a spidercloud flies over a trolleycar on calif ornia street and they’re shooting another movie on pine. says here the hominy is cooked with cheddar cheese followed by the sky falling in a pleasant sort of way. happy birthday to me at addis red sea with a cast of a thousand forgotten canvases on the living room floor. big crane building up a new hotel on top of the hotel astoria. stop for a minute. rue bush at café de la presse. take chicken from freezer and place it in the ref rigerator “that never thaws it does it?” turn thirty- one bend over and stretch a little.
Friday get a better voice therapist. Where are they going to love me to day? Not here under the disingenuous stormcloud. Find a tree that looks perfect and make another snap. Snap. Drink your breakfast and find another tree. Snap. Go to the luncheon and peel off a rose that doesn’t snap. Ah, June and we’re practically naked.
Thursday get a better Massachusetts with a little bit of torsion. Relax, my fax number is outside the window with your priest. Death plus love equals more salad (snaps). Yes, it’s the two of us at Clos Pegase (more snaps) – nice view, great thumb! What was your question again? I’ll see if I can make that change on the spreadsheet—but be sure to look at everything I erased in answering your question.
Wednesday get a better haircut. In the street holding hands I was halted mid-thought by a smile I forgot. We are the unlucky few, many of us exploding five nuclear warheads in retaliation for Clinton’s speech on murder. Stop the violence! No I’m serious! Everyone is speaking Stradivarian in here, be at my
place around ten. Nice reading last night, do I get a raise? This is why I haven’t responded to your lovely note.
Tuesday get a better job. Repeat after me: please note: I rec’d the invitation to my birthday: a one-hour working session re: making sure we’re not going to London: Done! I used to sleep with you and yet attractive artists everywhere are torn between making future plans and wanting to leave things more open, tentative title. Marauding blood pressure and work-related massage at the Ethiopian restaurant. P.S. Please keep November free.
each clunk a feeling in my gut that rises like taking off with my best friend or something in here missing rather than losing our lovers on the airplanes of inevitability or where we might as well take off our selves or send our best friends’ lovers to those bosses who land by the way in some undiclosed locations which are only undisclosed because unihabitable by MY SELVES. now it leans toward me this poem of disrepair. I would not know it more willing in Boston Common nor know it better in this box, my incessant box, nor on Treasure Island which I mention in cessantly because I cannot see it but from my box nor never will touch it nor since
it does not matter with my own hands up inside of it. swans over there fading. Wallace and Gromit warehouses burning down and Wallace and Gromit movies at number one on the box office and Wallace and Gromit cartoons next to David Hockney and Isabella Stewart Gardner over the rush of what I do not have but more work to do. each boat which leaves another trail of pigeons each absolute perfection of temperature each Saturday where no one showed up for the poetry each dinner at Bickford’s followed by come home and cuddle on the back porch before this war
that can’t happen its way out of my head. ducks and swans and muppets and devils and delusions of lovers and lovers of lovers and lovers I never take off nor possess nor whatever it is that one is supposed to DO with them. I must I must museum with some of my imagined somethings things missed is always always un un
Do you pace in elevators? We burke the question. “Youth isn’t the automatic turn-on it used to be.” Things that go away: like a headache reading a magazine in the jury pool. I still have a little trouble in the chest tuesday 45 minutes beyond the prescription. At the picnic: sunshine 12:30pm chime street vendors older man in mascara with swimming pool parties (thank God we never went) you picking out the fat pigeons the cool pigeons the seagulls that chase the pigeons the fresh fruit salad with your fingers til I give you the fork. Last night I dreamt of him who can never leave me. A DREAM. You and I grow older every minute. Summer sun soft glow. See the sailboats play with each other making new shapes. Moonlit headrush. Dry mind and hunger. This is why I should be writing. Take me to the uncomfortable picture somewhere let it out. I spoke again long distance. Hunk curve ocean bull whispers horn salve. Thank God I’m consistent.
