mdccci

that wasn’t so hideous

All I can think to say at the moment is

don’t work so hard at it.

By the way, did you seize anything?

And did it open up?

Okay, there’s the time thing.  Like

never being late.

I just sneezed like my father at those two

dogs howling on the first floor.

What if I woke up and found out

I was wrong?  Or that it’s not worth it?

I think we should do something

every day that means absolutely nothing.

I mean pick a time and a place, and

print it out and everything.

Be fine with being late.  Make

everyone else uptight.

Because it sort of gives you an

advantage, right?

I’m going to wear this shirt again.

Even after everything that’s done’s been done.

mdccc

That’s awesome!  Bully for you!  Me,

I’m pretending to jobhunt.  But instead

I wrote a poem about jobhunting. 

Actually, I’m only pretended that it’s

a poem about jobhunting.  But ooh look!

I’m not afraid of my picture anymore. 

I mean it’s hideous, but look how

my reaction to it has changed.

I wasn’t sure why she asked me if I

was bitter.  We were having breakfast

at a Korean restaurant and playing

with our YouTubes, playing with

our iPhones.  Somebody sent a

song that was stuck in his mind.

What if asexual is what turns you

on?  Or even worse, what if it’s

going through other people’s mail

from, like, ten or twelve year ago?

mdccxcix

The One About Yesterday

Nice eyes, so sad and lonely.  The

other word has to do with love.  And

those two rambling emails to the same

headhunter.  I didn’t actually feel like

I was begging at the time.  But I did

feel like I was an artist.  And I felt

like I had a nice run of it.

A nice run.  You told me too late

that you’d say goodbye to me this

morning.  I mean I think you told

me even though I don’t remember

it at all.  Later you told me you told

me.  I don’t remember you telling

me goodbye this morning.

Then there was something about the

vacuum cleaner.  Or the vacuum cleaner

wrapped in plastic from the peanut

guy across the street so that there

was no way to get all of the tiny

purple petals out of the carpet.

He’s losing his head.  He shakes

his head about losing his head.

We can’t go to the drycleaners

anymore.  The drycleaners is

the peanut guy across the street.

Your nice eyes, so sad and lonely,

are the tiny purple petals we can’t

get out of the carpet floor.

mdccxcviii

      Ass block

      Face cock

              —MT

You can’t open your trash

because it’s being emptied

onto the freeway.  It’s being,

your mind, emptied like big

boobs full of igloos alongside

freeways in the Natural State.

Big-breasted Elke’s been build-

ing igloos of big boobs.  Empty

like trash in the happenstance

of a block of ass.   You can’t

open it, your mind, your natural

face, in such a state.  Such a state

of circumstances, explains Sally

to field the question (or deflect

its internal intention) as the colors

glow like welders in the medieval

marketplace.  Hash it out yourself

you prick of a tool! Quisby parries,

his frisbee mid-air, twelve o’clock.

mdccxcvii

The next day we were all millionaires.

The doctors say his heart failure

was caused by his inability to

remember how to do anything.

I feel like there is someone in

the kitchen but it’s not even me.

There is no one in that room.

mdcccvi

The next day we were all millionaires.

It is possible (now that I look at it through a lens)

that I could have mislabeled the character.  Gravity

isn’t my strong point.

With a well-practiced sparkle that shot like glitter

from the capital building on her wedding finger

she got all cheesy like the cops.

The doctors say his heart failure

was caused by his inability to

remember how to do anything.

mdccxcv

I’m so stupid my ears hurt.

Not like when your brain

evaporates (nothing at all

how it was actually recalled).

A recoil of green beans. A

buckwheat pillow.  A pair

of fried chickens after your

lecture, Doctor of Sciences.

mdccxciv

I precisely weighed each and every

bad bone.  I spelled it LOSING IT.

They explained to me later that I'd

done wrong by the Electric Balloon.

I want to leave it [them] there but

keep crying about etiquette—even

after the notebook full of broken

stops us all like MADD.  The

name of the X is Duncan Hines.

mdccxciii

I want to show you in abundance the fuck-ups I’ve

arranged into squalid hostels.  I might have ventured

better than tongue-in-cheek into a new no-no.

So I can write a little.

mdccxcii

There’s too much to do

realizing everyone’s impression of me is

my crazy fault.  By default I’ve no way of

making expresso

without the

bugs.

mdccxci

                 they say write

                 below your

                 century to

                 understand it

                             —CAConrad

Hello from the Continental Divide.

                 the train arrives sans mustache.

                                                  —Michael Price

I woke up thinking how funny it is that

you’ve become such a devotee of TED.

                 sloth in the stretching ottoman

                          —my misreading of a few words by Michael Price

                                                                                MOTIVATION

Several days later      __________

                                                                                     YAY!!!

So far I think it’s an okay funny.

           

                 Bill was feeling his biceps.  “Tomorrow we’re

                 going to have a life-and-death struggle.

