ccxl

you need to go swallow a dollar

I snuggle in bed with your resignation

the walking FBI offers a reason to feel sixty more

I look at my blackberry bill I am on a salary

your resignation allows my resignation I am a cell

my cell has walking dogs becomes 3 cells more in one note

your church’s soft-skinned note is not burning

it swallows repetition for a rude aworkening

but the entire lipstick is a note full of burned necks

lots from stretched cars which go down lost

this note scaled down by FBI museums and birds looks at

my blackberry from a still life with two gold oranges and at

a still life with two oranges forcing me

on a scale of one to green resignation

ccxxxix

Friday get a better voice therapist.
Where are they going to love me to
day? Not here under the disingenuous
stormcloud. Find a tree that looks
perfect and make another snap. Snap.
Drink your breakfast and find another
tree. Snap. Go to the luncheon and
peel off a rose that doesn’t snap. Ah,
June and we’re practically naked.

ccxxxviii

Thursday get a better Massachusetts
with a little bit of torsion. Relax,
my fax number is outside the window
with your priest. Death plus love equals
more salad (snaps). Yes, it’s the two of us at
Clos Pegase (more snaps) – nice view,
great thumb! What was your question again?
I’ll see if I can make that change on the
spreadsheet—but be sure to look at everything I
erased in answering your question.

ccxxxvii

Wednesday get a better haircut.
In the street holding hands I was
halted mid-thought by a smile I forgot.
We are the unlucky few, many of us exploding
five nuclear warheads in retaliation for
Clinton’s speech on murder. Stop the
violence! No I’m serious! Everyone is
speaking Stradivarian in here, be at my 

place around ten. Nice reading last night,
do I get a raise? This is why I haven’t
responded to your lovely note.

ccxxxvi

Tuesday get a better job. Repeat after me:
please note: I rec’d the invitation to my birthday:
a one-hour working session re:
making sure we’re not going to London: Done!
I used to sleep with you and yet attractive artists
everywhere are torn between making future plans
and wanting to leave things more open,
tentative title. Marauding blood pressure and
work-related massage at the
Ethiopian restaurant. P.S. Please
keep November free.

ccxxxv

each clunk a feeling in my gut that rises like taking off with
my best friend or something in here missing rather than losing our
lovers on the airplanes of inevitability or where we might as well take off our
selves or send our best friends’ lovers to those bosses
who land by the way in some undiclosed locations
which are only undisclosed because unihabitable by MY SELVES.
now it leans toward me this poem of disrepair. I would not know it more willing in
Boston Common nor know it better in this box, my incessant box,
nor on Treasure Island which I mention in
cessantly because I cannot see it but from my box nor never will touch it nor since

it does not matter with my own hands up inside of it. swans over there fading.
Wallace and Gromit warehouses burning down and
Wallace and Gromit movies at number one on the box office and
Wallace and Gromit cartoons next to David Hockney and
Isabella Stewart Gardner over the rush of what I do not have but more
work to do. each boat which leaves another trail of pigeons each
absolute perfection of temperature each Saturday where no one
showed up for the poetry each dinner at Bickford’s followed by
come home and cuddle on the back porch before this war

that can’t happen its way out of my head. ducks and swans
and muppets and devils and delusions of lovers and lovers of lovers and lovers I never
take off nor possess nor whatever it is that one is supposed to DO with them.
I must I must museum with some of my imagined somethings things missed is always
always un un

ccxxxiv

and seeds we could to flower.          but hey guess what?

I believe you need to reach the lab tonight.

I think (on the porch) I’ll order us the cheeseburger pizza when I get home too.

I got home last night guess what?        you reach to wonder why

I don’t need to go to lab tonight.          I slow

I slow never mind and guess.            I guess I never smile last night to reach out reach out

to you.  do you like your new camera flower?            it shoots from leaps and roots with

sadness.   the negative sadness.          no sadness it springs to saps from leaps to

how’s my head?                       (a little late)     breathe.

hey guess what I need to take a new flower of your head that holds

its rings inside mine with a brown leather bracelet.

ccxxxiii

Do you pace in elevators? We burke the question. “Youth
isn’t the automatic turn-on it used to be.”  Things that go away:
like a headache
reading a magazine
in the jury pool.
I still have a little trouble in the chest tuesday 45 minutes beyond the
prescription.  At the picnic: sunshine 12:30pm chime street vendors
older man in mascara with swimming pool parties (thank God we never went)
you picking out the fat pigeons the cool pigeons the seagulls that chase the
pigeons the fresh fruit salad with your fingers til I give you the fork.
Last night I
dreamt of
him who can
never leave me.  A DREAM.
You and I grow older every minute.  Summer sun soft glow.  See
the sailboats play with each other making new shapes.  Moonlit headrush.
Dry mind
and hunger.
This is why I should be writing.  Take me to the uncomfortable
picture somewhere let it out.  I spoke again long distance.  Hunk curve
ocean bull whispers horn salve.  Thank God I’m
consistent.

ccxxxii

Yesterday when I was giving away more heartattacks
I put this information from an old diary entry into today’s thoughts,
events, environments and then I e-mailed all of my lust for the
tall skaterguy who showed up on yet another Oscar-winning spring day.
I’ve never worked in a place where so many people fart at the urinals.
Here I sit creating life, a new fiction that sorts out our selves, plus: (sad sad bleak)
which I occasionally get to write about while at work,
like when I wrestled with the whole idea of writing flower
spaghetti sorbet and strawberries on my nose.  Since I write all of my memories
this sort of thing teases me into reremembering,
shakes up what it can, like that square poem about bonding with the moon
or for blueboy who died yesterday.
Sometimes we become more boring
without a diary,
we cannot label nor reinvent our life.  Look out:
I am breaking into another peach.

ccxxxi

wait liberally
til tomorrow to not inspire
to tell _______.  reading Mom
to tell you I did call mine
tomorrow at the lap of dawn.
face V legs drawn sit on drawn lap.
I am more at ease more at ease
with the French dearth I think I heard.
face pants.  V liberally til
I am more at ease.  force more
ease to move.  ease a trident
force entry easy symbolism.  love the
trident.  wait.  an embolism
of sexual liberation.  a rid
iculous tenet of liberationship.  slip tri
dent.  await forced entry drawn lap.  legs
a V to not inspire.  force.  force.
at ease.

ccxxx

let me tell you the dream last night of us being neighbors.
somehow i was hiding from you (who is you?). then there was
a slice and then another slice, like lemons, with a bit of pucker –
couches, carpets, backyards – the things you can have as neighbors.
right here is where i splice tombstones and sandwiches, indiscriminately,
into tombstone sandwiches with backyard condiments, this is my recollection
of the dream, a dream i remembered while we were brushing our teeth,
together, your arm draped over my shoulder, each of us looking into
the mirror at us. you are my love birds, me and you and that mirror.

