cccii

Banana says we must remember this new kind
of cloud backing up into the sundown, a nice Perrier
of a day blocked by the Embarcadero number
{insert Japanese language}. Winter life.
Erin just sent me a parody of satire. It’s a
cadaver like a face staring out at the
naked people getting run over on the interestate.
Tell me more.

ccci

sitting here losing teeth.
sitting here with lots of my mind
sorting a new way to start and I feel lost.
I felt a lot better freezing about it. I am feeting
and I have to pee. although I might try to
shake it out of you.
I’ll have the fritatta and the restroom please.
something meaningful with less coffee.
you’ve come with me when at some point
words stop mattering. maybe that’s
it—words. they stop mutt. I touch. I tuck
with full effect into the meanings. the meanings rub the wrong way
and get a foul. why is it do you think I
always hold out my hand? seriously do you think
I am disbelieving just to touch your
tongue? I have had some secrets I lost.
the way to the words that are meant. some
are for someone,
but nobody could be more. think of the teeth.

ccc

Here’s more muse musings. Do you mind my
knowing you? Take the time.
Let’s build a birdnest,
speak Spanish (a mutual language). Well,
you know. This is a different window than
yesterday. Let’s speak Spanish. I have the
dulcimer, it’s not a critical thing (birds do it).
Big limb-like things. I want to be good, but
real? Should I aspire to such stuff? Look,
you are beautiful in poetry. Very bright
and covered in many layers. AND this
connection is yours and mine, plus better now
that I wear glasses in my cubicle.

ccxcix

Mission statement corner of 2nd, crying:
I love you very much turn off the camera.
Pick up February poetry poem in bed
all black dimly lit. Reading beautiful snow
beautiful Charles I can’t walk. Little v’s
of snow all along the bridge. Snowflake. How many
shapes look forward. The schoolbus is
the wrong direction drop your pelvis. I
watch it. I watch the moving picture in
front of me. In front you kept changing
the best thing. Brown birds.

ccxcviii

it was love at first sight. I am over and done with
again and again. yet I am still unable to hold
the man I know how to in French or whatever language. I know how to
write a personal statement on Monday but
Monday night + Sunday afternoon = I rap.
here’s a memo taken in mathematics. find the equation
for love power that knocks you down. which is almost never. get it it’s important—
not everything is a real ditty. yes we got fairly decent out of it. the ages
say blow in which is impossible. impossible to look for babies two years now.
and so I change the way I feel. I change the way I feel. I hand over music. it
beats the way writing leaves. we can dance and be only as bad as it beats.

ccxcvii

seems to me I’ve been here over a year. the slothful Marlowe spirits.
queasy my curiosity always seem such
swung instant message. swing it. take me there into that plausibility—
I spill coffee on Union Square. I spill coffee like a
rubberband. this car’s going by a Massachusetts. as did I.
did I mention the time it takes me there. to get me four. four crying. step on his feet
before I fall down. that’s when I died. he changes every four minutes. every
last night is every day—
a cosmic instant message. I’ve been fucking the possibility. it seems he
hasn’t even called in. blue grudgingly. this is a pre-marriage issue—
problems keeping.

ccxcvi

I turned last night into a poem which
when I got back from the dance about the loss
of a long-time ago it was one of the best poems—a cosmic
backdrop—snowy hot spring baths. I love him four times.
four times I wiped my eyes over the apples and the potatoes. I’m
your special guy. pain is all around. here for example is a picture of the
rice pudding from the cous-cous truck. I shot the wet sidew
alk here — and another time here, then I shot the firetruck. I swing him over and over, I
thank him over, over, fuck his eyes are all over. his eyes are over. fuck his eyes.
see how they shine. fuck them. I am over everyday screaming a bit. this pocket
changes me. change makes me feel united. so I write more. next is a
triple layer installation. the food is good but where’s the dick for love.
this green newspaper balls love into an upright casket. I escalated
then I fell almost everywhere. how romantic this is together. how
romantic together. notation: going on for a while. I just waive him.
I’m feeling quite indifferent. ha. I just wave at him. a cosmic wave.

