“Extreme California cheerleading,” nearly on the
tracks—open, open! Something happened
in some decade—a different decade than
this one. Something from—Spin. Rip. Foreign
and domestic. And small engines. Somehow this
is still the age of the car, not the plane.
The computer. Not…..a narrow loss. Time—
of course, is overstated. Love, I’m so tired.
Something about Cupid’s arrow becoming fleas
or mosquitoes—how corazon is masculine but open
can be either. Descriptions and modifiers can be
either. “Outbreak.” No—“Geekstreak.” “Sequoia
Corporate Office.” A mother. Son. And—
Space Aliens (LA Times 10.29.09). A policeman is
a male siren. Attorney—Atty. Leaning forward while
walking, leaning. Recession retreats at Spa
L’Auberge, coffee and dogs—a piece. When
will I have short hair? “Keep arm in”—no
translation for that. Even marketing
needs to be marketed. Bus waves to bus.
As self—container—possibly a voice. Cabaret.
02 November 2009
19 October 2009
Why isn’t the slave master considered part of your
family? My uncle with the Confederate belt buckle is
wrong, but he is still family. My grandmother always
used to say, “let the darkies carry that for you, dear.” I
am one of many white people who claim
they have native American blood, but I really do. My
maiden name is Livingston and I was born in
Barbados. “You girls stay out of that terrible sun,”
Great-grandmother Livingston would say. “God
knows you're dark enough already.” When I first
moved to
my oddly-named little town I was excited that it was
named after an Arkansas Indian, because I am one-
eighth Arkansas Indian, too. Just like Jim Thorpe. He
died with an accent. A truly American one. Not like
yours, I promise. This one was authentic. She’d say,
“oh, he
really Jewed him!” or something like that. She was
German and because of her accent and also because I
had no idea what she was talking about I always
thought she was saying “chewed” him. As in nibbled
him down to size. I think I was well into my teens
before I
ever knew about the stereotype, and that was because
of reading the Merchant of Venice in English class.
No, I am not everything there is to be in the world. I
have no Zambian ancestry, and I am not directly
Asian (via the Indians, I suppose I have indirect Asian
ancestry). But I am a profound genetic contradiction.
I have said this before, and I am fiercely proud of my
ancestors ability to bravely “mix it up.” My great-
grandfather used to say to his wife, my great-
grandmother, who in turn told her daughter, my
grandmother, who
repeated it to her daughter, my mother, who used to
remind her daughter, my own sister, that he had never
washed two pairs of pants at the same time, meaning
that if he ever had an extra pair, he always gave them
to someone else who needed them. I know this
sounds a bit
wishy-washy (I can't be bothered to route out the
source I got this from) but you only have to count
back a surprisingly small number of generations
before finding a common ancestor to everyone else in
the world. Based on our record collection, I know
Stevie Wonder and
Ray Charles owned my parents, and the next thing we
know, I'm related to Strom Thurmond. Let's not go
down this road. We need something else to flesh out
this plot. Maybe sunken confederate gold or vampires
and pirates, and plenty of explosions. We’ll get
Nicholas Cage and Eddie Murphy to give this thing
some legs and then New Line Cinema will have
summer blockbuster on their hands. Is this that irony
thing all the kids are so into? Strom Thurmond looks
like he was crafted from cottage cheese. That is all I
have to add to
this conversation. Their existence is certain, as is the
fact that the common ancestor is human. The
existence of genes for human abilities (e.g. language
acquisition) in all humans is proof of this. They
suggest, for example, that everyone in the West is
descended from
Charlemagne, c. 800 AD. Quite likely the entire
world is descended from the Ancient Egyptian royal
house. c. 1600 BC. Quite likely almost everyone in the
world descends from Confucius, c. 500 BC. Quite
likely everyone in the West descends from the
Prophet
Muhammad, c. 600 AD. If you have a line of
descendants that doesn't die out, eventually you are
the ancestor of the whole future world. Through this,
you affect all future world history. If the humblest
Ancient Egyptian peasant had done anything different
(even just had
sex five minutes earlier), there would have been no
Jesus, Muhammad, Copernicus, Newton, Darwin,
Marx, Freud, Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, Christ, Mao,
Buddha, Confucius, Ts’ai Lun, Gutenburg, Columbus,
or Einstein. There may have been no Holocaust.
Humanity might be extinct.
family? My uncle with the Confederate belt buckle is
wrong, but he is still family. My grandmother always
used to say, “let the darkies carry that for you, dear.” I
am one of many white people who claim
they have native American blood, but I really do. My
maiden name is Livingston and I was born in
Barbados. “You girls stay out of that terrible sun,”
Great-grandmother Livingston would say. “God
knows you're dark enough already.” When I first
moved to
my oddly-named little town I was excited that it was
named after an Arkansas Indian, because I am one-
eighth Arkansas Indian, too. Just like Jim Thorpe. He
died with an accent. A truly American one. Not like
yours, I promise. This one was authentic. She’d say,
“oh, he
really Jewed him!” or something like that. She was
German and because of her accent and also because I
had no idea what she was talking about I always
thought she was saying “chewed” him. As in nibbled
him down to size. I think I was well into my teens
before I
ever knew about the stereotype, and that was because
of reading the Merchant of Venice in English class.