                 - - - - - -

                 Bill was the one who least felt the need of

                 occupation.

                                                               

                                                       —Bill Berkson

However, I’m not entirely certain on either front.

And the breeze didn’t leave us a shred of evidence.

mdccxc

Every relationship ups and downs.

I’m a writer with leg stress.

                                   —Jack Kimball

Approaching Juarez the dirt finally becomes

brown.  Pretty electricity poles and dangled

knots of electricity (second call for the 5 o’-

clock dinner reservation).  Toothpicks in the

distance, above lens wipe and Listerine.  Step

off the plane into a molten facial (Jack, Jack)

adds identity to an otherwise lovely résumé.

mdcclxxxix

Our burrito lady is here!

           —Amtrak announcement, in El Paso

What is it about this city?  So what if I’m not

picking weeds or shoveling gravel or whatever

else it is the gang is doing.  I’m lapsed pages

lapsing into turn-the-page.  Peeling onions like

eyes and what-have-you.  A bit windy and I

hear the water.  Texting about a ring on top of

the Eiffel Tower (this while I hear the water,

truly amazing!).   Very romantic, huh?  I love

the sound of the water.  I also hear the burrito

lady who’s on the other side of my door.  The

wind in my ears and the bay below.  Come in,

lady.  Come in from the noisy bay, a few boat

motors, ferries, weeds blowing in the wind, birds

down below.  Because I dunno the name of any-

thing.  Why the word bird?  Why the word weed?

mdcclxxxviii

     In heaven,

     where repetition’s

     not boring—

               —Rae Armantrout

“Am I valid?” Larry wonders

deliberately.  The sun refuses

to set, to go down on the desert.

The time zones, I guess, Larry

guesses.  “I’d mow the lawn

but for the thunderstorm.”  I

think this two days later.  “But

for the all-day thunderstorm.”

mdcclxxxvii

we send the body an omission

I’m misreading Armantrout in

West Texas (poetic El Paso).

The vicinity of beyond (like

Toy Story’s “to infinity and

beyond”?); Barbie Dolls on

the train tracks like we used

to do in the 70s (oh, the

flailing millenium!) along

with copper pennies (or

were they ever copper?).

A copy of the horizon for

future reference (its many

dusty folds harbor endless

answers) begs for a punch

line or for anything to drink.

I am an anti-social angel,

don’t you think?  Or just a

rascal refusing to do what-

ever the rest of the gang is

doing.  From here I can see

Tiburon, Sausalito, The Gold-

en Gate Bridge, The Bay Bridge

and Treasure Island.

mdcclxxxvi

at least the whistle’s at a distance

Should I open my old notebook?  It reels

from here to there in my head, cleaning a

few things (clearing a few things).  Not

really.  Nothing—neither here nor there

(unlike with him: black or white).  Beige

like Jenks’ horizon, but with littered trash

so colorful the jazz almost erupts anew

(he loves San Francisco because he plays

the saxophone) – the newest date is Dec-

ember, six and a half years ago?  Before I

think this is Mick Jagger, Mick Jagger-furious.

What am I missing from this biggish, furious

riot from over seven years ago?  I wrote some-

thing when there was nothing to write about;

though it seems I presently have EVERY-

THING to write.  Calm.  A western calm

and nothing less.

mdcclxxxv

Very slowly, through the orchard.

He wrote something terrific (page

2,400) to the memory of a suicide

oddly enough.  About monsters.  So

effective!  And in the end close their

eyes a final time close our eyes.  At

least I think it was him (vibrating thru

the hum of two trains grooving beside

each other in the mid-afternoon).  West

Texas sunlight through a bit of a haze.

And who can blame him now?  Perhaps

in the future the reference will be worth-

less.  The music of this jazz (the elders of

Amtrak arranged neatly in the dining car;

we’re not allowed to rise and go our own

ways until we’ve passed a test recollecting

each and every warning sign) originates

from New Orleans and from Abilene and

Saint Louis and South Bend with the

grandkids swingdancing in San Francisco....

mdcclxxxiv

Actually more like 3x more than anyone.  Except me.

So it really bums that you don’t like the ones I put up

of you—relating to you’re unlikely to acknowledge

and you’re proud + happy propensity.  Just sayin’.

On a happy note don’t forget Joey’s Visine.  I am

settled into my seat, I’m about to sleep, I’m in a

cafe catching up on eating.  Good morning from

El Paso.  I slept like a baby but have a little head

cold.  So everyone is okay?  Priceless.  I’m going

to switch off momentarily and start looking through

the pictures of the orchard (I have no idea how they

do that).  I hope your Monday isn’t bad.  Also the

vibrating blue pillow provided immense comfort

and security as I slept through Arizona and New

Mexico last night.  It’s gonna be an awesome trip. 

