don’t expect me to take the bait. Not with words anyway.

I called you. I knew the melting point.
I wanted to call you. Look at how angry the trees are.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007


A scintillating fog approaches Golden Gate. A
sun has risen and I’m on the bus to Arkansas.
Not sure where I am now. Some 80 or so miles
to Washington. Cute guy in front of me reading
a travel book. I found a place at Port Authority
to eat. Took credit lonely seeing $31 cash out of
coming around in full view of Big Apple. Still
blue skies wearing a black jacket. Gray bulldog
crinkly black long. The Potomac. It gets pierced.
Crane stuck in places he doesn’t want to be and,
well, pretty much the whole lot of it, but for his
disdain. I think it is 1923. Four silos. A man
in black reading something called Bad Girls of
the Bible
. Chillier still. Memphis around 1pm.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007


if this is a sculpture can we not touch it? I
beat him. he met my work. then we played
racquetball. it’s been a week. I knew he’d
never try Ethiopian otherwise. the aesthetic: we
as audience become crunk. are deliberately
smoked out of order. I should attempt more
minimalism. e.g., this week I’ve been happy
just to slow down. our cross purposes are
to generate massive profits and artlessly
exhaust viewers. e.g., suddenly I saw him off.
sullenly I got him off. Sunday he got off.
Sunday I saw him off. it was hard to
tell and then it wilted. these categories
has become unstable. take our landscape
please. waiting in line for an hour for some
European disc jockey. European disc jockey.
then off to Holliston for happier profits. then
European disc jockey. some European disc jockey
off to coffee. a place on Tremont. a coffee placed
on Tremont. he has a little crush on his coffee.
a coffee place. a Baptist coffee. then on
Wednesday performance art. art more art-
less than artful. sculpted wigs scalping for
rigged sculpture. hot to the touch if we can.
do you think someone will run off with my bag
if I go upstairs and get some? if this is sculpture
can we not fuck it? Luke. what a hot name.
we biked for 6 minutes and then jogged for
about 15. Thursday evening I dyed his hair.

Monday, March 26, 2007


9:33. tells a story. tribunal
signifiers. after Thanksgiving
how to kill a ginger ale. given
that the agreement to kill all
wet leaves. 9:tells a story
of a tribe. we watch wars
simultaneous. war similar
on a daytime talkshow
a prisoner under the wet
leaf kill ginger ale. tells us
omelet and fries. but even
with the Geneva Accords
after Thanksgiving how to
kill a ginger ale on the day
time talkshow. 9:33am
was my favorite wet leave.

Friday, March 23, 2007


magic murder. broken Britney on.
kiss your bronze head. 900 calories.
turning a lot of pages and find a lot
looking for nothing. 128 cycles
per minute. timeless just writing.
timelessness to Britney. it’s what
can I really do? stop. coughing
stars. coughing up stars for on.
try a little tenderness. again a lot.
kiss your. 128 cycles. time just
magic. bruised blush. 900 wets.
make mine magic. kind a lot of.
oh. can I really? kiss your bron.
bronzish coughish. on on on.

Thursday, March 22, 2007


I kept hitting refresh so the man would go away,
but he wouldn’t. He had stepped out of the vegetable
on 53rd. Ruby red fog was flying over the Pru.
“When the soul dissipates, who decides it so?” He
didn’t want to talk about it. I put my head down.
Still, I heard a lot of nice words under the lamp. “If you
use a color all the time, do you become that color?”
I replied:
“This is not my life, of course.”
But he just looked at me
not comprehending. The antlers in the breeze are...
such youth!

Wednesday, March 21, 2007


He loves a pen.  Is fallen on a window.
When I get ringings I join him home.
Find the window jars open.  Voila,
revised cole slaw and tomato juice.
     Later that very same decade
our blue binders fills with secrets.
This information relaxes weekends.
I’m attracted to the Greek fool.  We
sleep around and zonk out.  That’s
Zorba for ya.  But the bookshards!
     With friends like Mabel we love
Louise more.  She says things like “I
reckon” during Nights of Caribia,
falls herself on a Fellini coffee-table.
This during meals of neorealism.  In
italic diners filled with recouped anime.
East Village.
Our friends.
     Afterwards a dank
little bar called Boil ’em.  One sweet
conversation regarding I was really
smitten.  And why wouldn’t I?  He
liked that conversation too.  To be so
frank and so alone.  Even him on
the West Coast.  We’ll just have to
talk about it.  “You think you’re
too fat.”  “But you’re really a
cock.”  That’s when the
static stopped.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007


Then I enter the tooth, finding a story
of such magnitude it leaves me
androgynous. One thing. Leads to
another? This cannot be plot. Our
night walk down Charles Street.
Getting shot every day this week.
Bone marrow boosters. Foucault.
Aggressive nostalgia spun out of
context.    He.  Was.   Watching.
Family Guy.

