here he is again not listening. here I am again
with a current of jazz and a note full of chai. I’m
crystal distress again, aware I made a poem until
last night. like wire and something novel. what
shall I call it? disregard shall I call it myself.
this is what is outside with the cats’ poems. back
to being frequent, the cat under the bed trick,
a little S.O.S. in my diary which works better
when the tea’s good. I can call it whoever
shows up to do some laundry with the kid brother.
a silent talk that bonds with the scaredest cat.
the smokers’ eadrums are the sexiest. this
I register with the kind of attitude that makes
turkey go faster. I guess it’s okay to gossip when
deep onions are pushed onto one another. I guess
that’s okay down in the silence that stops him
at airports while he is maybe writing. it’s all okay.
the buildings bring the house down
and the hills are on fire again. it has
already been a week of wasting time.
I think how oily the salad. my
heart is racing. my heart is not saying much.
I think, instead,
they sold American State Bank!
random. Sunday repeats itself.
oh he’s just wonderful, just perfect.
the building’s on fire.
movies like I Guess You Have the
Wrong Number open Friday when we
begin evaluating straight men. this one is too
lumpy. this one is too awkward.
this one is too too. the shorthaired brunette who
I think is a pediatrician.
much to recount as I flip through the
pages, bear in mind the rustic
fireplace in front of which
we made videotapes. and then there is the war,
and its belt-lipped busboy’s buildings on fire.
I saw the same lime green everywhere
he had his little argument
about the surgery while the
white wine buzzed a
full frontal waiterfetish
still after all these years
(not still)
he had his neat little pill for which
to see all of the boys on the floor
they hovered in some sort of vibrational
new Madonna album download
his argument about the
sugar (flip cellphone)
his argument about the surgery
is me reading someone else’s poems
and I can’t shut them up (not really) (there
was a real surgeon) (see fan buzzing to my left)
the old man in front of me in taupe shorts
his blank little calves are
charging charging
home is where I need to say
my breath smells like vinegar
only the pink sky is awesome and
stinking like last winter when
the snow spits into the air its winter snow
spits into the air for a while over a home
this pink sky is therefore awesome
and my breath still stinks like vinegar
the almost Dove-like blue sky is
awesome or what I fail to say
for the first time in months
is the air is not
simply
a cold glass of water
ah it is a hot day in August and
my breath fills like vinegar
I’m gaining on this last breath like
the snow that is long gone long past
yet gaining to stoop and to write
(these two are like science)
home is not only what I meant
by these various words on my breath
which still
yes
these pieces of me I’d like to see again
are gone
yet nevertheless are all gone
and in me they are almost Dove-like
never to lose sight of pink
nothing much about me today
only this game I like to play
and invitations
to several parties
You guys have my hardon, right? The rumor has it
I read the news this morning and maybe it doesn’t
matter at all what we’re doing. He’s been methodically buying
cute duds and dresses lately like a skaterboy. In
side of his sleeping pants I am filtering the events of last night.
They tell me oven-roasted salmon is nothing to filter.
I say hello boyfriend those
(my joy is in here)
were the days. Look at this gorgeous day inside of the
Sierra Conference Room. Here is something
new about me: last weekend or Friday I saw
Blue Man Group. Part two. I made four reservations
it was freezing and that was the best part. Hello this boyfriend
my car got bashed. My boyfriend car got bashed. Bashed
in the parking lot behind Blanchard’s boyfriend.
Can I get the vegetarian lasagna with that? For twelve?
Caesar. No brownies.
sun softly over the chest and over the
sleeping rock until I run into Crazy Eddie
sun softly over it’s true, it’s true, sun softly
makes the glass fires on the side of the mount
and then I went home to bed
no more sun
and then I read to my grandfather and
Steven Spielberg and then cleaned my
apartment and then I napped
and then I drove to Holliston
later, sun softly over the burg is
Colorado on Saturday
it is a pretty boy party sun softly and
it rocked until I ran into Crazy Eddie
and then I felt like I was back in college
and then I think we had fun
and then I know I slept
with his friend while we were there
sun softly over the diary
sun softly over the scrambled eggs
sun softly over the embarrassment
and over the pancakes on the balcony
and then I did laundry
and then I cooked dinner
and then I watched another movie
it was twilight
at first glance it would seem time to make the poetry sausage hostage but the
big boat worms itself out of the Embarcadero-lip (the Embarcadero-mouth?)
it needs to go back into its box. I am telling you this story about at first glance The Chambermaid and the Titanic (it’s a French toast fest) and the
glamourless woman who plays his wife who said the clouds and the porny sausage
(pony sausage?) who says the parfait is delicious (which one?). excuse me it’s
Tuesday late Friday and we need to go home—before that we had drinks
(mini vodka martians). “this morning’s working document shows the following:
Monday: 12:30-3:30pm telling him stuff that’s been going on (this is
almost the entire entry) Tuesday: 12:30-3:30pm it would be
time to make the poetry schnauzer but the big boat comes out of
its bruised berth” (something I don’t feel like). wait, I’m telling you this
story here from this workbench (in my workbox)—this is my workseat and
I write poetry here at [my workwork] while to my left is the woman who plays my wife.
not to be confused with what is really going on in here (bangs head).
