dccxciv

cut-up #15

page 1,967, year of my birth (summer of love)

Wonderland (a euphemism)

eggy eyes (from too many roosters)

new stripy pillows from Crate & Barrel (displace attention from horrid couch cover)

“I heart U2, Hubby” (a tulip verging on tragic, but gloriously so)

Monday afternoon silence (beneath which to wax euphoric)

“You make me so happy” (eyes three-quarters closed)

screams downstairs (Coco waiting at the door for you)

YOU (my LOVE)

dccxciii

Walking SOMA 5 in the morning

Dancing too hard makes me feel good
but it’s my karma to stare into the eyes of the crazed
(if only because I give it back).

Turn the corner at the W,
who’s up in New York at this hour?

Praise the advent of 24-hour Starbucks.


Some time later, still caffeinated yet blowzy with Xanax...

Small, beautiful, bright crevice cut into the bruisy cloud
that covers the day.   Jesus can arrive through it,
land on one of the new uprushed condo buildings.

Street canyons almost drown out fire engine noise,
sent to put out another condo fire.   Condo prices linger
in the netherlands.   A condo of the mind.

Four and a half hours of work on holiday,
President’s Day.   What I give for my country.

It’s the disruptive life for me.   The sky now one perfectly solid bruise,
a complete wound,
bright suture gone.   No hope for divine spokesperson at this hour.


Later still...

Postcard stamps now up to 23¢.

dccxcii

O grey bay
why do you look at me
that way?

Why even
look at me
at all?

dccxci

All stories of deception are empty.
                                     —Alice Notley

I am speaking to the poem.
There is no meaning.
Therefore...

I have tried different things
like putting together sentences
with and without punctuation

and the last couple of days
scrambling the lines
after throwing them together quickly
(some clumped
from 2 or more portions of the ledger).

My sense are diminish.
The steam off roofs come.
Cloud the days like this one.

My soul real narrative
arguing around a table of grapes.
An apparition.   An apparition
are great.

dccxc

HEAVY LIKE A FIRST DAY PERIOD
                                                —Janet Jackson

And then it comes,
rinsing the stars from the sky
while you’re stuck weeping floors
and she’s
found something unnameable
at the end of a crayon.


                Thirteen dumbbell curls
                during Roman Holiday.


“Who likes communist poetry, anyway?”
he asks, earnest enough.

“I dunno,” says she,
nibbling the pure end of the crayon,
“but it has to be fun somewhere,
right?”

“I’m not in this
for the money,”
says the relaxed pelican.


                Dr. “Liver” Akagi
                sprinting down a dirt path
                in his white suit
                and boater hat.


And then I bought a tiny box
in a small wood
and spent the rest of my days
trying to find a way inside of it.

dcclxxxix

I think my property keeps me from living on the street.
                                                                                    —Alice Notley

That sailboat is a bit fuzzy without glasses
but it has a little red in it.   And cuts quite a swath
on a lovely day like today.

It’s a matter of breathing
and continuing to breathe
and eating someplace you haven’t eaten before.

And riding in a sailboat.   Having catfish & chips (Cajun)
writing 5 poems in 24 hours but cheating
writing cut-ups while he’s partying all night
cutting up the carpet and the cat’s litter box
cutting up the little plants by the window
(watching the two turtledoves)
thinking violently...

                PoetryCubicles

...repeating words and phrases
“when I was on the fence I was”
about sex and government censors
(government scissors)
somehow relieved (really stupid, isn’t it?)
with Steven
a new object of his affection.

How romantic I’ve made it out to be.

Walking up to the poet full of sweet potatoes,
black-eyed peas and fried catfish
and pulling the house right out from his pants.

dcclxxxviii

Death means
you keep going,
only now you’re a zombie.
                                              —Jack Kimball

Got to put on some gum
and eat a lip balm.
And carbuncles.

Step out from behind the screen and

                        Can you have a translator in real life?
                Yeah, and I hope my memory comes in today!