Travel safely.  I so am.  Great stuff.  Love you too.

mdcclxxxiii

in future

the reference

will be worthless

but effective (?)

like a butte

emerges

from dust

mdcclxxxii

check the floorboards for beige horizons

rise up and sing out of it.

                                           —Philip Jenks

The problem sometimes I think

is even more outstanding than the

railroad music.  Sometimes oh

fucking hell even all over the

spectrum sweet to insane.  And

who can blame it now the deep

arid breath.  Should I today work?

Work nothing.  Coming right?

Sink into the trumpet.  I will if

only I read.  If only I read some

something terrific if only I will

some something about monsters.

mdcclxxxi

Positive Reenforcement

Let these be rough.  As if.  I know.

A tan sedan set against the mesa.

Scoop of the earth, dry, bent.  Found

open a: Rosa’s—made for dinner at

lonely earth (again).  I do seem rather

hopeless  --> suddenly so fucking mad

at the world (earth) oops helpless.  I

mean helpless.

mdcclxxx

     flowers go mad and are filmed by no one.

                                                   —Philip Jenks

     A shrine of rich fish, with linebreaks.

                                                   —Andy Gricevich

I missed the mole and thought he was all the word

is a hot lackey and it sort of turned me on.  The

mole was there even though it wasn’t there; had

to be.  When it finally appeared, things sexed up

even louder.

I think of photography as an act (not a labor) of

love.  And I’ve taken 2x more photos of you

than anyone.  Where are you?  Just heading

back to Happy?

Where are you?  Drive safe.  Love you.

For the past hour I’ve been having the most

wonderful conversation with my seatmate.

He’s an older Mormon so genius and so

interesting, recently divorced with an

11 year old daughter, just a sweetheart

of a man with a wealth of knowledge

(e.g., we’ve discussed monogamy, the

source of our country’s fundamentalism,

how Jews were responsible for establish-

ment of the freedom of religion in the

U.S., genetics [of course], Buddhism

and its relationship with Mormonism,

the three great plagues, multiculturalism,

old automobiles, how mathematics is

everything, eastern culture as compared

with western culture, and much more).

How are you guys doing?  Crossing the

Rio Grande.  Going to switch off now.

mdcclxxix

     I think I spent the first few minutes just adjusting to the room.... 

     What was the mood?  How were people responding?  Who was

     there?  Who wasn’t there? ________.

                          —Lindsey Boldt in an SFMOMA talk on the

                            “Poetry Labor Conference” held in Oakland

                            on 9/5/2010 (from an issue of TRY magazine)

Hello from just east of Alpine, Texas [see IMG_6679.jpg].  Big wave

hello from the desolation and beauty that is West Texas.  Hi!

Lindsey hits it right on the head for me, happily unemployed for

nearly two years (at 44!), happily employed in a motley crew of

jobs pretty much constant for the previous 28 years.

POET 15 years now

spinning and buzzing around a meat hook.  Hello from Texas.

Hello from the dust of a thousand vibrating sound bites or

something.  Hello from the painful kidney and the uninterrupt-

ible southern California partyscape where somewhere in time

we’ll return triumphant.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is the town of Marathon.  Marathon

is a cowboy town and the mountains in Mexico are much higher

than ours.  About an hour from now we’ll go through another

old cowboy town called Sanderson.

Stressed, rainy.  Stressed from a weekend of bugs (and buggy

fun).  Unstressed from the dancefloor I can remember on

Saturday at Mezzanine as the evening sags (fucking trousers

falling down, some annoying folk singer, and losing my

glasses).  I do seem rather helpless.

So hello from the special problems of the world around me,

or me using each as loudspeaker.  And hello from dust, or the

bathless, showerless gift that is sitting for days on end in the

Texas Eagle, hello from partying and doing nothing, hello

from lists and Mormons and train conducters and from the

still fully clothed bones of ‘illegals’ – of Ponce de Leon’s

fountain of youth – found (time will tell, time will tell) in

the heart of Arkansas.  Hello from the telethon of hope

and despair; hello from...

mdcclxxviii

Field Trip

I’m meeting Otto, Curran, Masashi,

and Curran’s class at 6:30pm at the

Asian Art Museum.  Kit Robinson

is gigantic like The Crave.  Ashbery’s

Three Poems is dull (time will tell,

time will tell).  Work is work.  I had

lunch today with a gull flying over

Civic Center Park.  He has thinned

and is as cute as ever.  It is what it

is (neurotic, for example).  I have

a follow up doctor’s appointment

for my non-kidney stones early

tomorrow morning.  It is almost

May.  Unbelievable. 

                               (at Straw-

berries on Fillmore, which is

just past Starbucks and through

the sugared and whipped cream;

so bring your ducks [which were

galoshes in the 80s, unless I just

made that up]).

Oh, and tonight’s movie is

Le samouraï.

mdcclxxvii

Photo albums don’t get worn in cyberspace.

But they might be fashionable elsewhere.  Like in

spider space.  Which is where cyberspace began.