and we are so Happy now!

I planted guns in Texas for I was hung between free and coward. Guns suck magic. I buried guns for future history. If history rule let me be Mr. History. The guns are green. The flowers poke. I let History back because I was lonely. Do not follow. Go beyond my style. I am nothing but a rotten hero.
-Leonardo Owen

you dont understand, i will either win, or perish.

ooooooooh we met

when

we were almost

young!


Toofpaste.
Alarm Clock.
Cheeep ass lamp.
Desk.
Chair.
Futon.
gARP.
Sticks.
Marshmallows.
Pocket knife.
Matches.
Flowers, blue bells, blue median flowers steal at night.
?woodpecker?
illusions.
___________modest mouse.



Walking University Ave.
Framingham, out the door and
into the alley wind
steals sparks from her
cigarette, she has hair, black
hair she has hair, black
hair, demon trees exist! on
some nights is in the
trees the folks of a
relapsing breughel, the gums of
distaste—

very high. a breughel of an
elderly child who hump w/ bark
pricks, mens chests— sheathed
in platinum— bronze— attack
w/ pointing, pointing as
inanimate as the wind is
w/o debris they point to
the wind, around a building
where you
go to sleep, eaten by
coyotes there is
a silver pot set atop
a pedestal

by the entrance to where
we are going, it is for
our cigarettes. Once
she gasps clipping
as a knife

a spontaneous orgasm

yr lips on her belly
then boogers immediately
explode out her nose she

just

snoze, ring of
home, things arch as
a childs dream— man
enough for it, porous enough
for it, twiddle thumbs
keep the rules tight
and close, it will not end
in a fight

MEMORANDUM!!!
create nothing gold,
never.

those are the 17 year old bed in
love w/ what comes thru a phone
i can hear yr smile
20, actually, even... 19, the downhill
where should be i could have been
so many places and have not been, this
is the case.rub.predilection and predicament, all
float in the mediocre, it is no-wise to
say the day is consumed by it,
tuggingly, apparent as a fog. make
nothing golden, you are a collagist,
alchemist, child and munch: what to
speak of. there have been thruout
history such conversations, antiquated upon
conception, precursors to the past such that
hands must be folded, windows must
be stared thru, things things things
need their due attention, are rejuvenated by
a trip to the hobby shop these conversations
between great people and

Children.

NO DATES. NO DATES.
Everything a self-annihilating and self-
undenying manifesto, dying, like
the rain, which baudelaire witnessed
forgive me, being among the few, no
DATES. for sea weed is my
creed! hrmph, to wordsworthian dusk
blandish the diurnal dreams
of corso! who lives in the night, being
among the few— medicine men not
of confused, mangled origins: It Does Not
Work That Way, we are trying
to take a walk to the store w/ the
simplicity of our droughted minds, being in
texas, one would stoke a few, the
reams of my life, a horse
scuffling in the blackness of its
hair, under paltry moon, understood, just
what to call it if anything:

from the barked arms of daphne,

flew.

the girl has sneezed, coffee
shop window, Cafe Cafe— gone baby
gone— even the mannequins: redundant
maestros in the patchworked earth, akin
and rooted
Close and altogether One
w/ the ignorance, are
my Tourists. all the
worlds a stage, and here it is, this
raisin bellied witch maelstromed w/ chattering
gums lips flits, ugly undertow of bones,

on the stage, nothing is

threadbare, always the illustration of
the witch at her brew, It Is The
Crystal, gawd too, what whispers there
are no god damn whispers, subtleties
of craft, Mast
w/o a boat that is: impossible, you
created when you were not creating:
muse licks the ‘lonely only,’ shivelys
rendition a cue, the true, babble it
out
......................UCCELLO, come back
and make nothing
golden, i dont give a
fuck man, just for the sound of
yr voice, only for yr own sake:
who climbed this fire escape, against
the rains direction (stairs allow us to
trample up and
down
gravities wall) or
folded their hands across their
laps, childless, utterly on the playgrounds
no children
the shade grows, and
grows...

and she picked at the thinness
of her immaculate dress, as the
communicant, she would grow to smoky rooms,
inhabited likewise the melon headed ghouls
of tradition, NOTHING i say again IS

