cccxxxvii

what a leftist mix tape.

I’m disappointed to be dealing.

back at work a tree background in cubicle 3.

words can’t describe even spent me.

never even me. chin up. cut spinach.

throw myself toenails into a blank.

one umbrella in the mist memorization.

blue babies in the bay baby blue.

cccxxxvi

it rains the day
I know I was
almost perfect
but now
it’s Monday
ocean seagulls
are digressions
here I can’t
so much get
dizzy with
gossip but
I drink fog
and bid on
forty acres
I am Arkan
sas the sun
California
Boston
and Maine
I haven’t had
a vacation
in over a
year and
this is just

what happens

cccxxxv

this movie’s an example
of the quietness of rain
or the neighbor
typing up the bedroom window

something comes out
it turns slick garbage into plot
a cliché illustrating nothing
is it a taxi or tax day

the Premier leaves the building
operatically for China
the page he left included sex
and romance

both I don’t remember
except that I was there
and would rather have gone to Portland, Maine
which movie is this an example of

cccxxxiv

hello dream of a new month
signing a lease we blew up
its national flag flirts online with our own
greenness
Saturday night Brian the elegant nurse
Jake the sixteen year old Indian
Easter
nothing like you
our traditional walk in a pink shirt
so as not to be funereal
we breathe
he’s unimpressed so I sign the line
it gets things rearranged
but I want to think about bloom bottoms
everything frozen like the internet
in greed
disappears in a puff of smoke
each argument over religion
gets me closer to the stars
in bed
everything on the floor you fell down
making an announcement
you’re leaving for good you don’t feel safe
you want to hang it on the wall
so you can see some you there
or me
it’s too confusing
puff
over nothing

cccxxxiii

a new month another spring Bill Moyers on teevee war in Yugoslavia
a nice date he likes The Muppets and The Simpsons and also Tori Amos
he has a beard and we even smooched and snuggled after Daniel Auteuil &
Catherine Deneuve got him weightlifting gloves for the war in Yugoslavia
we had a double moon even and the sky was a smokey smoky blue then
poetry attacked my omelet for dinner and I had a lot of expense reports
stop what will I think years on down if I live to read this again
when people keep killing other people
and I won’t be here of course
I’m no good yuck
let’s dance

cccxxxii

born into the glow from within,
the moon looks at us in the shower
while a car washes into the grey evening.
somebody is born at 8:44 or so.
it is night. elaborate messages
are frozen upon each facial expression.

I am not sure how to get in touch
with my roots. which mountain
belongs to me. which lake.
I do remember swimming to the
edge, to the buoyed rope,
wondering how deep it was
and what happened beyond.

I think I find out, eventually,
but in the most unlikely places.
some are dark except for the
single ray angled slantwise.
sometimes swimming is required,
but not always. we are born. we
find our cars. we pack like cigar boxes.

we sit. we think more and more
about events that unfold and we try
to explain them. in our heads. to each other.
until the explanations grow more and more blank
as a fire builds within that either boils us or keeps us
away from any more life.

cccxxxi

The flowers are dying.
Lips like sawdust.

Mars is never easy.
Shall I meet you at home?

cccxxx

sunny day to mix it up
give birth on rewritten pages
near the tip of my tongue

here’s a little sore reading last night
our brown California puts out
especially the beloved pantoum

next is Fire + Ice before Sackler
this is a grill in a circle
it’s not so mixed up as all that

tonight I have a date
with the broken cloud
that breaks off like a boxing glove

until my shoulder hurts
like everything hurts
now The Red Room has its Cosmos

the sun shines through Taiwan’s
not so Carl Sagan-esque retirees
and Kosovo is bombing us

they slit the throats of Albanians
ah well listen to this            “she’s at NYU but
now she lives near Columbia”

“you wanna say ‘hi’ to my
daughter in
New York?”

cccxxix

and morning.
elevator talk about the
School of Quietude. and then
Outlook tells me to water my
deskplant. “I would push
your mom in front of a train
for a cup of coffee.”
                                    so what
if he gives props to his pre-
decessors. why don’t I
have a kid myself, see how
lingering life can be in
fast-forward?
                                   tell me:
how are we already here?
it’s eleven o’clock
and I have to do
the filing.

cccxxviii

here’s spring
& psychosis
Thursday and
Friday wrists
hurt wrist
hurts (right)
also edge of
ball of foot
(left) Cali
fornia eggs &
pages of do
nuts ah Zhu
we love you
      +
Jackie Brown
Tom Bonner
& Channel 4
Indian food
a Gong Show
measured in
boys fuck
grad school
2 people at
once in blue
eyes find
the redbutton

w/o worsening

cccxxvii

A bird flew up to me this morning.
“Nothing I have to say will be of any use to you.”

Scene four: St. Patty’s day in Boston.
I bought him a monkey in a cup. It’s pretty cute.

Call Site for Sore Eyes, 3:21pm. Make appointment.
Not for myself. Just listen to Nicole

Kidman: “Has anyone had Lasic surgery? Is it any good?
I can’t see. I walk around in a haze.”

I was online 3 hours last night talking to some
winterguard boy in Billerica. Maybe a date

with the pianoman on Friday? Premier Zhu’s address.
Mary Cassatt. Then the symphony with you-know-who.

He’s back from London. Yesterday he points me to the
sickest pigeon he’s ever seen.

cccxxvi

Makeshift snow again.
The tulips flash soon.
My heart sags, makes
red carpet groping no fun.
Today’s rainbow burns a
needle-hole into the
southernmost tip of the
island.
                There goes my
idea for a career change.

This day has been a coding
smorgasbord, always I’m
either just blank or I’m

blank blank blank blank

anymore.  Esp. sifting thru
the conference participants.
Pass me the Xanax.  I think
I’d rather be catty than talk
such hokum.
                       Today I blew
everything by sending
him the mail. He writes
partial sentences, which
in retrospect was of
course a bad omen.

cccxxv

“Truthfulness is crucial.” So I enjoy
Everybody Loves Raymond generously.
So I have spent today $160 at Structure.
Here I am. What have I missed from
giving up Arkansas? Why do my words
not echo, like C.D. Wright’s, that long,
lost country? Honestly, where does
she live?             “Outside Providence.”
What largesse! After small poetry,
grieve racism. Then drive. Drive to
Holliston, to Big Sur, into Obsession.

This is the table where I met him. Not
much more than the silly words that
are volleyed back and forth across it.
We still sleep with each other—on
occasion.

               Your tall poem is hard
to look at because your eyes are
so beautiful.

cccxxiv

Something still untold in my throat. It’s not
words or breath. It’s something in me you made
I never tried to soak. Could be a wrestlematch
there was enough twisting and clawing but
only if we never see each other again.

