cccxcvii

it’ll be a year in like two weeks
however today (TODAY) this time it’s the new poetry
long poems and sequences (thanks we will expedite that)
a special double issue with goosebumps mostly because my nose is running
and i’m not in the mood for this wonderful sequence
where we step into the blue together this wonderful sequence where
the sand keeps sinking us where
it’s the sand that keeps us
for at least the first two minutes (when we can’t read together)

now I think we stepped into the cess
it was better than my last hurrah the second time around
and my nose is running along this very same beach
I can still see the coconut bird in the tree
its leaves yellowing a little

cccxcvi

I was happy to you
it started yesterday
this immediate crash
that moves us toward life
it is moving, a most romantic thing
it started yesterday under a fig tree
a highlight of the weekend
we were rocked
it was an immediate crash moving us
everybody should win like this
it was the weekend of the Oscars
I had dinner with the grapes and walnuts
modern life it’s called
then I moved to Switzerland
happy to crash with you
we moved the weekend
this was happy to you
it started out happy
it was snowing on the Italian flag
and there was a glass of wine
we started archiving
the fig tree
a most romantic thing
I am back to my old habits
maybe he has a fungus on his lungs
my glasses aren’t working
it was snowing and I was happy
my left heart was beating
this is a piece of work
now I am in Switzerland
I do not know how happy it is
the highlight of my crash
everybody should win
I think this is called modern life
hence we have a glass of wine
here, have a glass of wine
look, we are hailing a taxi in German
this is what you would call a happy glass
everybody should win like this

cccxcv

November 11 is fine I think. Remember
these are different meaningless words.
I’m cold. By now our friends are past
Reno and Yellowstone and probably
Las Vegas. “My foot hurts.” Sound
of an airplane makes me dream I’m
dying. Dinner for 9 at Fleur de Lys.
“Do you think you can be monogamous?” Stick
out like sore thumbs. An airplane
plus a siren. A little blizzard of
gnats. A womb in the clouds.
A patch of clover. Walnut
brownies. “I’m cold.”
“My foot hurts.” He
was versatile. The
sound of a fork
scraping a plate.
The fork sound.
We are versatile.
Forking. The
sound of
scraps falling
into a trashbasket.
The sound of trash.
The sound of ash.
Narcotic orange
aren’t hung.

cccxciv

What if I can’t write
now that he is gone?

Bamboo shoots up
for years
next to the stained glass.

cccxciii

I bought two kinds of razors, Irish Spring Aloe Vera soap,
salt, four yogurts, and shaved turkey. Spent about an hour
in Copley Square drinking my coffee and watching people.
Drinking at the Cinch. Had dinner in Hyannis at a Thai
restaurant then we drove to Provincetown. The elevator
is clicking. Stayed at The Red Inn with a nice brunch
on the ocean. Nice view, really, and stinky, with
flowery wallpaper. Then we hiked out across the
rocks to the tip. Low tide. Sat down among
the seabirds and drank merlot and watched
the ocean, the sky, the sun, the birds.
We were out there for four hours.

That was our second anniversary.
Toothpaste really works to fill the holes in the walls.

cccxcii

about how we drove
from beach to beach a
romantic poem about

driving around beaches
it was FOCUS it was
pretty good but it was

hot today it is really
hot in my bed
eating pies listening to

the crickets there is
no need to pursue
these unremembrances

and I am depressed
on these green sheets
under painted clouds

why did we drive beach
to beach and why was it
so hot and so romantic

cccxci

Hurricane Floyd approaches Florida, at least.
I hold Leaves of Grass walking out of Bush Market.  At
Bush Market there were no pecan pies.  We find a pecan pie
at Jones Market or Around the Clock Market or Round the Clock Market.
Someplace.  And now I have a stress headache.

cccxc

Oprah isn’t gay but she has a soulmate. I’m
checking all of the hotels for space. Everyone
is hot. The candle is a paper-Lauper, its throat
is asleep. Asleep like the sand of an ancient
nob. The exhausted Metropol’s peach margarita
seems like such a paradox. Highly motivated
he reaches reception. It tingles when you sleep
on it. A nice new laptop full of cartoons.

ccclxxxix

An “impossible view.” “What don’t you want to write,”
sings a hummingbird floating in and out of a tree
next to the apartment building on the hill. The tree
like the Hensley’s tree, remember that one? With
the big scooped flowers and the murderous squirrel?
If I put the words closer together I get more on the page.
HughesWoolfbusiness. Refill coffee add more cakes to
the fog blindsided by offices.