MANGLED! she and a
soft sun smiles me into sleeping
in the chair, graveyard woman are
only muffled sounds for you, is all
i have, is what you need: this tincture
to the world... geez, got ahead
of myself, no longer commentary what
was what was it. asking proust.






for a writer, man shes
short on pens, for a good
writer thats
expected oftenthymes
attached to the singular, ladybug
bodies, walk in, perpetual rank of pot, and
sprinklers psssssssst in the wind like
a wordless secret, needless to tell
anyone about this night
is my life. she pissed off again, away again, and i
thinking about objects, in dream i
took her in an invisible glass elevator
up, glass cascading, i have a way
w/ escape. i see myself becoming myth,
have to peel it like bad sunburn
days later, winter already— winter already—
we are meant for something as is it
is
happening, i’m losing the ability to
chirp my
delight, i throbbed
kissing her over her guitar, YOU—
you are becoming
journal.

fetid foyer, taj majal is the image:
doused in a green miasma of

goop, what

is it w/ a blonde college girl and
alliteration (hes

coming
d
o
w
n
glass hes
coming
down
glass, one who

w/ me?! naaaaawww cross the road, again
them midnight lesbians (not decked well,
what the bee did it stung me
on the hand these no

TALKIN BLUES!!!

ha! all day in my head, i smiled
about nails on my arm, staring over
a pot and felt like the youngest
son among three daughters and
this honest speech
in a church morning— contained
irreverent the lice pickers.
namely: she helped me cut my hair to be
a different man and why not weep, and cut

just about

all of it b/c cultures
like species are
irreplaceable
once extinct. 101.



WRITING: Only a way of keeping
in touch. How sad, grammar.

It’s like my finger tips are too coarse, they
alone hold the authority of coarseness, only they
are what make handling the tops of dead
dandelions so tragic, and oh, man thats one tragic
scene.

Some frosting in my tea?

Yes, please, dont mind if i dont, either, but shit, i’d really love some’a that frosting in my tea.

no bane in continuity
only the salisbury steak, the fat
waitress swallowed by
time, its a damn time capsule
here, eyes gunked, heavily rimmed
w/ purple serving
possibly the KKK, and these
maids, trashmen in golf carts, How

will it be done? How will
it be so strange

It will be

every little thing, running
full force into a campaign
sign on a darkened lawn at
15: Golden.

L O N G
verse.

Verse. “well i am well enuff
versed in...” traffic is my consolation, whoever
even feigns to notice traffic is

doomed man doomed

dream of the movies yr going to make
if youre walking beside a bunch of
cars! That fissure, thru which
a trickling of my day dream— day
dream has muddy connotation
to it— the shitty likes of sartre upheld
by the bloated fruits of certain
women, who cradle imaginary babies
thru virginia, into atlanta: How you
could be at home Here! DARK
Continent, the evil is a vaporous
red and i the bewildered eyes
for it, LAUGHING. falling in
circles before the burger king, you
gotta snipe it, and he
shoves an imaginary shank
into my neck, i’m twirling
driveling broken
tongues. AWFUL. they
have not called back, there was no
problem, i am not
going to jail— woke up moaning and masturbating
i’d been jerking off in my sleep
Dont Like That, lit on fire in
welcome retribution i was
burnt alive, and Mollie thru
far reaches of hyannis, those white
boat houses: tantra and the sea,
smoking then whoop whoop, i invisible
observer from back seat— get somber,
light thru back window: see the
billow, he say geez, nobody sneeze,
needless to say freeze tho they
scuffle mad in the car, mollie
turns, hysterical feast— pot on
her lips in the warming flashlights
cone gone gossamer thru the
back window, he feels sad for his
life before driving on, at which
point, and before such, i awake, he says

“Just like Family Values.”
—fin.



Something in tune w/ the
wieners of later years, who
swamped by the filial, meanders
and feels the araby

PANG

of his unreachable youth! STARK! at the
branches of basement window, the
far grin, li pos
little paper boats, aflame
singeing the tips of dappling willows

and its just a very nice scene, that, all
around. a drunken saint
stumbling down the mountain makes
us fell, feel: allllllllright. the young
american; even if such
nature is— (on the same
track)— not opposed, dia
metric tho, but somewhere else, it
calls for not a happy-ass smiling
buddha, gets mangled— swamped
by a
MIASMA
of glib, which
you know, its so nice to say that thats
so nice! it is! oh i’s the severe case
of the gollywobbles!