Brought the candle out of the bathtub what
time in the morning. Stopped at the orange
yellows because I didn’t want to know how
to feel this time. Only maybe the most ever.
Does ever include tomorrow?

cccxxiii

I don’t like darjeeling, rather.
This thought mulling last night’s contretemps
concerning pornography. Yes,
it’s a new word dithering about every other
day or so. Like when to be a bad boy. So as to be
IrishFrench by proximity. So as to be 6’5” and blond and blond.

          It’s been too long since I’ve seen the ocean.

Perhaps it was the soft cigarettes that quivered his
lips each mid-sentence. I’m sure I’d never think of that
with a blue sky. The movie was Night of the Hunter,
set in West Virginia, a jarring little seedpod of
many tattoos to come.

cccxxii

I can’t submit it’s
over. Green rain
falling from the sun

takes a nap it’s the
library. Fiery cloud
eats a slick airplane

heart. This poet
puts me to sleep is
why the peanut tree

leans in toward
the spin. Floating
around my empty

head like sunsets,
orange reaches,
runs away like a ballerina.

cccxxi

he picked me up from work to take me
home and then we promptly had
extremely passionate singlehood

he made it back from Montreal
in one piece cute as ever
we had a nice talk he picked me up

have I even mentioned that I
received my $1,500 income tax face
my federal face which was nearly $1,500

so my bank account was very proud my account
ate another account very full $1,500 worth
I should buy a nice pair of tennis shoes

and go JOGGING play racquetball
whatever now I’m tired also I should
just make a checklist

letter to Mom
go JOGGING
feel up a turnip truck

cccxx

my taste has always
been around twenty
and skinny and soft

I ran into Bill in
the hallway Kenward’s
opera opens today

I felt sick got coffee
and left Union Square
after only a minute

got tickets from our
limo service to see
Ragtime tomorrow night

take a vitamin he says
we should do a
collaboration being single

big tall Asian guy says
I know you’re going to
buy me a drink or

something sitting on the
floor in a rectangle of
sunlit carpet with Sepia

I did and he didn’t
drink but I went home
with him anyway

cccxix

A Pomegranatini
For a barking muscle
Ooh the dark heart departs
Bringing the fishes to the loons

Before going to Montreal on Friday
Only to never to see him again
Sulfur is so much better
(See vomit)

cccxviii

Monday needs to be single. Then to finish about the
nurseboy, I got a cheesy-ass e-mail from him
and then he had a co-worker (assistant) call me at work
just to say hello for him. Where’s the reality?
I lost a cough only on my face because I can’t get into it.
It’s the Bad News Ball-biters. Here they come.
Later that same day I just wanted to snuggle him away.

This week will be heavy busy just wearing a light jacket.
I got a bright sore on my thumb. What did I do with it?

cccxvii

One thing I can’t tell you because of
no memory it could be a dance performance.
I found a note to the “Enemy of Those Eager to Fist
for Fuel”. It might have been the former
Phillipines congressman who sieves pizza
and plays music real loud. That’s honesty!
I also went out on the town with either a
lightweight or a lush. He was fun. I’ve almost lost my cough.
What happens if I pull this cord? Six new messages
in a couple of minutes—
start or stopwatch?

cccxvi

I was just a follow-up.                        We turned into scribble.
It was such a mess.                             Tightwad.
I’m so glad I live with Buddha this week.                          Please hold this moment.
We decided we are best friends.       It’s a starting point.
He hates academia so I shouldn’t go back to school.

               >>>---Don’t mess it up->

                                                               Tightass.
Rainy accounting.                           The new bugs are cute.
I coughed on the sofa all night.   Downtown laundry.
I’m full of that today.                      Rain.Rank.Blank.

cccxv

each little white boat blacks the eyes of
the faces wakened by phone’s numbered
highways cutting rivers of deep nothing
they all argue over the phone for a while
until the sidewalk is muffled from the open air

now each puffed chest tells a sad story
clouded with snow from an argument
its face is not here to compromise
but it beats and in beating must bud
too soon to know how to bloom

brick chunks cling to each face
barren trees bicker over the boats
now each puffed chest overhears a sucking noise
checks the riverbed thrown at a window
     after the snow melts each face kills Time

cccxiv

swift. nineteen ninety-nine stud
ying like a madman for tarts. atrophied.

could be just take a nephew. nap here.
blue like the color of your skin

which I truly adore it’s all veins and
the guy a little ways to my right who’s

stuck in time. our timing is always
right. mailing libraries. I wish I

were excited about it. excitement
lost the boat. we did? something left

over. like pizza and mahjongg I
hid behind the boxes and was

watching for the puppet. generally
twist your face into a sock. then paint

it. don’t ever call me anymore. give
me your ankle. it’s darker now.

cccxiii

What words welcome whatever you
find yourself for Valentine’s—a little
bitten from a barkened


age?  This big blue gulf vanished a wealth of
Saturdays.  Look how the dry brown
birds are banging.  Some


fell in love and warmed it up.  Some
like the hounds wished our bones
into wishbones.  Some flew


into the foil.  Fly clouds.  Fly like a
rabbit into a chalkened
coppice.

cccxii

your picture looks good. I am sad lying
flat on the counter. it was good at church
drinking coffee they
read a Billy Collins poem “Aristotle.” at church?
cute guy gnawing on a bagel three stools down. I’m
not thinking about something but maybe I just want to
fall out of the window.
we watched a movie last night it was black and white
with lots of computers. big hoop earrings.
I read Lyn Hejinian poems last night including
others whose names I don’t remember I’m going whole hog.
I am an old dolt I am sad. the blue sky
winks it makes me less sad. at me.
that is an inappropriate word. here is another page. he tries
to do things that really matter but not
very hard. no snow. but
a sparkle or two if I were
only so. your picture still looks good lying.
innocent.

cccxi

Adventure. This place
doesn’t even have a
restroom. I am stoned
for it. “Art allergy?”
“Sure, how about 8.”

“Nice poems.” Inti
mate. They do have a
bathroom. Potato leek
soup’s hot. Mellow
ceiling human. Rats!

Whatever that’s worth
is less than I’d pay.
$25 an hour for the
good old world. Ho
ver over the soup.

cccx

I am looking forward to finding air but currently
I’m writing the economy, so it’s warm and can’t be
more than we expected. except even more poison,
but it’s impossible to say how many in advance.
see the blue sky? it looks perfect. but see the little
boat taking things seriously? we cannot finish our
ginger ale and omelet, including 4.4 million foreign
tourists. on Thursday I am finding new glasses. no
longer have sniffles, thankful, looking for glasses to
see. looking. looking really looking for a reason to
see anything. say about not feeling like I have none.
feelings. see. George Clooney left ER last night.
I’m wearing new shoes from Aldo. he had to know
before he could obtain a taxi license. see. breathe.
breathe unwind. as in take it easy. is it the winter?
I am telling you we should break up only to protest.

cccix

Listen to the good weekend. One long dance, three-quarters
shirtless. One long movie, Match Point, what
stress! Boyfriend looking for coded messages in my poems.