ccxcv

I just fished a novel with
the above title. The spike
of John Hancock is Franz
Ferdinand (“beautiful boys on
a beautiful dancefloor”) and
nothing matters now. The window
across the river at your
face does not close. Never
closes. But it keeps changing. It
taps my spirit. It is warm-armed/fingered.
Well, it’s obvious rain for the weekend.
Why pillows always goalpost (“guitar”). 12:55.
Same bicycles in the median. Orange
coat with blond hair (sip). I am sipping
gold. One jogger passes three joggers
(the more I see the less I know).
Our wall. When we sat on that very bench what
was our explanation? No more. No way.
How we missed four holes in the cloud.
One jogger on the bridge. A squirrel with a
messed-up tail meets another at the closest tree,
runs up, runs down, digs a little, runs back up.
I love you.

ccxciv

these just words back from the blank page. I had a
great bedtime with your eyes down on me, keep waking.
floated and fulfilled, beautiful weather, are we dancing
taller? take a break from the interstate—
12:06—see the dirty windows. which costume are you now?
and just barely into Connecticut (our secret state) when—whiplash!
I am not you now (I do not close your eyes. I look up
and you have not closed your eyes like always. could this be
the tearing down of my life that I have always wanted?)!
I am not you now. beautiful weather—this blank page—MOMA. I went to the G
Bar — how many years was I there? in a little silkscreen
you show me your action figure. he is high.
your new jacket and strut—this is the life for five boys.
juvenilia. just keep track. just keep reading. I slept across the
street from Carnegie Hall. Depeche Mode was here. your
face keeps changing (“my God what have we done to you?”).
typical-gay-materialistic-sexistic Miro. Japanese textiles
are eating the blank page—or Milk Chocolate Milano (intell
ectual) angels? what’s with the abbreviated thing? if God
has a master plan what is he doing here exactly six years and one day less?

ccxciii

I have been stopping
on this doorway, nothing went wrong
with the bridge. Our

fresh skillet finds Dove’s blue. I
paint to stay a while in that blue. I paint the big door
of your hallway, step next to the whispery night. Look,

I have not seen him in nine years so to speak.
Since then I died so to speak, screaming
on the pillow.

This is the hallway where I may see
Frank. Not you. This ride has been nice. Nothing

is wrong with the bouncing. You change. Look at
you. I was trying to shovel snow off for years. Your

face keeps changing. For years I pressed. We didn’t talk.
We escaped. In nine years or three and a half
I have been stopping or screaming. I might see you key

the mailbox. Inadvertantly, this time I fell off. I got horribly
good. I showed up and started falling. You changed.

The rings. Every time you bounce
it is a different shape. I don’t try
not to make sense. The engine

has been running a while. The engine.
I have been running and falling a while
on the bridge in between the screams.
You make me run for it. The ride has been nice.

ccxcii

I need you like this dance over to the special corner. I’ll take
every little black sports car that zips by the wet street,
dumbs the loud bright white of a half a foot of
nobody last night. I don’t ever want that to be said.
The midday bird steps across the median and into some dumb jogger.
I have a question about your outfit – who are you today? Two squirrels
don’t want the sidewalk—they slice through the frozen rinse above the lawn.
I’m happy for the lamppost and the new gray mountains in the distance
and the black trees as they dip mostly under the bright white that opens the world...
making their noses mock the frozen river. $10,000 could also be for the dead turnpike.
Run over the snake.
Or peer into the crayon and find clouds flowing out to sea.

ccxci

Well, Hazel’s all fucked up bright fog. Have
tried therapy, three saints, nothing revealed
so maybe—as they say—sometimes it’s just good to talk.
Back to that in a minute. But first –
No No No I’m not saying you are out of touch.

ccxc

I am number 1,240 working on the
revamping project (working holes—licking
sentence—too bad fat).  Fat and $65 on Friday.
To get thin working holes a dozen years after love.
Snow is expected tonight after Ginsberg.  My brain is a
circle.
It was mainly a cheesy lesbian love story & a couple nights of solitude.
They go together.  Are we going together?  “Get the tweezer.”
“Clip my toenails.”  Benziger’s muscat
before dinner this time.  Dinner this time an amalgam.  Mars lines up with me.

cclxxxix

What is your writing about?
Already you turn into a crab.
Here’s New Year’s & you’ve
salted your drawers. I have
this one sex here for a while.
A piece of chocolate under a
green file folder. Last night I
saw balls drop at Nathalie’s.
Then I dreamt I took LSD in
liquid champagne. Always
cautious, I only took a third
of what I was given because
I intuited the whole thing
would be too much. It was
a nicer high than LSD really is.
Count backwards from the top
window.