ccxxix

more about me
I sip the green tea like that for it is of myself to want to sip
two cups per day question mark getting a picture taken during cocaine
my chest blurts evidently the left side my left occasionally a great blurt
a great blurt of pain erupts my chest at the top of my head momentarily but shocking
we are spoiled buildings ready to be demolished I should get to the root of it
what the problem is is we should note more about the buildings being broken
being destroyed in our left lung is not symptomatic of my telling you what I am wearing
what I am wearing is the problem that could arise by how I like to enter
I like to enter any machine that needs to be troubeshot
but more more about me later

ccxxviii

I want you to know how it really is. My lip swells, or just above
my lip, just below my nose, usually on the right side, my right side,
after I take aspirin or ibuprofin. I feel boxed in because I am.
Nice view and all, but I’m bored. Not bored all the time, because I
don’t have enough time to think. When I do think, it is for nothing.
That’s not true, either, as I do think sometimes of you. Most often.
But I think of other people, too. How are we connected? In the
simplest terms, I mean. It’s 2:30pm and my boss is conducting an
interview. Is he looking for my replacement? No. I drink more
water. This is filtered water from the sink next to the refrigerator.
The southeast refrigerator. In my candor I forgot to mention my
brothers’ birthday. They are 29. I mean they are 36. Jogging.
Sit-ups. How demoralizing.

ccxxvii

well, yes, I wasted last night with MORE
MARTINIS! so now it’s time to go to Le Coloniel
and colonize YET MORE MARTIANS! I was trying to
say let’s have a couple of vodka commas
but then it became one of those vodka commas at the end of each line
vs. a couple of no commas things. I
could add: (I caught you smoking)

through the smoking corridor

but it’s nearly time to rocky road.

ha! false alarm. the sun is brainy.
we chow down at Doyle’s for his sexual
recidivism paper and then I help him with his
sexual offenders. after that we walk
for days (we always seem to do this) (thru non-smoking corridors no less!). hey
I got something special for your book!
I have this special bookmark I got
in Cantonese: HOUSE OF FURY. it
marks page 33 well (cue new look):

says “hot hunk undresses off showing his great body”

underneath “check out this new high quality insect site.” ok no more false spams.

oh and next time we kiss at the corner of
Fremont and Mission let’s please not forget
there are people walking around with hot dogs in their hands.
nor the building across the street that got demolished. end of story for now.

ccxxvi

we set up a bridge
for le beautiful nonsense...
its “unlet downy days”
is what is written and they are
too much comfort for my shrunken face. no
quotes allowed for the laptop shock,
the equivalent of which – “are we grounded?” –
gets no answer under “not this biscuit!”
this biscuit
has leather two-piece snaplets we reach out and
grab to remove hence bread is a
red herring (best eaten and beaten with cattails) which reveals:
“sunswiped pea.” a beachbum swordfight ensues
on the beach,
that’s the rock-fisted gist of it:
swishbuckle! so then I bought roses because I’m addicted.
pink ones seem to do the trick but there’s also
do laundry kiss and make up for being all tied down
strapped and spanked – I mean
cuz I got the folze, the fourscore frizzzles
(poetry) (beams) the Folsom ffotos of you (finch
buns) a la dolce ziti.

ccxxv

Dis
connected. Was I
walking down Folsom
when a distant friend called?
A pear and two golden-wrapped
pats of butter. Now I’m finishing a book
at Union Square when it decides to happen,
but I’m reluctant to remember everything at once.
An ice cold boyfriend (meaning each old boyfriend),
each translucent riddle. Many friends are giving birth
to books, each joy a dim remembrance. Not 100% true.
I get a big shock to my head every once in a while.
It’s a flashpan invocation of the threesome rule:
take a nap stepping backwards (with fever pitch).

He’s swatting flies in the living room. Big one.
Tiny one. Still life with cones. Still life with
pitcher and two apples (green and red). Still
life with bananas, lemons and indecipherable.
Still life at the shoeshine with a hug and a kiss.
It’s a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. Noises are
reminiscent. The cat’s lazy. Flies slap
the window. The plants need water.
Trolley cars buzz the breeze.
Green couch. Brown socks.
I finished a book. It was
good. Honk. The
sky soars.

ccxxiv

Good evening from the sympathy ride.  I tried calling you several times to
tell you that the Red Sox were hurting.  There was no number so I wasn’t
sorry enough.  I died and they sent me to Cleveland for still MORE sympathy.
They brought me back to life and we played frisbee for a while but then
I needed a blood transfusion.  The only blood that would work was
Fenway Park so I tried calling you again.  Still there was no answer.  So I
died again.  I’m in hell now.  Awww.  1-800-560-7702.

ccxxiii

woke hell up
working

broke early
music beacon

fourth floor
window barking

he sat up up
set so gets

up works
barks Boston

beats last
warm drum

barks some
more ful

some quest
ions gets got gets

worked gets
pored over

I wish he was
up so much

ccxxii

misted committees
of hooligan tugs
secretaries of the
Embarcaderos
whooshes
into an avowed lesbian
of less than an hour

sew some pretty flowers
on my boyfriend
me: boyfriend.
boyfriend: yes?
me: pretty flowers.

boyfriend paints me
sitting in my tea he’s
bleeding on the trains

I cries and misses
the next red paint meeting
makes me a money check
for silly romances
it was Easter
17 of us around a table
11.8% vegetarian

daisies tulips
pretty little headaches
sprung up before
churches antiquities
noses in roses lavenders
honeybees’ honeysuckles

ccxxi

nothing universal about the poetry I SCREAM and called
the bank yesterday as it basically told me that I was over
drawn thru existential crisis—it was amazing without
feeling and kinda PLUS on the manic side which with me
always puts me into an exaggerated intensity.  I have

so much fun writing narrative poems and as I’ve said before

I should try to combine these two styles into a narrative
urgency somewhere near the surface of PEACE like how
I’m using my emotiCons and at the same time not really feeling
that sort of blankity-blankity-blank kind of FUCK the other
half of the world loves to get paid I LOVE TO GET PAID I

love to get paid a lot on Friday which makes my emotions all

ROCKIN IT SO HARD otherwise maybe we can have some
drinks.  something’s definitely eating me off today these
faces of my favorite poets these faces of my all-time favorites I
FACE THE PROBLEM I say hey I’m free tomorrow this
sense of urgency every night to tell a fucking story I can’t

sense the urgency every night to tell a fucking story I can’t

remember even having that consciously intentional KNOW
LEDGE that kind of “walk in my shoes” thing where I’m grip
ping this guy & he’s “driven” with a LICENSE TO GRIPE
that replaces all of my periods with quotation marks.  no this

wasn’t today.  it was rather today’s instance.  it was only one
of several where I learned another sort of meditation.  NO THIS

wasn’t today it was rather an afterimage.  it was only the NO
instant which today stands for.  is how it was today THIS?