Romantic brunch on the ocean. Buy new underwear. Watch more
movies. Chasing clues across continents...

Annie Hall. The Lady Eve.
Door-to-door bar-hopping despite a little tension,
too much for no good reason.

And then there’s this: walking up the hill, hands clasped,
you walking backward,
me forward.

cccviii

All of today’s meetings get wiped
clean. Troubles, troubles, troubles, he

calls me with his troubles. He’s
doing okay, I think. But he gets so worked up!

The morning’s mist gives way to sunshine
as the day develops. No more blah blahs

on the calendar. It’s time for tea and
we’re all dilettantes. Dilettantes!

cccvii

hello from Baja
with a sickly strawberry
margarita and disco

Monday it rained
I mean it rained I mailed
a birthday love poem

he was crying when he called
to thank me as much as he does
for me that was nothing and
I’m glad he liked it

                                     speaking
of yellow there’s a yellow-
orange layer covering
the Oakland Hills
right now
from this view
making for a hazy-
dusty looking day

the bay looks
much more inviting than
yesterday tho

yellow is my favorite color

cccvi

It’s because of the drowning he’s
shirtless at the edge of the crowd.
It’s because he’s drowning I know me.
I know me. It doesn’t matter if it
takes me too long to see it. Other
worlds beckon. Will you sleep forever?

This time was strange dancing. I might’ve
found you at two or three, but some nether
soul caught my left shoe. I had tripped
but did not fall. Now his little white boat
chalks a tight-lipped line amid the gloom.
Who else did I bring to this river?

cccv

writing on the still train he
tries to cheer me up, succeeds
with new pants and a sweatshirt.
now he’s walking down Pine Street,
nondescript. a bottle of white wine
with porn and cornbread (I’m off my diet).
cruises here. cruises there. everybody
goes on a fucking cruise. the car guy
was at my gym last night. he’s never
been to my gym before. why do I go?
maybe we’re all just talk.
                                     the new guy
didn’t like my ‘y’ words but he liked
‘cocksucker’. I’m leaving the green now.
got to go give somebody a kiss.

ccciv

way up here chalking out
a tree breeze. relaxing
like the other grandchildren
of immigrants. these words
must work themselves out when we
go to Ogunquit, show that I’m
no bastard of disjunction
nor architect of erotica. lies!
architecterotica. it’s a scrumptious aesthetic
or feeling or abrasion or
whatever, intangible
until I say it, trans
late it onto his cheeky
stomach. here are the
remaining timeslots
for chair massage today:
by means of exploiting my
relationships with The Eastern and
The Western. these London-looking
buildings look like me. they know I’ve
lost 8 pounds today. p.s., hunger
is the root of all crankiness—
now I’m posing as appropriation,
bottom-heavy.

ccciii

more squirrel.  Wal
ted banana.  go2
tinderBART!—thunderBEE!
Blackberry allusions
.  shook my nuts    Googl
e it.   (sticky note)

cccii

Banana says we must remember this new kind
of cloud backing up into the sundown, a nice Perrier
of a day blocked by the Embarcadero number
{insert Japanese language}. Winter life.
Erin just sent me a parody of satire. It’s a
cadaver like a face staring out at the
naked people getting run over on the interestate.
Tell me more.

ccci

sitting here losing teeth.
sitting here with lots of my mind
sorting a new way to start and I feel lost.
I felt a lot better freezing about it.  I am feeting
and I have to pee.  although I might try to
shake it out of you.
I’ll have the fritatta and the restroom please.
something meaningful with less coffee.
you’ve come with me when at some point
words stop mattering.  maybe that’s
it—words.  they stop mutt.  I touch.  I tuck
with full effect into the meanings.  the meanings rub the wrong way
and get a foul.  why is it do you think I
always hold out my hand?  seriously do you think
I am disbelieving just to touch your
tongue?  I have had some secrets I lost.
the way to the words that are meant.  some
are for someone,
but nobody could be more.  think of the teeth.

ccc

Here’s more muse musings. Do you mind my
knowing you? Take the time.
Let’s build a birdnest,
speak Spanish (a mutual language). Well,
you know. This is a different window than
yesterday. Let’s speak Spanish. I have the
dulcimer, it’s not a critical thing (birds do it).
Big limb-like things. I want to be good, but
real? Should I aspire to such stuff? Look,
you are beautiful in poetry. Very bright
and covered in many layers. AND this
connection is yours and mine, plus better now
that I wear glasses in my cubicle.

ccxcix

Mission statement corner of 2nd, crying:
I love you very much turn off the camera.
Pick up February poetry poem in bed
all black dimly lit.  Reading beautiful snow
beautiful Charles I can’t walk.  Little v’s
of snow all along the bridge.  Snowflakes.  How 

many shapes look forward.  The schoolbus is
the wrong direction drop your pelvis.  I
watch it.  I watch the moving picture in
front of me. In front you kept changing
the best thing.  Those brown birds.

ccxcviii

it was love at first sight. I am over and done with
again and again. yet I am still unable to hold
the man I know how to in French or whatever language. I know how to
write a personal statement on Monday but
Monday night + Sunday afternoon = I rap.
here’s a memo taken in mathematics. find the equation
for love power that knocks you down. which is almost never. get it it’s important—
not everything is a real ditty. yes we got fairly decent out of it. the ages
say blow in which is impossible. impossible to look for babies two years now.
and so I change the way I feel. I change the way I feel. I hand over music. it
beats the way writing leaves. we can dance and be only as bad as it beats.

ccxcvii

seems to me I’ve been here over a year. the slothful Marlowe spirits.
queasy my curiosity always seem such
swung instant message.  swing it.  take me there into that plausibility—
I spill coffee on Union Square.  I spill coffee like a
rubberband.  this car’s going by a Massachusetts.  as did I.
did I mention the time it takes me there.  to get me four.  four crying.  step on his feet
before I fall down.  that’s when I died.  he changes every four minutes.  every
last night is every day—
a cosmic instant message.  I’ve been fucking the possibility.  it seems he
hasn’t even called in.  blue grudgingly.  this is a pre-marriage issue—
problems keeping.

