ccclviii

this is delicate
a full petal crimson-brown
drying in the fern

this is my connection
we sit in the same nest
winter a greenless nonsense

this del
icate con
nection abounds which

I have made a new connection
when I curl my fingertips
delicately under yours

     —maybe one or two
ever get connected—

we applaud each new description
of each new passing cloud

ccclvii

I’m on Walden Pond with
raindrops and sunshine.
I’ve been bristly all weekend,
most especially after try

ing to get my driver’s license
in Watertown and
being told I didn’t have
the proper equipment.

This morning I woke up
and saw olive oil. It was just
looking at me. Like it
wanted to say good morning.

A dog lopes up a hill with
two people. A fly lands
on my book. Six salted eggs
on Stockton Street. The

tripod, like a spider, lands
on the soft grass next
to the blossom-dusted
cobblestone. Its camera

finds a book about pickle
spears and salted eggs.
The bell rings. It is
another F Train.

ccclvi

I am so tired of words. Here is some examples. Pleasance is a word.
Its fiction bends over to take a photograph of hyacinths in Levi’s Plaza.
See how the hyacinths lean in toward slimmer cameras recognizing he
likes to squeeze in his pillows and finds this interesting as you nor I do.
Seagulls needn’t worry their cherry blossoms. Grackles are all nondescript.
The paragraphs in which he capriciously stops to photograph the purple

the purple bumblebees (the miniature purple pineapples). These stops
and starts takes a blade to the jeans his jeans. Its cobblestones dusted with
cherry blossom petals only when they ripped. He stays put for a few minutes
just hugging the blue pillow. Virginia Woolf gets very little sunshine as
this business of words sounds alarms back in Berkson. Warmest ever
these tops of trees bends over the roiling river sweltering at 2:30pm.

ccclv

real fog’s haze this mourning’s
estate a thin maze’s languor
its play-by-play on each lip’s
in sway with dusk’s beleaguered
dreams
dreams of this duck’s fount

I hate this language
says the real bartender
in the Bechtel dining car

our signatures’ connections
evolved two into one
where one is this event
equals two of us altogether in
the grackles’ wanted fountain

folks like us kisses our
pillow lips jubilate as we
hugs dusk’s hacked dreams

cccliv(e)

there’s a rumor that everything is connected
(well that’s nice) I am chewing Wrigley’s Orbit (Ohne Zucker)
with Suzy’s cat (fed just a minute ago)

it’s pinkslip Thursday (yes another one) but
this time with a little bit of sleaze
she’s doing fine it’s a horrible place

the Matson boat doesn’t leave as big a wake as
the Yang Ming boat and I’m
sitting on a park bench alongside Jamaica Pond thinking of...

sipping chamomile tea with Tylenol Cold (2)
sniffle     (and punctuate)    I’m really nice and
purple     here’s to my good fortune isn’t it beautiful     (LIFE)

how I’ve proceeded feeling good love with gum & gravel
walking and reading the first novel I’ve gotten halfway thru
in over a year while at the same time (White Noise)

staving off death locked inside the blurred blanks
those boundaries between the waters and the airs locked 100%      {mimes
point to the implications of these relationships}

                                                                                   a movie
with two new fruit leaves Tsai Ming-Liang is mag
num
           dizzy exclamation point

now I think I’m having a panic attack with my filtered water
it’s summer already and it feels like
I have to put my glasses on just to see its own watery hands (mine)

my own my very own watery hands
                             who is it debunks such bunk can somebody say
I am never connected 100%

cccliii

texture of memory.
give up on words.
back to water. oases.
things got boiled down.
romantic. a bottle of
whatever the source.
in the park before dawn.
brown barechested
stairsteps full of free stuff
like: siphon. just
words. hyphenated
last name. menage.
Hawaiian shirt. visa.
glass of milk. cheese
danish. failure. Seuss.
movie. Star Wars. penis.
priest. New England.
no public restrooms.
Bergman. Roth IRA.
glass of milk. Iran.
boobies. lamppost.
getting down on your
small hands and asking
please this is my last
and final request. before
sunbathing drop keys
order in lose ID. get
upset w/o touching
computers. recreate
botany not growth but
spilling it backwards.
an excuse for a pillow
eight hours.

ccclii

THIS =
anything profound must be harnessed,
leashed. like lightning. I know
                                                          Fantasy. but
someone has to be is bouncing off
the walls
                    of the sun like the jacuzzi in the museum. making me
break. breaking free. what if he breaks
through? I’ll just

knowing. I. cannot. right
this beautiful stillspring day. or maybe I’m wrong
and it has righted itself already:
I am that wall
                             (a sunken library where we teach children how to swim
in a world full of handcuffs)
                                                        we survived
whatever made me giddy
and then died.

framed fireworks.
the frame: a ferris wheel in a rollercoaster museum. we are to
                                                                                            remain calm
               while folding ourselves up into the barrel of a cannon.

but it’s not over it’s not over this bounce.    a pair of magnets
oppose each other,
find the wrong poles,
the right holes.
                             .take back off to the sun

cccli

I will try to write it all down on the birds
singing their jubilation of a Sunday evening.
They’re finally slowing to an easy pace.
My SecurID reads 456495 tells me what
happens in my head like Joe Pesci driving us
home to the couch from dinner in the North End.
The couch is asleep with somebody on top of it.
An aquamarine stapler. Upstairs at the Indian place
in Central Square vegetarian thali dinner—I shed a
nother tear like she walks down the aisle. On TV
a misogynist in South America fighting killer ants.
Finally I find pizza—a joint called Barbato’s—IT
IS APRIL at NIAGARA FALLS although we
only allude to the transition. Mark my words
Monday I will write it all down. After blowing
bubbles on the newlyweds I drive 23 miles to
the Riverside Inn in Cambridge Springs for a
reception. I take off before the cake. My
solitude is over. I’m home 11:30 snuggle him up.
Next morning watch him graduate with Kissinger.