Landry the mentor, there
was more to this string, but not
in concordance
w/ the color of this table, the
initial spider webbed sprawl of
my free hand against the page.

its damn redundant to ask a zen
man his feelings about writing, but
i fucking did it. and got just what
i asked for, too. and muttered
underneath his breath, nothing
is revea— there is the window,
there is the
birds, no crumb snatcher
here, i miss doc
Kellerman. Virgin Suicides.



that i was a mouse, in tracting,
not tracking, the

redundancies, just
the mouse poem of sophisticated
scat, needless to say * or x or x2
those are edits. i was the mouse.
WHAT
a horror show.
a crying man alone w/ his inside
images, his inside moments, his inside
vomit: all instantaneously
INVERTED, science

of puke in mothers home. i
think mollies masturbating, i couldnt do
it tonight. rundberg ln will not be
mothers home... i like how creepy
that sounds... it will be fathers. and
how detrimental that sounds. shrieks
in the walls. i love the idea
WHY ONLY LAST NIGHT I WAS we
cant say he was distraught or lost,
WHY ONLY LAST NIGHT I WAS just
jumbled in the coherencies?

come, you and i both
know...

there was punctuation in his
slightest glint... floating things that
were held in place by the air—
when what matters is water, and
he if anyone was it, what Matters,
What Matters, Matters is a

Verb, and all
that matters when what matters is

water is

water, wrap

yr head around that, be
filled w/ water, just leave me
and my vibrating armchair alone,
poetry is groucho.

the lawyers talking
outside the window, getting
stoned, there is one doubting
yes man, the dabbler of
acne prevention in clean, long, hair, why
in my day literally
Fuck the Man! up the ass! overflow
his very orifice! Jew up the very
semblance of Brother Bear, there goes
Bill Cosby! Dancing like a
jelly bean! Bill! Welcome to my
Poem! we’re rejuvenating these
cramps of a skeletal pencil hand!
youre not especially invited, in fact
i’ve been planning to say get the
fuck outta here you hip grubbing
pansy! but all i can honestly declare
is

hip grubbing pansy... you sit down,
you here of my journals future
demise, you seeding the waters
of my dismay, you sit down here.

i’m bill cosby.

attached to a tiny pencil, he is
scribing the hotel wentley poems, in the
air at this age, “he is not a sponge
found in the kitchen” the silver
toothed mexican said, and i agreed,
i knew so well, so much of my

language. youll
think it damn
patriotic of me to say, and i’ll say
it, i work w/ the
heroes— young fathers and
the young fatherless— and
the glass blown eyes of
Gloria, holding pink slippers,
slipping majestic down the street,
crying like a burnt grackle
in the sand.






University AVE.

Leander, the fathers tyrannical
pythagorean!—
Cincinnati Pike
music, skinny golfers maybe you
wake yrself up and
left w/o a backwards glance
into the wintered Bedlam,
Leaves, everyone is here for
This, there arent any lines
persay the
antibiotics to freedom hence
the towers, easy to say
in this the tree what is not whim

there has never been anything
Wrong
w/ life.

i’ve written my poems of
texas already, into the
Hell that is ze factory of
Dell, clumped

in a wells fargo, i will go
where eyes go especially
it seems to what is
in yr hands yr breasts
look up, the suburbs are
assuredly suburbs.

‘re. Graves’ he wrote the damn
dirty truth is
i am afflicted w/ a
muse: rilkes angel, and i
had decided early on
that rilke is not as nearly
as
TAME
as he is made out to be, and
now the academics’ve
caught up w/ my poor teenager.