ccxcvi

I turned last night into a poem which
when I got back from the dance about the loss
of a long-time ago it was one of the best poems—a cosmic
backdrop—snowy hot spring baths. I love him four times.
four times I wiped my eyes over the apples and the potatoes. I’m
your special guy. pain is all around. here for example is a picture of the
rice pudding from the cous-cous truck. I shot the wet sidew
alk here — and another time here, then I shot the firetruck. I swung him over and over, I

thank him over, over, fuck his eyes are all over. his eyes are over. fuck his eyes.
see how they shine. fuck them. I am over everyday screaming a bit. this pocket
changes me. change makes me feel united. so I write more. next is a
triple layer installation. the food is good but where’s the dick for love.
this green newspaper balls love into an upright casket. I escalated
then I felt almost everywhere. how romantic this is together. how
romantic together. notation: going on for a while. I just waive him.
I’m feeling quite indifferent. ha. I just wave at him. a cosmic wave.

ccxcv

I just fished a novel with
the above title. The spike
of John Hancock is Franz
Ferdinand (“beautiful boys on
a beautiful dancefloor”) and
nothing matters now. The window
across the river at your
face does not close. Never
closes. But it keeps changing. It
taps my spirit. It is warm-armed/fingered.
Well, it’s obvious rain for the weekend.
Why pillows always goalpost (“guitar”). 12:55.
Same bicycles in the median. Orange
coat with blond hair (sip). I am sipping
gold. One jogger passes three joggers
(the more I see the less I know).
Our wall. When we sat on that very bench what
was our explanation? No more. No way.
How we missed four holes in the cloud.
One jogger on the bridge. A squirrel with a
messed-up tail meets another at the closest tree,
runs up, runs down, digs a little, runs back up.
I love you.

ccxciv

these just words back from the blank page. I had a
great bedtime with your eyes down on me, keep waking.
floated and fulfilled, beautiful weather, are we dancing
taller? take a break from the interstate—
12:06—see the dirty windows. which costume are you now?
and just barely into Connecticut (our secret state) when—whiplash!
I am not you now (I do not close your eyes. I look up
and you have not closed your eyes like always. could this be
the tearing down of my life that I have always wanted?)!
I am not you now. beautiful weather—this blank page—MOMA. I went to the G
Bar — how many years was I there? in a little silkscreen
you show me your action figure. he is high.
your new jacket and strut—this is the life for five boys.
juvenilia. just keep track. just keep reading. I slept across the
street from Carnegie Hall. Depeche Mode was just here. your
face keeps changing (“my God what have we done to you?”).
typical-gay-materialistic-sexistic Miro. Japanese textiles
are eating the blank page—or Milk Chocolate Milano (intell
ectual) angels? what’s with the abbreviated thing? if God
has a master plan what is he doing here exactly six years and one day less?

ccxciii

I have been stopping
on this doorway, nothing went wrong
with the bridge. Our

fresh skillet finds Dove’s blue. I
paint to stay a while in that blue. I paint the big door
of your hallway, step next to the whispery night. Look,

I have not seen him in nine years so to speak.
Since then I died so to speak, screaming
on the pillow.

This is the hallway where I may see
Frank. Not you. This ride has been nice. Nothing

is wrong with the bouncing. You change. Look at
you. I was trying to shovel snow off for years. Your

face keeps changing. For years I pressed. We didn’t talk.
We escaped. In nine years or three and a half
I have been stopping or screaming. I might see you key

the mailbox. Inadvertently, this time I fell off. I got horribly
good. I showed up and started falling. You changed.

The rings. Every time you bounce
it is a different shape. I don’t try
not to make sense. The engine

has been running a while. The engine.
I have been running and falling a while
off the bridge in between the screams.
You make me run for it. The ride has been nice.

ccxcii

I need you like this dance over to the special corner.  I’ll take
every little black sports car that zips by the wet street,
dumbs the loud bright white of a half a foot of
nobody last night.  I don’t ever want that to be said.
The midday bird steps across the median and into some dumb jogger.
I have a question about your outfit – who are you today?  Two squirrels
don’t want the sidewalk—they slice through the frozen rinse above the lawn.
I’m happy for the lamppost and the new gray mountains in the distance
and the black trees as they dip mostly under the bright white that opens the world...
making their noses mock the frozen river.  $10,000 could also be for the dead turnpike.
Run over the snake.
Or peer into the crayon and find clouds flowing out to sea.

ccxci

Well, Hazel’s all fucked up bright fog.  Have
tried therapy, three saints, nothing revealed,
so maybe—as they say—sometimes it’s just good to talk.
Back to that in a minute.  But first –
No No No I’m not saying you are out of touch.

ccxc

I am number 1,240 working on the
revamping project (working holes—licking
sentences—too bad fat).  Fat and $65 on Friday.
To get thin working holes a dozen years after love.
Snow is expected tonight after Ginsberg.  My brain is a
circle.
It was mainly a cheesy lesbian love story & a couple nights of solitude.
They go together.  Are we going together?  “Get the tweezer.”
“Clip my toenails.”  Benziger’s muscat
before dinner this time.  Dinner this time an amalgam.  Mars lines up with me.

cclxxxix

What is your writing about?
Already you turn into a crab.
Here’s New Year’s & you’ve
salted your drawers. I have
this one sex here for a while.
A piece of chocolate under a
green file folder. Last night I
saw balls drop at Nathalie’s.
Then I dreamt I took LSD in
liquid champagne. Always
cautious, I only took a third
of what I was given because
I intuited the whole thing
would be too much. It was
a nicer high than LSD really is.
Count backwards from the top
window.

cclxxxviii

This year my last grandparent died.  Groundmother.  Grand Ma.
Grandma Hazel died this year.  Look up, helicopter.
This year’s glassy dishes.  This is a second full thought.
This my second full year in Boston, copy.  I haven’t.
Haven’t you wanted to be famous?  Simple that fame.
What if everything we do is geared toward fame?
I just know it is a graceless joke did we just overlap?  Did
we overlap in my calendar?  GRACEFREAK.  I know I am
not a words fountain stop concerning.
I am going back to school (almost pretending) and now
I am viewing now a sea-foam jade.  I view browser log freezer-burn.
What was your first book of poetry goddess until now?  Access?  I have
only one poem and it is not going to show up until eleven.
Did we get cheese?  Let’s copy this all down in manuscript.
He is not going to show up until eleven I just know it.
O last day of 1998—almost no depressions 2% to top it off
although a continuing overabundance of connections
of seeing my debt chirp.  Stop churning this.  It is the
year of the purple sun it is the year I see a blue sun
it is the year the fog is blooming I saw it until now
where it is no longer the year.  Look up, helicopter.