ccxx

Some Ideas For The Poem I Will Write:
ArtList DoList NewProject Keep Going.
Fresh But Tell A REAL Story!  ReEvaluation:
Why Is Memory Important?  I’m waiting
for the SUNDAY MONDAY TUESDAY
WEDNESDAY it’s just me sitting here
JUST ME conFusing words I Like
(Not This Poem) (Read Less Poems)
The Fog “Yes You Can Go In Now.”

this does not work to slow things down

I Love You Even Though My Heart
Hurts (Maybe Just Gas?) NOT
EATING THIS YEAR...but finding
how uncomfortable it is to wear
the wrong pants.  pants that are
NOT THE RIGHT SIZE.  particularly if they are too long
or too tight or too short (that never
happens).  I got rejected.  I cried.
End Of The World Now.

ccxix

It’s the last page! $5 drink at One Market
today WE BREATHE it’s so damned
SQUARE we’re just hectic. Kerplunk there
goes that door again what door where
SOBER is that door I’ve never been through
that door before MY BUTT have you? It’s
unavoidable nicotine today was so LAZY
ASS hectic. Oh I said that. Short note:
I have tons of ACTION dirty laundry
there goes that door again where is that
door RUN OUT OF INK? I am PRETTY
much different any more I hope MY POCKET
I hope my KALEIDOSCOPE or LIFE
IS Emerson Hall is close I hope. When I sit
with my memories again I read four articles
from the COST OF RECOVERY POWER
TO DETAIN JUDGE RULES AGAINST
DEMOCRATIC RIVALS TO PLAY NICE
New York Times travel section April Fool!

ccxviii

I’m sweating TIME TRAVEL
too much while he photocopies
all of his PHOBIAS for the Mechanical
Engineering Department. Doctor, I
guess I’ll leave him alone then to his
claustrophobia it’s the HOTTEST DAY
OF MARCH, I’ve gotta run. We nail
a fennel salad, bake quiche, GAY BEAR
spaghetti carbonara – now that’s a
flashback!! I need to make a STUD dark
in liberty out of this poem from yesterday,
stop writing POEMS! They hurt! I’m
HOT dreams of thirst (even if he’s back
from San Francisco) all this babble gets me
nowhere. What’s his name from Cleveland?
ME sweatwalking from Whole Foods with
fake bacon and lemon tarts lots of sunshine
TOO MUCH not really. I changed destiny
so that I could be famous in my own mind.
It worked. Oh SHOOT the woman I used
to talk to in Geneva.

originally published in BoXoN

ccxvii

another gorgeous mushroom kisses. I’m attending a poetry
gravity and I think I ate most of it. I owe you 7 spinach kisses.
all those words I think Suzy liked it. esp. 9 red bell pepper kisses.
discovering language I was moved by all of the poems, inc. Santa Fe
and the poem about murder. he wanted a throw-away sentence like
we taped up my bedroom with Monterey Jack cheese kisses. it felt like
I feel: tingly good and maniacal. don’t let me be dotty tomorrow.
I was driving to poetry this morning and I saw 4 fake bacon kisses.
they were on the jump-start list, chunking out phrases like Lincoln
lasagne & apolitical quiche followed shortly by Ginny O’s cheese rings.

ccxvi

gorgeous crocuses.
if I make enough of them
some of them will
become dumb.

even the sterile
campus bleeds its
dawn, a form of
heartache (forgery).

started working it
earlier.  indeed, its
circumference was
staggering.  smoke

bells.  ten words to
jumpstart elocution:
he’s so in love with
okra now.  my mood

went downhill.  then
we walked up the
fillmore steps to the
jasmine glitches.  he

says he’ll drop
out of school.  per
haps I should walk
back to my shoes.

but then tomorrow?

ccxv

We’ve developed an eye for the
WRITING breathing. And it should take
time for it to be FUNEREAL. I just turned on
just turned on my manservant and OURSELVES
say “I think I’ll have Masto today” whatever
that is. OVERWHELMING dream about that guy
that guy with ISSUES. I haven’t really been been
consisting a lot THINKING about last night’s Fatt Dogg.
It was ok CARING. Kind of NUMBER ONE hard to eat
and messy. Long dogs. Short buns. MYSELF. And good
relish. I dreamed about about CAN’T I EVOLVE this guy.
He was bawling, terribly upset because he’d just been
dumped across the Mass Ave. I wanted to take a LONG
trip to find some some STUN some enclosure of a
couple of STUN poems. Funky flat screen TV over the
condiment stand self-absorbing pig can’t handle CNN.

ccxiv

the awkward 4pm stairsteps A LOT
a sign a sailboat up at the same cloud
where the hallway spirals into PSYCH
OSIS same staircase we pass in mornings
as each cloud in my head is another
ROBOT that has subsided the academy
the same damned number of boats each
pleasant ripple BALLING found conversation
it’s stifling and/or boring and/or my DOLLARS
of diagonal shapeshifting its one thing was
completely was writing a slime UNSETTLED
and unearthed skyscraper FLEEING with yellow
window-washers sailing anyway into one another
a MEMOIR of our communications restaurants
movies saint DAFFODIL something-or-other
its peanut noodles indelible DAFFODIL indel
edible tablespoons of peanut editing eating
a DAFFODIL MEMOIR was

ccxiii

someone fell on top of the ICE glass
sculpture between our buildings.
ARKANSAN upon the concept that
sculpture is a generous term for
what it was, EYESORES do see death. do so.
just like us SYNDROMES, my legs
miss your legs. SPRING pelting the
windows between us. it’s not so
complicated and ICE as all that.
we were united yet a third time and a
RENEWAL has happened this month.
LILY TOMLIN crunch, people fall off bridges,
are trampled or thrown or are suffocated
and also are DROWNED. I sit SICK
in a box for ten hours every day.
my last grandfather goes THRESHOLD,
I write nothing about the filtered
butterflies I drink, three liters every
day, nor the coasters they flutter upon,
nor the plastic bottle I fill constantly,
full of LOVE butterflies, a 31-day-old
bottle to me, I wrote about it now. see?