(French cloud fist) obliterating the day. wait—his wife said the
parfait was great schnitzel. was great converschnitzel. this is almost the entire entry.
anyway, here I am with a bottle of scotch tape and a stapler for my enemies
(not for cocks) but yet we fight this war of clouds to end the daylight savings time.
the gift of my body walking down McAllister in
the interest of names is wanting to hug the bricks
c’est moi since I wrote I can’t go down on Frank
there is a brains donation on Saturday after thanks
to what I am Thursday giving much to Jack as I’d
like after admitting jury to housecats I’ve got to
sit on me watching sex or I am barely able to lift
that which I could with my hand to my zipper in
a 3rd party of mind my James Market Street or
a blown off body at still 9am in this morning and
I can talk for a little bit about white picket fences
or in a couple of bony triads Mike don’t necessarily
see we are since pooled & feel “good” about Darren
blow visits into a cup of Steve about his destructive
ok it’s more than a couple of kink relationships his
dick in order to maintain this destructive kink in
Andrew so gravely connects the necktie or tuxedo
for Ians I’ve been thrown into when worn at Louis
it’s off-kilter for Joe the good to be back to be hand
some prevalent crush of a feel all Thomas who looks
good in a lion or harness or a hoary tux are you horny
horsey do these words trot and yet I am no horn we’re
set to connect but I can be Rob to do yet more damage
I can’t see but will cut off my Ed if it is 24 hours yet
the poet’s work of late daytime keeps
poetic inevitability at bay (such a vague
redemption). sitting toward Stratton
once again having been frazzled
much of the day I sit myself on my
owner’s manual while reading a
dissertation on labor (dropped
with gifts at my office late yesterday)
and so I had dinner & chatted w/him.
carrying him home the next evening
the diner lady wouldn’t let us in (I’m
trying to be as cordial as I can and
reiterating how happy and faithful I am).
then I watch a bird fly into a window.
this analogy is particularly re
vealing if we say we are going to die
in a few weeks, like he does, verbatim.
today’s solution—an iPod with a new playlist—Groovin’
beeps into the dark down Sutter—stops at Starbucks
5:03am first customer—order a triple redundant latté
this sequence consists of five of her “bodypoems”
stitched together in a sequence for New York—she’s
had various training and has been called post-Butch
at 5:04am 10 questions about your birthday presence
and a creme de siècle revelation—empty pockets—
I don’t have half a million dollars for a studio-condo
but today’s problem—I want to have sex with everyone—
enjoys a pre-dawn glow down Sutter—I stop at Starbucks
6:08am and he should be just the person to talk to about it
these bodypoems—inspired by Jean Cocteau and loosely
based on elusive fragmentary texts which are printed
printed in the program of fragmentary texts printed at
7:05am when the videoconferencing technician has
stirred up a creme de siècle revolution—Gay Pride
Saturday is postponed from last month’s Starbucks flood
it is the fifth and longest section—“Moon Moss Blossom”
where she smears her lovely face and upper body with
bronze makeup—works her way into a fantastical
whirlpool: me—1:51pm—dodge questions about birth
day birds—yesterday at the Unitarian church—I’ve blown
the first Starbucks customer—order me a triple Margaret
Took a lot of time to walk to Powell Street for a
Muni bong. The sun contemplating self has arrived,
its big long cloud is my damnedest mirrors. Treasure
Island slightly windy. Tonight Jamaica Pond and
a fang-reading after buying a hearse. Dinner with a
Connecticut Yankee. I have no time to myself not
poking at all. Mulch kinda funny. Nice uncomf
ortable boats in the bay. Such a nice BankBoston.
Mortgage more lifespan into each poem. We’ll see.
Got color and spoke. No more time for me too loose.