Yesterday when I was giving away more heartattacks I put this information from an old diary entry into today’s thoughts, events, environments and then I e-mailed all of my lust for the tall skaterguy who showed up on yet another Oscar-winning spring day. I’ve never worked in a place where so many people fart at the urinals. Here I sit creating life, a new fiction that sorts out our selves, plus: (sad sad bleak) which I occasionally get to write about while at work like when I wrestled with the whole idea of writing flower spaghetti sorbet and strawberries on my nose. Since I write all of my memories this sort of thing teases me into reremembering, shakes up what it can, like that square poem about bonding with the moon or for blueboy who died yesterday. Sometimes we become more boring without a diary, we cannot label nor reinvent our life. Look out: I am breaking into another peach.
wait liberally til tomorrow to not inspire to tell _______. reading Mom to tell you I did call mine tomorrow at the lap of dawn. face V legs drawn sit on drawn lap. I am more at ease more at ease with the French dearth I think I heard. face pants. V liberally til I am more at ease. force more ease to move. ease a trident force entry easy symbolism. love the trident. wait. an embolism of sexual liberation. a rid iculous tenet of liberationship. slip tri dent. await forced entry drawn lap. legs a V to not inspire. force. force. at ease.
let me tell you the dream last night of us being neighbors. somehow i was hiding from you (who is you?). then there was a slice and then another slice, like lemons, with a bit of pucker – couches, carpets, backyards – the things you can have as neighbors. right here is where i splice tombstones and sandwiches, indiscriminately, into tombstone sandwiches with backyard condiments, this is my recollection of the dream, a dream i remembered while we were brushing our teeth, together, your arm draped over my shoulder, each of us looking into the mirror at us. you are my love birds, me and you and that mirror.
more about me I sip the green tea like that for it is of myself to want to sip two cups per day question mark getting a picture taken during cocaine my chest blurts evidently the left side my left occasionally a great blurt a great blurt of pain erupts my chest at the top of my head momentarily but shocking we are spoiled buildings ready to be demolished I should get to the root of it what the problem is is we should note more about the buildings being broken being destroyed in our left lung is not symptomatic of my telling you what I am wearing what I am wearing is the problem that could arise by how I like to enter I like to enter any machine that needs to be troubeshot but more more about me later
I want you to know how it really is. My lip swells, or just above my lip, just below my nose, usually on the right side, my right side, after I take aspirin or ibuprofin. I feel boxed in because I am. Nice view and all, but I’m bored. Not bored all the time, because I don’t have enough time to think. When I do think, it is for nothing. That’s not true, either, as I do think sometimes of you. Most often. But I think of other people, too. How are we connected? In the simplest terms, I mean. It’s 2:30pm and my boss is conducting an interview. Is he looking for my replacement? No. I drink more water. This is filtered water from the sink next to the refrigerator. The southeast refrigerator. In my candor I forgot to mention my brothers’ birthday. They are 29. I mean they are 36. Jogging. Sit-ups. How demoralizing.
well, yes, I wasted last night with MORE MARTINIS! so now it’s time to go to Le Coloniel and colonize YET MORE MARTIANS! I was trying to say let’s have a couple of vodka commas but then it became one of those vodka commas at the end of each line vs. a couple of no commas things. I could add: (I caught you smoking)
through the smoking corridor
but it’s nearly time to rocky road.
ha! false alarm. the sun is brainy. we chow down at Doyle’s for his sexual recidivism paper and then I help him with his sexual offenders. after that we walk for days (we always seem to do this) (thru non-smoking corridors no less!). hey I got something special for your book! I have this special bookmark I got in Cantonese: HOUSE OF FURY. it marks page 33 well (cue new look):
says “hot hunk undresses off showing his great body”
underneath “check out this new high quality insect site.” ok no more false spams.
oh and next time we kiss at the corner of Fremont and Mission let’s please not forget there are people walking around with hot dogs in their hands. nor the building across the street that got demolished. end of story for now.