ccxii

got thread
bare wish
in head
ache line
at ATM
machine
its jolt
my nerve
a type
of flip
flop hope
ful mutt
er in yr
ear your
ear your ear
ring’s caught
my tooth
ache ingot
& I got no
floss it’s
fine my del
icate trick
don’t turn
your eye
no more

ccxi

I am with
the pressure
in my head.  We
met with a vengeance
outside a plastics purveyor
on salt and pepper office day.
He kept me writing about it 5%
while into the vegetables.  Now let
us take the plunge, be slickened like
smushed grapes (cuz making muscat
is good for a picnic).  He bought new
pants and his new ass looks great!
If I can get down to 140
promise me this,
death to all
muses.

ccx

last night we
danced so
close to the
war.  in Vir
ginia where
ever James
Madison
College is
last night
Kevin and
Aaron each
said a poem
to my heart.
last night we
slept in or
outside of
Roanoke.  I
was teach
ing him how
to drive and
he was teach
ing me how
to skip a
beat.

ccix

we meddled once. sitting
in the front passenger seat
of my car. what are your
rules, mister? soon we’re
in Nashville, hard to know
where to begin. I dropped
my fork to look at an ass.
too many details in each
death. March falls. then it’s
the cleanest day in August.
countless birthdays doom
corporations. after my first
shower alone in years, I
cannot write in this car.

ccviii

I like myself writing more
corporate establishment
on the kitchen marble
with the window open
down to the dumpsters is
enriching and feels very
comfortable these waves
these incoming waves
incoming via cable
all the way from
Jamaica Pond wailing
“all the pretty eloquence
is stifling me...”

...meanwhile it’s in
the internet where I
funded those boys’ words
they founded me via the
flotsam I flung at the
stiflement via Ma vie
en rose and enriched my
peeing more trips
round the corner
to the men’s
room via the
dull hallways thru
each office door a
slumped artist with a
clean view of the bay

ccvii

this library steeped in my
head where people get
to know me if I let them
not likely for this paper
its refrigerator humming
disconsolately while no
poetry is in my soul like
a good mood no letter
in my brain no word
from Boston because
he doesn’t want to meet me
hi
we shook hands yes
terday
this room was safe from us then

ccvi

rainy day in Ca
mbridge town.
guy who reads
newspapers on
toilets the day I
get my first ever
corporate card
and drinks a V-8
with shrimps and
sausages criss
crosses campus to
determine men
us.  reservations
about Ogunquit.
we’re wacky for
Roger the sexy
Britlet (fantasy
vs. reality).  dis
burse $670 in Lev
i’s baby brother
or sister.  put it
hard on a
horse, for me
an important
process (note:
wrote a report).
sure, I’m not
a language, nor
an insurgency.

call tonight,
a lunatic.

ccv

too bad I’m not
rockstar cool but
I guess it’s ok to be
niceguy cool. this is
not about sex or
politics. let’s say
you were really
looking forward
to working for Banana
next week. am I
niceguy cool? here I am
alongside my
first corporate
fill-in-the-blank.
that sounds good.
like a dart-blower or a
martini with two onions.
I’m trying to eat
and write at the
same time. phenomenal
finalists. check. let us
kneel. check. kissing
the page. check.
remember the
quick trot to work
after losing my first
slam. check. further note:
fiercely. fiercest big
loser. fiery hearted.
hearty heart heart.

cciv

today’s fun is calendar fun!

what fits today’s schedule: think
more seriously; obnoxious destinations

like this spot: FUEL!

see the guy with the long hair who
shaved half his head off (the left half)

what does that mean?

so we grumble through the morning fog
into a pleasant afternoon, whose

reflection sits nicely upon Embarcadero 4,

south side. now officially accepting
one job after another. years go by.

I am here. starting Monday.

cciii

what does he mean by
what should you put
in this poem???  “you should
put something not of yourself.”   what?

that means I’m
further in the hole
than I’d ever imagined.

that means this coffee is awful
and soften this headache.

how dare the power of repetition!
it repeats itself.  this poem
I just read sixty-one
times.  sixty-one
poems.  sixty-one
dollars of poetry
(plus fiction,

so sixty two?).

just yesterday we dined across the street
at Botolph’s.  had roasted tomato shiitake mushroom
pesto sandwich on focaccia bread.

now we are playing
the stock market.  picking
feathers out of pillows.  cheating on each other
with words.  sixty-one.  sixty-one.  sixty-one.

ccii

he landed on the president in the middle of his presentation
a good fellow but his butt’s too flat

at the end of a Valentine the
bulbs blew up to grow good poems full of Novocaine

when I say blew up I’m not talking about the Crocker Galleria
I can’t imagine a poem feeling that good

my second reading was a line thru my forehead
you can fix that now in downtown San Francisco, he said

lunchtime’s one piece of chicken and one more piece of chicken
made way for eventide’s Grandma cookie (peanut butter)

no more smut for the soul but oops four more wrinkles
one Mississippi two Mississippi three Mississippi four

cci

turned around to hear my
stomach screaming at me indeed
it was ticked off by my yoga instructor “money money

money money money!”  gas bills
medical insurance cellphone
vocabulary intelligence

what a bunch of words I hate words I
do believe I’m losing
my calm

where’s my lover’s ear?  I lean over to put my
mouth into my grip on the
border between the kitchen and the
living room and lo he reaches up from somewhere and

the storm passes away he picks up the spills
and I lose my grip to the fleeting thunder

cc

waiting for my pinto pilaf. the snow
crackles unanimously like hailstorms.
marble windows barking. the
bay seems dull bluish, dull grayish or dull whitish.
several boats pore over it...

I could show you my life in 200 poems.
several years’ worth. “he’d never an ounce of
credibility,” nods one profile. you can just make out
a halo over it, or swirling thru it....

got plenty of revisionist sleep last night
after arguing about doppelgängers.
this is not a diary entry. this is reality.
I took off my shirt and nearly walked out the door.

but I’ve certainly been a domestic sloth. my
heart heals slowly when there’s a need to
reach around and feel my face, its nose
tangled up in the lavender that sprung from the wall.

I’ve been trying to appreciate being alone
and I’ve been very successful. which makes
the perfect boyfriend better.
here he is rounding the hallway corner,
no more antibiotics,
a nice change of pace,
200 ghosts spitting ice.
and here we are asleep on the greenish couch we crumble upon.

cxcix

pity i have to
prove myself
to be myself.

the benziger pea
cocks.  see them
strut.  drink wine.  who

can see a butter
fly from the
33rd floor

w/o experiencing
an identity
crisis?  he

sketches me.  we pic
nic at v sattui sans
naked loversoaking.

chill, i’m a star
ting to (blech!)
really love my

job.  pity.

cxcviii

I find my death
in a comic book.  It
looks like a

clown dressed
as a heart.  This
surprises me.