No, I am not everything there is to be in the world. I
have no Zambian ancestry, and I am not directly
Asian (via the Indians, I suppose I have indirect Asian
ancestry). But I am a profound genetic contradiction.
I have said this before, and I am fiercely proud of my
ancestors ability to bravely “mix it up.” My great-
grandfather used to say to his wife, my great-
grandmother, who in turn told her daughter, my
grandmother, who
repeated it to her daughter, my mother, who used to
remind her daughter, my own sister, that he had never
washed two pairs of pants at the same time, meaning
that if he ever had an extra pair, he always gave them
to someone else who needed them. I know this
sounds a bit
wishy-washy (I can't be bothered to route out the
source I got this from) but you only have to count
back a surprisingly small number of generations
before finding a common ancestor to everyone else in
the world. Based on our record collection, I know
Stevie Wonder and
Ray Charles owned my parents, and the next thing we
know, I'm related to Strom Thurmond. Let's not go
down this road. We need something else to flesh out
this plot. Maybe sunken confederate gold or vampires
and pirates, and plenty of explosions. We’ll get
Nicholas Cage and Eddie Murphy to give this thing
some legs and then New Line Cinema will have
summer blockbuster on their hands. Is this that irony
thing all the kids are so into? Strom Thurmond looks
like he was crafted from cottage cheese. That is all I
have to add to
this conversation. Their existence is certain, as is the
fact that the common ancestor is human. The
existence of genes for human abilities (e.g. language
acquisition) in all humans is proof of this. They
suggest, for example, that everyone in the West is
descended from
Charlemagne, c. 800 AD. Quite likely the entire
world is descended from the Ancient Egyptian royal
house. c. 1600 BC. Quite likely almost everyone in the
world descends from Confucius, c. 500 BC. Quite
likely everyone in the West descends from the
Prophet
Muhammad, c. 600 AD. If you have a line of
descendants that doesn't die out, eventually you are
the ancestor of the whole future world. Through this,
you affect all future world history. If the humblest
Ancient Egyptian peasant had done anything different
(even just had
sex five minutes earlier), there would have been no
Jesus, Muhammad, Copernicus, Newton, Darwin,
Marx, Freud, Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, Christ, Mao,
Buddha, Confucius, Ts’ai Lun, Gutenburg, Columbus,
or Einstein. There may have been no Holocaust.
Humanity might be extinct.
18 October 2009
“Are you tired of it yet?” Can’t hear the answer through the waves.
The weather is done with our sanctity. Pacific. California Pacific, precisely: southern California when the sun leaves. We don’t have fingers to count the illnesses, injuries and deaths of people we know. If there were a bus or a train, I’d throw more parties. If you’d throw more parties, I’d take up surfing, be more gracious with small talk. Nothing is discrete—number, person, house, poem—sitting on the balcony as the sun goes by, bus goes by—not enough people on balconies or buses.
I don’t understand you, so I think you’re making fun of me. Write until we throw up, or only write at stop lights. I don’t understand you, but I see you’re anxious for connection. I’ve forgotten my phone number, my phone.
~
Potential poems: Of. Oh! If. To.
~
A person who coughs long enough begins to sound like they’re coughing on purpose. Persistent itch. A second, third, fourth or fifth language, almost understood, partially heard.
~
I love now. Kinds of sleeping and kinds of ritual. Standing on your shoulders was too—almost together we’re moving with crowds but no crowds here except in cars; a postmodern paining of cars looking at the greenbelt the train what else smashes?—small organic growing what opens?—hip (sockets) chest (sternum)—a whale watching cut free. Watching itself be cut free.
Love naps. Cold mornings and warm ones. A headache, an inability not to say oh! When someone says something interesting. Half a nose, clogged, lower backache vs. middle backache, standing on shoulders, on someone else’s shoulders. Falling off them, on to your back, my back, to a floor without mats, the day before an important holiday or ritual. So much joy I just might.
~
“Daddy’s little helper needs a break.”
“That’s a funny thing to say.”
“I know. I thought it would be funny”
~
From: Blank stare. Modern man’s current
address: wall to wall precarious over
limit texting to share this inexplicable
exaltation: “at one point I thought ‘we’
would be ‘different’ from” co
workers peers partners: many-sided progress
to point to find pleasure in blood (Dostoyevsky):
Mantle of apartments with no mantle
or fire—look at this: slip the social: a military
ship used to moor there.
What kind of ship?