ccclxxxviii

How to be an artist in 5 days. Disavow us the sea’s pleasures,
like sailbaiting. Disavow the cadence of corporate prima donnas.
Disavow boring us with Björk. St. John’s Wort our feelings
with words fooling us with the works Dame Judith fell on
and then failing us with those same words—Björk’s St.
John’s Wort (BSJW) boring us with titles. The same
bored titles give us Dame Judith. Dame Judith
(Butler) screwing with the Mandarin
Oriental. It’s kinda nice just to be
paranoid of a squirrel’s tail. Skewer us
with the murderous Bombay campaign.
I got a headache on the martini. We
went to bed upside down. It was hot.

ccclxxxvii

here we are with the witches.
under the skies a dragon falls
on a black telephone with
twenty-two buttons for names.
several other buttons, too.
I sit where I can be distracted.
sip Orangina.  warm September.
Salem Frenchfries grillcheese
salmonsteak down TWENTY
POUNDS now.  we trek more.
I watch him take his towel off.
we’re swimming Swampscott
Beach.  someone ask us
how happy our salty locks
are memoir o’ my heart.
all the leaves yet green.
spindrift blows my pages
open.  writing upside down.
mud surgery.  someone
else.  having upside down
shotgun, I guess?  to write
upside down in the mud
this setting is too familiar.
probably kids discussing
where Matt Damon put his
butt on a bench.  a red
ant across my broom.

ccclxxxvi

Oh, the bay is beautiful
but my back hurts.

                                     Yoga
is just too difficult.

                      The boats dart,
to and fro,
to and fro.

“To and fro?”

Gentle
poem, why only now
you come to me,
                                 an
aquamarine I haven’t
known since childhood?

In my car.

                           In the
parking lot.

                           Behind
Blanchard’s.

ccclxxxv

Mongolia.
We blowjob hills
like Nob, Russian, and Telegraph.
On Bastille Day.

Tall Pill Alley.
More poems by Cid Corman.
A van passes a
grocery cart.

ccclxxxiv

In the elevator this morning,
everyone’s head is
wrapped in plastic. I’m burned out of love

like my desk. Check it out:
“Let’s make whoop”
“Boys with breasts” “MIT sucks dick!”

and later that same lifetime...

Recharge with hula-dancing.
Dinner at Hukilau’s. Drinks at Hukilau’s.
Masashi asks me to put him into one of my poems.

Masashi’s birthday at Hukilau’s!!!
I really don’t want to remember
when so many people are going away.

Ah, what the hell.... Peaches Christ
introduces Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.
But first, the Whoa Nellies throw us a joint.

ccclxxxiii

Earnestly he
heaped his pillows
into a pile for
better asphyxiation.

He loved a boy
spinelessly.
With bosom-
smothering resolve.

Behind his lips
a wooden tongue
that would
only bonk.

And an arthritic heart.
He bought a
bedroom book.
Bypassed kindergarten.

Recess was
his bed. A
hard book.
But his lessness.

Unable to read
he rolled around
until the junk fell off his
tongue. Tonguing,

while not a part
of this biography,
is a big jack-o-lantern
sky. That’s

tongue junk, for you.
I followed him
to the monkey bars
reading Grapes of Wrath.

ccclxxxii

“Nice hair.”

Love is nice hair. The rapture of
the Ozarks, Lisbon, Tangier. There’s

just too much to read.

I wrote a dull note, hit my head
on the J-Way. Head-on? I

write a dull note. Get hit
head-on on the J-Way while

picking out Hawaiian trends

over a birthday drink. I was
shot into the billows.

“Sparkling river, broken leg.”

Autumn’s first big day is
really pretty. A breeze

from tree to tree. We’re

going to Italy in the spring
to watch the soccer, whether

or not we make that goal.

“Nice wok.” “Nice red
Pontiac.”

ccclxxxi

Love is a bunch of bricks
up here in the, what,
mezzanine at Hayden?