Consequently, I
lose touch with
who I am.  (Death

serves vodka with
Red Bull.)  In
novation is over

rated & I’ve lost
my touch.  Why
are vegetables

more sincere
than meat?  If
heart is broken

then death is
fervent, eager.
Problems may

arise from
heart killing
brain.  Pow!

cxcvii

being his birthday and all
I get a very nasty note

these drunken notes HE
CALLS to punish me so I’m

all upset shoving
the cat off the pot

pee in here it’s better than
being upset on top of him

I tried to respond and I
did but then I unsent it

it’s so easy to lose says the
square blond kid dancing like

Archie and Jughead
I’ll give him his stupid TV

cxcvi

we colonized the patio, but first:
sushi with no service. I thought
the sun decided to think about
seeing us through the fog but got
blown up over the hillside instead.
he adjusted my cardigan in the
poem. I read it to my father.
then he died. it made me
happy to write.

time to water the plant before
flying. first I wrote ‘lying’ but
that was a gamble. neither of us
are flying. we’re like penguin
wings.

the proof will come in the poetry
database. this was my thought
as I drank a bowl full of roses.

cxcv

a grievous blue bay topped by a tanker
under a sepia sky divided by cricket chirps
more phone calls from the roadrunner cloud

it won the race to the neighborscraper so I didn’t
have to boast but wrote my first poem on a trident

and what did I do today? me, too. turkey burger
with poem by guest appearance its shadow lurky
near the two moles we had for breakfast or supper

eagle ships certain to tide me over til Calistoga’s
headlines rip Waterstone’s submissions into
the study I keep interrupting but he’s trying to
figure out his major and doing volunteer work

my fingers dry the little line on my thumbnail
creeping up for coffee he was depressed and
bored with unemployment its goose a goner

I mean I finally looked into the mailbox

call mom and dad to let them know about my
situation something nice to wear a bright blue
bookmark oh my Dahlen it’s all over it’s almost
over from New Year’s Eve to Autumn I write a
poem a page a poem a day an overdue movie

and something to keep the t-shirt holes dirty

cxciv

we didn’t finish the history of fidgeting,
but it does seem they’d like to hire me. now
I’m a Boston fruitcake, spend time with
the slugs investing in Herman Miller futures.

the complacency of a certain 20-year-old
as said complacency relates to my com
plicity in said complacency = big tits
in a feel-good movie. an understated

performance. my four-line stanzas are
sharper than your four-line stanzas about
my lingering feelings for you-know-who.
only, seven ages ago, you-know-who was

you-know-where. we grilled margaritas,
donned our chaps, danced, pinballed,
drank, and fried mushrooms. ever the
chameleon, he passes out from the

screams upstairs, having nearly shoved
me out of the way in time for the movie,
sparkling debate about the mood ring
on my finger. for example, marry him.

as usual, the mushrooms were delicious.
but my strategy engendered poignant disc
ussion, a flop, quite unlike our rough
and raunchy flower scene. I can still feel it.

cxciii

he thinks he wants to look like he’s
in the action without moving.

the monotony of the bright spot,
that which has firemen working

underneath my pillow. we’ve
eaten too much landscape. he’s

no more somewhere than the out
side. the golden moments of

evening when the dust settles,
haze on Treasure Island, real in

viting. the more we watch tele
vision the more we focus. I sit

somewhere in the charcoal. OK
we can do something there, per

haps a little editing. a winter
storm with lots of salary. two

pennies basically told me not to
apply for any more positions.

that’s golden like the sleepy room
where lips and lips ellipse,

notable only for their first week in
Cambridge. many other positions.

unnoticed harem we focus. more
somewhere than here, an island

full of misfits. misted. OK per
the little hopes, the moments.

today is shifty. in which out
rageous century am I most contented?

cxcii

I felt guilty about the
memory that I had
paid for it. As you’re
starting a project,
you should see its
end. Lunch break.
MIT. Which took
place yesterday. 5
gals and quail kebabs.
I had to do something.
Same guilt burning
the haze of desire. Or
I burned lunch, a
memory project. I’m
riddled. Who I am
falling fallen who is
anonymous. Practic
ally a breakdown. I’m
always insensitive.
No dichotomy. Happy
anniversary celebration.
Cat pee in the China
Doll pot. Costs
lunch money. Makes
quail crying bob
white my angel.
Bob white.

cxci

can stick out like a dumb sore. there’s
a woman who walks like a man. she
says awesome too much. I’m not in
fallible. it’s cold in here so we just drop
and then we drop again. no fallacy this
latest Newsweek with the Pope in Cuba.
see the tugs gust through the haze (may
well have the guts). then we haul stuff
to his dorm room my head aches and
watch X Files for our official one
month Burger King. too much guff.
busy busy that’s why it’s all funky.
I had fries. you’re right, I only wanna
eliminate the bottom line.

cxc

then cook tediously
sitting on a blackberry
and get quite loaded
quick note. I’m alive.

lunch in Quincy Market
one sandwich full of mayo
four laps around the treadmill
is started late today. need

notebook. need poetry.
he wrote my mother a vanilla.
waited two hours for a fingerprint.
top left buttcheek burns.

I miss you notes.
notes note misses.
I do whatever that means Ani.
so familiar am alive and loaded.

I’ve been dishonest lately.
time can make that more intense.
I logged four help desk tickets
today alone.

clxxxix

I went to the doctor in a blue car.
There was a rash under my arm full of
red and golden stars. He said it was a
bacterial infection from coffee. Loving
isn’t very easy. No big deal. Either way
it’s not nice but I’m happy I’m
not really contagious.

clxxxviii

I went outside.
I took a nap.
I’m rash. I have a
bathroom. I pray the
Lord. And miles to go.
It’s warm. My head is gone.
Exquisitely warm. I sleep.
I went walking in a park
before my nap. A
security guard saw me. He
clinked his keys (or change).
Change. I dreamt I was
in a basement during a
tornado. We slept. He’s
going to work now. I’m
not. I worked five years.
This is my last day of work.

clxxxvii

It’s an hour before church meth church mouse
high on St. John’s in Jamaica Plain those
blowsy clouds put out to dry. Right by
Josh where Josh lives and what did we
accomplish but an hour of church and I
cleaned up and organized some. Some
what? I thought my heart was going
but when it stopped hurting I was
running for a week. I need a smoking
appointment at church for graduate
admissions to pay rent with. It
smokes more when the clouds
are cloudless. Send a certified
letter to Gulf. Pay rent and the
rest of my bills. It’s right by
the nib of the nob, its
repossessed business
waiting for the bread.
The bread of the
holy sun. Need
some shades.
And more
bread.

clxxxvi

lovely Sunday ok let’s con
centrate in the park its mis
begotten pink new year’s
balls flying into the fogbottom

rode its giant cypress-like prick
all the way up to Rhode Island
where trees with Woonsocket-pink
pools out-puncture the girls

then we have dessert at Grumpy’s
our shades a mirage of fog and
fountains on the ridge of hope
where I plant my feet “I’m grounded”

more ground than you fog
that ate the Golden Gate Bridge
probably more than you fog
in the street in front of Postrio