“What kind of hawk?”
of street to walk on at
night to the club in shoes that
gave us shin splints.
Wake up in love with each other, with the rat on the carpet.
~
Irony/outer voice of critique as principle affectation—a demonic tendency to marry and divorce, to turn off the new phone. Everyday perversity: don’t eat breakfast until headache, nausea. Breakfast as universal ruin. Hello! Solitary bee, where is your hive? A mob of bees at my door. A swarm around the administrative building. Trying to live in an administrative building.
I’d like to love you at the expense of the poem. I’d like a new watch.
~
“Uh huh.
“What?”
“I said, ‘uh huh.’”
~
Inner vibration object out spinnaker and cormorant never expect to answer the phone one the beach sand makes what kind of a world gulls as bears as government ranger power station annual replenishment some shared abyss out
places love entire continents neighbors’ horrible music habit drugs healthy pelican hatchlings in the fake lagoon not fake but constructed water
to Australasia and Asia grounded as able to move backward bend so the front of our body is open: tops of feet shins, quadriceps, lumbar, stomach, lungs, sternum, chest, throat, mouth, eyes,
face.
~
Forced upon challenge as if employment.
Choice as choice or street as don’t
sit on the grass Traveling alone through
landscape and inevitable birds friends fight.
Brought the cloud cover with us.
~
Tell me every unexamined emotion. Sincerity doesn’t matter on the battlefield.
The weather is done with our sanctity. Pacific. California Pacific, precisely: southern California when the sun leaves. We don’t have fingers to count the illnesses, injuries and deaths of people we know. If there were a bus or a train, I’d throw more parties. If you’d throw more parties, I’d take up surfing, be more gracious with small talk. Nothing is discrete—number, person, house, poem—sitting on the balcony as the sun goes by, bus goes by—not enough people on balconies or buses.
I don’t understand you, so I think you’re making fun of me. Write until we throw up, or only write at stop lights. I don’t understand you, but I see you’re anxious for connection. I’ve forgotten my phone number, my phone.
~
Potential poems: Of. Oh! If. To.
~
A person who coughs long enough begins to sound like they’re coughing on purpose. Persistent itch. A second, third, fourth or fifth language, almost understood, partially heard.
~
I love now. Kinds of sleeping and kinds of ritual. Standing on your shoulders was too—almost together we’re moving with crowds but no crowds here except in cars; a postmodern paining of cars looking at the greenbelt the train what else smashes?—small organic growing what opens?—hip (sockets) chest (sternum)—a whale watching cut free. Watching itself be cut free.
Love naps. Cold mornings and warm ones. A headache, an inability not to say oh! When someone says something interesting. Half a nose, clogged, lower backache vs. middle backache, standing on shoulders, on someone else’s shoulders. Falling off them, on to your back, my back, to a floor without mats, the day before an important holiday or ritual. So much joy I just might.
~
“Daddy’s little helper needs a break.”
“That’s a funny thing to say.”
“I know. I thought it would be funny”
~
From: Blank stare. Modern man’s current
address: wall to wall precarious over
limit texting to share this inexplicable
exaltation: “at one point I thought ‘we’
would be ‘different’ from” co
workers peers partners: many-sided progress
to point to find pleasure in blood (Dostoyevsky):
Mantle of apartments with no mantle
or fire—look at this: slip the social: a military
ship used to moor there.
What kind of ship?
“What kind of hawk?”
of street to walk on at
night to the club in shoes that
gave us shin splints.
Wake up in love with each other, with the rat on the carpet.
~
Irony/outer voice of critique as principle affectation—a demonic tendency to marry and divorce, to turn off the new phone. Everyday perversity: don’t eat breakfast until headache, nausea. Breakfast as universal ruin. Hello! Solitary bee, where is your hive? A mob of bees at my door. A swarm around the administrative building. Trying to live in an administrative building.
I’d like to love you at the expense of the poem. I’d like a new watch.
~
“Uh huh.
“What?”
“I said, ‘uh huh.’”
~
Inner vibration object out spinnaker and cormorant never expect to answer the phone one the beach sand makes what kind of a world gulls as bears as government ranger power station annual replenishment some shared abyss out
places love entire continents neighbors’ horrible music habit drugs healthy pelican hatchlings in the fake lagoon not fake but constructed water
to Australasia and Asia grounded as able to move backward bend so the front of our body is open: tops of feet shins, quadriceps, lumbar, stomach, lungs, sternum, chest, throat, mouth, eyes,
face.
~
Forced upon challenge as if employment.
Choice as choice or street as don’t
sit on the grass Traveling alone through
landscape and inevitable birds friends fight.
Brought the cloud cover with us.
~
Tell me every unexamined emotion. Sincerity doesn’t matter on the battlefield.
Game over digital groom and bride t-shirt. Big squid washing up on Oregon beach.