I’m hidden.
I seek the blessing of the Mother Church.
Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.

ccclxxx

it’s a shady day
for a 35th anniversary—
wine with Maria

“he couldn’t remember how
the curtain drew a breath
or the sneaker broke”

misspelled in the wrong language

“he couldn’t even remember
the way the river ran—
a circle or a squirrel”

“he couldn’t remember
he couldn’t even remember”
laughter via language

the long language

ccclxxix

Flakes arc

Snowflakes fly dimly through love

Sky is love teeming with snowdusted boots

Boots smash the flakes of love into the nittygritty

His skin is showing just above the sandwich

I am a dollar bill

ccclxxviii

I reached back to the twitching in my
side—my right side—inside my back near my kidneys
we’d all gotten high and written poems
before we forgot that we were dying
you reached back to rub the bottom
of my back—your left side—inside my back
the twitching kidneys kept me up a few nights
plus dreams most of which I don’t remember
except genitalia on conveyor belts
much like at the toy factory I worked during college one summer break
the summer before the private dances on the green carpet where
we tangled after reading our poems
not realizing—rather forgetting
how I was given Burger King to bring me down
to rid my paranoia
beneath the window where
the words got lost through the screen
a warm night with lots of bugs
we rolled on the blue carpet
and under the kitchen table with the pasta
I couldn’t get rid of my smile
I ate the hamburger into a poem
and spent hours in the bathroom with the tiles
thinking about sunflowers and belly-dancers

ccclxxvii

I see you lurking
repeating yourself
I see you repeatedly
lurking yourself behind the
motorboat windows
the boats I don’t know
how else to put this
in my head
it knocks
the repetition knocks
the dragon down
knocks him onto the walnut
plush and resilient as he is
he gets back up
onto the computer you keep
entering
too cordial
the houseplant that
made its way into my
cubicle only drops
half a leaf
drops half a leaf
onto the walnut desktop
I can’t put up with this
are you please
going to sit over here
half a leaf
knocks a bug
into the window and
Kenny Scharf
knocks Kenny Scharf
into a donut jamboree

ccclxxvi

The muse. The muse that’s buying the vegetables
gets older buying vegetables. That’s love
buying the vegetables.
Old words fly
like a trio of doves windowshopping new
computers. Every body in the
window (at its computer)

looking at the same little dog
at her breast. The dog at Muse’s breast.
I am talking to the dog. I am talking to the
skyscraper at Muse’s breast. The doves pitch condos.

Such is the life of the thirty-something
cruising www.autofreak.net. The waiter

seems pregnant. I am talking to the skyscraper. I am
talking to the pregnant skyscraper. I am talking to
my dinnerplate. The dinnerplate has been placed
next to my keyboard. The dinnerplate has replaced
my keyboard.

The street is full
of motorcycles. An impressive expert —
an expert in pigeon,
an expert in pink —
explains pigeon and pink impressively.

Then
we realize other people work harder.
Then
we notice our lovers stay in office later.

Men with canes proceed cautiously.

ccclxxv

Hello and welcome. I will learn French.
A tinny music frazzles me as I temp
disguised prose. These words undercut
your anthology of writing a bit for nothing.
I take it this is a way for all of the muck from
the week to stir a little before it settles like
concrete. I could have eliminated many of
these words, but I am preoccupied with these
skies. These skies try new ways of dampening
mood. Look at them dozing hazy dozing. While
heavy they do not succeed over the little park
next to the road. I am no expert on the loss of
stuff to wake up to. “These onions are hot,”
he says. “It’s wine and Kubrick tonight.”

ccclxxiv

let me tell you another dream where I was holding your hand
while you were passing out. it was a huge success, as always.
a party wherein the nature of the water was such that the water
was warm to the touch, meaning slightly warmer than you and
me. we were not yet dreaming when it began, and everybody
came to the party. there was N and R, J, S, A, and little a. we
didn’t always abbreviate so. once, we were more than honest.
as the party wound to a close, volunteers trolled the waters for
those who had waited simply to be trolled. all negativity had
been defeated in the large kitchen where the punch was
drunk and the reverie was molten. it was there that I forgot
the dream I wanted to tell you, where I discovered that your
hand was melting.

