cdxxx

begun congruent option of pink mascara Ready on
Cambridge Street. the Printers’ materials cater to markets
both medieval and B.C. all the muslin rags changes
to Cantabrigian I guess practices of worldWidth fifteenth century
mostly
valuable, probably the most interesting of his poems, they
protect precious evident bookmarks like all the Queens
Barker presented Elizabeth besides laundry. I will
surely miss Boston. its fringed silk bookmarks and Common ribbons.

cdxxix

welcome to the twenty-first century. your
Datsun is bleeding. more Eliot behalf parents
Xiantong i.e. inventor Sheng movable circa
bad music still rules. it’s a beautiful hoax.
calling Dad from Nathalie’s with a disco ball
and his “Happy New Year” surviving embedded
shallow tray lined laid level. cooled pages. it’s
me here at Dunkin Donuts. Johann Gutenberg
started widely on Huntington across from the Y.
note: Chwe Yunui Goryo Dynasty Korea. the
trash yawns upset. estimated hangovers various
Janet Jackson at the Pizzeria Uno. Calm medit
ative obnoxious Doris Day.

cdxxviii

what happens after Death. ?
the cat talks /Number delivery.
the Ukraine Galleries Wordpress
AdSense diggs, reddit. ? what really....
what really happens? Responses
Borino Says: stuff them! is this...
Is this the last time I’ll write a
journal entry in the 20th century?
One lordtime Jerry. Jerry ONimo.
a soviet Boris who translated
Hank fighting. regardless Stalin
I’m sure it doesn’t mean a thing.
Last night’s dream, what was it?
If it were titled it would be some
thing like “Sex with V.” vodka?

cdxxvii

wanna whatever minutes. SHiT battery lame kills matter. this long new white piece
we drag up the hill past Sutter. past Bush happy. he wants to fuck me and
furthermore yeah succesful knockin nothin. fanboys. this portion edited complies w/
Gamespots TOO and the swearing policy. its problems vs. these kinds of farfetched
labrats Wasnt supposed to be in the MS. I’m addicted and there’s my love. this
atmosphere of the northeast does not necessarily appeal to me. New York City! t
raining Resident Evil Snob too. &TOO Mrated adults Mature frown Childish violent
gameplay but should we split? I would go to Peace Corps Violent Manliness. goto
SF portland worrying proves Immature. Kingdom Anyway homebrews emulators
embraces the scorn. blocked Posters Stalin Soviet people Students Workbook Speech
etc... personals Reader AJAX.
So hear I am. Sugggestions?

cdxxvi

everone miserbly Bukhara conbine SUCKS BETTER. Saturday night
not much a day. all I did after poetry was stupied brower riss coming. GPS
messening fall. also DAXTER LUMMINIES KILLZONE COMING SOON GTA
CITY STORIES ALSO.etc. methrod. stop. yesterday I learned the difference
between dreary and descry. try pa smell. Hollingsberg where the tea comes off
like steam after it masturbate on the whitewall. that i agree. initially launch evilross.
its D/L gym ect.Plus access nice... look I am reading the shadows. the purple shadows.
the Coco-luxe player worming through bedlam... bleh....it does. O’s spam computer is
now fine. our new hrs pls ask cat’s paw. nuclear reactor billgates smaller. I stolen
Windsday stop.

cdxxv

it is neither a beetle nor the twilight of salt and pepper. our search
is for silverfish. it is trying to snow. the rain clears it up. there’s a blizzard
on the bus while I avoid the sweets of December. a second order
of paradise. flirting with a Dan at an Eagle. an interstate marga
rita (this is the one with the header “a search for love”) all over the chips.
a slice of modern cutie. I don’t think I’ve had the frozen regular
jugular with salsa. a deep deep secret. these new fires change objects
periodically. new objects change fires periodically. new changes
fires objects. more bugs on the stove. John’s underwear. the old wine
we still have in the fridge.

cdxxiv

Hayden.
Garlic (purple).
Eleni.
Africa (purple).
Coco-luxe.
Hart (so thin).
Joaquin.
Troy (the complete poems).

cdxxiii

This time he unlatched the chain. He was always
too clever by half. I was only something from which to break

free. Like a black oak. Take it to where you want to go.
A green nest. Mossed charcoal.