we set up a bridge for le beautiful nonsense... its “unlet downy days” is what is written and they are too much comfort for my shrunken face. no quotes allowed for the laptop shock, the equivalent of which – “are we grounded?” – gets no answer under “not this biscuit!” this biscuit has leather two-piece snaplets we reach out and grab to remove hence bread is a red herring (best eaten and beaten with cattails) which reveals: “sunswiped pea.” a beachbum swordfight ensues on the beach, that’s the rock-fisted gist of it: swishbuckle! so then I bought roses because I’m addicted. pink ones seem to do the trick but there’s also do laundry kiss and make up for being all tied down strapped and spanked – I mean cuz I got the folze, the fourscore frizzzles (poetry) (beams) the Folsom ffotos of you (finch buns) a la dolce ziti.
Dis connected. Was I walking down Folsom when a distant friend called? A pear and two golden-wrapped pats of butter. Now I’m finishing a book at Union Square when it decides to happen, but I’m reluctant to remember everything at once. An ice cold boyfriend (meaning each old boyfriend), each translucent riddle. Many friends are giving birth to books, each joy a dim remembrance. Not 100% true. I get a big shock to my head every once in a while. It’s a flashpan invocation of the threesome rule: take a nap stepping backwards (with fever pitch).
He’s swatting flies in the living room. Big one. Tiny one. Still life with cones. Still life with pitcher and two apples (green and red). Still life with bananas, lemons and indecipherable. Still life at the shoeshine with a hug and a kiss. It’s a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. Noises are reminiscent. The cat’s lazy. Flies slap the window. The plants need water. Trolley cars buzz the breeze. Green couch. Brown socks. I finished a book. It was good. Honk. The sky soars.
Good evening from the sympathy ride. I tried calling you several times to tell you that the Red Sox were hurting. There was no number so I wasn’t sorry enough. I died and they sent me to Cleveland for still MORE sympathy. They brought me back to life and we played frisbee for a while but then I needed a blood transfusion. The only blood that would work was Fenway Park so I tried calling you again. Still there was no answer. So I died again. I’m in hell now. Awww. 1-800-560-7702.
nothing universal about the poetry I SCREAM and called the bank yesterday as it basically told me that I was over drawn thru existential crisis—it was amazing without feeling and kinda PLUS on the manic side which with me always puts me into an exaggerated intensity. I have
so much fun writing narrative poems and as I’ve said before
I should try to combine these two styles into a narrative urgency somewhere near the surface of PEACE like how I’m using my emotiCons and at the same time not really feeling that sort of blankity-blankity-blank kind of FUCK the other half of the world loves to get paid I LOVE TO GET PAID I
love to get paid a lot on Friday which makes my emotions all
ROCKIN IT SO HARD otherwise maybe we can have some drinks. something’s definitely eating me off today these faces of my favorite poets these faces of my all-time favorites I FACE THE PROBLEM I say hey I’m free tomorrow this sense of urgency every night to tell a fucking story I can’t
sense the urgency every night to tell a fucking story I can’t
remember even having that consciously intentional KNOW LEDGE that kind of “walk in my shoes” thing where I’m grip ping this guy & he’s “driven” with a LICENSE TO GRIPE that replaces all of my periods with quotation marks. no this
wasn’t today. it was rather today’s instance. it was only one of several where I learned another sort of meditation. NO THIS
wasn’t today it was rather an afterimage. it was only the NO instant which today stands for. is how it was today THIS?
Some Ideas For The Poem I Will Write: ArtList DoList NewProject Keep Going. Fresh But Tell A REAL Story! ReEvaluation: Why Is Memory Important? I’m waiting for the SUNDAY MONDAY TUESDAY WEDNESDAY it’s just me sitting here JUST ME conFusing words I Like (Not This Poem) (Read Less Poems) The Fog “Yes You Can Go In Now.”
this does not work to slow things down
I Love You Even Though My Heart Hurts (Maybe Just Gas?) NOT EATING THIS YEAR...but finding how uncomfortable it is to wear the wrong pants. pants that are NOT THE RIGHT SIZE. particularly if they are too long or too tight or too short (that never happens). I got rejected. I cried. End Of The World Now.
