Monday, April 30, 2007


1.  There is a big Hawaiian earthquake.

Well, a cute guy.  He had the V. look,
only shorter, dark-rimmed glasses.
Bright red while he biked.

Youth.  2.  A mooncake box with only one left.

Circles.  The special bonus song
he’s been warning me about.
Apologizing for being such a bad friend

and for going on a South American cruise.
Nothing comes together.  Still
irritated with my hair.  3.  A mean kiss.

Lisa’s mid-life crisis.  Me, with a little
head cold.  Let me just tell you:
guitar, violin, “I’m leaving

on a jet plane.”  Something like that.

Friday, April 27, 2007


birthday candles
are such a waste of energy
ah this place a dearth

here’s an old kiss to the moth
it’s nothing more than a box
full of telephones and

our love affair
with online directories
I’m going to run to a happy place now

I haven’t seen your artwork
in a word
this will be a phone call

spilled down my pants
I’ll go home and change
then we should try Montreal

you’re so catchy darling
and juvenile sex with redheads
but everything there is

full of telephones
and at the same time gives me
a nervous breakdown

have another margarita Lorca
realize everything sucks
except the mount

Thursday, April 26, 2007


Let’s keep this simple.
It had a harshness.
He sounded like a frog

looking the other way.
Next month I suck
an architect.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007


This is what it comes to. Everything fading away
like this morning’s shower. The noxious noise of the fucking
Blue Angels. I don’t get mad enough. Here’s
just a few words, like always. A snippet from
Tammy’s memoir of growing up in Rison. About a girl who
wows a breadman with her biscuits
and Velveeta fudge worth its weight in gold. Plus this book
that I’m addicted to. A cloudy reason for hope. Never
changing adjectives. A fat bluejay next to a squirrel
and the awful history of poetry.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007


The sky is really beautiful.

aaaaaaaaRemember (ORANGE)
aaaaaaaahow the dragon hopped into my backpack
aaaaaaaaand followed me to work?

“ how she kept unremarkably pulling her hair back.”

aaaaaaaaNo No: BLUE or RED
aaaaaaaa(orange doesn’t have enough contrast).
aaaaaaaaI’d say RED.

The sun doesn’t mean anything.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Friday, April 20, 2007


In New York
thinking about

Take this energy with me
like San Francisco.

Cue self-imposed solitude.

“drinking my morning up”

fool around w/the
least neurotic person I know.

“I’m watching
my blueberry
tea bag bleed
into the
hot water.”

Thursday, April 19, 2007


The orchids in the drobby are looping.

I like faces.

The snakes I dreamed last night were under my shirt.

Losing hair (same as getting bald).

Sex is sacred.

New gourmet grocery gore.

“Who doesn’t like spires?”


Wednesday, April 18, 2007


Probably only Northwestern students know about this place.

“I feel like a dork.
I must really be one.
When I see other people being dorky it makes me happy
and being a dork can be fun.”

It could possibly snow on Tuesday night.
I’m wearing my yellow button-down shirt.


Tuesday, April 17, 2007


It is darkish.
I become this person
not to count on. Who can we count? Not on me! But
I need you. It’s a darkish rainy day. I’m in Egypt. Remember
this day. We talk about the frogs.
Omigod. Extremely.
Remember me? Do I count? I
ceased bookcase
requires catalogue. I strangelove. Often codes relenting position I
(laugh here). Ha. Ha.
There may be many times you see me in the pillow
(don’t laugh here).
There may be many such nostalgia. Yes
Yes there may be many times I count
like Saturday night when we went drinking
we went dancing we went pinballing and we rented Sunset Boulevard.
Everything becomes yes. Trite like an orchid
and believing that the presidency is sexual. We identify with
every stolen word. Oh my own heart is heavy. I mean
my accent for example. It misses something.
We identify uniquely numbers. We place distance. We play distant. WE
begin printing. Remember?
Yeah, this is cool. We become
like the only person counting. We are not the person not counting.
Not to not count on. Not also the method Sutra bearing this date. Not also
Not Also doable. Wearing
our cracks on our many rainy skins.

Monday, April 16, 2007


it’s getting hot in the asylum.
the attraction under the clavicles.
please bring me home
and last til the end of time my love.
give me the lovin’ that is
paperback warm. so vertical.

do you know where we found the lines
just before our love got lost?
when the hot earth trembled.
please bring me home.
and give it (me) more sunlight. moderate

these dreamy volumes. these dreamy
dreams maintaining their shape.
fulfilling their desirability.
I felt your heart so close to mine.
every stolen. my own
filled home. the heavy accent.

the ice water sitting on the table and its many reflective genres.
I thought the sun rose in your eyes.
I keep the thought of us
cooked up in the moon and the stars. not the asylum
nor the paperback sipped into the sunlight.
but give it to me. and I would still. why do you

Friday, April 13, 2007


The cultural leftovers maintains a shape. It is Two Thousand the year of our Lord
of Sunlight and moderate humility. What are your expectations? I’ve
already gotten used to all of the poetry and this expectation
fits my desirability (IMHO). He’s nuts when he cooks and he makes me hungry.
I am reading about a chef invoice
after midnight. It says you owe me this much. A Humble invoice. A United
wealth States invoice. A bill for Carnegie. A Mellon bill. It is 3:04pm and
the baylight rosebushes—Oh
“And if we are to understand ourselves”
I’m gonna dress my head for the wind next to the giant burrito. I am oncall
and I am reading these bookx to the ocean up there. Up there where
two thousand reflected classless societies. Up there where
middle afford homes. It is understandably above and beyond the call. We show this
by black marks on a white ocean. We show this by the taco truck—it’s The advent
of a paperback explosion—they will warm it up for you. We scream about this.
Judith Butler screams about this. My green dragon screams about this.
We scream there’s no sour cream we scream there’s no guacamole.