I’m a little nervous because it’s
snowing and so I thought we’d
drink more muscat for the pleasant
rise up the Filbert steps less pleasant

with each new step a new sweat
and then later we go ROLLER
SKATING how romantic -- isn’t that
pretty darned romantic no?

it’s the first day we don’t talk
which makes Lombard almost pinkless
but rollerskating -- wasn’t that just
delicious? yes it’s way past 1998

the girls keep asking for more
“GQ action here boys” and
Buddha says “is there room in your life
for one more trip to the moon?”

clxxxv

the thump of a thumper
or a thumper thumps

if someone sunk a
THIS IS YOUR LIFE

in front of my face
wouldn’t we be struck

by the redundant
abundance of it

coffee and too much
talk and too much

Christmas letters and
poems snowing oh

I’m all jackhammed up
this hearty rhythm’s got

inspired by suicidal
hairs a duo of graying

hairs inspired by the
snowscape out my window

what a fantastic gift
and an awesome offer letter

these diamond ear
rings and a blanket of

snow thunked like
thunk a fucking lack of

vocabulary its vocation
an evocation vacationing

this list could go on
ad infinitum

clxxxiv

sweet Christmas come and gone
along the beach its mutilated
curves a second truth indeed
it was almost romantic

a gift I’d never given
muddled here at Mildred’s
and lacking the zest of
some recounted scenes

these last few days
of peace and intermittent
sun of structures sound
and wizened

shit this guy over here
has lit a cigarette
I never gave to you
this story

the one I got around a tree
where a few windchimes and a
Big Sur bird that hadn’t lost
its sugar

each packet pecked it
flew it up said tree
and to its startled mother
a little bit of Christmas

well this coffee stinks
but the last few days here
except for the icy drive
were wonderful

I think I’m going to boycott Mildred’s
no more life
no more worry

clxxxiii

a cafe mocha I knew then
was a bit of an intense dawning
his dad’s family brilliant in feat
that I had come to the right face
along with his sister, also brilliant

this could really be something to cry up
into a totally oakened boulevard
because those holidays remind me of, gee
guess whose flowers I don’t always feel like

mind over flagpoles

optimism is he who is beyond wonderful
is forecast into the last card turned apocryphal
focused was I, ere I saw brilliant

the fact that I am only a potentially wrapped trout
an eclipse of unkempt sediment
a gull finding its way nowhere
over oaken optimism and it’s okay
that it’s noon now that I’m aloof

I will remain poor for a very long time
such forecasts are beyond forpaloocy
are beyond carkatootle
are beyond pattersnat and abanaddle

I try to telapode within that realm
but okay the potential is, gee
guess who:
arkapeen stamantopi marbaleen

not even so much as his family and my short role
have the hapless stepping into distraction

only a few minutes longer and the faces of
moonlight settle down into the corporate dream

clxxxii

An inverted compliment said
you will see me somewhere this weekend. I had coffee
and dropped off my final destruction. This caused
split pea soup (a bit). Why bother being invective?

I kidnaped him last evening to come study at
my place. This caused e-mail dialog, I guess, and then
we went through a bit of a rough patch. Also,
a conversation in the kitchen about how, individually, we can

become a company or digress toward a felicitous
utterance. Another inverted compliment. It doesn’t
really matter, does it? The anger is pretty mundane. This
builds understatement. Now he’s alive and well and apparently

going to visit his family this Christmas. ‘Dialog’ connotes
there are two of us, but how many do you count? One
more sense of no direction. Perhaps it’s simply my
lack of work; not worth my concern. But yours?

clxxxi

i should produce
something every day.
with goosebumps on the
phone, reading something
with my attorney, the bank.
and then I stopped off at the
post office, a stranger. he is
drinking beer with a lemon.
i mail off all of christmas.
my subscription to boston
expires, my application for
membership to the library.
i finally finish my goal.
he engages me. eight
reprints of a picture
of us kids.

clxxx

buoyantly hello HELLO!
I trembled when the door opened
saw my face smack.
a superior joke.  yesterday I was
miserable and then coping, lost, trumpeted.

tell me if I could write a play, implying
counterintuitive headache and
sauce for the whole party.  angel
an ultimate sign of affection.

he held me in a humbling revelation, some
flowery, honey-dripping vocal sensation.
fuck words!  a cartography, self-deprecating
age-ist withered lung.

my birthday is joyous.  space-aid.
a surprising tactile mayhem.

when I am lifted up to this hole
-- the end of the fortunate --
so many penniless, rhythmic; intelligence
is deliciously comic.  trying on a new pair of
high heels.

purple peril.  the edge of nervous
baby deficit.  teaching.  touching.
lift arm over working lung, heart,
bruises on right side, left for you,
left hand, tiny hand, left hand over
empty shirt.

clxxix

Good afternoon from Mildred’s!
Actually, it feels more like mourning.

We showered at school, drove thru
Boston, a nice jaunt above campus.

We hugged and studied domesticity.
It’s more of a headache than you

might imagine. I felt trapped. Con
solidated boxes, filled up a scrapbook.

They’re not going to accommodate
me anymore. So what will I do

this week? Take a break from the
lilies? Those goofy financial issues

maraud our den, but I’m relieved. Love
is overrated. Right? I ran away

from thinking about it for a moment.
We didn’t see the same kitchen. He

posted a few things on the refrigerator,
melted the whiteboard, ripped a hole

in the sink. And most interesting,
I’ve found a room in my heart, that

other hole, and I really should de
vote my, well, devotion to it. The

hole. The interregnum.

clxxviii

my glasses are in my shoe
I remember my shoe on the floor

I’ve “got you on my mind
feelin’ kinda sad and low”

tears begin to fall but I don’t say anything
simply place my hand on your soft shoulders

stomach and shorts from top to bottom
but I don’t say anything and I’ve done

nothing wrong
and I’m a liar

I want to love like that again
happier than I’ve ever been

I did some dishes and felt
your hands in the water

you were sitting on my lap your shoes
between mine and we were lost somewhere

now the umbrellas drip and you slip like
oil through my fingers no more

clxxvii

the grip of love is presently
nothing to be frantic about.
the same music plays through exploding
Indonesian wars and dreamed
deaths of close young friends.