ccclxxiii

I can lie back on the grass and take a nap
a park bench under the birds

Killian Court
a few clouds like in my head

a few noises from nearby kitchens
being given a bath

like in my head the muffled din of traffic
green grass

lying back to take a nap
a bench of birds

Killian noises
a few kitchens in my head like the muffled din of traffic

every candle a bath
like the green grass of traffic

a nap of birds turning thirty-two
being given a bath by noises

this is the noise that pleases me
I could put my body where we could light it

lie in it
give it a nap

turning thirty-nine
being given a bath by candlelight

the candle we bought together
we should light it more often

ccclxxii

drinking joe at 1369 the water
heart turns its little burguoise
self around as boats flit about
over on top of it. a fit of blood
seeps thru my red shirt reddening
everything I’m writing. the little green
dragon waves hello and goodbye
for a piece of art or to a piece of art.
a geyser gushes good greetings more than
hello and more than goodbye it’s the
geyser of the burguoise waterheart its
red shirt drying me up underneath the el
ephant tree forcing warm dirty things
beneath the crust beneath my skin. this one
goes perfectly with the sunglasses crew
outside the adult flickjoint. joe’s gone
but what date’s this? okay then I’ll
watch you jerk off argyles. sure argyles
make a difference. the saxophone only
cools me off after another burguoise heart
pokes its head out from under the surface
out from the surface up into the plastic air.
it doesn’t have to be so deep about it but
it’s so comfortable. I place my red hand
over on top of it down inside of it until it’s
the little green mayor.

ccclxxi

the movie played with intimations of lovelessness but
each time I was somewhere as if I had woken up one morning
with juice in my eye. each time it was as if I had jokingly
woken up with a Pitt-Jolie. I went through all of the notions.
I even recorded eleven poems and then I rode the F Train to the
MOVIE. they still hadn’t paid me but she seemed pleased.
everything will be fine. the music lopped off the credits like
you know a guillotine or something so I had to pay the rent late.
there were so many bruises and bleeding tattoos on 57th Street
around 10:30pm on a Friday evening but we were holding hands
up the hill to the porn arcade and then we had Malaysian food.
then he showed me...shit what was the name of the used bookstore
with “eight miles of books”...? the firemen kept putting out fires
with honey. we sat on individual seats one in front of the other
and I got so lost that I got angry. later we watched the new flick
and got rested up. then I beat him up. I stuck a sock into his clouds.
all of the teardrops in New York on the way down Market Street
in the chic but fairly expensive Italian restaurant. I’d better
go in and check the laundry. I bit his lip and then I realized
it was an unconventional relationship. I had no way to be
quite as eloquent as a critic. it was fun and that’s all it was
but it’s still very hard not to feel guilty.

ccclxx

I’d lie down and finish this page where
I’d be this page lying down on the blue
clouded sunny cropped lawn swirls.
In the lying cropped lawn swirls
from mowing lying down on the
carpet. At the ceiling was the dusk
of somebody’s voice. Somebody’s
voice was a little bird I thought I’d
finish and taste an onion. It wasn’t
officed. The boat was lying down
next to another boat that was finished.
The boat was finished upon a great
effort. This was the great effort at
the oasis lying down in the sand
getting burned. I’ve written lying
down with my head wrapped in a
jacket. A blue jacket that I got from
my lover. My lover gave me the
blue jacket. And then we sent party
invitations. I was the one that was
written in the invitation. I was
cropped lawn swirls from mowing
sunny cropped lawns in the ceiling
on the boat where I was lying. I
was lying.

ccclxix

Good morning I am breathing and alive.
My people say this is better than most.
Today I’m going to fall off the wagon with
a triple mushroom and my head’s aflurry
with a poetry conference. There are plenty
of cute poets here but I’m just lust. There
fore, during Duck Soup we romp gaily –
we watch the last half first, starting with
the violin bow stuck up Harpo’s ass.

ccclxviii

Some young potato is talking about
a trip to California. Fat chance there are
several good poets in this place. I pick up a hamburger

and lose eleven pounds in an emergency seething.
Apparently this was the right amount. His house is very popular
but there are only two pickles. My eyes, you see. Funny

how I’m so enamored of him. Even his reflection of the
green bay looks good in the building that makes
bad reflections. The boats are at play. They frolic. Here he is

listening to a poem in the rain. Raindrops make him
hungry all day. I feel bad. Even guilty. So we step into
the sunshine from the movie equal parts

exhausted and elated. Mustard no
mayo. Vanilla milkshake. Let’s order another
pizza. Plug that speaker into your balls and then come over and we’ll eat it.

ccclxvii

I tried to put my hand underneath your leg.

The hyperbole rocked the house. We were depressed

enough about it. Then time froze your face into a drying plum.

I handed you my business card that says I am not in charge

of this depression. Enough about death. Our

company falls like an airplane into the dark map. You sketch it falling.