Tire of hair to dry, autobiography, this way then this way then this way, “but this
poem is not a conversation.” Word as breakfast rib
bacteria as daily food chain you are
the so and so that started everything
late on the bus road closure and
I heart cities and Europe and can’t hear
The grass scream quiver quiver quiver quiver quiver quiver etc
Da da Da da Da da across the plain.
Kind men in high rise pants fill
up my heart with job. For I
have always wanted to be a kind
man in high rise pants with a steady
income and a cell phone and a long
commute.
The man is etcetera.
They really are friends.
Knitting.
I think I was just made fun of. I am hot.
Opaque entrances and exits----- good places to meet or not
I think I was just flirted with When I was made fun of the person who made fun of me was flirting with someone else.
Artistic people wear scarves and sometimes baseball hats.
Watch my pronouns. Consistent elephant for element and Aegean for aegis.
~
Green.
Actually, the gravel roads. Fossils
in layers by the road. Road as riverbed/canyon and river when it rains
It rains every day. Fools gold and real gold.
Kid says, “I forgot my mustache.” I hear him say it, nearly hit by a car on his skateboard, helmeted.
Nausea, commutes & sun. What yoga says about repetition and pattern and habit. Sometimes I throw up everyday. Someone says “Bakersfield.”
A field of bakers. Together.
~
He says he doesn’t understand railroad accidents in California. He says that were he’s from, even drunk men don’t fall asleep on the railroad tracks.
~
The water contains more bacteria than the health safety level for bacteria, but I am sick from food, not water. Bodies, machines, plants, and the universe on repeat. Someone says you can be what you want to be here and I am suspicious, unless that means that here is home in which case: tear/scratch.
I have a little parrot. The parrot followed my bus to campus one day. My peers and professors thought that was hilarious because they didn’t expect to see me with a parrot. You see, I love that parrot very much.
~
“I want to work for the State Department.”
“What does the Department of Homeland Security Do?”
I’m not careful enough with gesture or language how rejecting something requires loving it probably loving trees, temples, factories, America, Europe, babies, real estate, genre, parents.
Energetic and optimistic in a way that defies feeling fact a picture of you isn’t you a picture of me isn’t me lower backache head on the desk live in the desert but dream of the jungle.
The tree we cut down for Christmas, even though we weren’t Christian, almost looked like a pine.
~
Bored. Sweating. Smoking. Going through withdrawal.
“It’s no good, I shall have to go.” You should bring your field glasses
Watch in hand, or compass. When did horse racing begin? Animal racing in general: rather more than a natural rivalry. “It’s these damn gypsies, wandering all
over the moor. Get out of the car before it’s stopped, expect
a miracle, growl back at the god, eat curried mutton, engage in business
that could put some money in your pocket, like
business is supposed to.
~
I looked it behind me sir, I swear it. He was dead, sir, his head all bashed in. It was horrible. I am a man of excellent birth, reputation, and the occasional flutter; I have the very flutterings if you’d care to see them: a dark-colored silk costume with ostrich-feather trim. I have extravagant taste, but I never had such a dress, sir. What a pleasant evening. I think I’ll take a walk! A horse is a most gregarious creature. But, as you know, the dog did nothing in the night. Of course I would recognize him. Good heavens, sir, you take my breath away!
~
I am supposed to keep a record, throughout the day, of anytime I feel a certain emotion. I am supposed to keep my emotions simple, for example: "glad," "sad," "mad" or "bad.” I can also include “afraid” or “guilty.” Anytime I feel one of these emotions, I’m supposed to note the time of day, the emotion I’m feeling, and what was going on when I felt that emotion.
Later, with my partner, trusted friend, or therapist, I am supposed to go through my list and share what I’ve written down. I should try to describe how the emotion felt within my body. Finally, I am supposed to talk about how it feels to share my emotional feelings with another person.
Tire of hair to dry, autobiography, this way then this way then this way, “but this
poem is not a conversation.” Word as breakfast rib
bacteria as daily food chain you are
the so and so that started everything
late on the bus road closure and
I heart cities and Europe and can’t hear
The grass scream quiver quiver quiver quiver quiver quiver etc
Da da Da da Da da across the plain.
Kind men in high rise pants fill
up my heart with job. For I
have always wanted to be a kind
man in high rise pants with a steady
income and a cell phone and a long
commute.
The man is etcetera.
They really are friends.
Knitting.
I think I was just made fun of. I am hot.
Opaque entrances and exits----- good places to meet or not
I think I was just flirted with When I was made fun of the person who made fun of me was flirting with someone else.
Artistic people wear scarves and sometimes baseball hats.
Watch my pronouns. Consistent elephant for element and Aegean for aegis.
~
Green.
Actually, the gravel roads. Fossils
in layers by the road. Road as riverbed/canyon and river when it rains
It rains every day. Fools gold and real gold.
Kid says, “I forgot my mustache.” I hear him say it, nearly hit by a car on his skateboard, helmeted.