I slept twice last night or
there were two of me
or all three of us were one
remote heartbroken center of gravity.
he wanted to get back with me

only it was much more complex
than I can explain.
my separation paperwork stipulates
a group therapy thing in January.
he finds me at the library curb

with a terribly upset kiss or
the kiss wasn’t upset and
neither was I but there was a
serious language barrier.
I propose Xanax in many ways.

those with whom I’ve been intimate
and usually formed some sort of
soliloquy of untapped friendship,
that game we are always playing
is extraordinarily long thin and arcing.

clxxvi

1.   shed layer after layer
2.   lemon wintergreen windows
3.   ninth floor of Myles Standish

      a bird beeps a Cinderella story
      an Irish cone in the parking lot
      a haven for a silver bug and
      a pink umbrella light green

4.   leave the trolley car
5.   little green herblets swirling around
6.   I’m too too (varying degrees of hipness)

      dangle cane while talking shop
      green bursts of groovy invasion
      I sleep all the time I sleep around

7.   he wanted me to help with his printer problems
8.   he dreamed Jesus Christ was a flirty nurse with acne
9.   shall I make a list?
10. consult attorney
11. get radical

      fidgit, open window next to canopy bed,
      cellphone rings five times, do not answer,
      pet cat who crawls between legs,
      too far away, something like eight years...

12. look out window to gull on lamppost
13. San Francisco Public Library

clxxv

Human impatience is notebooked
in between love and rationale.
My seat in a place I’ve never seen
keeps getting cold and colder.

Lack of concentration is heavy on
irrelevant roasters
cheesily piped in overhead. I
believe I want a doctor for a

merry little Christmas.  A
nouveau cafe in creative writing.
It is draining to catapult from
one green tea to another.  A metaphor

I can’t live with.
To be a writer/performer on holiday,
the two performances of which
were very good.  I had a nice weekend.

My head is fuzzy.  And now I’m
the face of dilemma: could I set a
precedent by only writing on
one side of the page?

See, I did it.  Branches out!
More fires on the empty bench.
Cloaked in ambiguity.  Just like
you always wanted but were afraid to ask.

clxxiv

I love you for the
pain you cause me.

A salad in a
holiday glass.

More fog and then a
dream about being.

What’s the deal?
That’s funny?

This concludes the most
miserable week.

Untied shoelaces
in my lap.

Bumped into a
Mini-Cooper.

Okay, I’m
distracted.  I NEED A

PLAN A PLAN!
He was so sweet last night.

Stood at the door
for an hour.

Why am I so
distracted?

Heart cold.
Can’t swallow.

clxxiii

comfortable
blankets and

a deep hallucination of
hot water being cold

content with frozen
twisting and the moon

dreams of someone
besides you

or is it me
dreaming of dreaming

about a tango
you and me

who is you
at the Louvre a cold

sweat a reprieve
as I reach for my lip balm

honesty is the best policy
adjusting my damp pillow

clutching the covers
finishing a book that

bowls me over

clxxii

one third of the way into the lotion
we’re rehearsing
a lotion rehearsal

I play Kolya
drinking chamomile tea
I cling to the part

sweaty perspective
I’m not so sure I’m blue anymore
it’s just a quest for the

exotic
butterfly
the clouds he painted seem secure

in their respective poses
one smug
one coy

one raises its hand
asks for my name
I promptly give it

he just as promptly calls
we rent a movie
don’t watch it

a tall pianist
his songs come in moments of grief
proud to be submissive

they never end
I would love to hear him play
we are soaked in sweat

or is it just me
my imaginary student
a weight on my shoulders

poor victim that I am

clxxi

New York
subway
taking a stab at it
the boyfriend thing
all sorts of seemingly
insurmountable issues
stick to the story of butter
flies work on new genres
hush
and what
35 minutes of pottery
flag of wharf
hand cramp
I take my time on
convincing love that it is
no doubt
a fish in the Kenneth Cole
I sort of flutter around
seeking anti-
solace
when I stab the boyfriend
in New York subway a new
genre emerges
I am convinced you sorcerer
seemingly buttered hushes like
unstable
untrue
catalyst

clxx

It’s simply wonderful.
I can’t believe I said that.
Wonderful.  Just watch
the students crawl
for their coffees.

Though it is unlikely,
considering how much I
dump fresh people.  I say
‘feel’ because they
enjoy that kind of

text.  Okay I just passed
the ramifications and
worried about raining.
Now what’s tweaked is
only cuz I’ve grown such a

big deal.  Just like how
in the beginning I’m
warped and the chest of
buzz is such a rush.  So
we’ve gotta stomach all of

New York tomorrow.  And
it’s wonderful.  Watching
bits of parade.  We drive his
Aunts – capital for the
proper pronunciation –

very entertaining.
Then we trade
umbrellas; you get the
big one and I get the
smaller.  Phenomenal.

Highly recommended.
Plus it’s based on the
play of the same name.  Oh it’s
also raining and I need a
windshield warper.

clxix

Thanksgiving. I dream I am
either drugs or drugged and/or
in a cloud. A haze.

Willard Scott dreams he is
a disco ball. My newest pairs of
sneakers wall the carpet. Charo.

Yes, Charo is also dreaming.
Charo dreams that she has
a buzzy feeling in her heart.

And that would be significant
only first I must float my
stuffing into the bathroom.

We’re playing Trivial Pursuit.
So I get up and go to the bathroom
float beside my new sneakers and

I dream I know where I am.
I dream I feel I belong.
I have Charo’s buzz.

I have Willard’s ball. But they
don’t want me here. They
want me further. They

want me to go to the End-Up.
I close my eyes. They vanquish.
I know where I am. Belonging.

We play more Trivial Pursuit. His
mom and dad have milk and cookies.
Phantasm. Whimsy. We dream we

memorize a book his mom made him
for his birthday—recounting his
childhood and family history.

clxviii

work was quiet

I left a message for him to meet me here

at sunny Neiman Marcus

yesterday’s recommendation was necessary and oh look

a dank coat with a clarinet

suddenly I’ve got the cold feet when I’ve got

you since you are my

vibrating romantic dildo

he was a little tipsy from wine when he showed up

at my doorstep a little tipsy with a

romantic recommendation

stick it into the speechless night

a little titillated I had a

pink eye

although it has become a habit for me to do so

when I’ve got you

I’ve also got green tea, sugar, ginseng, St. John’s Wort

and I’ve got my little romantic vibrating

heart in a cheesecake

clxvii

he came and went
left a lot of stuff

this jazz is obvious
emulsifying

clearly even writing
some of this crap

is a good idea
venturing trolleys “wake up”

good spirits no more
letting him rule my

text messages
mere acquaintances

I think it’s harder this time
seriously

keep developing joke
try to pose right

face walks from work
tramps downtown

my usual jaunt
across America very crisp

clxvi

Audition. Into a square
Keel. Two whole weeks a
Totally spoken abandon.
For reading some poems,
Fire     Rescue,     am

That which loudly chatted.
Abandon the unrelated
Square. No, but I like it. A
Queer fantasy, this ice held on
Hour    Evening.    He should be

Knees bent in utter abandon.
A global quirk. Some narrow
Oblivion. O solid eve for crushed
Eyes, my e-mail kneeling. It
Fancies fire. Fancies rescue.

