I reached back to the twitching in my side—my right side—inside my back near my kidneys we’d all gotten high and written poems before we forgot that we were dying you reached back to rub the bottom of my back—your left side—inside my back the twitching kidneys kept me up a few nights plus dreams most of which I don’t remember except genitalia on conveyor belts much like at the toy factory I worked during college one summer break the summer before the private dances on the green carpet where we tangled after reading our poems not realizing—rather forgetting how I was given Burger King to bring me down to rid my paranoia beneath the window where the words got lost through the screen a warm night with lots of bugs we rolled on the blue carpet and under the kitchen table with the pasta I couldn’t get rid of my smile I ate the hamburger into a poem and spent hours in the bathroom with the tiles thinking about sunflowers and belly-dancers
I see you lurking repeating yourself I see you repeatedly lurking yourself behind the motorboat windows the boats I don’t know how else to put this in my head it knocks the repetition knocks the dragon down knocks him onto the walnut plush and resilient as he is he gets back up onto the computer you keep entering too cordial the houseplant that made its way into my cubicle only drops half a leaf drops half a leaf onto the walnut desktop I can’t put up with this are you please going to sit over here half a leaf knocks a bug into the window and Kenny Scharf knocks Kenny Scharf into a donut jamboree
The muse. The muse that’s buying the vegetables gets older buying vegetables. That’s love buying the vegetables. Old words fly like a trio of doves windowshopping new computers. Every body in the window (at its computer)
looking at the same little dog at her breast. The dog at Muse’s breast. I am talking to the dog. I am talking to the skyscraper at Muse’s breast. The doves pitch condos.
Such is the life of the thirty-something cruising www.autofreak.net. The waiter
seems pregnant. I am talking to the skyscraper. I am talking to the pregnant skyscraper. I am talking to my dinnerplate. The dinnerplate has been placed next to my keyboard. The dinnerplate has replaced my keyboard.
The street is full of motorcycles. An impressive expert — an expert in pigeon, an expert in pink — explains pigeon and pink impressively.
Then we realize other people work harder. Then we notice our lovers stay in office later.
Hello and welcome. I will learn French. A tinny music frazzles me as I temp disguised prose. These words undercut your anthology of writing a bit for nothing. I take it this is a way for all of the muck from the week to stir a little before it settles like concrete. I could have eliminated many of these words, but I am preoccupied with these skies. These skies try new ways of dampening mood. Look at them dozing hazy dozing. While heavy they do not succeed over the little park next to the road. I am no expert on the loss of stuff to wake up to. “These onions are hot,” he says. “It’s wine and Kubrick tonight.”
let me tell you another dream where I was holding your hand while you were passing out. it was a huge success, as always. a party wherein the nature of the water was such that the water was warm to the touch, meaning slightly warmer than you and me. we were not yet dreaming when it began, and everybody came to the party. there was N and R, J, S, A and little a. we didn’t always abbreviate so. once, we were more than honest. as the party wound to a close, volunteers trolled the waters for those who had waited simply to be trolled. all negativity had been defeated in the large kitchen where the punch was drunk and the reverie was molten. it was there that I forgot the dream I wanted to tell you, where I discovered that your hand was melting.
drinking joe at 1369 the water heart turns its little burguoise self around as boats flit about over on top of it. a fit of blood seeps thru my red shirt reddening everything I’m writing. the little green dragon waves hello and goodbye for a piece of art or to a piece of art. a geyser gushes good greetings more than hello and more than goodbye it’s the geyser of the burguoise waterheart its red shirt drying me up underneath the el ephant tree forcing warm dirty things beneath the crust beneath my skin. this one goes perfectly with the sunglasses crew outside the adult flickjoint. joe’s gone but what date’s this? okay then I’ll watch you jerk off argyles. sure argyles make a difference. the saxophone only cools me off after another burguoise heart pokes its head out from under the surface out from the surface up into the plastic air. it doesn’t have to be so deep about it but it’s so comfortable. I place my red hand over on top of it down inside of it until it’s the little green mayor.
the movie played with intimations of lovelessness but each time I was somewhere as if I had woken up one morning with juice in my eye. each time it was as if I had jokingly woken up with a Pitt-Jolie. I went through all of the notions. I even recorded eleven poems and then I rode the F Train to the MOVIE. they still hadn’t paid me but she seemed pleased. everything will be fine. the music lopped off the credits like you know a guillotine or something so I had to pay the rent late. there were so many bruises and bleeding tattoos on 57th Street around 10:30pm on a Friday evening but we were holding hands up the hill to the porn arcade and then we had Malaysian food. then he showed me...shit what was the name of the used bookstore with “eight miles of books”...? the firemen kept putting out fires with honey. we sat on individual seats one in front of the other and I got so lost that I got angry. later we watched the new flick and got rested up. then I beat him up. I stuck a sock into his clouds. all of the teardrops in New York on the way down Market Street in the chic but fairly expensive Italian restaurant. I’d better go in and check the laundry. I bit his lip and then I realized it was an unconventional relationship. I had no way to be quite as eloquent as a critic. it was fun and that’s all it was but it’s still very hard not to feel guilty.