cclxxxvii

iPod this all before. In fact, iBook this before.
One plastic binder falls unto its death. There
were three survivors. Suddenly the Compaq
revs unto life. Uber-life, extreme life? Makes
much more racket than it had been making. I
didn’t do Anything. Christmas = Over. I was
worked and ready for buzz. Buzz arrived. I
didn’t. Cool, chilly, hazy, with a box full of
onions. This box smells like onions. Box =
Cubicle. It’s already 2. I unwrapped the pres
idents on Christmas Eve morning. I am on
a magnificent book of poetry. iWords with
ear-flaps. I sure am a kid. Then we stopped
@ BankBoston to make our checking count.
Officially joint. I tried to read more iCons.
Snowman salt and pepper shakers, Mister
and Missus. Here we have snowman pot-
holders. Snowman dip dish with assorted
dips. Then we eat it all and take a nap....
Then I download a computer game from
Shanghai.

cclxxxvi

Text msg.: “No worries. My mom is coming tonight for ten
days. Do not worry.” He had clothes on. He sometimes had
a dental relationship. He made all A’s on hamburgers and I
got $100 from my dad. My dad’s presents not so much. Of
the charcoal haze covered up by the drug haze which covers
my memories, what memories am I going to listen to now?
12:15pm according to my telephone. Poemnotes are too long.
Controversial. Career. Before Macy’s buy underwear. Blue
and gay experimental stripes. Fitted tanktop doesn’t fit. Ha.
This song until the very end? 12:18pm accordion to my new
shiny tanktop. The hairplane arrives at 5:54pm. I think Taco.
I don’t know the erection. Anyone? Erections? Burg moat.
Bell directives. Drives word moats and sail snuff into rickets.
Not that, too. I lost my head in the directive. It shoved me a
new power: Fistfighting Pacifist-A. Go to the Taco television
and fake sitcoms like Everybody Loves Raymond. RU happy?
Laugh at me I am the middle-aged. Televisit accordion files.
Financial Times crisscrosses jetplane smokelines, makes hash.
Makes hash happy. No fit. Donuts 10am. Career headunder.
Big harp from A’s. Hamworries. McPoem. Teletickle.

cclxxxv

Getting ready for me
to go to Bistro Burger.
“OMG you’re adorable!
Can I kiss you?” This
pouch is releasable. Why
not quote it, then? Look,
there’s a slab of bacon
on my fries! That’s poe
try. Hello from Back Bay
Station, waiting on a train.
It’s gunmetal with a dark
green face. And that’s
an issue I promised my
self I wouldn’t dwell
on this season. Bear
in mind, Christmas in
Leominster. Anyway,
I’m on the train now,
on the way to abso
lutely nothing.

cclxxxix

don’t charge my spirit.
it needed crash. lasted
on 2 hours trying locks
til dumb legs bolted. a
black heart got drunk
frying. ground evening
into a fuzzy white harp.
spirit seized cutie-pie in
to a buzz and paid for it.
on holiday after grab
bing me to dance this
dance. this dance wants
cross purposes. a melt.
let’s say let my swank
bunk boom. give booth.
drew its hands into my
hearts. what my last
coiled hearts wants.

cclxxxiii

finally winter. he’s always
an obstacle. inconsequential
deconstruction. I couldn’t stop
being hard so I put the hot dog
under the seat and I took a sip.
floating sunsets. not to read
but to listen. this story will
find itself. pardon the
boob at the top.

cclxxxii

let me grab my thoughts.  I
order a burger.  turtles and fisting.
the heart of the story lies in the
warmth beneath the surface
of what?  I’m having dinner
at the Ritz-Carlton.  attendee
list with logistics.

cclxxxi

an optomythist.  more fog than rain.
the coaster, the stapler, and the
tape dispenser.  the heat I can feel
watching this story—is it you or
the story?  nothing seems right.
nothing seems right.

cclxxx

November reminds me of her leathery
presence. I’ve agreed to be the bastion of stability.
I learned how to be a social butterfly at
his uncle’s funeral. Nothing like realizing I’m
actually frightened of having long-term friends.
She was taking prescription drugs and she was
totally stressed out. Everyone has a stick
up his butt. It’s a chilly, beautiful day.
It just started raining.

cclxxix

Tomorrow the turkey is good. Some sibling
spat, spoken in long time (l o n g t i m e)
comes to me today, this evening, after tea,
but before tomorrow. Tomorrow is good.

What have I done these past few days?
We attend a series of movies and then
reflect how each character is ourselves. Our
own characters are not that flat, but we say to ourselves
“I want to kiss him like that.” “I want to be so drunk.”
“I want to look at the clock and then suddenly
figure it all out. Like that.”

cclxxviii

Give me a couple of hours to do some work.

I did visit him last night.

I am eating this right now: “Locally roasted espresso steeped into fresh cream,
then carefully stirred into dark couverture and dipped in milk...for a strong
signature espresso au lait experience. Savor it slowly.”

It was a nice but lackluster visit and I’m not sure if I can talk about it yet.

cclxxvii

today I am not. I am not
a gray minnow writing to
what minnows. a gray
widow. sip blacken.
the ample steam of frenzy
always knew love to co-exist.
I always knew nothing to co-exist.
a blacktrack journal pours like plastic.
what downtowns me so much is
a frown to remember. not one
to puff it up or out is happy
stupid. yes I
get the emotion. yes
I beat up my old friends. yes I am stable.
doom bracken such. big deal talk is
missing.

cclxxvi

A blue forest. A hill sinking.
A sun-blasted book. So I would have

a book. Blasted by bills the
muse arrives at four. After the fugue
a sign of weakening. A com-
mittee starts at nine. Thinking
follows. Thinking fellows.

I have my nose to the soulless
file upon the bleak desk filled with bluebirds.
About what? The airplanes swimming?

Someone took a knife to the smokestack.

cclxxv

It is 4:02 and our new saint got bored so he finished a book
I hated. Meanwhile, watching the internet is like being there,
but how do we calm down without losing the explosion: insert
one aphorism after another, perhaps, until we define atrophy?
I’m doing a real lunch. Outside of the office is the real office,
but not without James Schuyler and his brown paper wig.
Then we discussed high windows at the ATM machine and
decided a leisurely drive through Pennsylvania would be lovely.

cclxxiv

a chunk of my neck is a
long hour of daydreaming.

the perp of poetry is sitting
in theatre rereading the

charcoal out of the sky.
we cannot solve it anymore

due to lack of eyewash.
this during an elm intermission.

word is word war three is over.
what flukes. it is yet possible

to punch my neck into account.
please take a book. room it

under the chalk. tell the
audience to go bi. grant

mission. be ginger
boils and goils.

cclxxiii

To do something to be
alive put real words on

top of a sofa to live
a minute. Where else

do you want a month
to go without me?

Live until the same
ideas about moving

show up beneath the
cushions with the

spare change. I’m
growing sideburns

drinking a ginger ale.
Calling all clams!