Oh the afterhouse, a
lonely piece of cake
Oh, the afterhouse, its
just im generations
generations Late, the
buttons, the poet IS
captivated by tinkered substance,
encapsulated in some overlap of
age old nor young not an
edit: a certain put off to
the uninitiated a
quote, we dont know the
attic dynamic— where elders
are Not relegated, but live a
tight old life, no meandering in
that must— there are persistent
VISITORS. and no day or
night an edit: a crow
riding this breeze which
shakes my seat. it is
infatuation, the sweetest sort,
grasping. journals noones read
and illuminations noones felt, it
if anything gets too fancy.
and /So Many People I Will Be.
all of / the plumbers of discontent,
them/ plumbing their lives, it is
necessary, these sounds who
wanna be so pretty.
bum/ ass cunt shrivel
kid/ mercurial
on the/ swallow dreamed
midnight/ stoned on the
bus, a vision forever

returned to like a grave, all
beards latch on to

Youth, all poets

are the accelerated progeny
of what was formerly
the
Poets.




FHA— Federal Housing Admin
Gov Agency— insure loans, guarantee
3 tiers
1 conforming something
2 FHA— fixed rates 95%
3 Subprime—228s, 327s, 2 years adjusted
327— 3 years— no good these buried 640s:
3 credit bureaus
transunion
experion
extrifay

mortgage— middle of
3 scores

Fixed— 9 ½ 10 ½
FHA—relaxed guideline.
Full Documentation Only—have pay stub, good
tax return etc.
Evry lone— mortgage insurance
up front pip?— 1.5% of loan amount
monthly mip— over 80% loan to value has
mortgage insurance
1 up front
1 monthly—.50
maximum loan amounts based on counties.
362.
Cashout up to 95% on house
9775 on purchase 90 cashout.
6% cellar concession, all need $500
Allow non occupant co-borrowers.

25% loan to value (1tv)
up to 15%
Stranger up to 75%
theyre trying to make loans
DTI
debt to income gross monthly income against
house costs versus insurance etc.
backend ratio or
bottom ratio
%5000 a month,
$3000 for housing
$2000 a month
gross—Sam takes 15.00
Smith has $500
works if make alot.

PITI
Principal
Interest
Taxes
Insurance

only 1 loan at a time.
not allowed investment
allow up to 4 family.
raises up to 4 family
FULL DOCUMENTATION
Automated Underwriting, Seeking Approval

32 +43
beyond 43— no FHA

Send it to underwriter for manual
underwrite.

tightened up on ratio

45 46 47 send manual

COMPENSATING FACTORS:
i have reserves.
loan to value low.
29 years on same job.
ARMS not FHA
streamlines

FHA secure: no mortgage lates for
2 yrs.
disregard late if after adjusting
period
6 ½-9 ½ %, when did it adjust, when
have the late.
streamline— income documentation, real
estate tax amounts, clean title,
appraisal, mortgage statements, 327
thinking its fixed.
prepay, fixed.
currently have
now owe 2300
been good borrower.

all need is paystub and title.
this guys heads a fucking bank.

no cashout— just rate +term

nothing on the back.

closing costs
defaulted on government loan, (student loans etc.)
Never get FHA. child support.

interest rates low to mid-5s.

Federally Chartered Bank.

State laws—broker—knocked outta business, strict
federal laws— important people know regulations.
yr a bank.






THE BOAT HER SHOULDER

the leaves on the railroad tracks to waggly,

OH, the places youll go, here
am in the waiting room, i was

KisSED

by a decrepit woman. ‘come on and
give me a kiss.’
and i did.
what else could i do.
mayve been a curse for
all i dont believe, the wet one
on my hairy forehead, how
did i forget that, was
tired— very tired— and this
feels like a place of
forgetting, she
had the lips of a girl, voice
of stone, and old screen door, ladies
like that if anyone,
them, do die w/ some kind of
Slam. (a wooden fissure
closing, the boat her shoulder
is a place for the comfort
of my
Good Delusions, that there
are no bad delusions— i have comfort
here, world isnt mad here. she
wrapped her knobby fingers round the
back of my neck, she pulled

me in.



University Ave, where i pledged
my life to poetry. Also pledged
to write solely for posterities
sake, that is for the children who
will die before having reached
my present age, be ye many! and
foolhearted— grow the
blisters, walk w/ yr heart up to
her for

ever, who

ever

ever

is...




then Micheal Caine and some
agents, Old Maid— OH! The beautiful
book! Preface Was not stranger but
not separate a seamless antecedence
to the fiction— my moving dream,
Wieners asleep in the chair, the old
maid part of the story, opening window
nearly shot by the army, nonchalant
and knowing, after all, the wood
chipping a buster keaton, waking up by
the books decree! the preface and
opening correlate so that i am Wieners
in the chair Laughed At by some
sort of coincidental glitch in
multiverse where i play out main
character: Simply clever twist about
a man Waking UP. AND
Chess, me and Mollie and Chess.