Nausea, commutes & sun. What yoga says about repetition and pattern and habit. Sometimes I throw up everyday. Someone says “Bakersfield.”
A field of bakers. Together.
~
He says he doesn’t understand railroad accidents in California. He says that were he’s from, even drunk men don’t fall asleep on the railroad tracks.
~
The water contains more bacteria than the health safety level for bacteria, but I am sick from food, not water. Bodies, machines, plants, and the universe on repeat. Someone says you can be what you want to be here and I am suspicious, unless that means that here is home in which case: tear/scratch.
I have a little parrot. The parrot followed my bus to campus one day. My peers and professors thought that was hilarious because they didn’t expect to see me with a parrot. You see, I love that parrot very much.
~
“I want to work for the State Department.”
“What does the Department of Homeland Security Do?”
I’m not careful enough with gesture or language how rejecting something requires loving it probably loving trees, temples, factories, America, Europe, babies, real estate, genre, parents.
Energetic and optimistic in a way that defies feeling fact a picture of you isn’t you a picture of me isn’t me lower backache head on the desk live in the desert but dream of the jungle.
The tree we cut down for Christmas, even though we weren’t Christian, almost looked like a pine.
~
Bored. Sweating. Smoking. Going through withdrawal.
“It’s no good, I shall have to go.” You should bring your field glasses
Watch in hand, or compass. When did horse racing begin? Animal racing in general: rather more than a natural rivalry. “It’s these damn gypsies, wandering all
over the moor. Get out of the car before it’s stopped, expect
a miracle, growl back at the god, eat curried mutton, engage in business
that could put some money in your pocket, like
business is supposed to.
~
I looked it behind me sir, I swear it. He was dead, sir, his head all bashed in. It was horrible. I am a man of excellent birth, reputation, and the occasional flutter; I have the very flutterings if you’d care to see them: a dark-colored silk costume with ostrich-feather trim. I have extravagant taste, but I never had such a dress, sir. What a pleasant evening. I think I’ll take a walk! A horse is a most gregarious creature. But, as you know, the dog did nothing in the night. Of course I would recognize him. Good heavens, sir, you take my breath away!
~
I am supposed to keep a record, throughout the day, of anytime I feel a certain emotion. I am supposed to keep my emotions simple, for example: "glad," "sad," "mad" or "bad.” I can also include “afraid” or “guilty.” Anytime I feel one of these emotions, I’m supposed to note the time of day, the emotion I’m feeling, and what was going on when I felt that emotion.
Later, with my partner, trusted friend, or therapist, I am supposed to go through my list and share what I’ve written down. I should try to describe how the emotion felt within my body. Finally, I am supposed to talk about how it feels to share my emotional feelings with another person.
03 June 2009
I changed my mind about the other blog. Drafts will still go here
Substitute the center of you for your belly
and my middle abdominals for your center.
What would be our head? My neighbors
are dropping furniture and I
am singing to you. It is hard not
to be sarcastic, but I mean it "like a nice
spring jacket kind of thing," says my neighbor.
~
My hamstrings are holy and epic.
~
Our relationship was about how to be
like frites and pureed potatoes. Enharmonic,
"like British food," she said.
~
The Queen of the Amazons is, incedentally, a vaguely white French-speaking woman being controlled by male ivory smugglers. Later, she leaves her life in the jungle behind for marriage.
~
I am the father of Kung Fu. I can't believe it. The conditions are ideal.
~
Avoid these facts, nature as real politique: The Phantom Layer is
composed of millions of squid and luminous squid ink. Their entire
world was known by touch. The scientists are watching a film that
says the sea can feed the world. They, the scientists, clasp hands,
manly like. Come on, Lady Reporter, the time has come for your
promotion, under the sea.
and my middle abdominals for your center.
What would be our head? My neighbors
are dropping furniture and I
am singing to you. It is hard not
to be sarcastic, but I mean it "like a nice
spring jacket kind of thing," says my neighbor.
~
My hamstrings are holy and epic.
~
Our relationship was about how to be
like frites and pureed potatoes. Enharmonic,
"like British food," she said.
~
The Queen of the Amazons is, incedentally, a vaguely white French-speaking woman being controlled by male ivory smugglers. Later, she leaves her life in the jungle behind for marriage.
~
I am the father of Kung Fu. I can't believe it. The conditions are ideal.
~
Avoid these facts, nature as real politique: The Phantom Layer is
composed of millions of squid and luminous squid ink. Their entire
world was known by touch. The scientists are watching a film that
says the sea can feed the world. They, the scientists, clasp hands,
manly like. Come on, Lady Reporter, the time has come for your
promotion, under the sea.
01 April 2009
NaPoWriMo
The project that I've been posting to this blog is more or less finished, and it doesn’t make sense to keep posting there. So, starting today, or at least for NaPoWriMo, I'll post poems to:
http://spooksbyme.org/terminalhumming/
Eventually, I may ween myself away from my other blogger blog, Terminal Humming; but for now, poems will go in the new space, and everything else will go on the regular blogger blog.