Here’s when the dishes begin to break. He rubs his palm into
the dirty calf’s white forehead. He calls her Becky.

And this time he unravels the chain,
opens the gate. Just enough. And closes it. Wraps the chain

back around twice. Clips it. This time.
And once the gate is securely latched

he wraps his legs around me. The mudded cattle
are doing nothing. Like always they do nothing. It’s cold enough

to snow. And finally
warm enough in the van. How can I make the best of what I

have? This time I hugged him hard. I wrapped the
chain back around. Twice. And I took it to where I wanted to go.

Then I broke it. Like windows. Like
hearts for sure. Like a delicate gift I was too eager for.

cdxxii

I found the beginning again. They always put it at the end
to remind us. My neighbors are yelling at each other.

They are happy. Language is
different here. Here is where one big sycamore leaf

reminds me of the diseased grove
we walked through two days ago. You wanted to talk about flowers.

We don’t talk about knives and pens
like we used to. Later that day we watched a movie. In it a laptop

was used as a weapon. I want to do that.
Green winter grass. Name

the fish that makes you sick. I missed
my bus and spent the night at the station

6th and Broadway last night. Green winter
grass. Blues below. What is it with wanting to hurt you?

Then the sandpaper fields and the opacity of the fire.
And the nouns that make us feel like idiots.

cdxxi

I saw the picture
but don’t expect me to take the bait.
These are fragments of your imagination. You’re hungry
and you’re stuck in traffic. I
saw the picture. Yesterday it was ninety degrees and I was frozen. Today,
you guessed it, a chilly fog. I would say that I’m
still frozen but I saw the fucking picture. Yeah,

I’m ready. I want you to live in these people.
I imagine plenty of sleep. You’re cross.
You have a cross in your hand. You’re me,
pools of mercury behind pools of black, a planned escape,
plenty of sleep. Don’t expect me to take the bait. Not with words anyway.

I called you. I knew the melting point.
I wanted to call you. Look at how angry the trees are.

cdxx

A scintillating fog approaches Golden Gate. A
sun has risen and I’m on the bus to Arkansas.
Not sure where I am now. Some 80 or so miles
to Washington. Cute guy in front of me reading
a travel book. I found a place at Port Authority
to eat. Took credit lonely seeing $31 cash out of
coming around in full view of Big Apple. Still
blue skies wearing a black jacket. Gray bulldog
crinkly black long. The Potomac. It gets pierced.
Crane stuck in places he doesn’t want to be and,
well, pretty much the whole lot of it, but for his
disdain. I think it is 1923. Four silos. A man
in black reading something called Bad Girls of
the Bible. Chillier still. Memphis around 1pm.

cdxix

if this is a sculpture can we not touch it? I
beat him. he met me at work. then we played
racquetball. it’s been a week. I knew he’d
never try Ethiopian otherwise. the aesthetic: we
as audience become crunk. are deliberately
smoked out of order. I should attempt more
minimalism. e.g., this week I’ve been happy
just to slow down. our cross purposes are
to generate massive profits and artlessly
exhaust viewers. e.g., suddenly I saw him off.
sullenly I got him off. Sunday he got off.
Sunday I saw him off. it was hard to
tell and then it wilted. these categories
has become unstable. take our landscape
please. waiting in line for an hour for some
European disc jockey. European disc jockey.
then off to Holliston for happier profits. then
European disc jockey. some European disc jockey
off to coffee. a place on Tremont. a coffee placed
on Tremont. he has a little crush on his coffee.
my coffee place. a Baptist coffee. then on
Wednesday performance art. art more art-
less than artful. sculpted wigs scalping for
rigged sculpture. hot to the touch if we can.
do you think someone will run off with my bag
if I go upstairs and get some? if this is sculpture
can we not fuck it? Luke. what a hot name.
we biked for 6 minutes and then jogged for
about 15. Thursday evening I dyed his hair.