Am I merely global? A
Final throat? No, but I held him
Online in silent transit.
Inarticulate. Ice in me to
Quicken the audition. Relentless

Abandon. Totally. His vivid
Lids audit unrelated items.
I tend to speech. Posit
Tense. Online meat. A
Worthwhile oblivion. Speak.

Speak. Speak loudly abdomen
Fantasy. Kneel in blunder.
Quench my global head. My
Alert.    Global.    Fire.
Speak your river of stuff with fancy.

clxv

my fantasies is pretty much the food it’s
him it’s I prefer my pumpkin’s big arms

it’s pumpkins and corn and beans and
rice it’s been three weeks meatless and

it’s pretty much releasing the two of me
from the wicked powers of providence it’s

been missing been missing please note
the cellphone rings hello it’s a picture of

abercrombe it’s pretty much relaxing
which has made me feel all floaty

and I want to commit and I want my
heart is totally belonging I want to

memory which belongs to this half whom
when dated prefers others prefers

egg salad prefers university students
prefers pumpkins please note beans prefers

published bums prefers missing peas
if it is I lack and if it has a different head

this hello pumpkin of love is pretty it
crushes my guts and my heart and eats my

arm which is on his knee and we are
promises of a joys in the back of my

eyes my bellhop jacket is my stale
barbecue breath is in my fantasies

of that’s an awfully big arm

clxiv

a wintry pining. the work of a
minimal thumb-twiddler.
down the slopes toward
extravagance, a grayness
that got us here. coffee-calmed
condominium, snow-stunted
birdhouses. I’m fairly pleased
with the results. so comfy
beside the fireplace all the
mountains shiver beneath
meringue. a nice idea. further
nice ideas. nice ideas
pelting one another. down the
slopes they go like the
clarifying breeze. stilted
inspiration. a cedar-buffeted
soundtrack. nowhere less pinelessness.

clxiii

now is the heir apparent to then.  it’s
a simple enough jumble of all of my

songs from this year.  so unimpressed
i wake up and smell the government,

learn to turn a farce into commitment.
turn friends into something real like

contentment with words and the act
of growing over the lump.  two guys

making out on the wicker couch
and I’m still a vegetarian

putting calls through to the
president of China.

clxii

above the already mentioned I wrote the above.
an American flag on a toothpick stuck inside
a spicy chicken sandwich. now that we know
what we know twist the jockstrap inside out
so that it begins to unfurl. tetherball edition:
he drank until he got sick and then was real
emotional telling me that I should have a
kid. like he was channeling or something.
in a whisper. in a whisper.

lunch on a toothpick is the key. forced
to be social sociable elementary cute.
and isn’t it nice. we had to acknowl
edge that there was something very nice.
it was nice. the weight of the world.
it’d help here if you relaxed. it’d
help here if

once relaxed you’re a hot commodity.
nice abrasions on the porch and a box
full of paroxysms. see above. stuck
inside a jockstrap toothpicks an unreal
emotional channel of remembrances.
something very nice. something nice.
nicest swiftly unaware. telling me
that I’m a kid I’m a bleeding poet
I’m a cobbled techno drone. in a
whisper. in a birdhouses.
in a birdhouses banter.

clxi

How terrible of me to forget doting over
the electric piano.  Trembling flowers for
tripping me up at the cinema.  Close your
eyes the cheese is a little chewy.  I’m ringing
today’s bells while kitty whines, wants
bedroom.  Got my big box a vase and
three roses whom I’m drowsy.  Comforted
down to 145 pounds of laundry.  The bedroom’s
chewed up energy; folk music whimpering
back of the telephone.  This business trip he’s
there’s no egg in my egg burrito!
Drowsiest 1,000 miles or so coming up.  Oh
but he’s coming to see me see?  Same distance
my aunt died yesterday.  Closed for repairs.
I do so love him at the electric piano.  How
memorable the fingertips of his dotted ears.

clx

Hello from Hazel’s.  Sounds weird saying that.
My two cups of water with
Renée Zellweger.  A cup of coffee
just because I made a face into it.

8:20 and I think maybe he likes me.
So what if I run into him.  Get your
stupid mosquitoes
out of your guts about it.

Many mutterings.
I get almost calm and then
okay I talked myself into it.
He hugs me each vacation.  Years I

hearken back to relive my present.
Water, meet water.  Water, water.
And a swollen latté.
I was very much in love.  I was really happy.

clix

one of the bleakest.
I had my boyfriend download
many these things.  they are
humping in the blondish night.
kawai desu? I’ve got to chart out 

a clear course of action.  found
happy in the off-center of my park.
it beated a bit. last night I danced
with exes and with exes’ exes.
they were splendid business, all
dancing from one page to the next.
before which a perfect coconut bath.
all the riches of my heart.  my happy.
the YMCA.

clviii

good surly morning.
a dunkin’ diagonal from a cloud-pop
crosses a chilly palm.  it’s a
Japanese October we haven’t
gloamed.  hot beard last night.
this morning’s desparation.  don’t
put on your backpack, umbrella.  I
simply need to stop reading.
moshi moshi relationship.  my dunkin’
window should read the new
library overhanging malevolence.
lost him to the rain I nearly fainted.
shoot my neck with such spangled
vigor I’m mostly dated.  strictly speaking
white loathsome and self-effacing.
they seem to have more rain it’s
been my experience.  a fluttering
turn-on with cold winter encroaching.

clvii

bad bad bluish after bad bad unfinished
even when I’m writing with a black therapy it
pointed out my problem very astutely
who is a very bad I don’t know how to

solve it after unfinished bad books
I’m waiting to get finished is why we
listen to these classics like
addictive relationships and fall asleep

faster bad writing faster break-up love into
little teeny stitches a faraway very
bad very stitches of psychotic destructive
oh sure great sense of humor

I guess the coolest thing is he’s obviously
bad guy bad stable bad writing bad cow
now that I have been so good I’m
pull out pull the things that have been so

good pull out pull out pull out all the
stops as in I will feel better about myself I
will engage in a career path who is a very
good guy with lots to offer awful

bad awful I’m awful bad I’m regular basis
is things wouldn’t make me good I’m kind of
regular basis bad now like I’m writing
unfinished books full of lies waiting on

unfurled faster writing bad classics bad
lub bad guy bad id teedy stitches
it’s great sense of humor sit here in
lub lub lub lub lub all over its eyelids