And everything has almost the same name, just to make it extra confusing.
09 March 2009
The dictums of nature
I took the workaholic
dialog quiz, listened to Texas
country. Girls girls girls,
says Zambrano's in trouble,
but it's just the 4 bar fiddle solo--
Feel it floating away like the
anxiety can't speak floats in.
"Fuck off," I said, kind of an
accident, to the surfer coming
down his private dock. He'd said
"Good morning." The beach isn't
laid back if you live here. I said.
I said "I'm going to dress up
like Elvis soon," and everyone
laughed kindly.
~
A chance of drizzle apres--
GOD I AM BORED save
me from fake marble columns.
Assignment/project deadline due
makes a good day to wear read and you
think it's funny. Is that an
OK combination? My I heart
public transportation shirt is
home made, an undershirt shows
through, makes others angry
like my student wants to know
what the Biden part of Obama-Biden
means. I dunno. Stay cool,
little one. Bring your passport to
Rosarito and tell the director so
he can update the database.
~
Or, you could just make
that the poem / floorplan / teacher
maldiction
maladdiction
Which is it?
Anthony Braxton riffs on the
only song my friend could play
on the piano. She was so hot.
Even with her face orange from
early experiments with early
self-tanner. Said it was
from a recent trip to Nepal.
The captions of the previous
commercial stay with the
next one and I think "love" and
"how do we say the experience
was rich?" You're telling
me the story of volunteering
at the rabbit rescue center.
~
We will listen everyday except Thursday. On Thursday we will watch The Hills. And that Jesus camp documentary. God God God and inadvertent swearing words. I don't know what death is like. How long has it been? How long have you not wanted to get out of bed? One minute to dinner.
~
This is the worst.
The worst.
The worst that worst.
~
I want to dress like Cal Worthington and hoola hoop across the country somehow in tribute to Peace Pilgrim. The rest of this poem is censored.
~
Jealous of
etc
read email awash in you
know what
awash yes
pardon sponge imitation
changed hair color and over bright retort
dinner table boxout awash in
secrets which are so secret
insult withheld here insert bland
excited comment about landscape
While discussing forgiveness I got sidetracked and though about the most recent roadkill a smashed raccoon in the bicycle lane near the lagoon and then imagined explaining my forgiveness to a friend who would think it was stupid. Or maybe not. Intuition
has been
off
today.
~
Can not seeing you be our date?
~
The dictums of nature are all about
splinter / I am foreign but not
nearly enough. I'd still rather be
murdered in the city than the
country where the offending couple
just dies or gets eaten. It was interesting
how they did some type reversal in some
small way. Some small method times types.
operatic--the gypsy in me! Sorry. Come
to mama. Maman. Baby, it's not baby, that.
dialog quiz, listened to Texas
country. Girls girls girls,
says Zambrano's in trouble,
but it's just the 4 bar fiddle solo--
Feel it floating away like the
anxiety can't speak floats in.
"Fuck off," I said, kind of an
accident, to the surfer coming
down his private dock. He'd said
"Good morning." The beach isn't
laid back if you live here. I said.
I said "I'm going to dress up
like Elvis soon," and everyone
laughed kindly.
~
A chance of drizzle apres--
GOD I AM BORED save
me from fake marble columns.
Assignment/project deadline due
makes a good day to wear read and you
think it's funny. Is that an
OK combination? My I heart
public transportation shirt is
home made, an undershirt shows
through, makes others angry
like my student wants to know
what the Biden part of Obama-Biden
means. I dunno. Stay cool,
little one. Bring your passport to
Rosarito and tell the director so
he can update the database.
~
Or, you could just make
that the poem / floorplan / teacher
maldiction
maladdiction
Which is it?
Anthony Braxton riffs on the
only song my friend could play
on the piano. She was so hot.
Even with her face orange from
early experiments with early
self-tanner. Said it was
from a recent trip to Nepal.
The captions of the previous
commercial stay with the
next one and I think "love" and
"how do we say the experience
was rich?" You're telling
me the story of volunteering
at the rabbit rescue center.
~
We will listen everyday except Thursday. On Thursday we will watch The Hills. And that Jesus camp documentary. God God God and inadvertent swearing words. I don't know what death is like. How long has it been? How long have you not wanted to get out of bed? One minute to dinner.
~
This is the worst.
The worst.
The worst that worst.
~
I want to dress like Cal Worthington and hoola hoop across the country somehow in tribute to Peace Pilgrim. The rest of this poem is censored.