In the red bathroom, waiting for
her to continually open the door and

Ask.


we may go nomadic, trucking, but
probably not, the blood is boiled into hay, and
i’m pretty sure we like the dreams for what
they are, god knows i love them, it’ll be
a faulty inspection done by
heraclitus the knobby-kneed
gym teacher, inevitably, fondles
gone and tempers free, a lonely childs unwritten
second poem for there was only one and then
he started hanging w/ patrick so and so by the
river, writhing salamanders in palms, told
ALL the words, even what FISH
really means, never played w/ it w/ it?
like constantly accused of— not a metaphor,
a phantom grew in his groin, one
day it was released, sprawled out
across the window pane, stayed...
pistol pete, irving, magic, and bird
bird bird bird you poor
shaman bird, yr followers confuse
-ed, yr
mockers lethargic: MAGIK, none the less,
like anything basketball revolves around
speech, inert, intrinsic, inherit the modifiers
and talk get wound about talking about this
court its revery in the 80s as compared to
its present tumbleweeded and cracked up
stalemate? you asking just asking to
mangle yr shoulder or metal bolt yr
leg, become the ghost of ash st. is that
what wind on the glass been saying
all these years, like that the park
seeps into a life, claims youth, promises
the future while immediate: burgeoning
simplicities of communion and lanky
days in the golden glum of city summer,

listening again.

“there are streakers.”

“i dont know i didnt
see any cups ooooooh streakers.”

wheres wheres the strength to be sad here.



The grackle on the post, spitting
a string on non-sequiters, a door open
to this fake. and then she called, when
in my somberest hopes of hopes:

premonition (mouse herder, i knew
she would

call. and all was fine. then...
didnt wanna go to a movie. then... didnt
want to take a walk... didnt even
want a destination, too much work to do,
shes not sulking, if she is then
shes sulking

as best as she can, and

i was afraid i'd hurt her... its
only been 4 god damn days, pansy, distance polarizes

sure but what exactly in

each of us. she doesnt want to
see Me.
we have a slow golden BALL. you
cant say slow golden orb right off the
bat, not in this day and age, day in age,
23, brockton, MA. its slow, its in my
court, what it is is that im the
person for this orb, its a demon, and
so is she, shes felt it, its her
offering, it is not a blind offering, tho
god and i know she thinks so, as
i can only think of her, and
what shes doing, giving me this
thing as all other things

impossible

to take back: that nuisance of

effortlessness, that shameful daydream
under the sound
of dishes being washed inside
the house.


THE RADICAL OLD AND AILING MAIDS LETTER TO SOME SORT OF GERTRUDE (before a crocheted fire on the wall, sweetly relegated to the eves where the mockingbirds nest, peck at the walls when she wills them so (likes the sticky sound of it

man, inseperable. WHAT language you speak.
i cant be her shoulder... its set, the planets
arent

Right, they’re

Left, man (they

also that is to say

E v e N

possess the lovely

ingenuity

to produce

tumors, P.S.
notice
the devil

is in this hand, at
night.

P.P.S.
like this, Gertrude,

it was how Wieners

Hid. study, study, Study

his hiding, and his hiding

Alone!

think about that alone, as well,
that is to say, you in yr
pink sneakers on the
cement stairwell, a yellow lamps glow,
rooftops,


Have i ever

rubbed my belly in a
spasm of amniotic-like Comfort while
in yr company? I cannot
Remember!

the tv two rooms
over sounds
like my shoulder
joints rubbing together
in my head, in the
dark. her little sock
she left me
is all i have, her
foot fits in my
palm. why
dont you send me no
regards no more. girl only
golden in memory, youre seeping
into the backyard, this
tinge
of life, in the midst of it, being
over. i am not sick, i need
her to satiate this
doubt, make me less
myself, we both know why
we are here, and then
she calls, everythings fine.