I come to this place to swindle
coming not to be an artist
I could write for days here
a blueness that doesn’t lose me
is adazzle in the arbor I’m looking at
look at the jazz with my BOY
FRIEND fairly whomever I could want
I want to want to write with what I
am I spoke with him about
the cloudmatter
now he is sick at the sun shining
I could come for days to swindle an
artist coming not to write for arbor
for arbor doesn’t lose me but
I have wrapped myself into a world
and now I have a cold blueness
a cold place I wanted I could write
a cold place I wanted with jazz
I could write for days here but
there is no need to get dependent
I just come to this place to swindle
we made leeway on the Myles Myles Stratton. gone UMP
is my diet of trees and trees and June. but hopefully it is
gaining in Blackberry and noseblowing (TRIUMPH
ant) characteristics of noseblowing and
hopefully pounds back. treesblowing is it is a veterin
arian is where is the rental car and June? I am Angel Memorial
or is that two L’s as in “Del with one L” – trees RUMPH –
treesblowing leeway on the veteran pounds I am gonna
go do that now. back! I have been going through a bit of
Semester. immediately. yesterday we WE got an orange
reminder the fact is that that is now 3:41 EDGY.
andisEDGY. but hopefully I noses immediately (one L).
I made a new KLEENEX for the truth about
a postcard of. of me attending a conference in London L
ondon Look at the PACKING TAPE I am writing a brand new
PACKING TAPE pretending this is why I write pah see
feh go to The Grove and eat BIG BLUE BINDERS this is
the way I this is the leaves are beautiful in October
are blood oranges and everything I read about the Chicken Kickers
but the ocean is all I have to say. all I have to Find me hiding. all I
alive hiding underneath alive the redbrown lights of the. all I’ve
WHITE-OUT is not how a thing goes wrong I made a TRUTH
about the London it was writing a leaf chicken. fuck red.
light out ocean HANGING FILE FOLDERS are beautiful are.
Five fifty-six o’clock and the
tacos are clear. I check the bathroom
financials and think about eternity savings time.
A poetry I haven’t written is this tree I travel
to the lightning I lost. It’s like a cut-off cushion
under the sun-puffed clouds and I like it. It makes me
whole. I lost last night in the corner of the park next to
a meal I couldn’t eat. It was the tree in me.
An ochre chrysanthemum.
marketing the subversive, here’s when you
know it’s not for you: read it once, stop,
go back and read it again, not remembering
a thing, stop, read it again, don’t remember
where I was on the page, nothing familiar,
all in ten minutes, phone rings, peony
pavilion here, ride the train, say goodbye,
forget to ever write again, women and
surrealism (lots of Kahlo), halt, Mike’s
Pastries (typo: Pasties), naked Francesca....
next May we sit in Starbucks, sip triple
you-know-whats, dine in fondue then
crash, fizzle, crashes tickle (tickle,
tickle), not at all funny, where is my humor,
not at all worth reading I go back and read it
three times for nothing, eating sweets, hell,
going back to the butterflies, back to Stafford.
Hello there poster child for a foreign exotic country,
welcome to the new sound of freak-folk! Also, the
timing of your courtesy flush is way off. But nice
news (mews) a baby cat in the sky gives us paws a
bove the war (on words). Half of Wednesday off
life adjustment—never a dull moment in the box.
Hello I am looking at the pictures from our trip to
Arkansas and I have lost nine pounds all in one week
after walking to Waterstone’s and vacuuming my bed
room. Now my stomach is a wee bit upset. Hark
October! Hark tree of life and all that good stuff,
pretty one, beside my tummy, snapped for posterity!
Wow, great juice of an English bulldog,
food tastes GOOD! Hello
guy eating an apple I love! Mark
the night with rivets make it riveting!
Seven years and thirty pounds later I wonder
at material. This stuff
sucks. Remind me I got a cat to
night to call my own. Remind my mouth to
mato weather of the English wonderdrug. Hello
Hello Sepia the Cat and Dr. Superintendent. I am morning poem.
Hey two cats:
I’m so hungry let’s try that again.
it’s rather a little unusual for
him to show up
in these poems. the fog
is eating the cheesemartians. i can’t
help it. says the ocean. those cart-
wheelers who shot at the blue and then.
(this is the future) stephanie
reading a poem to a congress of hummingbirds.
never a better time for codename
provincetown 1.436. it was a rebirth
day of surprise and omigod a poetics.
stolen excerpts include: “nebulous
sojourn for the mineral...currency”??
and who doesn’t like caps (“capsule”)
in a pill of “retro-jello” (why quote
now?) but “slippery rocks” of “in
significance” “on wax waterwings”
must win something 6.09.10.20.fog.
never once-over a page like some
glimmering on the other side read
ing it like a bomb. which is to say
boom you say that? yes next page a
goldmine full of vipers’ vests and
a spooked out clambake. this bake
disorganized, disengorged, and what’s
more, I wait it out to be hungry to be.
poetry—tab—schoolwork and look,
a few more leaves blown while the
world collapses like clockwork,
only this time with feeling. how
many times did you say that feeling
breath-rent—half gone to keynotes;
half to phone messages? block time
for quoting, reread this a third time
and feel sad, feel ugly. nothing
doing. dance like a goldfish
out of goldwater. finish big
like a goldbomb at a goldbake.