~
Jealous of
etc
read email awash in you
know what
awash yes
pardon sponge imitation
changed hair color and over bright retort
dinner table boxout awash in
secrets which are so secret
insult withheld here insert bland
excited comment about landscape
While discussing forgiveness I got sidetracked and though about the most recent roadkill a smashed raccoon in the bicycle lane near the lagoon and then imagined explaining my forgiveness to a friend who would think it was stupid. Or maybe not. Intuition
has been
off
today.
~
Can not seeing you be our date?
~
The dictums of nature are all about
splinter / I am foreign but not
nearly enough. I'd still rather be
murdered in the city than the
country where the offending couple
just dies or gets eaten. It was interesting
how they did some type reversal in some
small way. Some small method times types.
operatic--the gypsy in me! Sorry. Come
to mama. Maman. Baby, it's not baby, that.
05 October 2008
Practical hats and shoes. Industrial carpet. Fog. No children. Southern Chinese. Leg exercises. Men in oxfords. Liberal businessmen. Other times I've been here, through there.
The next station is the battlefield of Troy
It is the birthplace of Mao
It is the field where Armageddon was.
Imagine! There was something before this.
And this. I am in a forest academy. The groves
were God's first temples etc. "The vivid stamp
of personal mystical experience."
The next station is the battlefield of Troy
It is the birthplace of Mao
It is the field where Armageddon was.
Imagine! There was something before this.
And this. I am in a forest academy. The groves
were God's first temples etc. "The vivid stamp
of personal mystical experience."
Hugs which avoid direct breast contact, how my favorite people encourage a kind of social weirdness in me. Strong feelings of being a turnip.
When you leave your bearable job and intelligent, creative, attractive lover, remember that there really isn't anything better than this. This is all that there is, always.
It's important to not believe in a lamp burning for you or anyone in a window somewhere.
I know that no one will call me home.
When you leave your bearable job and intelligent, creative, attractive lover, remember that there really isn't anything better than this. This is all that there is, always.
It's important to not believe in a lamp burning for you or anyone in a window somewhere.
I know that no one will call me home.
The male finch notes us and calls to the hatchlings. You're a car and I'm a goat. He pauses. A child is a strange thing to want. That's a nice person, we don't say that. I told my students the joke about the chicken and the road, and they stared at me. "I see," said one. "The question is strange but the answer is serious. It is funny."
"Oh, Hi!" he said, happy and startled. Then, he stared into ceiling space without speaking.
I introduced myself to the woman next to me. "Hello," I said enthusiastically. "I am likely to never see you again."
The wealthy community by the sea is far enough off the highway to be difficult to get to but still defined by the highway.
I ask if they have any mastic. Mastic, she says, is an Arabic thing. I say yes, I know, I want to use it in pudding, and you have a sign that says "Yes! We have MASTIC!"
Mention the rain. Your carnations are probably from around here. A cousin of your friend was shot in the head by her boyfriend. That reminds me of someone I knew from Maine.
I introduced myself to the woman next to me. "Hello," I said enthusiastically. "I am likely to never see you again."
The wealthy community by the sea is far enough off the highway to be difficult to get to but still defined by the highway.
I ask if they have any mastic. Mastic, she says, is an Arabic thing. I say yes, I know, I want to use it in pudding, and you have a sign that says "Yes! We have MASTIC!"
Mention the rain. Your carnations are probably from around here. A cousin of your friend was shot in the head by her boyfriend. That reminds me of someone I knew from Maine.
I was doing a fine job impersonating
your sister or your brother, and I
blend in well with others, except that
you noticed I was slightly weird
and have oddly unfocused, dreamy
eyes.
You had no choice, you thought about
how you used to never get sick and how
you used to communicate with everything.
You miss the lake you used to roll up
and unroll, depending on your needs.
your sister or your brother, and I
blend in well with others, except that
you noticed I was slightly weird
and have oddly unfocused, dreamy
eyes.
You had no choice, you thought about
how you used to never get sick and how
you used to communicate with everything.
You miss the lake you used to roll up
and unroll, depending on your needs.
Another fallen angel whose primary interest is
in stealing women.
Also, he's tall and lives in a cave.
Men lock up their wives in windowless
rooms, but he abducts them anyway.
Or, men take their wives to him hoping
he'll steal them. Some women might
have gone to him on their own.
The cool kids watched The Crow,
excited about rape, revenge, and death.
"We are going to rape you now," my
friends said. Then they picked me up
and carried me from the kitchen to
the living room, where we ate popcorn.
in stealing women.
Also, he's tall and lives in a cave.
Men lock up their wives in windowless
rooms, but he abducts them anyway.
Or, men take their wives to him hoping
he'll steal them. Some women might
have gone to him on their own.
The cool kids watched The Crow,
excited about rape, revenge, and death.
"We are going to rape you now," my
friends said. Then they picked me up
and carried me from the kitchen to
the living room, where we ate popcorn.