Hey John,
Now i live in a room
on parmer w/ an indian man, and an
old woman who talks to her bird
all day, at night the bird cries like
an old woman, its the first time
the house has had tenants and
i may have disrupted a way of
hers she may have previously
had of carrying on and on
at night, she watches alot
of titanic, gladiator, epics
like that, shes pretty sharp, she
makes me delicious soup, the
bird bites me. i eat texas
toast and little else. got some
creeley, and i see, i see, why
he been calling me, thru many
books and people, namely
wiegel, and he counts as many
people, like he reprimanded
me below an american flag
once about the beat
mystique of looking back
while simultaneously
looking forward, he was
telling me how simply
devoid my poems were of
that and hes not been
the first, perusing the
advantageous approach, yr
old ishmael of the
umass darty sunken
ship, but calling me, he seems
too fucking easy, sooo
my journal suffers, plagiarizing
is the saddest thing when its
an honest act, and im a long
ways from it. got wanda
coleman too, hand dance, got
find her first books, i feel thats
where it is, at work when they
are not rolling dice they betting
on the basketball courts, big bets
too, 100 bucks, after lunch omar
punched a box i think he lost, Friday
i lost 25, adversary started ham groping
me before our game talking about being
contracted by the austin team to play
in paris, and it worked, i was impressed
by this bullshit and lost. after the
3rd day everyone learns which security
guard doesnt press the button on her
metal detecting wand when she sweeps
it along yr
body and they realize why the lines to leave
are so un
even. eveyone everywhere is calling america
nazi germany, and i’ve no two cents, the
police force here still seems exclusively to
be pursuing jaywalkers, fin.

THIS is it, the
grubby room, fleas, the
charred podium reeking
of geraniums, legions
of poetry in skeletons, keenly
listening w/ impossible
cross legged
ankle excemas, a crowd
of skeletons, w/ itchy
ankles and no
phantom to itch
them, you expect a
subtle shift, or
an explosion
which severs
the spine, a
lump of lead
glazing the
uvula and
could end there, but
all worthy to write about
is the thoughts
of the factory
mouse entering
his conclave, collecting
nothing, cant do
it. eat the dead
skin off the
thumb of the
mouse and get
thanked warmly, broadening
the photo copied
moon which perpetually
falls from buildings you
never see
anymore, all you
know has been
learned, threat
and exit, no one
taught you That, yr
mother cannot
eat in a restaurant
alone, and you
couldnt see it
w/ her hands
folded, shoes
close together, humble
as a peach
in a tree
unnattached, an
immaculate peach
perched
on a tree
branch like
her smile, wardening
life, why did
i have to be a poet,
is true jubilation
that good, all to
be done is renounce
my vows and
continue this
survival, i want
nothing
of yr secrets as
you want nothing
of mine, i've
none, for one, there is
always a numb
answer to any
of this... i
have not
suffered, would
this please
a sufi? there
is so much
of everything
i have not
learned, the shades
havent changed, there
are a few faces
among the texas
state legislature
1911 poster in
the capitols
basement hallway
which i supremely
hate, the one
child, blonde, imperceptibly
not
albino
who consistently
brought tomato
juice to lunch... all
the
FACTIONS!!! there is
no rest and
shes deserted
me as i'd intended...
WRITERS BLOCK
AND POETRY?! you silly self-help
groping fuck!
Litera Scripta Manet
she doesnt necessarily want
to kill me w/ loneliness
but knows
why i know this
the way i do... small
black shoe?
ach du? really what you
say? god forbid
the critics. i
need pot. Raise
her Up! the golden
girl and look
It Is
HER In
HER Youth,


too! picking

at her dress, dancing in worn sneakers,
the miracle of seeing me if
even by anyone for any one second
in my lifetime, there she is, a form
thru the vapor: this tiny sock on
my desk.

