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.

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.

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 Iki, Japan. I watched the first part of it and Mark said “don’t look” and I didn’t, but I’d already seen enough of it to know that it would become one of those images that I’d remember and obsess on forever, like a documentary on the Vietnam War that I saw in high school.

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!

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.

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.