You’ve put on a little weight.

If we look closely at the drink of water,
compare and contrast with a shoebox
full of photographs, pick up a
coffee mug that touts “Little Rock:
Full of Surprises”...

Monday, March 19, 2007


Pushing toward a dawn that is or is not
death. A spectacular antecedent. What
can I do? I cannot make the tip of the
tongue Gizzi. It is sorely fresh and
cheeky. In walks a face and the soda
bubbles. We wear curtains. Stop.
On Tuesday the chicken is a little
sour. He reads the newspaper. Then
he stabs it with a chopstick. Superstop.

Finally: Suzy is so right.

So: He lifted up some of his roots.
His sweatshirt stretched feminism.
We walked into the kitchen for a laugh.

Friday, March 16, 2007


Here I am. A mile and a half without
the drugs of the disco, awaiting a second
of creativity. Today I got a letter addressed to
“Comedy Laugh.” Later I cleaned the coffee.
“You’re the one that has trouble with tenses.”
Then the dog at the dark end of the hole was
barking inadequately. I tried to translate it
this morning. Something about a steeple
closing itself in on a skyscraper like
greedy scissors.

When she said “that faggot” of course.

Taken out of context: I’ve got my
grandfather’s temper. I need a gum.
This page is ready to go. Cambridge
seems the ideal spot for male bisexuality.

Thursday, March 15, 2007


The traditional belchers were taken
out of context. I made coffee for them.
Also, the devilization of eggs; these
theories at Doyle’s. His poetry
seesawed. But he was tall. Anyway,
I’m waiting on my eggs. Another
“anachronism that refuses to die.”
Maybe I should have asked for
mustard. Cheddar and mushroom.
His poetry seaweed.

Government is playing hooky.

Finally: Where’s my heart?
Scattered. Maybe I should have
asked for coffee and a nuclear
engineering heartache and
warm milk by the time...

Wednesday, March 14, 2007


A sesame seed has fallen out of my hair.
“It might emerge as a reanimated
anachronism,” Judith Butler says,
taken out of context. I don’t
know Government but he seems
to be doing less better. I plan to visit
him in early December. We were
members of the studio audience.
Then we drove to New Hampshire.
So useless. Mark Strand at Sackler.

Mom now owns a gas station.

Also: We walked around Beaver Lake,
a state park called Bear Brook, NOBODY,
mostly a leaf rustle, not quite freezing.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007


Picking up giftwrap
& birthday card
for Miss Piggy.
Crisp, windy,
autumnal. The
Crispy wind
smashes into the hot tub.
tries to explain
how I can micro
wave a perfectly
good pineapple
w/ “masharino” cherries. I’m
my hardwood condo floors
ease my
office orifice
Pronto Toronto!

Monday, March 12, 2007


Monogamy, while practical, is an inefficient construct. Hey,
there’s another Monet, oblivious reflection. I got a text msg
from the funeral (he’s braindead) while walking through
San Francisco’s Chinatown. A tourist from the Midwest
was fascinated with all of the shop signs and banners. It
creeps me out that I have such a strong visceral reaction,
but please don’t censor yourself. I think it’s utterly. The
rest of the joke just exploded so I baked a cake on Thursday.
How you doin’? That color don’t look so good on you.
The group next to him, where it’s all dark, they don’t want
the lights at all. This speaks volumes about chemotherapy;
the chemotherapy we call The Orange Dirt Under the Trees.
Monogamy, while helicopter, is a dummy construct. He’s
blonded his hair again. Maybe adoption is the option.

Friday, March 09, 2007


He returns to the country he left in his mouth.
Also, he has a lymph wrist; something going on
in the chest cavity. So we walk to the moon
after pointing in the direction of home.
That’s what we do. Distressed
because we’re too happy together.
Which means we get fat. Driving to
Haverhill to visit the animals. Trying
the wok. Rice in the laundromat.
Tentative sex with berries.