i knew what
would happen
after cigarette
in this TEXAS
cold, the fallacious
annuity of being
alive during
a better time "it
was not perfect
but more hospitable
to humans, i cant
see living in this
country anymore," imagine
that, thru so many
rotted teeth quivering
to the violin, if i've
any time to wander
the city its them
i draw in, that the
texas cold, the black
air itself, would not
be at all waht
this page is
now. i thought
to calm down, exactly: "the
orgy she has been
consistenly involved
in all week has
not been as
nearly as
tempestuous
as it has
been
in yr
imagination," walking
into the gidley
woods towards
new bedford w/ wieners
verse bobbing before
my eyes, and that
i cant seem
to care for her
when she is who
she is, and can
never explain it, never
in verse, her
eyes too
stare outve
windows, she is
also lost, that
kind of thing, just
the act of grasping
tho urges the wellspring and
its this, that i know
it will be
This that is

left, scrolling

thru the phone, eating

my last crackers, more cuticle, he
wanted it encapsulated, like
the romantics only much
closer to the dirt, i cant find anything
of relevance on this desk, i've
failed rilke, and why did i give
my rimbaud to the troubled
child in atlanta not
only last year, but
this as
well, to the pagan
xanax head who read
my palm, telling
me this abnormal
pocket of fat
means i am
extremely intuitive
and its what she
loves most
about me, my
hands, what is it about
atlanta, following
this string away
from the minatour what a doomed
victory most heroic
victories seem to be, it
is nice to be in
the belly of a whale
but i cant see being
blown out of one, it seems
kinda disorienting, the place
from where j. alfred no
return, i'd like to
be in the belly of
a whale if only for
the sake of the weather for
once continuing on the
gest that i have
needless
to say

embarked, so many
times, in
my mind, it set,
there. to her.
but i have to
make this a poem
if i want to go
to sleep the
way i most enjoy. can
skeletons
do anything but grimace, i want
to make a long
poem, as long as, it
can only be you
Speaking the thing, dead
and thru speakers
for me to take any
kind of interest, have i ever
witnessed
a human skull, behind
glass, but hamlet like, the
untended and looted
necropolis fellini
berninni so many
names are fluff, i
played caravaggio
on PBS maybe thats
where, no no, you ride
the bus right? dispelling
a tawdry hamlets gloom! man...
there is no one
fat bird that
hounds the perfect
factory grounds, i think
all grackles
here and there
depending upon whose
around, bird-wise, puff
up their chests like
bullfrogs to let
one know
whats what, tossing
my lunch of lone cheese stick OH!
leering into the orchestral pit
as if
is buddhas mama
maya down there, not poo bear, all
they think of
ginsberg tho do
they think is
nambla. i will
tell you all!!! it
is a
fragment, Chaplin, seizure
in the mall, not as
funny as on a
wet lawn in
the middle of the
night stoned at
16, noted. within
alls butifs, plagiarizing
overpass graffitti is
what it comes
down to for wieners
elderly, there is
something that happens
to or on or in
a blank page
it cant be said
or read no
words yet...

1L/1M N. Lamar, Rundberg, Guadalupe, the Metric Flyer

there he modeled his
life after a carolina
tree, when people still did
such things, in the
forest of
hair everything
grew hair, the
hair of one
woman who was
said to have
played the lute
in a straw canoe
which disappeared
under the waterfall
her in it, she
the languishing beast of
interiority scribes the
pale poems, her song
sustains the compilations
of inclusive
doctors, as sometimes, equally,

a murmur like
salt falling into
the ocean tugs
the poets
ear, to be a
forgotten leaf or
a star. it was at
6 pm that
everything always
happened for
him, riding
the bus
loop each
saturday, into
and out of, outside
the bus he knew
it was the
saddest people
who would become
drawn
to him, the
lost, cut, criminals
w/ their bibles, he
would be granted
all of the infirm
lessons of the chaste
saint, wrapped in such
fallacy and so on that bus he

propagated

the worn sight
of the mute
priest, soundlessly
tolling his
imaginations
censer, fulfilling a song
and a thought thru
the forest of hair...


RUSTED MANS AFFIRMATION

here where
the carnations
pop outve
the walls. redundancy
of prior
entry, Passage.

Imagine That:

PASSAGE, behold

the teachings
of corso, you
Frightened? well, then... Be
Hold
the teachings
of Coso, the

hier arch ial

leech, proceed to

Hell.

