I put too much fake sugar in it, not interested in the perpetual coddling. I’m sorry, did you say something? Send me the swoop on Merce Cunningham. Ocularly.
How do you know if you’re a Cylon? Check out my niece. It’s the groping skeleton agreement. That’s what rich will get you.
Is this rock jutting out of or entering the island? Is it an optical illusion or another Naruto episode? Where can I get some kombucha? Why is it only 3:12pm? How come it’s already 3:12pm? 3:13? Logic vs. emotion? How many times can I already say I’m proud of you? How many questions before I stop? Stop at 3:13! Stop! Check balance is $216.58. Now I’m at The Grove on Fillmore. Not a date this time, but I like it. So I’ve parked in this area now OMG I remember this day – three messages – three different methods (e-, voice-, text-) to no word. This and my correspondence with a bedrugged yesterday, the swill of the moment, all gone, gone, gone. Any questions I’d be fire without now?
I’ve been reading and writing ____, trying to work it out with the flock, understand what it all means, but here I find myself a few hours later, starting over against the carpet, removing my shoes before sinking into the tub. It’s all the same, exercise for abs, more United miles, and it keeps us all from having to lift ourselves into the _____.
Let’s start over against the carpet. Why eat for break- fast what you already have in your heart. Let’s remove our shoes before sinking into the tub and then, no longer stanky, collapse our toes into a net that traps all of the important ingredients for the most creative ______ of all.
Give him up entirely! My _____, which is now altogether too _____.
Why the appeal of dissonance? Or why such appealing dissonance? Would that his atonality refused me. I’m with- drawn as if to a non-Pollack Pollack, some- thing a magnetic mirror would exchange with my knuckled head. And blah is the business of it. Blah the cigarettes of sexual internment which intend to resist my turn-ons, insist upon them instead. And why should we resist? Here we sit, right in the very front, describing San Francisco to the Japanese. Fifteen minutes and I have to move my car.
Why can’t I write a book called Fraud? —Norma Cole
A meeting of the fraud in whatever space this is, living high and well on Tuesday-the-new-Monday. I call it EXIT with no holes, no visible holes but a blank to move toward, some dim and perhaps hallucinated bubble blown by a child with implausible patience.
In the garage of the father waiting on time. Some sort of 5-year long anxiety attack. One year I’d rather not forget, no notes available. Dis- remember bath- room catalog, Sears, with side- ways smile and studio map of the stars. Trying not to be handsome with evil grin and stopped-up wink doesn’t work. You’re powder blue above the rest. A kind of picnic stapled up the side of a Disney ride and downed with 800 milligrams of Motrin (no more laughing gas). Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the toolshed wriggles under the thumb of a typhoon. A set of chopsticks are torn from a potato salad. Dill is in the air; an ice box creeps across a yard of concrete, rowdy as a fourth quarter Tiger touchdown at the county line.
My feelings just bit the dust after a whole year! Yoohoo, I’m in favor of naughty pisses. Just ask your drug problem. Somebody please help me fix everything. Remember, sweet love is a birthday and I’m still alive messing this one up. So, Faces with Roses, go do yourself some flavors and buy me a Zippo. Or is your clouds too swollen? Jeez I meant zippers but whatever, shush and forget the whole thing. Just allow me the honor of massaging your beautiful hairy legs. Super-wow! Shrug.
Stop beating a dead horse and learn to be okay with not being okay. Masturbate with enjambment. Don’t cut the cheese unless you’re willing to give an inch. Be true to something that cannot exist. Spread the good word. Exercise your right to explore the option of an annulment. Try on a pair of rose-colored glasses. Stop repeating yourself. Be yourself. Stop whining and try on a pair of balls. Create an alter-ego on Facebook and use it to trumpet your anger. Empower your- self by eradicating the notion or even the appearance of perfection. Be
Is Bruce in today? Or is today utterly exhausted of Bruce? It’s probably mostly ecstasy. Fuck it doesn’t feel right. We had a long conversation. A first after a whole year. A first conversation. I can’t write any more. Two lip variousness. Smoking feelings. Hanging off the edge of a cliff, best mood in months—crescendos for weeks into Kleenex. Mom’s in New Mexico under something aluminum. A rat attack. They’re all appropriate with disappoint- ment. The fawn left the family feast.
A wrinkled bruise on the back of my hand. Office babies. What a strange verve you have. Laughing in the face of deformity. Bats on sleep. You can see the noise in New York City (Edna St. Vincent Millay’s observation on her first time there). Hello, Sprig. I’m decidedly stuffed and wobbly of mind. Be right back. Gonna go let out some hot air. Blame it on the weekend Earth took.
Unsafe for passage. Erin says she might. In shorts. Lots of pies. Bliss of boredom. Retreat from Milo, Eli, and Joe! Just keep leaving one spam pie open. Plus some very disturbing things at the Central YMCA. Is blatant so bad? What’s changed? Personal econ- omics? Blah. I’m supposed to dance and party. Tweak birth- day corsage. Dock the boat. Let the birds do their thing. Gas from air, which not eating will do for you.
How lovely to encounter a hard- earned favorite, weave giddily through lines with comfort, warmth, and the occasional yet always unexpected prickle of something like impending sex with a stranger. Imagine when less than a decade ago I’m (time spun raggedly in all directions) fistfuls of hair poring over each page, What in the hell is he saying? Paid in Full, where have I come, what have I come to? 4 miles on Tuesday, which was a yesterday? Racquetball with Fermin, 3 and a half games (but he’s getting better, damn!) and cranky? I’m short-tempered, sure, over my clumsiness last Saturday night. Over my feelings, sudden- ly. Or just thinking about them.
“You think too much!” he always says.
Oh, for a month of holidays, some- thing casual in the air, a new and unfam- iliar book of nonchalant phantasies: correspondences extricated from the ether (ahover between here & there), whipped up and whisked (in no necessary order) into skillet-sized breakfasts. Unequivocal. Telepathic. Banter. Notwithstanding.
Oh gosh okay you are unknown to me, poem. My lunch spot at the end of a disaster. In Oregon. An inability to tumble into nonsense. Blue pipe diapers. The General Assembly is NOT your boyfriend. Clumsy sex that always works. One suave back-em-up after another (watch each get replaced and suavely). Go to hell, no-brainer. It wasn’t really that clumsy. Yardwork in the outbin. Pucker up, inbox, the Bradys are about to chase us up one end of the Pacific and down the other.