Wait a minute...

cclxxii

“Chocolate rocks
like dirt,” says
Overheard in
Latent’s wings.
“Eating a lesbian
pizza with Kirk
Douglas beats
poetry with Jello.”
That’s enough
chill to don a
jacket—the joy
of wearing jeans,
a loose sweater
full of lies. “Wy
oming?” I start
to crying. “We
have to talk,” he
says. “Bad
moon.” “Good
coffee.” “Take
care” by “sucking
guns w/Robert
Mitchum.”

cclxxi

I come this way for the fires. Downwind is
our inaugural hedge fund: “It’ll be worthwhile
under the belt with our items for approval.”
Speaking of my fiction and the very act of
writing, the show I’d forgotten how to end
was just beginning. Or, more accurately and
timely, the repartee with my newly-formed
Little Rock correspondent was just underway.
“My poetry was at Gayplace.com?” “Yeah,
well I see it right here, ‘Del Ray Cross’!” “Oh
...” It seems we need surgery to replace our
necks, are organizationally empowered by
the demands of the organization, and repeat
ourselves too much. Repetition either ensures
e-mail or ensnares it. He teaches fiction. I
finally sent him a missive this morning: “Red
may return to green after disheartening.” Is
that the act of cleaning away the heart? “My
class is fine, thanks.” “I finally got the Nobel Prize.”

cclxx

I want to share with you the remorse I felt
when I walked up the block and the restaurant with the
stir-fried salt cod over rice was no longer there. there is no
new way to render disappearance. however, try this:
tear out a piece of hair; rip the secret document in half;
sew it back together with the hair. this time
do it by yourself. to be myself in the afternoon
is walking into a non-existent restaurant, craving a
non-existent dish. hello (primarily members of the sex trade),
is everyone else this down when they die? okay then
I am going to drive to Portland,
walk around and see if I can find a bookstore.
I need a plot twist to be alone.

cclxix

a computer-generated day,
the roseate blush above the
dazzled Oakland window-fires. nothing
less real, actually; a thin taupe strip of bay
lay before the beach, its land.
forefront, the tail of an island.
more fore, a boat, camouflaged,
white. I’m not wearing my glasses
or it’d all be more there. every thing
whizzes by like surface, depthless poetry, but some things,
like background, distract. twist my head into my stomach
debating sex vs. love. note Blake’s London,
his “mind-forg’d manacles” could be the haze of the
chiarascuro’d bay. Rimbaud is in Africa –
a yellow streak across the page.

cclxviii

I’ll try (am trying).
There is no escape
but I am. Here on earth. Were I

translucence*
determined (trying)
to try new ways? Try! Try reading.

*Trees
and cloud. Rock homes. The dangers of
frienship. Be

worried about being.
Then, say, life is less sober.
Have a fries and root beer.

Then I throw a celebration
(a poem about Michael’s painting)
and everybody comes.

A season for which I
have to go home tonight,
write to become

glad.

cclxvii

what nancy can’t write text into
an erasure just to appease the
seemingly white swath behind
our five minute conversation an
open boat behind a white swath
our words have twin enclosures
one is a bruised popcorn cloud
of racist language & one is why
only these words help the body
(if she’s sick) which is why I
enjoy goading this white matter
into a debate of hopelessness
to cajole the sick words & then
beat them into a slick food the
erasure of an appeased enclosure
our bruised worms will often lie
among such determined snails
as those beneath the ever sweet
bleeps of our five minute bloats

cclxvi

I wish I’d had a little more time struggling
with science and some more tea.  I think I found a friend
in New York for a while on the ocean.  It is his
one year anniversary.  This is my first class:

-fix the kitchen drawer (Dustin Hoffman)
-fix the toilet (it’s wobbly) (Anne Bancroft)
-being hanged in Singapore (Eva Marie Saint)

I need to relax or something.  This is my next meeting:

-I need to relax or something
-my memory blows (Lee Kang-sheng)
-a one page assignment on what poetry means to me

(neoconceptual installations in Italy)

I just realized the grit among these pages is
sand from the beach at Ogunquit.  Time
to pick up movie tickets and go see James Schuyler, goodbye.

cclxv

The paper got wet
Sunday in Ogunquit
sitting here on the beach
in the rain that is falling.

There is oil on my notebook.
Australia stares out the window.
We find ourselves in the gay section
and we park ourselves

and we crouch real low.
“People don’t eat watermelon seeds
that much in movie theaters any more,
and in the future probably no one will.”

-Tsai Ming-Liang.
Is there a possibility
for life to change for the better?
I walked up and down the beach.

We walk up and down the beach.

cclxiv

I don’t know when I
can stop walking—nor
nearly the world round.
Darkness lights the face
of the Embarcadero and I’ve
wound round the advent of
autumn. The BART takes
me. I will breathe in and
cross the Charles. These
living room windows are
spotted – they dissolve day.
I can’t stop with my feet
nor the slump of watches.
When I warm my pockets
my feet are back up at the
audience, still walking
away. Someday I don’t
know poems, I’d rather
eat. On this day I prefer
a movie I argue about,
a place to be. It
tells me how flat my
life is. I don’t care.
Four books in my bag,
I walk the rain.

cclxiii

I bit my tongue until it bled.

We went miniature golfing again,
then walked Broadmoor discussing
eye-for-eye retribution and the
senselessness of media-frenzied infidelity.

I sat thinking for a long time the day
after Thanksgiving.

The flag was brilliant.
Spools of clouds
disappeared.

And then, sleeping separately,
a spectacular light storm at the 3:00 a.m. hour.

cclxii

here he is again not listening. here I am again
with a current of jazz and a note full of chai. I’m
crystal distress again, aware I made a poem until
last night. like wire and something novel. what
shall I call it? disregard shall I call it myself.
this is what is outside with the cats’ poems. back
to being frequent, the cat under the bed trick,
a little S.O.S. in my diary which works better
when the tea’s good. I can call it whoever
shows up to do some laundry with the kid brother.
a silent talk that bonds with the scaredest cat.
the smokers’ eadrums are the sexiest. this
I register with the kind of attitude that makes
turkey go faster. I guess it’s okay to gossip when
deep onions are pushed onto one another. I guess
that’s okay down in the silence that stops him
at airports while he is maybe writing. it’s all okay.

cclxi

the buildings bring the house down
and the hills are on fire again.  it has
already been a week of wasting time.