Blam!   Feckin’ A!   I am able to spit nails because of a
printer cartridge because of a stupid magenta printer
cartridge.

Two turtledoves.
Two turtledoves in love.

I didn’t write this (in a cantina) it isn’t me.   Not me anymore.

dcclxxxvii

phta, phtaoems

He aged me in his head
and it wasn’t pretty.   Besides,
he never even met my father
(only 17 more years to go
if I go when he went).

Sexual congress.
Restless leg syndrome.

Last night after some
correspondence and
Diamond Mine I
cooked dinner
(rice, stirfry,
and chick-peas)
for the both of us

then we watched
Betty Boop episodes
until my eyelids
got heavy.

I think he’s thinking
of some other father.

dcclxxxvi

Ugly Milkshakes

Hooray for the day
getting nicer
on the inside.

And for Atonement;
lush, moody.

And Beagle Mania and
dental health insurance cards.

My left elbow itches. And
the scar on my shin (right)
where I fell off the bed
(jumping).   And the
family of tarantulas
in our bedroom.
(onto a cedar chest)

And the swallow
swooping over the flag.

And the sparrow that just
squatted and shit
right next to me.

And for the
best milkshakes
in the whole world.

And for Blackberry
outages.   Time to get back to
Tree of Smoke.

dcclxxxv

Beyond Elevator Talk

All this scuttle about who’s cutting edge
is bunk!   How NOT to be
partisan.

I didn’t know how much
I would miss you
dancing on a giant “M”.

Nothing original to toss into this lake,
my eyes.

Traipsing in circles....then lost
concentrating on a urinal.

                   (Hiatus)*

Does the idea now that I’m writing poems from
THIS ledger make me POSE more with my words
SURE.

Bob the Builder is on my birthday cake.


*after Philip Whalen, yet again

dcclxxxiv

There Will Be Blood
is the best film of the decade!!!

“Woody Allen Caught in Kinky Vid”
today’s headline – but

imaginary weekend at Sai’s,
loud and grumpy...

What?

I drank your cup of coffee
an hour ago.

Mean, tired, just want to feel... – but

the imaginary flag of my heart
has capsized.   Flattened, weighing less than a dime,
ballasted by a string of paper birds.

I’d rather the rattle of lungs
than the ringing of ears.

“Quick, out the back door!”
            whispered: “Thanks.”

dcclxxxiii

The tea-green palace.

I’d like to walk up Twin Peaks
but instead am mesmerized by Momo,
his head tipping back and forth
in lush mid-morning sunshine.

The cat decides to choose an ink.
Once chosen, slathered upon each paw,
she slips through a donut hole.

Momo’s head.
Momo’s head.

The raindrop triptych moves an inch toward the ceiling
and another inch toward the powdery carpet,
thus extending its sovereignty.
Try winter.

Sushi,
two new red shirts,
and tree identification booklet.
She bent my finger back.

Waiting for the perfect time
at The Luggage Store Gallery, 6th & Market.

dcclxxxii

Like condensation on the chocolate milk bottles
at the front door of childhood –
seeking warm concrete   (w/ very, very distant jetplane).

Breaking up?!   Pity.   I didn’t get her e-mail address
nor anyone else’s.

Making lists:
       -boiled eggs
       -yogurt
       -glass of water
       -sunshine

Catch-up has been fairly intense.   Making lists,
message from David, doing the laundry Sunday morning,
watching doves fall in love, getting a massage, Basement Jaxx,
hair’s getting longer, should I go see my favorite bartender tonight?

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have been woolgathering....”   (Philip Whalen)

Spent so much on this trip to get everyone together for a bash
at Banana Republic I canNOT believe the BRUNT of my purchases!
However, there was birthday cake upon arrival

                                                    & Kelly Osbourne doing Papa Don’t Preach.

dcclxxxi

A Scam Wherein Pace Is a Well-Fortuned Fate

After an all-night movie on
the breast-and-butter machine

...having brushed my teeth in the nasty traintoilet...

walk in to work, shower at the Y,
new big backpack accommodates nicely.