cclxxxviii

This year my last grandparent died.  Groundmother.  Grand Ma.
Grandma Hazel died this year.  Look up helicopter.
This year’s glassy dishes.  This is a second full thought.
This my second full year in Boston copy.  I haven’t.
Haven’t you wanted to be famous?  Simple that fame.
What if everything we did is geared toward fame?
I just know it is a graceless joke did we just overlap?  Did
we overlap my calendar?  GRACEFREAK.  I know I am
not a words fountain stop concerning.
I am going back to school (almost pretending) and now
I am viewing now a sea-foam jade.  I view browser log freezer-burn.
What was your first book of poetry goddess until now?  Access?  I have
only one poem and it is not going to show up until eleven.
Did we get cheese?  Let’s copy this all down in manuscript.
He is not going to show up until eleven I just know it.
O last day of 1998—almost no depressions 2% to top it off
although a continuing overabundance of connections ST
of seeing my debt chirp.  Stop churning this.  It is the
year of the purple sun it is the year I see a blue sun
it is the year the fog is blooming I saw it until now
where it is no longer the year.  Look up helicopter.

cclxxxvii

iPod this all before. In fact, iBook this before.
One plastic binder falls unto its death. There
were three survivors. Suddenly the Compaq
revs unto life. Uber-life, extreme life? Makes
much more racket than it had been making. I
didn’t do Anything. Christmas = Over. I was
worked and ready for buzz. Buzz arrived. I
didn’t. Cool, chilly, hazy, with a box full of
onions. This box smells like onions. Box =
Cubicle. It’s already 2. I unwrapped the pres
idents on Christmas Eve morning. I am on
a magnificent book of poetry. iWords with
ear-flaps. I sure am a kid. Then we stopped
@ BankBoston to make our checking count.
Officially joint. I tried to read more iCons.
Snowman salt and pepper shakers, Mister
and Missus. Here we have snowman pot-
holders. Snowman dip dish with assorted
dips. Then we eat it all and take a nap....
Then I download a computer game from
Shanghai.

cclxxxvi

Text msg.: “No worries. My mom is coming tonight for ten
days. Do not worry.” He had clothes on. He sometimes had
a dental relationship. He made all A’s on hamburgers and I
got $100 from my dad. My dad’s presents not so much. Of
the charcoal haze covered up by the drug haze which covers
my memories, what memories am I going to listen to now?
12:15pm according to my telephone. Poemnotes are too long.
Controversial. Career. Before Macy’s buy underwear. Blue
and gay experimental stripes. Fitted tanktop doesn’t fit. Ha.
This song until the very end? 12:18pm accordian to my new
shiny tanktop. The hairplane arrives at 5:54pm. I think Taco.
I don’t know the erection. Anyone? Erections? Burg moat.
Bell directives. Drives word moats and sail snuff into rickets.
Not that, too. I lost my head in the directive. It shoved me a
new power: Fistfighting Pacifist-A. Go to the Taco television
and fake sitcoms like Everybody Loves Raymond. RU happy?
Laugh at me I am the middle-aged. Televisit accordian files.
Financial Times crisscrosses jetplane smokelines, makes hash.
Makes hash happy. No fit. Donuts 10am. Career headunder.
Big harp from A’s. Hamworries. McPoem. Teletickle.

cclxxxv

Getting ready for me
to go to Bistro Burger.
“OMG you’re adorable!
Can I kiss you?” This
pouch is releasable. Why
not quote it, then? Look,
there’s a slab of bacon
on my fries! That’s poe
try. Hello from Back Bay
Station, waiting on a train.
It’s gunmetal with a dark
green face. And that’s
an issue I promised my
self I wouldn’t dwell
on this season. Bear
in mind, Christmas in
Leominster. Anyway,
I’m on the train now,
on the way to abso
lutely nothing.

cclxxxix

don’t charge my spirit.
it needed crash. lasted
on 2 hours trying locks
til dumb legs bolted. a
black heart got drunk
frying. ground evening
into a fuzzy white harp.
spirit seized cutie-pie in
to a buzz and paid for it.
on holiday after grab
bing me to dance this
dance. this dance wants
cross purposes. a melt.
let’s say let my swank
bunk boom. give booth.
drew its hands into my
hearts. what my last
coiled hearts wants.

cclxxxiii

finally winter. he’s always
an obstacle. inconsequential
deconstruction. I couldn’t stop
being hard so I put the hot dog
under the seat and I took a sip.
floating sunsets. not to read
but to listen. this story will
find itself. pardon the
boob at the top.