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.
you need to go swallow a dollar
I snuggle in bed with your resignation
the walking FBI offers a reason to feel sixty more
I look at my blackberry bill I am on a salary
your resignation allows my resignation I am a cell
my cell has walking dogs becomes 3 cells more in one note
your church’s soft-skinned note is not burning
it swallows repetition for a rude aworkening
but the entire lipstick is a note full of burned necks
lots from stretched cars which go down lost
this note scaled down by FBI museums and birds looks at
my blackberry from a still life with two gold oranges and at
a still life with two oranges forcing me
on a scale of one to green resignation
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
and seeds we could to flower. but hey guess what?
I believe you need to reach the lab tonight.
I think (on the porch) I’ll order us the cheeseburger pizza when I get home too.
I got home last night guess what? you reach to wonder why
I don’t need to go to lab tonight. I slow
I slow never mind and guess. I guess I never smile last night to reach out reach out
to you. do you like your new camera flower? it shoots from leaps and roots with
sadness. the negative sadness. no sadness it springs to saps from leaps to
how’s my head? (a little late) breathe.
hey guess what I need to take a new flower of your head that holds
its rings inside mine with a brown leather bracelet.
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.
woke hell up
working
broke early
music beacon
fourth floor
window barking
he sat up up
set so gets
up works
barks Boston
beats last
warm drum
barks some
more ful
some quest
ions gets got gets
worked gets
pored over
I wish he was
up so much
misted committees
of hooligan tugs
secretaries of the
Embarcaderos
whooshes
into an avowed lesbian
of less than an hour
sew some pretty flowers
on my boyfriend
me: boyfriend.
boyfriend: yes?
me: pretty flowers.
boyfriend paints me
sitting in my tea he’s
bleeding on the trains
I cries and misses
the next red paint meeting
makes me a money check
for silly romances
it was Easter
17 of us around a table
11.8% vegetarian
daisies tulips
pretty little headaches
sprung up before
churches antiquities
noses in roses lavendars
honeybees’ honeysuckles
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.