I think how oily the salad.  my
heart is racing.  my heart is not saying much.
I think, instead,

they sold American State Bank!
random.  Sunday repeats itself.
oh he’s just wonderful, just perfect.

the building’s on fire.
movies like I Guess You Have the
Wrong Number open Friday when we

begin evaluating straight men.  this one is too
lumpy.  this one is too awkward.
this one is too too.  the shorthaired brunette who

I think is a pediatrician.
much to recount as I flip through the
pages, bear in mind the rustic

fireplace in front of which
we made videotapes.  and then there is the war,
and its belt-lipped busboy’s buildings on fire.

cclx (2)

I saw the same lime green everywhere
he had his little argument
about the surgery while the
white wine buzzed a
full frontal waiterfetish
still after all these years
(not still)
he had his neat little pill for which
to see all of the boys on the floor
they hovered in some sort of vibrational
new Madonna album download
his argument about the
sugar (flip cellphone)
his argument about the surgery
is me reading someone else’s poems
and I can’t shut them up (not really) (there
was a real surgeon) (see fan buzzing to my left)
the old man in front of me in taupe shorts
his blank little calves are
charging charging

cclix

home is where I need to say
my breath smells like vinegar
only the pink sky is awesome and
stinking like last winter when
the snow spits into the air its winter snow
spits into the air for a while over a home

this pink sky is therefore awesome
and my breath still stinks like vinegar
the almost Dove-like blue sky is
awesome or what I fail to say
for the first time in months
is the air is not
simply
a cold glass of water

ah it is a hot day in August and
my breath fills like vinegar
I’m gaining on this last breath like
the snow that is long gone long past
yet gaining to stoop and to write
(these two are like science)

home is not only what I meant
by these various words on my breath
which still
yes
these pieces of me I’d like to see again
are gone
yet nevertheless are all gone
and in me they are almost Dove-like
never to lose sight of pink

     nothing much about me today
     only this game I like to play
     and invitations
     to several parties

cclviii

You guys have my hardon, right? The rumor has it
I read the news this morning and maybe it doesn’t
matter at all what we’re doing. He’s been methodically buying
cute duds and dresses lately like a skaterboy. In
side of his sleeping pants I am filtering the events of last night.
They tell me oven-roasted salmon is nothing to filter.
I say hello boyfriend those

(my joy is in here)

were the days. Look at this gorgeous day inside of the
Sierra Conference Room. Here is something
new about me: last weekend or Friday I saw
Blue Man Group.       Part two. I made four reservations
it was freezing and that was the best part. Hello this boyfriend
my car got bashed. My boyfriend car got bashed. Bashed
in the parking lot behind Blanchard’s boyfriend.
Can I get the vegetarian lasagna with that? For twelve?
Caesar. No brownies.

cclvii

sun softly over the chest and over the
sleeping rock until I run into Crazy Eddie
sun softly over it’s true, it’s true, sun softly
makes the glass fires on the side of the mount

and then I went home to bed
no more sun
and then I read to my grandfather and
Steven Spielberg and then cleaned my
apartment and then I napped
and then I drove to Holliston

later, sun softly over the burg is
Colorado on Saturday
it is a pretty boy party sun softly and
it rocked until I ran into Crazy Eddie

and then I felt like I was back in college
and then I think we had fun
and then I know I slept
with his friend while we were there

sun softly over the diary
sun softly over the scrambled eggs
sun softly over the embarrassment
and over the pancakes on the balcony

and then I did laundry
and then I cooked dinner
and then I watched another movie
it was twilight

cclvi

at first glance it would seem time to make the poetry sausage hostage but the
big boat worms itself out of the Embarcadero-lip (the Embarcadero-mouth?)
            it needs to go back into its box. I am telling you this story about at first 

glance The Chambermaid and the Titanic (it’s a French toast fest) and the
glamourless woman who plays his wife who said the clouds and the porny sausage
(pony sausage?) who says the parfait is delicious (which one?). excuse me it’s
Tuesday late Friday and we need to go home—before that we had drinks
(mini vodka martians). “this morning’s working document shows the following:
Monday: 12:30-3:30pm telling him stuff that’s been going on (this is
almost the entire entry) Tuesday: 12:30-3:30pm it would be
time to make the poetry schnauzer but the big boat comes out of
its bruised berth” (something I don’t feel like). wait, I’m telling you this
story here from this workbench (in my workbox)—this is my workseat and
I write poetry here at [my workwork] while to my left is the woman who plays my wife.
not to be confused with what is really going on in here (bangs head).
(French cloud fist) obliterating the day. wait—his wife said the
parfait was great schnitzel. was great converschnitzel. this is almost the entire entry.
anyway, here I am with a bottle of scotch tape and a stapler for my enemies
(not for cocks) but yet we fight this war of clouds to end the daylight savings time.

cclv

the gift of my body walking down McAllister in
the interest of names is wanting to hug the bricks

c’est moi since I wrote I can’t go down on Frank
there is a brains donation on Saturday after thanks

to what I am Thursday giving much to Jack as I’d
like after admitting jury to housecats I’ve got to

sit on me watching sex or I am barely able to lift
that which I could with my hand to my zipper in

a 3rd party of mind my James Market Street or
a blown off body at still 9am in this morning and

I can talk for a little bit about white picket fences
or in a couple of bony triads Mike don’t necessarily

see we are since pooled & feel “good” about Darren
blow visits into a cup of Steve about his destructive

ok it’s more than a couple of kink relationships his
dick in order to maintain this destructive kink in

Andrew so gravely connects the necktie or tuxedo
for Ians I’ve been thrown into when worn at Louis

it’s off-kilter for Joe the good to be back to be hand
some prevalent crush of a feel all Thomas who looks

good in a lion or harness or a hoary tux are you horny
horsey do these words trot and yet I am no horn we’re

set to connect but I can be Rob to do yet more damage
I can’t see but will cut off my Ed if it is 24 hours yet

ccliv

the poet’s work of late daytime keeps
poetic inevitability at bay (such a vague
redemption).  sitting toward stratton
once again having been frazzled
much of the day i sit myself on my
owner’s manual while reading a
dissertation on labor (dropped w/
other gifts at my office late yesterday)
and so I had dinner & chatted w/him.
carrying him home the next evening
the diner lady wouldn’t let us in (i’m
trying to be as cordial as I can and
reiterating how happy and faithful i am).
then i watch a bird fly into a window.
this analogy is particularly re
vealing if we say we are going to die
in a few weeks, like he does, verbatim.

ccliii

today’s solution—an iPod with a new playlist—Groovin’
beeps into the dark down Sutter—stops at Starbucks
5:03am first customer—orders a triple redundant latté

this sequence consists of five of her “bodypoems”
stitched together in a sequence for New York—she’s
had various training and has been called post-Butch

at 5:04am 10 questions about your birthday presence
and a creme de siècle revelation—empty pockets—
I don’t have half a million dollars for a studio-condo

but today’s problem—I want to have sex with everyone—
enjoys a pre-dawn glow down Sutter—I stop at Starbucks
6:08am and he should be just the person to talk to about it

these bodypoems—inspired by Jean Cocteau and loosely
based on elusive fragmentary texts which are printed—
printed in the program of fragmentary texts—printed at

7:05am when the videoconferencing technician has
stirred up a creme de siècle revolution—Gay Pride
Saturday is postponed from last month’s Starbucks flood

it is the fifth and longest section—“Moon Moss Blossom”
where she smears her lovely face and upper body with
bronze makeup—works her way into a fantastical

whirlpool: me—1:51pm—dodges questions about birth
day birds—yesterday at the Unitarian church—I’ve blown
the first Starbucks customer—order me a triple Margaret

cclii

Took a lot of time walking Powell Street for a MUNI 

bong. The sun contemplating self has arrived, its

big long cloud is my damnedest mirrors.  Treasure
Island slightly windy.  Tonight Jamaica Pond and

a fang-reading after buying a hearse.  Dinner with a
Connecticut Yankee.  I have no time to myself not

poking at all.  Mulch kinda funny.  Nice uncomf
ortable boats in the bay.  Such as BankBoston.