Thursday, April 12, 2007


Fascinating pain at the tips of my fingers leaps
literally spreads contained acid and causes fires
to destroy within. Halfway down the river where
things start to disappear earlier I’m making a limestone
pulp cough up a slate patch while a mean bluejay
sharpens his beak. Libraries trying to get educated
acidfree alkaline paper. Takes this chemical text –
standing on the streetcorner checking out the “arch
itecture” – stores reduced lightning into little seedpods on front porch.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007


begun congruent option of pink mascara Ready on
Cambridge Street. the Printers’ materials cater to markets
both medieval and B.C. all the muslim rags changes
to Cantabrigian I guess practices of worldWidth fifteenth century
valuable, probably the most interesting of his poems, they
protect precious evident bookmarks like all the Queens
Barker presented Elizabeth besides laundry. I will
surely miss Boston. its fringed silk bookmarks and Common ribbons.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007


welcome to the twenty-first century. your
Datsun is bleeding. more Eliot behalf parents
Xiantong i.e. inventor Sheng movable circa
bad music still rules. it’s a beautiful hoax.
calling Dad from Nathalie’s with a disco ball
and his “Happy New Year” surviving embedded
shallow tray lined laid level. cooled pages. it’s
me here at Dunkin Donuts. Johann Gutenberg
started widely on Huntington across from the Y.
note: Chwe Yunui Goryo Dynasty Korea. the
trash yawns upset. estimated hangovers various
Janet Jackson at the Pizzeria Uno. Calm medit
ative obnoxious Doris Day.

Monday, April 09, 2007


what happens after Death.  ?
the cat talks /Number delivery.
the Ukraine Galleries Wordpress
AdSense diggs, reddit.  ? what really....
what really happens? Responses
Borino Says: stuff them!  is this...
Is this the last time I’ll write a
journal entry in the 20th century?
One lordtime Jerry.  Jerry ONimo.
a soviet Boris who translated
Hank fighting.  regardless Stalin
I’m sure it doesn’t mean a thing.
Last night’s dream, what was it?
If it were titled it would be some
thing like “Sex with V.”  vodka?

Friday, April 06, 2007


wanna whatever minutes. SHiT battery lame kills matter. this long new white piece
we drag up the hill past Sutter. past Bush happy. he wants to fuck me and
furthermore yeah succesful knockin nothin. fanboys. this portion edited complies w/
Gamespots TOO and the swearing policy. its problems vs. these kinds of farfetched
labrats Wasnt supposed to be in the MS. I’m addicted and there’s my love. this
atmosphere of the northeast does not necessarily appeal to me. New York City! t
raining Resident Evil Snob too. &TOO Mrated adults Mature frown Childish violent
gameplay but should we split? I would go to Peace Corps Violent Manliness. goto
SF portland worrying proves Immature. Kingdom Anyway homebrews emulators
embraces the scorn. blocked Posters Stalin Soviet people Students Workbook Speech
etc... personals Reader AJAX.
So hear I am. Suggestions?

Thursday, April 05, 2007


everone miserbly Bukhara combined SUCKS BETTER. Saturday night
not much of a day. All I did after poetry was stupied brower rss coming. GPS
GTA CITY STORIES ALSO.etc. methrod. yesterday I learned the difference
between dreary and descry. try pa smell. Hollingsberg where the tea comes off
like steam after it masturbates on the whitewall. that i agree. initially launch evilross.
its D/L gym ect.Plus access nice... look I am reading the shadows. the purple shadows.
the Coco-luxe player worming through bedlam... does. O’s spam computer is
now fine. our new hrs pls ask cat’s paw. nuclear reactor billgates smaller. I stolen
Wednesday stop.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007


it is neither a beetle nor the twilight of salt and pepper. our search
is for silverfish. it is trying to snow. the rain clears it up. there’s a blizzard
on the bus while I avoid the sweets of December. a second order
of paradise. flirting with a Dan at an Eagle. an interstate marga
rita (this is the one with the header “a search for love”) all over the chips.
a slice of modern cutie. I don’t think I’ve had the frozen regular
jugular with salsa. a deep deep secret. these new fires change objects
periodically. new objects change fires periodically. new changes
fires objects. more bugs on the stove. John’s underwear. the old wine
we still have in the fridge.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007


Garlic (purple).
Africa (purple).
Hart (so thin).
Troy (the complete poems).

Monday, April 02, 2007


This time he unlatched the chain. He was always
too clever by half. I was only something from which to break

free. Like a black oak. Take it to where you want to go.
A green nest. Mossed charcoal.

Here’s when the dishes begin to break. He rubs his palm into
the dirty calf’s white forehead. He calls her Becky.

And this time he unravels the chain,
opens the gate. Just enough. And closes it. Wraps the chain

back around twice. Clips it. This time.
And once the gate is securely latched

he wraps his legs around me. The mudded cattle
are doing nothing. Like always they do nothing. It’s cold enough

to snow. And finally
warm enough in the van. How can I make the best of what I

have? This time I hugged him hard. I wrapped the
chain back around. Twice. And I took it to where I wanted to go.

Then I broke it. Like windows. Like
hearts for sure. Like a delicate gift I was too eager for.