mdlxii

He seemed different.  More mature.

Veer right at the “Big Quarters” sign.

Talk.  Impress.  He is almost...wretched.

Not happy, but hanging on to this optimism.

I’ll think more of who returns from Salinas

from here on out.  But first, a Purple Rain

party with Peaches Christ.  I had it in me to

go further with it, the details of my experience,

these words.  But think nothing of it.  What

makes this happen?  A ream of nothing.

A chain-link fence for ghosts.

mdlxi

Why worry losing it?

Even though he seemed different

I have earned evolving.  I’m so

chummy with the complexity

of barebacking in this idealistic

world where I am so in love.

mdlx

I am not intended to be a factual statement.

Wait!  My luck is running out too fast

or something about a mid-career crisis.

One hubby is Asia.  I intended for my

financial statement to be included

in the file.  But there are no finances.

The weather is a Subaru, which is an

homage to homages.  I accidentally

allowed for easy decoding.  This is

eloquently inappropriate.  This is

has been.  We engage in public

discourse before anal intercourse.

Which makes the paparazzi smirk.

I wish no more than for a long,

fulfilling, utterly skeptical life.

mdlix

Why would someone dye their dog blue?

Sorry, Jordan, for stealing your update.  I left

two hundred dollars in the ATM at Walgreen’s

and totally got credited for the entire two hundred!

All I had to do was ask.  And not die of embarrassment.

I wish nothing more than to get boned.  To move on.

And that’s not putting it eloquently or appropriately,

is it?  What can I do to keep this?  I’m okay.  I’m

seasoned.  I have to be so worried to think with

someone else.  That’s part of my mechanism

with exes.  Exes and ohs.  I do believe my

life is not a flash in the pan.  A total of only

twenty dollars.  A long, happy, utterly

fulfilling life to get skeptical about.  To

get boned, bored, and grow a beard.

mdlviii

But yet they do not sell them at Walgreen’s

I do believe my life is not just flash in the pan
dates with whom I’m still chummy. Nor hours
spent dancing. The complexity of life wants
a better analysis. I side, however, with the
birds (and their quiet squeals), in a New York
state of mind. I’m starting to think in fives.
I’m liking thinking in fives. And Wells Fargo
bank transaction records (in a New York
state of mind). I still want him happy. What
does that mean in this idealistic world where I’m
SO in love and monogamous with someone else?
Who gets jealous of all this...this complexity?
Certainly not the U.S. Postal Service. But
where would a long line be so friendly [insert
missing joke]? I wish nothing more than
utterly fulfilling. Skeptical? Of course!
It’s in his every nature (and mine)! To
grow a beard that’s not putting out. Like
floating in boredom, but eloquently.

mdlvii

Congratulations!  You are eligible to receive.

I think it’s just the after-effects.  Am I sipping

Sierra Mist?  Was I doing same at Starbucks

at 7:30 this morning?

The birds squeal quietly.  I’m feeling.  Not at

panic.  Just exceedingly.  Is it hyperbole to go

on and on?  Part of it is dancing,

sure, and the open morning.  Morning’s

openness (my throat is empty to not

destroy it).  That’s a really cute

necktie.  My mind is an ass.  No drip,

severe congestion.

mdlvi

Overtuning the Tuna

     O is the color of this name
                               —Michael Palmer

Forgive my misreading ’til hell breaks loose. Or ’til
hedgehog the lawn. Morning is broken; the buzzards
are loose. A page is sitting next to a bin. But seriously
the tweets are fine and all that. I’ll have lunch with him
tomorrow. The fact is I’m a little guilty-ish, feeling
distant (distinct?) from those folks, because he wanted
someone who would listen to him (obviously).