11 August 2008
I’m not having any feelings
I say, "I’m having trouble feeling grateful for my injured hamstring and I have great sex everyday with someone I love." I don’t really like to write about sex. I’m worried about the bees but I can’t plant a garden, but I talk about bees with everyone who has a garden. I see plenty of hummingbirds. I don’t like to write about sex, but I like to have sex. You all know, more or less, everything there is to know about my sex life. Maybe you would like to know more, I don’t know. Probably some of you would. The parrot who lives with me, Lester, enjoys eating chicken. Many of the chickens I’ve known enjoy eating chicken. I know well enough to know, I think, when he’s enjoying himself. However, I’ve never really known a chicken well, so I can’t really say completely whether or not the chickens I saw eating chicken enjoyed it. Lester also enjoys eating rice, quinoa, and most kinds of fish. I think I know what consciousness is, but consciousness is varied, doubtless. Just because we can’t experience something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I don’t know how Lester experiences his feelings, but he has them. Two words I haven’t used in a poem are jejune and ballast. I’m thinking about the footage of all those dolphins being slaughtered on the beach in
08 August 2008
05 July 2008
I wrote a poem, which was quite long, about this house and it's dangers—I called it: Hamstring Figure Well Rats
Bike messengers, which I'll refer to artists, musicians and poets call it a lame cramp or calico cheerleader heaven on it's hands and knees. A tapping tired manly wind ignoring it's longing for rest sounds tenacious and erotic implant to me. Children become the strengths of our country and mommy drives a Ford pickup with muddy behavioral issues. All lingered and ended in a washy drag down mousey catcher with accessibility issues and sissy friendships that push teens through love with inner positive intentions as all have a priority, just months before we die, straighten our back, or repair a faulty internal organ when the lady is late and tired.
I remember the DVDs that comrade Caren lent me caused acute discomfort until the endorphins kick a pension plan and corporations like the culinary union. I'd like to know how to tend projects, how to start every week with a gentleman seized knife and cut conversion process to limp rubberband. I got up from the table and bailed—it was like the best day ever and I think we were more xcited about running away than creating images and collected sensations.
I hate exercise. I don't have enough money. I love.
The rest of the issues are too large, I think.
My favorite bible of bibulous behavior. Soundboard channels puff turbidly, entice logician ovoidal convertibility and burning misdemeanors: a good example of pain behavior and why those who don't drive in the dark meet the posts on lunges, wild geese, how laws designed to undergird workers rights now essentially hamstring them. You, only, will be read and developed and enhanced.
Lily was getting tired. I wish you would come back after you have dinner. The staff simply did not know who Lily was nor what her behavioral needs were. For me, the ruse. My tolerance grows thin for preventing such disgraces.
You could always attribute the wolves' atypical behavior to the influence of wolves
Categories: Love of husband, devotionals, political issues, Virgilian praise of the pastoral countryside. I am tired of being spoken to as if I were a traveling internet service. Believe me, Sir, never a night goes by be I ever so tired but I read the word of God. He has fought no issues or stood for any struggles he only took on the hate and fear mongering.
It would explain so much about my personality and my behavior too, my handsign translated as "person attack left rear." Friends, are you tired of the free-wheeling, undisciplined chaos of the non-poem, temporarily suspended due to moronic behavior on the part of behavioral-therapy and flow for the mindfulness program?
I'm bored with having my body stolen, so let us investigate.
I remember the DVDs that comrade Caren lent me caused acute discomfort until the endorphins kick a pension plan and corporations like the culinary union. I'd like to know how to tend projects, how to start every week with a gentleman seized knife and cut conversion process to limp rubberband. I got up from the table and bailed—it was like the best day ever and I think we were more xcited about running away than creating images and collected sensations.
I hate exercise. I don't have enough money. I love.
The rest of the issues are too large, I think.
My favorite bible of bibulous behavior. Soundboard channels puff turbidly, entice logician ovoidal convertibility and burning misdemeanors: a good example of pain behavior and why those who don't drive in the dark meet the posts on lunges, wild geese, how laws designed to undergird workers rights now essentially hamstring them. You, only, will be read and developed and enhanced.
Lily was getting tired. I wish you would come back after you have dinner. The staff simply did not know who Lily was nor what her behavioral needs were. For me, the ruse. My tolerance grows thin for preventing such disgraces.
You could always attribute the wolves' atypical behavior to the influence of wolves
Categories: Love of husband, devotionals, political issues, Virgilian praise of the pastoral countryside. I am tired of being spoken to as if I were a traveling internet service. Believe me, Sir, never a night goes by be I ever so tired but I read the word of God. He has fought no issues or stood for any struggles he only took on the hate and fear mongering.
It would explain so much about my personality and my behavior too, my handsign translated as "person attack left rear." Friends, are you tired of the free-wheeling, undisciplined chaos of the non-poem, temporarily suspended due to moronic behavior on the part of behavioral-therapy and flow for the mindfulness program?
I'm bored with having my body stolen, so let us investigate.
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