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.
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 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.
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—dodges questions about birth day birds—yesterday at the Unitarian church—I’ve blown the first Starbucks customer—order me a triple Margaret
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.