“Hooray for California,”
says the dullard.

dcclxxx

Goats Get Dressy at New York Fashion Week

I took the sud.
And the sud was good.

And, after buying a new book of poetry
(The Nevada Sunrise), decided I’m already corporate enough –
so why should I attend a poetry business conference?

“Hey, throw the garbarge!”

And there was moonshine in the water....

dcclxxix

Icecream isn’t toes
                                          —Philip Whalen

Two turtledoves are necking on the banister.
Otto saw them first.   Now they are parted,
individually preening, tail to tail.
They saw us watching.   Shy doves.

Mixed bag last night, good to hang with you briefly.
Just remember “palimpsest / pentimento” —
that’s all.

Reconcile Gerrit Lansing on the train NOW
w Eileen Myles and Philip Whalen (also NOW)
meeting each other (and Bill Berkson) for golf.
What a foursome!

Sitting in the dining car listening to folks regale o’er
conversations of various trips: trains, ferries.
Now I’ve a seatmate, a very happy guy
bothering me a bit.   San Francisco
tomorrow night; looking forward
thru the long tunnel.

dcclxxviii

Mackerel sky.
Two deer
on a fresh-plowed corn garden.

Rolling Iowa hills.
Cows.
Big round bales of hay.
Congratulations of self self self.

Something died for these words.

Overwhelming
if not morbid.

Overwhelming
if not maudlin.

dcclxxvii

No more than a page.

Really curious if, as expounded by Whalen:
“most of [MY] problems will disappear if [I] sit
still (privately, i.e. in solitude) 1 hour per day
without going to sleep (do not speak, hum or whistle
the while)”

...

“I do not put down the academy but have assumed its function
in my own person, and in the strictest sense of the word—academy:
a walking grove of trees.” (Whalen again, after an hour or so)

Repeat the next sentence seven times.

Toward(s) a philosophy or having convictions (in earnest,
or by virtue of living earnestly?).  Waking up one day
and having one.  Is impressive.

The train is huge now, we picked up New York.  Boston makes me happy
I live in San Francisco, but happy!  I mean I love Boston.

Strange couplets at the bottom of a page:

                  “wordspity
                   don’t kiss me”

                  “Charles Bernstein
                   no beep”

                 “a stroke of luck
                  a lack of fuck (not true)”

South Station.   Nice cabbie drove me from Machine last night
picking me up at 12:10pm.  Feeling a bit jittery due to birthday cake
and coffee.                     Owen has decided he wants to eat mushrooms.

dcclxxvi

Last day @ 34


Having forgotten, you know,
everything.


Take that thought further
                    And that’s how a Cheez-It gets its flavor


Blow the happy feeling (like a poet)
trying to have my
“Quiet Day”
or
“Regroup Day”
or
“Living Day”
or
“Happy 40 Birth-Day”


I’m a rainbow tube.

dcclxxv

That’s a grand assumption.

Rain for days in San Francisco,
sheets of it some days,
just a hulk of anticipation others.

Funny like Sausalito (or so via
Sal Paradise). Nostalgic
fingers on keypads. Brainless
watching The Matrix.

I read so much on the train (past tense,
cousin to hor tense) and was
much lulled and time stopped etc.

So do you like the CD I made you?

dcclxxiv

So the long rain waves drain
                                            —J Ashbery

...and we lost the days like severe pains
draped upon our shoulders... or like an
anxiety attack in Nob Hill Valley,
Coco under the sun...

I want to be out on the pier, 5:45am again,
wondering if they can see us from the
Bay Bridge...

extracting software for the umpteenth
iPhone update, the joys of peppering our
assorted wares with brief energy spurts...

...bruising letters...misrepresentative of
corner, blackmail, concrete...

on a train to Philadelphia....
missed connection in Chicago...
everybody’s pissed on Pebble Beach.