Somebody we didn’t know dies as a reminder. This little puff inside my chest

is below my stomach or to its left like an unlit firecracker, a

tiny balloon somebody blew up that stays there not quite

over my heart. The diagnosis is

you can bring the house down with death.

ccclxvi

nearing the end
of Haydn
via Stevens
I’ve blocked
Scalapino
it’s a geyser
of tidbits
cruising
dollars into
a timeslot
a machination
of Kubrick’s
lesbians
in Kresge
so last night
I must have
been a ham
but I can’t
get burgered
I’m sorry
I say and I go
to the sorry box
now stop it
I’m fine
I’ve revived my
correspondence
we’ll be
the hot boys
you’re too cute
to gravel

ccclxv

a chain of renascent mermen
rise from the surface
(at the surface) blow the poem into baloney
(air blowing) (being blown)
the letters on my table are a remarkable headache
all the way to New Paltz, New York

ccclxiv

back from Arkansas now
and I’m roaming the City of Boston on a weekday I love
Boston raindrops wondering
what’s the word for striking a moaned chord in the fog before burning
moaning a struck chord before the fog burns

and yet I open another e-mail looking for availability in
June
so I’m gone all month is what strikes the back of my head

let the waterbottles turn brown before I return
for all I care
the stakes are not that high along the smooth white picket lines

I stopped by the bank for the money from 1976
after the ice cream social on Tuesday
where we talked about potatoes and golden brown sugar
and French music

we were both in a strange woods yesterday
he was asking me how good I kissed

ccclxiii

the chewing gum people have a conspiracy going on. also
there’s someone bracketed a few sentences in my book and posted
one comment IMPOSSIBLE next to the various sentences which refer
to equal faults among men and women. I don’t know who this person
its previous owner was. though I am under duress. the person I’m sitting on
disagrees yet he has no motive to write about Virginia Woolf. the way he sees it
there is a fog and then there isn’t or vice versa. we watch the Berkeley whitecaps
tactfully settle.

I don’t always have to write this stuff I’m finding. what the issue is
and why I’m swinging on Dad’s porch reading the yellow book and
appreciating the Fort’s helicopters
and leftover mosquito bites I’m not sure. what the mutual benefit is also I’m not sure
but the helicopters keep bombing the hill where this gang has set off four riots
nearby. nearby in another forest someone is operating the
honey gear. they must put out the fires with honey. I continue to hear the bee noises.
they are on track. but today it is my vacation and the fires are still there
burning up the hills. I also have a purple marker. I write these fires in purple
next to my itinerary. later I am going somewhere like a beach or something.

on July 9 I pour myself another coffee in the Starbucks. next to my yellow book
are more DVDs. these become movies I wanted to watch and cause me more
of my paycheck after I’ve had them a while. this is only one reason to love Blockbusters.
we don’t watch any movies except on HBO but after that we visit at
Shane’s formerly Quincy’s next to the swan pond. I wasn’t terribly hungry anyway.
soon afterwards FedEx arrives with my new book. I can’t finish the yellow one.
it opens and closes with Pretty Boy Floyd in Fort Smith. afterwards
my mother has the audacity to make sloppy joes.
I wasn’t terribly hungry anyway. when I woke up
yesterday I went out and bought a new radio antenna.

ccclxii

that was one huge bird
like a loon that just flew out of Dad’s fishpond a squirrel
actually barking at me when I walk out the door
two cats on the porch
not so wild like those below
                  does he name this mountain?

                  7:30am
and already hot
but so peaceful with all the animal noises
one thought now one literal thought
I know the cow and I know the rooster
the locusts with their megaphones around 11 last night
the stars are bigger

ccclxi

another indiscretion still just doesn’t feel

a conglomerate insomnia
grounded in Frankenstein

a conglomerate insomnia
ground Frankenstein                    still just doesn’t feel right
a lunatic superior maybe
            Robert Creeley an

other indescretion to
make everything ok again      in July

several beefy earls walk into
JP Licks for a PB sundae
and all the way around
100 California from the
slimy heat

this morning my throat
could not breathe                I finally cooled from the slimy heat

6:05-6:40am reading more meat dark like
Bacon making up words

downstairs a yellow t-shirt & one globe &

over my dead hamburger
a tense bun

                      I feel actually better
but for the salami on the back of my tongue

ccclx

no more analysis.
gear. good. gear.
gear is good.

are you testing me?
cuz I’m testing you.
we can’t both be testing each other.
can we?

check your jacket.
cuz I’ve written a break-up poem.

              the tumbleweeds
              in my head
              are starting to
              conglomerate.