Thursday, March 08, 2007


After Los Angeles let’s drive north,
go to some of the towns along the beach.
The beach. We don’t see the birds much
(the birds not the pigeons). The big news
of the week was Tuesday when we heard
some guitar player. Then to the office.
Then to the apartment. Then a romp.
It’s not like a television set you can
turn off or a book that you can shut.

Some thirteen years later, Mom’s
throwing up spaghetti. A day trip.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007


The red tulips belong here.
They look real nice next to your monitor.
I’d say the world was coming apart.
These underground chalk monsters are tough.
Where is your world?
It’s right next door to the Mondrian.
Look, he’s juggling dragons across peanut butter sandwiches.
I don’t care.
I walk out.
This is an apparent partnership underscored by sheer exhaustion.
Then I walk into the wrong phone booth and right into a stapler.
Some margaritas are better than others.
I don’t care.
I walk out.
Maybe you’re the only one to whom I belong, I said, looking for joy in the stapler.
These underground chalk monsters are rough.
At this point we just do phones and stuff, but yes, of course I could use a cutter.
So much for peace.
But that looks just like you sober.
Dark humor.
On the one hand, the economy does seem to be slowing.
I’m off the hook.
Pericardial effusion.
Laundry on Saturday.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007


it’s difficult for me to be conscious of the
genious of any particular poem. these ones however
go on into triple mushroom infinity. for example
right now I’m reading about myself in percentages:
please reference table 1. most successful
($6,000 limit!). yay.
I know it’s hard to believe.
table 2. cost control. please note that I wrote a letter to Mom
after she sent me clipping of a
marriage announcement – some guy who
used to work for my piano teacher. further proof that I’m gay.
anyway, let’s get over to the weekend with its various
case studies on innovative ideas. ok.
then I speak into the camera for local access cable television. poetry.
table 3. marriage announcements.
for years I’ve been wanting to
write a play. in it I would include
words like glyph, slattern, and angioplasty.
I would also include a lot of garlic. stop this.
but it feels so good.
I would also point out that in
table 4 are all violations involving
incorrect applications of pain. I’ll get back to you on this. clunk.
oh and I got
a class exemption and also some good notes for another poem
(“that night you dragged me back/twice through the brush” etc.).

Monday, March 05, 2007


having a petty restructuring process is
good for speculative investors. this week’s
Monday night smithy a splendid setting.
sitting next to my date designed for smaller
banks behind the ubiquitous quick escape.
Fight Club as seen as hostile to too much
flexibility. drip operating margins. Holliston
birthday market. nice reeds westward. rivers
of leaves. and we bolster consumer spending!
managed a load of laundry while competitors
were found gnawing on the company’s ex
penses. ran into ____ renting ____. picked up
A Taste of Cherry and returned it to Salem.
which was the last trip we took. or nearly.
and as for percentages in the burgeoning
shampoo market we blame the fall on
increased strategy. recounted Friday.
there’s no accounting for good taste. plus
or minus no regrets gone blond. tall too altho
I might have danced with him for a little bit.
we fell 11.9 percent heading everywhere.
I didn’t want to but that’s not the half of it.

Friday, March 02, 2007


I know the answer
to that question:
Movies! To recount
the weekend when

I feel like it. Dusty
pigeons. A headache
for brains. I know it
for the pain in my

rib. It comes and
goes like Jason’s
party. We buy
pants, flirt and sleep

with other boys.
We aren’t men
but who is Jason?
I’m not stupid.

Thursday, March 01, 2007


Mr. Shaggy’s getting shagged
he’d have preferred another Chaplin
but Mr. Unseasonable Bloodyhead
took Claritin-D last night

cough hack Portland Oregon – in a year
somebody’s yelling (Mr. Yeller) “I got a
blister to this notion...”
already such a boiling bloody question

I’ll know what to do though – don’t go
into the depth of autumn
I’m trying to breach the notion
I’m really beginning to warm up to the notion

of clunky Mr. Abroad – he wants to know
the reason I’d prefer another Chaplin
“why in a year they’ll close your throat”
it’s all the same boiling questions

look at the inscrutable Mr. Blister
he and bony Mr. Blondhead are
teaching each other blue-eyed blowing
what they won’t do to shake things up