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."

We usually

Everyday wake up before we want to and

nausea gratitude

for dreams--- anxiety processed. It's still dark.

Wake up for abstract things.

Head. Feet. But we're awake

and no beloved woke us up.

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.

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.

Universities don't create communities, Lorraine.

She wants her daughter to look good, too.

Sometimes I think I can hear the waves from here, Mark says. I can hear them, I say, and we both write some version of the dialogue in our note books.

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.

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.

I want a world in which my love for Lester the parrot could be more central.

That we have worked hard
to have a personal style. Listen
to your voice and say "Oh my God.
That's my voice."

You should cry now.

Because I slipped in the bathtub.
And couldn't find my mic.
It was exciting. And confusing.

Yesterday I was feeling suicidal again at work, so I left at 1pm and headed home to hug the children.

I wrote on my door of madness, and instead of the robotic entheo-runes, out flowed natural, zen like calligraphic script!

We'll be waiting at the ranch

Turn Left at the Toyota dealership and
right at Del Taco.

I can do something else other than this
will for employment, unlike les bouges,
she says, laughing. You need a pass to the
Socialist conference, too. Use an adverb
to make your opinions less general,
that was in my other life; but I'm
worried about you--you're wearing
sweatpants and have a girlfriend.
It's a complex situation. Are the birds
singing? There's a man at the door with
a bucket of bony farm trout.

The monk came to the door, performed
his rites, and, somewhere underground in
a ruinous wine cellar, kissed and walled me up.

Adult Treats

All the dearest colors of the
rainbow bored with responses
to hormones. Talk about the
feral parrots left bike and boyfriend
not teenage love among young
people sick of slang for drugs.
Floral. I say do more now and "what
are you doing here?" Explain
everything with sports, everyone's
the same age until we speak.

I come home after the murder,
bodies dissolving in acid, babies
and puppies saved from Iraq.
THIS CHANNEL WILL RETURN SOON,
but we're draining brief. Saw my
first former student at a bar
not in DC or LA or New York.
I don't want to be rude, but.

Raised on the good news that's
always gone by the time we're
older. I believe again. Goodbye,
door! It's true, it's true, I'm
sure you think so. "Being

sarcastic is not nice," but it's
being blunt. I don't like most
rich people. My country gives

poor people money. My utopia
is a basketball court. Walking
to the mall along roads with no

sidewalks in the rain. My weekend
sucked, but I understand your
explanation. When did my language

stop sprawling? Wrack all over an
unusual beach, brain
recently removed like seaweed.

Biking through car country all
those people we love

and corn fields open
use land cares for other

strawberries and flowers.

It's boys against girls and
the girls know it but the

boys don't. I'm ready to
be punched. Here's my

flag. I'd care about my
neighbours. Bring them extra

squash.

Effective restroom use and
spring

peepers create feelings.

I don't understand spring in February.

Sensory deprivation tank--
where can I find one, Lorraine?
Human works, I don't

notice I love you, It's
productive.

These are the Six Factors in my Regression Analysis

I'm with security. Also, you might think I'm
potentially gay. Rock singers are often
short. Hug into your center. The bank
robbers have eyes that flow, cash box
is right. Man, if I were a man I'd never
say I was jealous, but I'm wary of
any rhetoric of hope--what's wrong with
you that you're hopeful. I believe in peace,
yes, but body type doesn't only matter
in sports. That's what I mean: the men
leap high, and I want to marry one.
I want to move to the city to feel
angry, sane, and safe (no more boyfriends
from the DOD). I won't last long.
I should have bombed the test,
been a better structuralist.

Love Sunday and trombone players, delirious
above-ground serenades, the in between dance
and next Sunday with flowers, heart through
March and into May. But someone has to
knock at the door sometime. Then, off to
the palace of the GrandeVisir, probably in
Afghanistan. My lover is Zero, once so happy
at the organ grinder. A vaguely erotic
dance with no men or only a man.
Kiss my bonnet. I'm dead

My Love Roderick Usher Part Deux

Son coeur on horseback, against original music
and complex stairways at odd angles, always in
a corsage and housecoat. Flying coffins make
me swoon, and the doorbell, dreaming when
I answer, all gloved and rugged, bodies
delicious and elongated. Multiply into dead
things, a geometric swoon, a stranger and
a chronic girl-in-wall. Hello, lover, I designed
myself myself, beat beat. And in the book I
find a breaking open. "Look," he says with flair.
Dead on dead.