I’m freaked out by your indifference, I think. And I wrote that A DAY BEFORE THE ELECTION! Cut to the vulnerable quick, diving into the crack of the book; its connective tissue is what I’d rather
be. Y ou’ll never find me begging for clarity again.
I myself, however, am intrigued by the process. I mean, whatever. It’s called BAD. But it’s so bad it’s GOOD, even though our malaise is so very RE PRESSED. Also, my stuttering is worse than ever.
I am a part of the sequence, this lineage, a( )history. I’m also just as dirty as the next guy. Last night I was fondling a stranger (The costume party was a bit droll. But our costume was fun. We went as a Pixie Stick. I was a pixie and he was the stick.) and I almost forgot to step out of the dream sequence and/or through the pink curtain behind which other men waited with machine guns. Two weeks of boring. I need a new hobby, something else to occupy my time. Okay, let’s make a list: 1. Cheer up 2. Get rid of headache 3. Anti-postmodernism 4. Children playing on rooftops
Even when everything is slow, I am back to writing what you call the poetry. I do it from a walnut finish and my view is obstructed. What I meant by walnut is a pain in my neck.
Why are you doing it? He sees from this angle something his childhood View-Finder (TM) would not. But almost. Like certain smells trigger memories, so do certain colors, right?
I’m so tired of looking for cheap acts and waiting around for another train.
I am trying to imagine (so as to enact) a feasible means of nourishment. Imag ination can be more than fantasy, can it not? I am no different. This just happens—I let it go.
Today’s flower, the lily. A pesky cold, the business cold. Around my table— horrible boring talk about violence. Violence to papers and sexism. Five hundred years of Western civilization, and what’s better to discuss?
Every cloud a pompous biography. Every bruise a hospital system.
I saw/heard Creeley read last night. Full house/ Gershwin Theater. My neighborhood. Poems about household furniture. Today my calendar has a sunflower. I want small yellow roses, try telling a truth of things. Someone asks Suzanne if she’s lying. She says no. Then decides maybe, yes, sometimes. Even trying not to. My head rings. I drink a gallon of water every day.
The clouds play shadow-puppets onto the bay waters. A goose turns into a lion, that sort of thing. It’s quite dramatic, which is nice on a boring Tuesday.
[I had this line in the elevator but now it’s gone.]
Kit Robinson’s fragments stitched during sleep are not my fragments. In what we might call last night, I dreamt of sexual encounters in an amusement park and in the rocky shallows of an ocean beach.
There were spectators. Former supervisors and colleagues, quite random. But the encounterees were anonymous.
Pesto slathered over a pale chicken breast. Always good for the blood. I am left with no time to think.
I am thinking of many different ways to change my person. Catherine writes great. Let us further examine this punctuation mark !
. Needless to say, sometimes it’s fine to be straight up.
We saw Alvin Youngblood Hart at Biscuits & Blues. The exam was very hard, tricky. But now I have to order an original birth certificate.
The wind is chopping the water into whitecaps. I will turn 40 in Paris. This statement one of many bilocated uncertainties involving passports. Good morning. I don’t care. How are you?
Olson’s comeback. Namedropping at parties.
I should be doing more of this. My first official threesome. And though it was somewhat comical, it was a lot of fun. It’s all too normal.
Some dates Joanne writes several somethings-or-others. Well, it’s 7pm and our court is reserved for 8. Speci ficity in 28-year-olds. Leads to anniversary present. Aw come on.
I wasn’t upset at all, was happy to give him
something. Awkward boundaries. Restock the fridge.
An ocean (and its floaters, and its flags).
I really couldn’t even afford all that, but it was well-deserved and it made me happy to do such. Wait, we forgot today (and its pain in the neck, and its eyeball headaches, and its printer cartridges).
It was dull and gray looking at the island through a Perrier bottle. Undergoing this to recreate the memories of what made us love them in the first place. Right now there is a pretty big heatwave. The ice machine is completely drunk. Are we going to see any of your family; destroy my commitment to detail?
Finding the French in it, the building bows its head. “I love you” after a long silence in front of the SF Fashion mag; the white wake-like summer, its flag limp, a haze, a few bugs and a fingerling cloud. The sausage factory blown out of proportion, ere its associated mysteries. “But I’m happy!” “Think of it.” “It’s really a swell life.” “What’s going on on your floor?” I understand the blossoming of all hell breaking loose. Licking one finger and pointing it at the moon. The moon blinking. The moon sitting down to take a little break. A gap through the grape’s bruises, bluer than.... Apricots, pineapples, asparagus. And a fresh bowl of marbles. Gouttes d’eau sur pierres brûlantes. How much of a prick most artists are. Esp ecially to their spouses. “It’s not really that bad.” “No, it’s not really that bad.” “I didn’t think so.” Namedropping at dusk. Leaving no stone un touched.
I have the habit of twisting my tongue into knots and sucking on the contortions. Side effects appear to be increased anxiety and a ringing in the ears. People have been asking me why I’ve been doing this for so long
and I concur. Drinking a smoothie between the words fire and flower. After my workout today, I was 171. This morning I was 168. A week or so ago I was 174 in the afternoon and 175 in the morning. Most of
downtown is usually a riot. There’s a big fire in Oakland or probably Emeryville. I can see the flame with my glasses. Ignorance is only bliss when you are ignorant, so why bother mentioning it.
