mdlxxviii

Weepy Winter

Spring blows Summer.
Fall to Tears (aka The
One with the Real Issues).

mdlxxvii

Are we exertions of each other?

The red lobes of an angel—splitting
at the seams. An angry cloud that floats
just above the Tenderloin. Ready to lay an
egg. Ready to flummox the rutabagas (In
both senses; also called Swede, Swedish
turnip.). What to do with the rotten
mouth? Probably more than just
natural evolution. Who knows?
But...to deal with it appropriately.
How to keep from freedom (tendon?
boredom?)? The answers are all
nocturnal. Are we exertions
of each other, after all?

mdlxxvi

Morning. Not disaster.

With grey eyes full of adulthood
and laziness and Facebook in the
off position.  Shards sphincter the
air.  I’m forever burned on Judas
now.  Thanks.

The bananas gone flesh.  Come a
star, leave a portmanteau.

mdlxxv

Or to create a new narrative from a series of 6-year old
pictures? With red wine (quite vintage from this vantage
point)? I worry about a relationship not in my native
language. I feel very old. I wonder how to keep it.

This is the kind of entertainment we provide. A surface
under the stars. It feels old. I had it in me to go into
further details. To market. Seems a hard word. Con-
notes imprisonment. My sexuality has been different,

lately. It means nothing. Congratulations. I’ve felt
horniness, porn, white bisexual with girls, and mas-
turbate. I’ve been less than intense and not easily
aroused. Orange. Which is very odd.

Go to sleep.
Go to sleep.

mdlxxiv

Have you tried role play?

I have tried role play.  [See attached document.]

And borders do not exist.

mdlxxiii

I tried

     A word twists backward
     peeling its skin up over its face
                     —Michael Palmer

Editing is perfecting a mask.

mdlxxii

The rain that writes ETCETERA on our face
                                            —Hugo Claus

Does reading about yoga, count?  I am not a
sphincter.

Hello.  No rain today.

To know what it’s like to be sprayed dead by a look. 

                                                 —Cynthia Arrieu-King

mdlxxi

On this page I see how you grew up
and am surprised.  Every day now I
go back to this page.  Sometimes we
grow up and sometimes our mouths
wrinkle and smudge.  I don’t really
get anything from it.  Sometimes
we fly into the hands of another
pair of pants.  These are good times.
Most all of them.  Sometimes we
lash out like children.  It’s important
like shampoo.  Sometimes we lash out
at our children.  Our suppressed hope
is they remember this.  And not just in
flashbacks.  Sometimes we spread
fairy dust in neverland.  We go
back to the kids we cheated
ourselves from.  We are
not evolve.  We are not
anarchy, kidding ourselves
with happiness.  We are.  And
always hopefully love.  And
measuring our height in
elementary school.  And
being okay, better than
ever, smudgy, some
scales and hunched
back.  Sitting in our
living room at the
kid table with fish
eyes – not even having
to wish wise.

mdlxx

You can’t eradicate words meaning violence.
In fact, that would be defeat.  Right?  Well,
I should be heartened.  Take the pink from
heart.  Try putting a heart into that thing
pumping inside your gut.  There are
issues.  It fits nicely into a CD sleeve,
however.  Or red.  Or the after-effects of
Friday that he wants me to tackle.  Am I
pathetic?  This is nice.  I should be.  Yes-
terday was nice.  I want to go home and
go to bed.  And be heartened without 

being a heartattack.

mdlxix

     Facebook finally pays off!
                                           —Cedar Sigo

Can you send me IMG_3851?  I want to include it
in this poem.  I will pay and you will find me
ardently negotiable.

I notice that your friends are starting to mix with
my friends.  This brings judgmental to a whole nother
level.  I notice this before call Larry and laundry.

Do you think that’s really his name?  My friend Chin
(same age) just legally changed his name to Matt.  In
Japan.

mdlxviii

The very fallen street of nuts? 

                               —Kenneth Koch

mdlxvii

My young wood that I overwinter
                                           —Hugo Claus

mdlxvi

our tentacles swaying with excitement
                                                         —Juliana Spahr

mdlxv

In less than 15 years, “the US has gone
from producing around 300 to close to
4000 MFAs per year.”  This message
by way of Juliana Spahr.

If you go hard you gotta get on the floor.

J Lo, my reasons for doing this are obvious,
don’t you think?  I go out of my way to
expose my blemishes—but this (his
torically) is unintentional self-deprecation.

Subsequently, massive amounts of code
word BOYFRIEND get relegated to the
ether.  And massive amounts of codeword
LEATHER.  “We kept getting caught in

complication” (Spahr).  More emotion.
Less crank.  Coolly, we sip our lemonade.

mdlxiv

I had every intention of telling it slant.  Or

fears about doing otherwise and my endless

reasons for ever bringing it on.  P.S.  I think

cornbread automatically disqualifies me.

Everybody knows I’m a motherf**kin’ monster.

Kanye, my reason for doing it (he says constantly) is

I feel crappy.  And maybe I’ll go home early.

And talking lots via IM today.  Drop it drop it.

Well, I should anyway.  First things first,

he wants us to go to couples counseling.  Nick,

Yuki, Larry, Shah, and Otto’s car, which I

haven’t even seen yet.  We have whiplash,

or one of the healthiest relationships ever.

Which—well—if not amusing & irritating

& cute all at once it’s like—but—what’s our problem?

mdlxiii

Funny you should mention poetry.  I have heard of it.

Alright.  Happen more.  I’m also predisposed to leak.
Or leakage.  Hi from Gaylord.  Reading Cynthia’s
Lake Systems.  Itching to wash the dishes (an
allusion to a pipe dream).  Have you heard of me?

I’m not knowing what much to think, fuzzy-headed
about his not telling his parents.  I feel crappy.  The
right word is probably sketchy.  What’s for lunch?

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.