Much due to this new phase. This tree’s a fist without a
word. When they seem to want to spend time, to want to
listen. And I’m reading in bed. Eileen’s angels with
pokers for trumpets. An interview with sizzle; nobody
says much. Halloween is a success. Good. Exhausting.
Pretentious. Everything in a hurry, like Armageddon.
Here I am at Chevy’s (obviously). Doing

Team America (did I see this at 7:30 this morning?).
Is the article I read going to be by Peter Sellars,
giving me a big hug on Friday night? He did he did!
The juxtaposition of Artaud’s & June Jordan’s texts
was harsh. The guy who played Artaud was incredible.
Will I wake up happy tomorrow? Wednesday? I’m
all so well put together, wondering at assuming,

and very much in hyperbole. Going on about how 

exceedingly. The happiest feeling by Ron Silliman.

mdlv

None of the Above

Wow! Maybe his voice on the other side.
In a developing relationship. If it’s still
happening. With a fellow named Justin.

Don’t think too deep on this or you’ll
sneeze. Magically blow away. It’s a
case of the blond Octobers. At

1:44am, pop all your fingers and
promise the police I won’t fall asleep.
Did you want to play cards? At

night it’s like nothing happens.

mdliv

All of the Above

I used to shampoo with a bar of Ivory soap every morning.
The lighter with the black panther that has a yellow-green
snake wrapped around it is acting up.  A “talented and
versatile” Bay Area actress dies after “an accidental

plunge from a fire escape.”  I plan to read aplenty.
Tonight alone I’ve finished three books.  Bat latté.
Just no oomph.  I haven’t tried the red stuff yet.
Ready for a shower, though.  Is it because I had

lunch with Jamine at Pakwan’s today?  Or sweets
on Sunday?  Or the donut before Otto’s dinner
last night?  Because now I have so much more
muscle from running.  And waiting for a text

from Row.  Who knows, etc.?  I just don’t
like it.  Starving myself on some guy with
huge, curly, rockstar hair; I’d think he was
a big woman if I didn’t hear his voice on

the other side.  Again, who knows?  Then
there was the woman (deaf?) who kept
not hearing her absurdly loud cellphone
blaring some (equally absurd) tune on the table.

mdliii

Cat Mist Tastes Funny

What if everything gets dreadfully redundant
and/or boring? – a perfunctory echo I’ve mis-
treated while refusing to meet friends for cocktails.
Five years later I’m looking at pictures from Boston.

The city grew by erection. I repeat the part about Sunday.
It’s Sunday. It’s six in the morning.

      Reach in my chest and massage my heart.
      I am not dead.
                                                  —James Schuyler

I ran after work, rather than in the middle of it. Otto cooked a
cloud for the rest of the week. The apartment is done, like the
rest of the day; a Vitamin Water in the sink. Kenneth Koch’s
glasses are upside down but the sun is almost up. The ring
in my ears is a reverie of birds. Or a flight returning from
Hawaii.

I feel lazy without my voice. The ring swarms my ears. Am I
maybe a fossil? Kevy’s posting sick links. Lanford Wilson
passed away; a soft spot in my heart for living his elderly
priest in Angels Fall at 21 years of age.

Hopped a trolley, reading uphill. Had lunch with Nick
at our Chinese place on Kearny and it turns out he had a
romantic date on Friday night. He kept saying it was surreal.

Goodbye Chinese restaurant on Kearny. With all the ugly
fish in the window. Goodbye childhood, so to speak. I get a
haircut. A reminder of the 80s (as told by the 90s). She chopped
one sideburn off and left the other. It’s okay, though. I’m the
devil for Halloween.

mdlii

Sunday Morning

This is okay, but I crave a little companionship.
A social quality is important. Laughing over
hallucinations. Surprise talk with Ben on the
phone last night. Perrin says “hi.” I ran after work
rather than in the middle of it. (Work?)

The air full of Schuyler and cat mist. I wish it were a
seedy Sunday morning. But at least I don’t hear any
rain. Sit inside for days complaining of rain, secretly
pleased to be shut in.

I’ve got lousy taste. By that I mean everything
tastes funny. By that I mean this orange juice
tastes horrible.