ccclix

how much of what is love—a blackbird
flying by the window—down left—
benchmark: 4 oyster shooters
downed inevitably—1 more left
for conversation—this talk goes
downhill then I finish a poem—it
has a good ending—a poem about death
doesn’t have to be happy—reading
in Hayden a cosmopolitan
crow swoops down to a woman
walking the sidewalk between the
pool and the dogwood—she is
wearing a black t-shirt—a girl
in pink next to the tiger lilies—
a girl with blue flowers for a
skirt—a puppy with a blue
leash—a pink bag—cherry
blossoms over a barrel of
fake words

ccclviii

this is delicate
a full petal crimson-brown
drying in the fern

this is my connection
we sit in the same nest
winter a greenless nonsense

this del
icate con
nection abounds which

I have made a new connection
when I curl my fingertips
delicately under yours

     —maybe one or two
ever get connected—

we applaud each new description
of each new passing cloud

ccclvii

I’m on Walden Pond with

raindrops and sunshine.

I’ve been bristly all weekend,
most especially after try

ing to get my driver’s license
in Watertown and
being told I didn’t have
the proper equipment.

This morning I woke up
and saw olive oil.  It was just
looking at me.  Like it
wanted to say good morning.

A dog lopes up a hill with
two people.  A fly lands
on my book.  Six salted eggs
on Stockton Street.  The

tripod, like a spider, lands
on the soft grass next
to the blossom-dusted
cobblestone.  Its camera

finds a book about pickle
spears and salted eggs.
The bell rings.  It is
another F Train.

ccclvi

I am so tired of words. Here is some examples. Pleasance is a word.
Its fiction bends over to take a photograph of hyacinths in Levi’s Plaza.
See how the hyacinths lean in toward slimmer cameras recognizing he
likes to squeeze in his pillows and finds this interesting as you nor I do.
Seagulls needn’t worry their cherry blossoms. Grackles are all nondescript.
The paragraphs in which he capriciously stops to photograph the purple

the purple bumblebees (the miniature purple pineapples). These stops
and starts takes a blade to the jeans his jeans. Its cobblestones dusted with
cherry blossom petals only when they ripped. He stays put for a few minutes
just hugging the blue pillow. Virginia Woolf gets very little sunshine as
this business of words sounds alarms back in Berkson. Warmest ever
these tops of trees bends over the roiling river sweltering at 2:30pm.

ccclv

real fog’s haze this mourning’s
estate a thin maze’s languor
its play-by-play on each lip’s
in sway with dusk’s beleaguered
dreams
dreams of this duck’s fount

I hate this language
says the real bartender
in the Bechtel dining car

our signatures’ connections
evolved two into one
where one is this event
equals two of us altogether in
the grackles’ wanted fountain

folks like us kisses our
pillow lips jubilate as we
hugs dusk’s hacked dreams

cccliv(e)

there’s a rumor that everything is connected
(well that’s nice) I am chewing Wrigley’s Orbit (Ohne Zucker)
with Suzy’s cat (fed just a minute ago)

it’s pinkslip Thursday (yes another one) but
this time with a little bit of sleaze
she’s doing fine it’s a horrible place

the Matson boat doesn’t leave as big a wake as
the Yang Ming boat and I’m
sitting on a park bench alongside Jamaica Pond thinking of...

sipping chamomile tea with Tylenol Cold (2)
sniffle     (and punctuate)    I’m really nice and
purple     here’s to my good fortune isn’t it beautiful     (LIFE)

how I’ve proceeded feeling good love with gum & gravel
walking and reading the first novel I’ve gotten halfway thru
in over a year while at the same time (White Noise)

staving off death locked inside the blurred blanks
those boundaries between the waters and the airs locked 100%      {mimes
point to the implications of these relationships}

                                                                                   a movie
with two new fruit leaves Tsai Ming-Liang is mag
num
           dizzy exclamation point

now I think I’m having a panic attack with my filtered water
it’s summer already and it feels like
I have to put my glasses on just to see its own watery hands (mine)

my own my very own watery hands
                             who is it debunks such bunk can somebody say
I am never connected 100%

cccliii

texture of memory.
give up on words.
back to water. oases.
things got boiled down.
romantic. a bottle of
whatever the source.
in the park before dawn.
brown barechested
stairsteps full of free stuff
like: siphon. just
words. hyphenated
last name. menage.
Hawaiian shirt. visa.
glass of milk. cheese
danish. failure. Seuss.
movie. Star Wars. penis.
priest. New England.
no public restrooms.
Bergman. Roth IRA.
glass of milk. Iran.
boobies. lamppost.
getting down on your
small hands and asking
please this is my last
and final request. before
sunbathing drop keys
order in lose ID. get
upset w/o touching
computers. recreate
botany not growth but
spilling it backwards.
an excuse for a pillow
eight hours.