CRUELTY... hate

nothing, yr own

plummet, it is exclusively

yr own, that they
happen to be
involved is strictly

heresay, stock talk for
the cocktail party, and
subject too to
discussion over
tea bags of
scrotum in a
translucent silver
pot of
ruddy water, whos talking

the habitual
elves of discontented
adjoiners are talking! the lethargic

mimes, pauper
fodder, beligerent

silences who laugh only

because there is

laughter around

thank god for

them who get

yanked to

extension! fuedal

dwarves

of

miserly conviction, youve got

to stop for

the words, youve

GOT to

stop in most

instances... especially

at night which is

the only time, that

green 60

dollars? just

to lie down

on it? Barbed

hula hoops waist leg

and shoulder slung

up the volcanoe side? it

was a very big hill
a very big hill
very big hill
big hill
hill, owe!

you charm me
charm me
charm me, following
the greasy tarantula
he came upon it, what
was it but dicks
inconcievably slick in
the moon, a constantly
inert humping, who
is the shaman but
an anonymous perv
in toll booths
neon rain
too
tight too talk
or say goodbye
and so groans i
really do this
w/ the balance

of

wanting death or
something of the
kind, groaning

to my love
my love
love, its not smoke
and mirrors, if anything its
tone, which is only
arithmetic, and it is assuredly

only arithmetic...

there go ma
baby turtles! theres
they goin! its
been so long and
continues to be since

i've been

sore

w/ god. i find
the weather just fine, suit
able, i smile
on the job, knowing

who i am

and the frigidity

of it, less and less

and less

less, smiling again. it

was something we
couldnt put our
many fingers
on, and
he knew he
would die, terribly, all
his life, he did
not lend to his
secrets any

special

substance and the

initial
consistency of
a secret, naturally
unmanaged well- suffice
to say:
naturally, is
in itself his
own can of
worms, we are
the people whose
description seems
the slightest of
rapes, is
cataclysmic, teetering, be
wary we say

at our approach

we ask if you might have an extra cigarette,

you immediately
plot
how to go about replying

"yes."


i had for
gotten what it was
to sharpen a pen
cil. in a 2nd grade
class, grabbing lee
yawns sharpener during
attendance as prop
then rushing to
the barrel as
stage, twisting the shavings into it, to
be doing that while my name was called, it
was necessary in the
morning, i
had
to do it. who was that
kid. is there
anything combustible
below the
porch
where thru the cracks
my cigarette is
rubbed out, watching
an ember disappear
between a
crack before
going in to
sleep, every night
it
seems, i couldnt
say, it
to
anyone, "the palatial
rambling of my
thoughts watching
one another un
expectantly has been all
over my
face today (i kinda
feel like shit
but full of muddy
music, and it is
drawn into per
petual
Question,

wrongdoing, so
quickly, in a tree
yr a different
animal in yr
sameness, like a crow calmly
riding the breeze
that shakes my
seat no floozy
but a time.

A TIME (julia
roberts will
play you it
will be

awful







Mollie,
w/ you i
can show
you i
am no one where
otherwise i feel
forced into a
mold of
someone, being
no one w/ you is
lots of someones
like a pyramid
of masks which
are more beautiful and
more beautiful
as they
reach to the top
but are inconceivably
not hierarchial at
all, it is like
something you read in
a book but i
dont think you'll hold
that against me, the masks
are the living
dead fleshes or
something grandiose
but i am only
chuckling, listening
to brockton
in a
silent way by
gil evans and
miles davis from
the library i
made love
to you in
my mind, i
simply moved
w/ you, into
the crescendo
which was
orchestrated
well enough and
miles twinkled
inside of it
knowing those very
bounds as
grace.
today
uriel
came to me
in the factory
and asked
me if i
only am
supposed to put
the power supply
halfway into
the computer
chassis and i
said oh, yes and
he wavered a
moment then
walked away
and he was
seeing how the
power supplies
were inserted by what
i'd already did
on the line and
he'd had the
same job and it
was not even
his responsibility
to be doing
that job
today, he just
asked me that
and i said
oh, yes, then
he walked away after
a moment, it

can be difficult
to not plug
needless
shit into a
poem and
there is
silence that
exists for
that, too, you
come from dark
places, you
know the
difference, accepting
both like a
little boat to
sleep-in on
the sea, foiling
my poem, and entering
me.