cdxviii

9:33. tells a story. tribunal
signifiers. after Thanksgiving
how to kill a ginger ale. given
that the agreement to kill all
wet leaves. 9:tells a story
of a tribe. we watch wars
simultaneous. war similar
on a daytime talkshow
a prisoner under the wet
leaf kill ginger ale. tells us
omelet and fries. but even
with the Geneva Accords
after Thanksgiving how to
kill a ginger ale on the day
time talkshow. 9:33am
was my favorite wet leave.

cdxvii

magic murder. broken Britney on.
kiss your bronze head. 900 calories.
turning a lot of pages and find a lot
looking for nothing. 128 cycles
per minute. timeless just writing.
timelessness to Britney. it’s what
can I really do? stop. coughing
stars. coughing up stars for on.
try a little tenderness. again a lot.
kiss your. 128 cycles. time just
magic. bruised blush. 900 wets.
make mine magic. kind a lot of.
oh. can I really? kiss your bron.
bronzish coughish. on on on.

cdxvi

I kept hitting refresh so the man would go away,
but he wouldn’t.  He had stepped out of the vegetable
on 53rd.  Ruby red fog was flying over the Pru.
“When the soul dissipates, who decides it so?”  He
didn’t want to talk about it.  I put my head down.
Still, I heard a lot of nice words under the lamp.  “If you
use a color all the time, do you become that color?”
I replied:
“This is not my life, of course.”
But he just looked at me
not comprehending.  The antlers in the breeze are...
such youth!

cdxv

He loves a pen. Is fallen on a window.
When I get ringings I join him home.
Find the window jars open. Voilà,
revised cole slaw and tomato juice.
     Later that very same decade
our blue binders fills with secrets.
This information relaxes weekends.
I’m attracted to the Greek fool. We
sleep around and zonk out. That’s
Zorba for ya. But the bookshards!
     With friends like Mabel we love
Louise more. She says things like “I
reckon” during Nights of Caribia,
falls herself on a Fellini coffee-table.
This during meals of neorealism. In
italic diners filled with recouped anime.
East Village.
Our friends.
     Afterwards a dank
little bar called Boil ’em. One sweet
conversation regarding I was really
smitten. And why wouldn’t I? He
liked that conversation too. To be so
frank and so alone. Even him on
the West Coast. We’ll just have to
talk about it. “You think you’re
too fat.” “But you’re really a
cock.” That’s when the
static stopped.

cdxiv

Then I enter the tooth, finding a story
of such magnitude it leaves me
androgynous.  One thing.  Leads to
another?  This cannot be plot.  Our
night walk down Charles Street.
Getting shot every day this week.
Bone marrow boosters.  Foucault.
Aggressive nostalgia spun out of
context.  He.  Was.  Watching.
Family Guy.

You’ve put on a little weight.

If we look closely at the drink of water,
compare and contrast with a shoebox
full of photographs, pick up a
coffee mug that touts “Little Rock:
Full of Surprises”...

cdxiii

Pushing toward a dawn that is or is not
death.  A spectacular antecedent.  What
can I do?  I cannot make the tip of the
tongue Gizzi.  It is sorely fresh and
cheeky.  In walks a face and the soda
bubbles.  We wear curtains.  Stop.
On Tuesday, the chicken is a little
sour.  He reads the newspaper.  Then
he stabs it with a chopstick.  Superstop.

Finally: Suzy is so right.

So: He lifted up some of his roots.
His sweatshirt stretched feminism.
We walked into the kitchen for a laugh.

cdxii

Here I am.  A mile and a half without
the drugs of the disco, awaiting a second
of creativity.  Today I got a letter addressed to
“Comedy Laugh.”  Later I cleaned the coffee.
“You’re the one that has trouble with tenses.”
Then the dog at the dark end of the hole was
barking inadequately.  I tried to translate it
this morning.  Something about a steeple
closing itself in on a skyscraper like
greedy scissors.

When she said “that faggot” of course.

Taken out of context: I’ve got my
grandfather’s temper.  I need a gum.
This page is ready to go.  Cambridge
seems the ideal spot for male bisexuality.

cdxi

The traditional belchers were taken
out of context.  I made coffee for them.
Also, the devilization of eggs; these
theories at Doyle’s.  His poetry
seesawed.  But he was tall.  Anyway,
I’m waiting on my eggs.  Another
“anachronism that refuses to die.”
Maybe I should have asked for
mustard.  Cheddar and mushroom.
His poetry seaweed.