ccclii

THIS =
anything profound must be harnessed,
leashed. like lightning. I know
                                                          Fantasy. but
someone has to be is bouncing off
the walls
                    of the sun like the jacuzzi in the museum. making me
break. breaking free. what if he breaks
through? I’ll just

knowing. I. cannot. right
this beautiful stillspring day. or maybe I’m wrong
and it has righted itself already:
I am that wall
                             (a sunken library where we teach children how to swim
in a world full of handcuffs)
                                                        we survived
whatever made me giddy
and then died.

framed fireworks.
the frame: a ferris wheel in a rollercoaster museum. we are to
                                                                                            remain calm
               while folding ourselves up into the barrel of a cannon.

but it’s not over it’s not over this bounce.    a pair of magnets
oppose each other,
find the wrong poles,
the right holes.
                             .take back off to the sun

cccli

I will try to write it all down on the birds
singing their jubilation of a Sunday evening.
They’re finally slowing to an easy pace.
My SecurID reads 456495 tells me what
happens in my head like Joe Pesci driving us
home to the couch from dinner in the North End.
The couch is asleep with somebody on top of it.
An aquamarine stapler. Upstairs at the Indian place
in Central Square vegetarian thali dinner—I shed a
nother tear like she walks down the aisle. On TV
a misogynist in South America fighting killer ants.
Finally I find pizza—a joint called Barbato’s—IT
IS APRIL at NIAGARA FALLS although we
only allude to the transition. Mark my words
Monday I will write it all down. After blowing
bubbles on the newlyweds I drive 23 miles to
the Riverside Inn in Cambridge Springs for a
reception. I take off before the cake. My
solitude is over. I’m home 11:30 snuggle him up.
Next morning watch him graduate with Kissinger.

cccl

There’s a rabbit over there
looking down at Niagara Falls.
An officer asks me if I’m okay
here at the edge. How nice
“just to see you sitting there all
by yourself.” Stunning, no later
than 5am I feel wonderful. Slept
a bit in my car about 30 miles
east of Buffalo, drove into the dark.
Got here and now there’s enough
light for memory lane. A family
of six one early morning in the 70s,
waking up in a Pinto station wagon
to the multicolored waterfalls. We
couldn’t get into Canada because
Dad refused to give up his Derringer.
Soon perhaps I’ll get a haircut
and a wedding gift in Buffalo. Now
I’m walking the edge, all of a sudden,
whoa, a drop of lightning. Muffled
thunder and the rabbit’s off like the
birds below. A cloud on the water.
Morning brightens. Day finds me
distant yet straightforward, stirring.

cccxlix

I am now dead. check the yellow file folder {insert cellphone beep here}

and you’ll find a lighter to hold up time-off—

and yes you’ll find I’ve been eaten by a solemn duck, beaten into

the hourglass like eggs while being told to have a vengeful day

4:12. honestly it felt good except for the pain (heel of left foot). nor 4:21

the timestamp on the international waybill. check out the watch it’s huge—

it clocked our blow (conversation) when the cookies were at my new place

and I was really in love. yes yes that’s when and where I was bested best. and

(yes, in love with his desiccated couplets.) time out for (plantar fasciitis laugh attack!)

look anyway the plovers getting chased by Rover across the camera. pay heed the

commentary. its various incarnations next to the stump washed in by the ocean.

Tuesday somewhere and the moss shows up. two minutes later it’s 4:13

and the Chinese Back Dormitory gives the waterbottle a spin {insert slumpdate here}.

death feels like the one tree in the wind that blinded the forest. I loved you for sure.