Mortgage more lifespan into each poem.  We’ll see.
Got color and spoke.  No more time for me too loose.

ccli

I come to this place to swindle
coming not to be an artist

I could write for days here
a blueness that doesn’t lose me

is adazzle in the arbor I’m looking at
look at the jazz with my BOY

FRIEND fairly whomever I could want
I want to want to write with what I

am I spoke with him earlier 

about this cloudmatter

but now he is sick at the sun shining
I could come for days to swindle an

artist coming not to write for arbor
for arbor doesn’t lose me but

I have wrapped myself into a world
and now I have a cold blueness

a cool place I wanted I could write
a warmer place I wanted with jazz

I could write for days here but
there is no need for either of us 

to get dependent on the luxuries

of whatever art and truth might be

for I have come to this place to swindle

and—ohh!—

what a sense of accomplishment it would

have given me to have thought that 

perhaps, just maybe, I could have 

fooled you into believing

ccl

we made leeway on the Myles Myles Stratton.  gone UMP
is my diet of trees and trees and June.  but hopefully it is

gaining in Blackberry and noseblowing (TRIUMPH
ant) characteristics of noseblowing and

hopefully pounds back.  treesblowing is it is a veterin
arian is where is the rental car and June?  I am Angel Memorial

or is that two L’s as in “Del with one L” – trees RUMPH –
treesblowing leeway on the veteran pounds I am gonna

go do that now.  back!  I have been going through a bit of
Semester.  immediately.  yesterday we WE got an orange

reminder the fact is that that is now 3:41 EDGY.
andisEDGY.  but hopefully I noses immediately (one L).

ccxlix

I made a new KLEENEX for the truth about
a postcard of. of me attending a conference in London L

ondon Look at the PACKING TAPE I am writing a brand new
PACKING TAPE pretending this is why I write pah see

feh go to The Grove and eat BIG BLUE BINDERS this is
the way I this is the leaves are beautiful in October

are blood oranges and everything I read about the Chicken Kickers
but the ocean is all I have to say. all I have to Find me hiding. all I

alive hiding underneath alive the redbrown lights of the. all I’ve
WHITE-OUT is not how a thing goes wrong I made a TRUTH

about the London it was writing a leaf chicken. fuck red.
light out ocean HANGING FILE FOLDERS are beautiful are.

ccxlviii

Five fifty-six o’clock and the
tacos are clear. I check the bathroom
financials and think about eternity savings time.
A poetry I haven’t written is this tree I travel
to the lightning I lost. It’s like a cut-off cushion
under the sun-puffed clouds and I like it. It makes me
whole. I lost last night in the corner of the park next to
a meal I couldn’t eat. It was the tree in me.
An ochre chrysanthemum.

ccxlvii

marketing the subversive, here’s when you
know it’s not for you: read it once, stop,
go back and read it again, not remembering
a thing, stop, read it again, don’t remember
where I was on the page, nothing familiar,
all in ten minutes, phone rings, Peony
Pavilion here, ride the train, say goodbye,
forget to ever write again, women and
surrealism (lots of Kahlo), halt, Mike’s
Pastries (typo: Pasties), naked Francesca....
next May we sit in Starbucks, sip triple
you-know-whats, dine in fondue then
crash, fizzle, crashes tickle (tickle,
tickle), not at all funny, where is my humor,
not at all worth reading.  I go back and read it
three times for nothing, eating sweets, hell,
going back to the butterflies, back to Stafford.

ccxlvi

Hello there poster child for a foreign exotic country,
welcome to the new sound of freak-folk!  Also, the
timing of your courtesy flush is way off.  But nice

news (mews) a baby cat in the sky gives us paws a
bove the war (on words).  Half of Wednesday off
life adjustment—never a dull moment in the box.

Hello, I am looking at the pictures from our trip to
Arkansas and I have lost nine pounds all in one week
after walking to Waterstone’s and vacuuming my bed

room. Now my stomach is a wee bit upset.  Hark
October!  Hark tree of life and all that good stuff,
pretty one, beside my tummy, snapped for posterity!

ccxlv

Wow, great juice of an English bulldog,
food tastes GOOD!  Hello
guy eating an apple I love!  Mark
the night with rivets make it riveting!
Seven years and thirty pounds later I wonder
at material.  This stuff

sucks.  Remind me I got a cat to
night to call my own.  Remind my mouth to
mato weather of the English wonderdrug.  Hello
Hello Sepia the Cat and Dr. Superintendent.  I am morning poem.
Hey two cats:
I’m so hungry let’s try that again.

ccxliv

it’s rather a little unusual for
him to show up
in these poems. the fog
is eating the cheesemartians. i can’t
help it. says the ocean. those cart-
wheelers who shot at the blue and then.
(this is the future) stephanie
reading a poem to a congress of hummingbirds.

ccxliii

never a better time for codename
provincetown 1.436. it was a rebirth
day of surprise and omigod a poetics.
stolen excerpts include: “nebulous
sojourn for the mineral...currency”??
and who doesn’t like caps (“capsule”)
in a pill of “retro-jello” (why quote
now?) but “slippery rocks” of “in
significance” “on wax waterwings”
must win something 6.09.10.20.fog.

ccxlii

never once-over a page like some
glimmering on the other side read
ing it like a bomb.  which is to say
boom you say that?  yes next page a
goldmine full of vipers’ vests and
a spooked out clambake.  this bake’s
disorganized, disengorged, and what’s
more, I wait it out to be hungry to be.
poetry—tab—schoolwork and look,
a few more leaves blown while the
world collapses like clockwork,
only this time with feeling.  how
many times did you say that feeling
breath-rent—half gone to keynotes;
half to phone messages?  block time
for quoting, reread this a third time
and feel sad, feel ugly.  nothing
doing.  dance like a goldfish
out of goldwater.  finish big
like a goldbomb at a goldbake.