I’d lie down and finish this page where I’d be this page lying down on the blue clouded sunny cropped lawn swirls. In the lying cropped lawn swirls from mowing lying down on the carpet. At the ceiling was the dusk of somebody’s voice. Somebody’s voice was a little bird I thought I’d finish and taste an onion. It wasn’t officed. The boat was lying down next to another boat that was finished. The boat was finished upon a great effort. This was the great effort at the oasis lying down in the sand getting burned. I’ve written lying down with my head wrapped in a jacket. A blue jacket that I got from my lover. My lover gave me the blue jacket. And then we sent party invitations. I was the one that was written in the invitation. I was cropped lawn swirls from mowing sunny cropped lawns in the ceiling on the boat where I was lying. I was lying.
Good morning I am breathing and alive. My people say this is better than most. Today I’m going to fall off the wagon with a triple mushroom and my head’s aflurry with a poetry conference. There are plenty of cute poets here but I’m just lust. There fore, during Duck Soup we romp gaily – we watch the last half first, starting with the violin bow stuck up Harpo’s ass.
Some young potato is talking about a trip to California. Fat chance there are several good poets in this place. I pick up a hamburger
and lose eleven pounds in an emergency seething. Apparently this was the right amount. His house is very popular but there are only two pickles. My eyes, you see. Funny
how I’m so enamored of him. Even his reflection of the green bay looks good in the building that makes bad reflections. The boats are at play. They frolic. Here he is
listening to a poem in the rain. Raindrops make him hungry all day. I feel bad. Even guilty. So we step into the sunshine from the movie equal parts
exhausted and elated. Mustard no mayo. Vanilla milkshake. Let’s order another pizza. Plug that speaker into your balls and then come over and we’ll eat it.
nearing the end of Haydn via Stevens I’ve blocked Scalapino it’s a geyser of tidbits cruising dollars into a timeslot a machination of Kubrick’s lesbians in Kresge so last night I must have been a ham but I can’t get burgered I’m sorry I say and I go to the sorry box now stop it I’m fine I’ve revived my correspondence we’ll be the hot boys you’re too cute to gravel
a chain of renascent mermen rise from the surface (at the surface) blow the poem into baloney (air blowing) (being blown) the letters on my table are a remarkable headache all the way to New Paltz, New York
back from Arkansas now and I’m roaming the City of Boston on a weekday I love Boston raindrops wondering what’s the word for striking a moaned chord in the fog before burning moaning a struck chord before the fog burns
and yet I open another e-mail looking for availability in June so I’m gone all month is what strikes the back of my head
let the waterbottles turn brown before I return for all I care the stakes are not that high along the smooth white picket lines
I stopped by the bank for the money from 1976 after the ice cream social on Tuesday where we talked about potatoes and golden brown sugar and French music
we were both in a strange woods yesterday he was asking me how good I kissed
the chewing gum people have a conspiracy going on. also there’s someone bracketed a few sentences in my book and posted one comment IMPOSSIBLE next to the various sentences which refer to equal faults among men and women. I don’t know who this person its previous owner was. though I am under duress. the person I’m sitting on disagrees yet he has no motive to write about Virginia Woolf. the way he sees it there is a fog and then there isn’t or vice versa. we watch the Berkeley whitecaps tactfully settle.
I don’t always have to write this stuff I’m finding. what the issue is and why I’m swinging on Dad’s porch reading the yellow book and appreciating the Fort’s helicopters and leftover mosquito bites I’m not sure. what the mutual benefit is also I’m not sure but the helicopters keep bombing the hill where this gang has set off four riots nearby. nearby in another forest someone is operating the honey gear. they must put out the fires with honey. I continue to hear the bee noises. they are on track. but today it is my vacation and the fires are still there burning up the hills. I also have a purple marker. I write these fires in purple next to my itinerary. later I am going somewhere like a beach or something.
on July 9 I pour myself another coffee in the Starbucks. next to my yellow book are more DVDs. these become movies I wanted to watch and cause me more of my paycheck after I’ve had them a while. this is only one reason to love Blockbusters. we don’t watch any movies except on HBO but after that we visit at Shane’s formerly Quincy’s next to the swan pond. I wasn’t terribly hungry anyway. soon afterwards FedEx arrives with my new book. I can’t finish the yellow one. it opens and closes with Pretty Boy Floyd in Fort Smith. afterwards my mother has the audacity to make sloppy joes. I wasn’t terribly hungry anyway. when I woke up yesterday I went out and bought a new radio antenna.
that was one huge bird like a loon that just flew out of Dad’s fishpond a squirrel actually barking at me when I walk out the door two cats on the porch not so wild like those below does he name this mountain?
7:30am and already hot but so peaceful with all the animal noises one thought now one literal thought I know the cow and I know the rooster the locusts with their megaphones around 11 last night the stars are bigger
how much of what is love—a blackbird flying by the window—down left— benchmark: 4 oyster shooters downed inevitably—1 more left for conversation—this talk goes downhill then I finish a poem—it has a good ending—a poem about death doesn’t have to be happy—reading in Hayden a cosmopolitan crow swoops down to a woman walking the sidewalk between the pool and the dogwood—she is wearing a black t-shirt—a girl in pink next to the tiger lilies— a girl with blue flowers for a skirt—a puppy with a blue leash—a pink bag—cherry blossoms over a barrel of fake words