                                                                 --urgent Cupid postcard at Seal Rock Inn.

cccxlviii

pickrock. tea palm
pulses. beat fist 19th.
throw down hillside
quiet rock. down hosp
ital hot palms. pinklife
beats fists 19 faces into
forgotten arbor. the lbs.
palms it. teapnook from
hospital hot. prain ardor.
230. how tup to help
rock. spend entire day
to get moved. fact add
fat keeps cut face cut.
strewn down palm
nook. hotrock it
fit. rockpick it
palm. strip curve
of shirt. 32.

cccxlvii

This poem about you
smells like an old book.
Its hair was so dark at
birth. It matured with
such dash—I reread it
often. Its ballsy opener
was never a yawn. But
it is really quite lovely
to watch it rent a
moving van.

cccxlvi

My left foot down the first step.
No pain! My hair in the cloud
that’s heading east after snapping
off the balcony. Mostly blue, the

skies take off, probably for the
last time. Today, I’m making
arrangements. Tofu-veggie
stir-fry. Gmail flashes a new

message : ‘James Blunt isn’t
that cute.’ Non? How would
I know, anyway. Got the tele-
phone order in yesterday

at a urinal in Faneuil Hall.
I ate a salad for lunch. That
didn’t come out right. I got
the telephone order in. My

chamomile tea is cooling off.
Embarcadero 4 nearly ripped
a cloud in two. My glasses are
already hungry. Dirty, non?

cccxlv

Dear Feathercloud,

I ate the past but I’m still
hung. Talked to him for 30 minutes this
horny. The crickets are getting a
dick out of it. I should come every Sunday
but here I am watching the ducks and geese
fry a lot. Not a pecker this side of the water
but the pigeon pricks. I watch him swallow it.
Damn.
Looks like another downpour spoon.

Love,
Meatduster

cccxliv

Yes I am reading ficus
on the onion. Raindrops.
Some basic America
rains drop fruits energy.
Plantar fasciitis eating
slowly downhill. Layer
graduates in two days.
So hungry to pick a
card. Wet bricks or
Zen. No more food
him. Only I probably
boats hand in handeye
to eyeroll. Pucker
the smile of an onion.
Some rains don’t have
eating slowly. Rain.
I have to go focus on
the fruits. Orange
with a splash of tangerain.

cccxliii

Here
having
wrong
is good
at
poetry.

Antidote?

Where
I’ll
please
slept in my office

Dad Dad.

Oh the sense of humor.

Keeping
you
a
breast.

cccxlii

iron fans kill
the fight is the beauty of the kill
we watch each bloodstain grow very attractive
this is how we are designed
our defensive applications are stainless steel ribs
they (we) attack the mouth of an orange river
which opens smooth and bloody like an early October morning
the hillside is on fire
forsythia
at approximately thirteen inches in length
a helicopter noses its way over a bumble bee
past its man and his orange river
everything is bleeding
this is clear from the falling cherry blossom petals
and the hungry bear who grabs another new fish out of the orange river

cccxli

i like the sound of besmilr. her purple globes
plums falling on the christian science monitor.
which animal has given him an invoice to sign, a
opossum or an ant? he must be pretty proud of
today’s major planning (penning a wednesday poem
and calling it brain science). i should probably run
but first i do some dishes and feel your hands
in the dishwater unquote. once more the
“house of the coffee woods” is intact
but for the broken network of singed ants.
our name is over the laundromat like a sprite.
i spell its words from the shapes of the feelers.

cccxl

spring clouds dump walked.
willow clouds break up.
on my back willow breaks open.
i walk over to sleep spring. our place.
three times you gave me a bunny rabbit.
over three times to wide-open-eye spring.
the willowbark breaks walk three times.
you were like proud of yourself. spring sleep.
wide-open-eye rabbit.

cccxxxix

Mozart found it hard
to live in Los Alamos.
And then there’s Columbine
on Hitler’s birthday. The
world stinks of bad news. Here,
however, it’s a beautiful day w/
the dead folks, birds twittering
in Mt. Auburn Cemetery.
Kenward Elmslie is seventy.
I walked all the way from
Harvard.
George Francis Kimball –
dead 100 years before
I was born (sneezes
across cubicle –
must be the dust).
Say everything!
Or say nothing at all.

cccxxxviii

a backlash against the dailiness
and the blogworthy. these blanks
their quiddity humiliated. breath
pours from the body. the body
lies under a cedar gateway.
we’ve got the beach with the
cedar gateway. it goes poem.
flower fluff on the waves a
plastic fork with french fries
and a napkin. fresh lunch on the
plaza wrapped in a bandana
Japanese style. a sketching
of you sketching. I sat high
above on a mound. I sat
wrapped in cedar watching you
watching the waves. I saw
a seal. this is written. these blanks
poems their multiple planes a
napkin. this breath in a box.
this box a body. this body
trapped in the scream of a sneeze
down the hallway.

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)