Government is playing hooky.

Finally: Where’s my heart?

Scattered.  Maybe I should have
asked for coffee and a nuclear
engineering heartache and
warm milk by the time....

cdx

A sesame seed has fallen out of my hair.
“It might emerge as a reanimated
anachronism,” Judith Butler says,
taken out of context.  I don’t
know Government but he seems
to be doing less better.  I plan to visit
him in early December.  We were
members of the studio audience.
Then we drove to New Hampshire.
So useless.  Mark Strand at Sackler.

Mom now owns a gas station.

Also: We walked around Beaver Lake,
a state park called Bear Brook, NOBODY,
mostly a leaf rustle, not quite freezing.

cdix

Picking up giftwrap
& birthday card
for Miss Piggy.
Crisp, windy,
autumnal.  The
crispy wind
smashes into the hot tub.
He
tries to explain
how I can micro
wave a perfectly
good pineapple
w/ “masharino” cherries.  I’m
hard
shopping
condos.
Would
my hardwood condo floors
ease my
underperfect
undergirdled
office orifice
...?
Pronto Toronto!

cdviii

Monogamy, while practical, is an inefficient construct.  Hey,
there’s another Monet, oblivious reflection.  I got a text msg
from the funeral (He’s braindead.) while walking through
San Francisco’s Chinatown.  A tourist from the Midwest
was fascinated with all of the shop signs and banners.  It
creeps me out that I have such a strong visceral reaction,
but please don’t censor yourself.  I think it’s utterly.  The
rest of the joke just exploded so I baked a cake on Thursday.
How ya doin’?  That color don’t look so good on you.
The group next to him, where it’s all dark, they don’t want
the lights at all.  This speaks volumes about chemotherapy;
the chemotherapy we call The Orange Dirt Under the Trees.
Monogamy, while helicopter, is a dummy construct.  He’s
blonded his hair again.  Maybe adoption is the option.

cdvii

He returns to the country he left in his mouth.
Also, he has a lymph wrist; something going on
in the chest cavity.  So we walk to the moon
after pointing in the direction of home.
That’s what we do.  Distressed
because we’re too happy together.
Which means we get fat.  Driving to
Haverhill to visit the animals.  Trying
the wok.  Rice in the laundromat.
Tentative sex with berries.

cdvi

After Los Angeles let’s drive north,
go to some of the towns along the beach.
The beach.  We don’t see the birds much
(the birds not the pigeons).  The big news
of the week was Tuesday when we heard
some guitar player.  Then to the office.
Then to the apartment.  Then a romp.
It’s not like a television set you can
turn off or a book that you can shut.
Some thirteen years later, Mom’s
throwing up spaghetti.  A day trip.

cdv

The red tulips belong here.
They look real nice next to your monitor.
I’d say the world was coming apart.
These underground chalk monsters are tough.
Where is your world?
It’s right next door to the Mondrian.
Oh.
Look, he’s juggling dragons across peanut butter sandwiches.
I don’t care.
I walk out.
This is an apparent partnership underscored by sheer exhaustion.
Then I walk into the wrong phone booth and right into a stapler.
Some margaritas are better than others.
I don’t care.
I walk out.
Maybe you’re the only one to whom I belong, I said, looking for joy in the stapler.
These underground chalk monsters are rough.
At this point we just do phones and stuff, but yes, of course I could use a cutter.
So much for peace.
But that looks just like you sober.
Dark humor.
On the one hand, the economy does seem to be slowing.
I’m off the hook.
Pericardial effusion.
Laundry on Saturday.

cdiv

it’s difficult for me to be conscious of the
genious of any particular poem. these ones however
go on into triple mushroom infinity. for example
right now I’m reading about myself in percentages:
please reference table 1. most successful
($6,000 limit!). yay.
I know it’s hard to believe.
table 2. cost control. please note that I wrote a letter to Mom
after she sent me clipping of a
marriage announcement – some guy who
used to work for my piano teacher. further proof that I’m gay.
anyway, let’s get over to the weekend with its various
case studies on innovative ideas. ok.
then I speak into the camera for local access cable television. poetry.
table 3. marriage announcements.
for years I’ve been wanting to
write a play. in it I would include
words like glyph, slattern, and angioplasty.
I would also include a lot of garlic. stop this.
but it feels so good.
I would also point out that at
table 4 are all violations involving
incorrect applications of pain. I’ll get back to you on this. clunk.
oh and I got
a class exemption and also some good notes for another poem
(“that night you dragged me back/twice through the brush” etc.).

