mmccxciv

              my vision is a place
              its ever shifting face
              a waterfall she is
               —Martin Corless-Smith

it used to be
that yours was
my favorite face

but now that
you’ve left
my retinas

you cease
lessly burn

mmccxciii

epigraphs for the email poem [or]

          Thy paps lyke lyllies budded, I yearne
          to suck them til my brains doe frye.
                                  —Dodie Bellamy
                                     (from “Cunt Spenser”)


maybe sandwich it in between these 2 fantastic quotes


          Thy tits are every large cow and they feed me
          sacredly with thoughts of heights be taken.
                                   —Dodie Bellamy
                                      (from “Cunt Shakespeare”)

mmccxcii

                         You’re out-

                         side of the

       frame.                              You stole

    my idea.                                 And I

        really                               do  ad-

     

                        mire   you

                        for        it.

mmccxci

 I can’t believe
they put a state
  right     here

mmccxc

Romantic Painting: Oil on Canvas with Bullethole

                            Hiding tiny ob
                           jects       inside
                          of a              big
                           hole is      okay
                              but   some
                                times th
                                  ey be
                                  come
                                   lost
                                    / \

mmcclxxxix

I keep wanting to say “They eat sheets, these moths!”
But there’s never a clear entrance into that.

                                                               She sells
segues at the Non Sequitur.                       (I wish!)

That certainly is a poor excuse for living. That’s a
lousy lifestyle just waiting to happen. To which
it is replied: “Pronounced.”

                                                             Like M-A-N.

Good night, Data Recovery.
Good night, Dada.

And I was thinking,
                          am I really getting that gray?

(So sad that you’re leaving us, Aunt So-n-So.)

mmcclxxxviii

are you defined?

                                                                                                         —my inbox.
define me? define yourself.
define unabashedly problematic.
aww, your things! i’m seeking
tired keeping them in my house!
i go to church, tool! so much so
that I could just GET OUT OF MY
HOUSE YOU SOMETHING, YOU!
(spoken so by the who who’s
smothering you?). (the who
who’s already smothered
by vandalism. by infrequent
companionship. by incantatory
spam. by general thievery. &
i have no idea what to do
about that.  do you?  do you?
)

mmcclxxxvii

          Sometimes it takes 3
          Introductions for some-
          One to remember you; 1
          Martini works much better
          Nicki is an androgynous name
                                   —Michael Malinowitz

Sweep
Wash
Scoop
Photo
Hang
Water
Trash
Type
Europe Trip

mmcclxxxvi

Sunday I cleaned house
while Otto was at lab –
most of the day. I

found software that I
apparently need and
ordered a new piece

(hardware) for my
dead laptop. Also,
I got word of $12,000.

A couple of words.
But I’ll try not to
dwell on that

after bickering.
Do not lean on
the bickering,

either. It was
unusual and
sudden;

random,
like normal.

mmcclxxxv

Pain, like blue is the
strap of night, the goulash
of darkness...
          —Joseph Ceravolo

Insomnia now.
Each mean word
rings hollow,
echoes in my
head, never
stops ringing,
echoing.

No more
dance dance.
No more all
is well with
the world.
More apoc-
alyptic,

meaning
when will
it end, the
world, this
pain, this
need, this

senseless-
ness. This
senseless
apartment.

mmcclxxxiv

                    The straw’s
alone, the grave’s alone,
the twitch, the switch,
the bitch’s alone...
            —Joseph Ceravolo

Mixed bag. Friday night
horrible. The stranger
who was to fix my lap-
top... no go. So... I broke
down. Depressed.
Horrible.

Saturday board meeting.
I walked all the way there.
Then to Hayes Valley for
brunch with Otto at
Absinthe. He was cute,
trying to cheer me up,

all happy because he
got his income tax refund.

mmcclxxxiii

Speaking of holy water,
the database is now up to
seventy percent rebuilt.
It’s been a few hours.
Last night, I watched
the Grammys with Otto.
Til around ten, anyway.
Or did I dream this? No,
surely not. I remember.
What a bunch of fogeys,
but oddly entertaining.
Okay, no more talk of
last night, of last night’s
dreams.

This morning I’m feeling
even more fantastic than
yesterday (can I imagine?).
Seemingly over my cold;
ninety-nine percent. Just
a bit of stuffiness, but Otto
didn’t notice any snoring
(perhaps he was only
dreaming, as well).

[Brief cut to the future,
several years hence:
its redundancy is ob-
literated by his horrify-
ing drowning, gasping
for two or three nights
leading to (gasp and gasp-
ing!) failure of heart.]

——
——

I’ve been reading a book.
It’s very interesting. I
remember when I
used to read only
one book at a time.

mmcclxxxii

Dream of confusion with suitcases.
            —Rachel Blau DuPlessis

This could half describe the
nightmare I am now living.
Only, the suitcases are this
dream’s sanity. Plenty of

them, too, as we’re off to
Vancouver, we’re off to
Boston, we’re off to Paris;
we’re off to Italy: Roma,

Firenze, Venezia; we’re
off on a Mexican cruise.
Do I wake up? Do I
ever get to wake

the fuck up? 

Au revoir!