cccl

There’s a rabbit over there
looking down at Niagara Falls.
An officer asks me if I’m okay
here at the edge. How nice
“just to see you sitting there all
by yourself.” Stunning, no later
than 5am I feel wonderful. Slept
a bit in my car about 30 miles
east of Buffalo, drove into the dark.
Got here and now there’s enough
light for memory lane. A family
of six one early morning in the 70s,
waking up in a Pinto station wagon
to the multicolored waterfalls. We
couldn’t get into Canada because
Dad refused to give up his Derringer.
Soon perhaps I’ll get a haircut
and a wedding gift in Buffalo. Now
I’m walking the edge, all of a sudden,
whoa, a drop of lightning. Muffled
thunder and the rabbit’s off like the
birds below. A cloud on the water.
Morning brightens. Day finds me
distant yet straightforward, stirring.

cccxlix

I am now dead. check the yellow file folder {insert cellphone beep here}

and you’ll find a lighter to hold up time-off—

and yes you’ll find I’ve been eaten by a solemn duck, beaten into

the hourglass like eggs while being told to have a vengeful day

4:12. honestly it felt good except for the pain (heel of left foot). nor 4:21

the timestamp on the international waybill. check out the watch it’s huge—

it clocked our blow (conversation) when the cookies were at my new place

and I was really in love. yes yes that’s when and where I was bested best. and

(yes, in love with his desiccated couplets.) time out for (plantar fasciitis laugh attack!)

look anyway the plovers getting chased by Rover across the camera. pay heed the

commentary. its various incarnations next to the stump washed in by the ocean.

Tuesday somewhere and the moss shows up. two minutes later it’s 4:13

and the Chinese Back Dormitory gives the waterbottle a spin {insert slumpdate here}.

death feels like the one tree in the wind that blinded the forest. I loved you for sure.

                                                                 --urgent Cupid postcard at Seal Rock Inn.

cccxlviii

pickrock. tea palm
pulses. beat fist 19th.
throw down hillside
quiet rock. down hosp
ital hot palms. pinklife
beats fists 19 faces into
forgotten arbor. the lbs.
palms it. teapnook from
hospital hot. prain ardor.
230. how tup to help
rock. spend entire day
to get moved. fact add
fat keeps cut face cut.
strewn down palm
nook. hotrock it
fit. rockpick it
palm. strip curve
of shirt. 32.

cccxlvii

This poem about you
smells like an old book.
Its hair was so dark at
birth. It matured with
such dash—I reread it
often. Its ballsy opener
was never a yawn. But
it is really quite lovely
to watch it rent a
moving van.

cccxlvi

My left foot down the first step.
No pain! My hair in the cloud
that’s heading east after snapping
off the balcony. Mostly blue, the

skies take off, probably for the
last time. Today, I’m making
arrangements. Tofu-veggie
stir-fry. Gmail flashes a new

message : ‘James Blunt isn’t
that cute.’ Non? How would
I know, anyway. Got the tele-
phone order in yesterday

at a urinal in Faneuil Hall.
I ate a salad for lunch. That
didn’t come out right. I got
the telephone order in. My

chamomile tea is cooling off.
Embarcadero 4 nearly ripped
a cloud in two. My glasses are
already hungry. Dirty, non?

cccxlv

Dear Feathercloud,

I ate the past but I’m still
hung. Talked to him for 30 minutes this
horny. The crickets are getting a
dick out of it. I should come every Sunday
but here I am watching the ducks and geese
fry a lot. Not a pecker this side of the water
but the pigeon pricks. I watch him swallow it.
Damn.
Looks like another downpour spoon.

Love,
Meatduster

cccxliv

Yes I am reading ficus
on the onion. Raindrops.
Some basic America
rains drop fruits energy.
Plantar fasciitis eating
slowly downhill. Layer
graduates in two days.
So hungry to pick a
card. Wet bricks or
Zen. No more food
him. Only I probably
boats hand in handeye
to eyeroll. Pucker
the smile of an onion.
Some rains don’t have
eating slowly. Rain.
I have to go focus on
the fruits. Orange
with a splash of tangerain.

cccxliii

Here
having
wrong
is good
at
poetry.

Antidote?

Where
I’ll
please
slept in my office

Dad Dad.

Oh the sense of humor.

Keeping
you
a
breast.

cccxlii

iron fans kill
the fight is the beauty of the kill
we watch each bloodstain grow very attractive
this is how we are designed
our defensive applications are stainless steel ribs
they (we) attack the mouth of an orange river
which opens smooth and bloody like an early October morning
the hillside is on fire
forsythia
at approximately thirteen inches in length
a helicopter noses its way over a bumble bee
past its man and his orange river
everything is bleeding
this is clear from the falling cherry blossom petals
and the hungry bear who grabs another new fish out of the orange river

cccxli

i like the sound of besmilr. her purple globes
plums falling on the christian science monitor.
which animal has given him an invoice to sign, a
opossum or an ant? he must be pretty proud of
today’s major planning (penning a wednesday poem
and calling it brain science). i should probably run
but first i do some dishes and feel your hands
in the dishwater unquote. once more the
“house of the coffee woods” is intact
but for the broken network of singed ants.
our name is over the laundromat like a sprite.
i spell its words from the shapes of the feelers.

cccxl

spring clouds dump walked.
willow clouds break up.
on my back willow breaks open.
i walk over to sleep spring. our place.
three times you gave me a bunny rabbit.
over three times to wide-open-eye spring.
the willowbark breaks walk three times.
you were like proud of yourself. spring sleep.
wide-open-eye rabbit.