cdiii

having a petty restructuring process is
good for speculative investors. this week’s
Monday night smithy a splendid setting.
sitting next to my date designed for smaller
banks behind the ubiquitous quick escape.
Fight Club as seen as hostile to too much
flexibility. drip operating margins. Holliston
birthday market. nice reeds westward. rivers
of leaves. and we bolster consumer spending!
managed a load of laundry while competitors
were found gnawing on the company’s ex
penses. ran into ____ renting ____. picked up
A Taste of Cherry and returned it to Salem.
which was the last trip we took. or nearly.
and as for percentages in the burgeoning
shampoo market we blame the fall on
increased strategy. recounted Friday.
there’s no accounting for good taste. plus
or minus no regrets gone blond. tall too altho
I might have danced with him for a little bit.
we fell 11.9 percent heading everywhere.
I didn’t want to but that’s not the half of it.

cdii

I know the answer
to that question:
Movies!  To recount
the weekend when

I feel like it.  Dusty
pigeons.  A headache
for brains.  I know it
for the pain in my

rib. I t comes and
goes like Jason’s
party.  We buy
pants, flirt and sleep

with other boys.
We aren’t men
but who is Jason?
I’m not stupid.

cdi

Mr. Shaggy’s getting shagged
he’d have preferred another Chaplin
but Mr. Unseasonable Bloodyhead
took Claritin-D last night

cough hack Portland Oregon – in a year
somebody’s yelling (Mr. Yeller) “I got a
blister to this notion...”
already such a boiling bloody question

I’ll know what to do though – don’t go
into the depths of autumn
I’m trying to breach the notion
I’m really beginning to warm up to the notion

of clunky Mr. Abroad – he wants to know
the reason I’d prefer another Chaplin
“why in a year they’ll close your throat”
it’s all the same boiling questions

look at the inscrutable Mr. Blister
he and bony Mr. Blondhead are
teaching each other blue-eyed blowing
what they won’t do to shake things up

cd

I had to leave the room at the end
when the hammers in my head wouldn’t let go
like a musical instrument bent heavenward
this is why I say I am boring

another pounding
of young poets and their wakefulnesses
is also why I am sitting here waving down a dragon
hold steady

looking out through this window’s window I see
lots of invoices
the steamroom is empty but for me and my
plastic pages full of poems

I said I want to be nearly as big as that sycamore
so when you look at the photograph ask which is me

cccxcix

those twin trees around your head
keep mocking me
like the spare roof of a sky
and my caramel shirt

sign here
under the grassy poems
(she has a daughter who is a mystic)
then let’s sit in the parking lot

I
took a nap in the parking lot and then I wrote a poem about sitting in the parking lot
and now I have better credit
how about that

our love song has no possession
because you decided no apostrophes for life

cccxcviii

some sort of domestic argument outside the train here at Chinatown Station
last day of September something’s missing and I’m not as
carefree or tired of the corporate bullshit as everybody’s curious about
orientation dinner? sure it’s such a conceited effort
the new members far as I’m concerned are as far removed from me as possible
and everything even a concerted effort to watch the subway mice or rats

he wants to move away and I don’t want to discuss it
Portland Seattle San Francisco anyplace else and I want something really different
like a new country or something really different
       I saw him on the train a few years ago
longest stretch of time I’ve gone without seeing him I must be such a creep
he had that chin hair that I don’t understand why he grows
being concerned perhaps because he’s too dimply or maybe loving the
middle age of the night crying about it

nothing is the least bit as logical as it seems it could be
I swerve off course and go back to the beginning of time when I wrote
like this only now at Roxbury Crossing with a jacket and a tie
these redundant train rides (something from now is the sesame chicken)

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.