zazen translation (yt)

I met a woman and I had an affair with her
when I parted with her, she said, 'I haven't played enough.'
(mada mada asobi tarinai)
Even now, I don't remember this happening very well.
Her last words, especially 'Asobi',
remains in my head like an echo.

i wrote howl and scowl and wanting/waitin
to go down stairs after seeing lincoln
mouthful in a robe wanting, ahgaain food
ah typing inhibited saying repeatedly,
in dark,
wanna go down
stairs?

I don't cooperate often. When I do,
companions take note
                                -- but again,
the system in place a cog, one who, and I quote,
"can't see the ball", but feels it
often misplaced and tempestuous.
-- I do feels my own yellow
and eyes, much like rain

(they fall)  any which way the boat.
A stoppage deep, to keep from earning
Also, a tightness in my upper throat:      a gasp,
a yearning.
On an evening much like last

                   -- I give thanks for understanding.

feeling that people were doing anything interesting
the tree, bleak and scraggly collaborates with the blinds
in the quick on-the-go type of opportunity, I,
about to drive out to a Best Buy or a Wal-Mart looking
for a VGA cable, having a sense of who is making it,
whether in a poem or a stew, in a black cup of butts,
in the slanderous behavior of him, him overlooking and dropping
burnt holes in gray-green tarp in blue-gray rain
makes me salivate, makes me the shetland at my feet,
makes me scowl, howl, and cry, and unable to dream --

dreamless sleep is watching
air in   darkness in
   presence         of hours
feeling what skin must,
I have gone on, operated, for years now,
thinking nothing could touch me.

The sun rises and sets.
Egyptian Book of the Dead
pg. 408, vol. 1.

Song F

the sound is everything truly,
ground-level hobby I was out slumped on the escape
and christ there was wetness everywhere vomit and a broken screen, inside,
and out with it

past the smoke, there was I, and there was
she (in my hand, as well as drink
blue lagoons that sicked sweet
aroma of pork and cove

and with a leap I made off into the autumn air
clutching an image of a Du Fu poem, and in it, writing
"At Aubergine on 50th & being the only chap who didn't speak a lick of Japanese
but once again on the sunny side of the st"

Avenues that miss
her "e's", I, not at ease, never fallen apart much like this, I,
suppose I've grown tired, if anything, she as well, passing
a stained angel of glass to posture
everything I do, I did then, I postured

the island now returns to the sea in sight of the elector
I was a grub sticking out of the bark
and I wanted back!
everything back!

how i had many ways to clobber him!
be washed and isolated as a person
on Ellis, a quick breath of street
 where in some burnt out wreck
i fished out a picture of some women in bikinis
and hurried it back home

some relative? of mine stole it from me

the process

so how i pretty much write now

is like several poems in a row

then i go 'yup thats good'

when people ask me, and it isn't like people do ask me,
what I write about I say mumble mumble y'know thecity (sex, fences
depression, first love last night's love, the s.s. aka the qahoots aka rogue scholars
and even though that may have been true in the past
--really isn't anymore

thecity, I mean, no sides here to take
I've only ever lived in thecity and before that it was ho chi minh
I remember copper and steel piping and beaches
and a ruffled boy and his mother and his mother's father who
had a grand funeral procession
that's acity
this is home       all the same (we all act somewhere
                                            we all act toward
we all embark another big one

these wrecks? they don't give anything back

so why the pretense, q
why the same answers, more importantly
why that question
write yr own poem

remembering porky and porkie's as well as remembering Giulio Sorgini

porky and porkie's is closing, actually, it has closed.
actually, that was a long long time ago. I was with Giulio Sorgini
and we walked by it and made a joking plan to eat there.
I don't remember walking with Giulio Sorgini, so perhaps,
we never did walk by porky and porkie's, so maybe,
it really hasn't closed.

All the years




April that year




Avenue on a thin coast

"'you rectify what can be rectified', and when a man's heart
cannot see this, the door of his divine intelligence is shut"
cold is coming -- which is to say great writing
I pour a cup-lid of jasmine from the thermos and settle in red sox,
krack my knuckles, and start by reading a random passage
and in the midst of an awful/great bathroom emergency, a bit of the
editor's afterworde.

fine dinner

http://youtu.be/djQuMdjiigM
a url can be a poem too

a cup of jasmine
groovin' high

calling the union can be a poem
PECO deposit -- a poem

liquor decanter out the corner of my vision
of all the things you are, that but a poem,

city to the shore under the sea a poem
driven swiftly along a dizzy atmosphere

Song E [for evening]

hahaha, writing here      oh ye?
a spoof, a spoof, and come no near
having worked as a blossomed wreck
chase butterflies all day, then I think of sex
sex with a rock picture
sex with the soul o
a private man, through the wood
some days with the oldest hand, this,
which has no name no first memory
no imposing sense

 =
every Saturday

she goes
earth gets
back

Song D

Yes, had I anything else to do but consider moving to new york and boston
would've destroyed the town inquired
or the Broad, or where the house has been, or migrate back to Asia
where eyes are the afternoon and it hulks over

where good clothes and soft fight tells,
softer women and men,
softer art, and soft flash muzzles
I heard nothing of new york when I came to see inventions
witnessed this veracity,
I am thronged to the wall of vines

pop being green
yellow being my mother w/ a chicken neck in her hand

and red, that being a flat on the jersey turnpike
blue, blue being myself on the ride home

Song C [breath]

gather when she comes
back round tight triggered mornings of the black past
(I when I
worked there, in a trembling, in a gracious and loving city
marked over and between brown and green cobble
to a sound spot of coffee and pancakes out where the
Jerseyan or Jerseyites danced, left by left,

and who moves in such compounding strength
of which I had not seene
nothing remarkable out of countree
(the weather, it wore me
the shape of it sings of it
chiang signs mistook for blue
destroyed several school hallways w/ a mass of wall scribbles
-- enter an art show and exit a visibly upset woman

It is notable to point out that she came by another car
the high stretch of yellow dust fans itself through the interior of the airport here
and is upset, see, it there, in the tops of the breeds and shore
I dreamt I sent waves of flowers
other side the scoop of skirts at my feet!

It was summer in a deep wild place and it eased him
and he figured he was wiser and taller and stately in motion and midnight and, in fact,
swearing such language -- mischievous swelling mouth -- admires himself in the mirror of the lake,
"I am surprised to be so vain!"
"I am surprised to be so clear!"
rushing                           replies the lake

Song B [Olson's Voice]

even 'ran out on a spit of sand'
once a reading in Boston, June 1962
can be stumbled over twice! again! in March 1966!
and that friends have told me that I read too fast    no
but yes, this is true, the difference those four years can do
to the graveling of a voice

Song A

whimpering land the fell time stood it then
just garish some who hid and struck up to be loved by
in where the afternoon ground rose
from the source of breath and song
I love you, and battle for many hours to keep loving you
all the difference of women getting off
as he stops, from time to time, feeling solely a Chinese feeling
and nothing came up, surprised by

from the stem of me one welcomes multiple passings

fish so very damned good those years
southern american fish so pleasing so green so twice
in the corner of sold house ignored
now in a puerto rican summer     shines lights in snow
and kid themselves so poorly      eat and be dirty as we gather
the hem of our skirts

sweeping water grandfather
now any longer to sign problems, rest dear, it rests!
the fellow did die as a master of the porch
         and a sunflower raises itself

misshapen she sets out one afternoon w/ upper lip curling from the landscape
in 400-600 pieces when,
she seen it had been before her

(speak slowly when reading here)

walking there

Say that in those mean hours Norse men parrots
I could, I say, open up the envelope during the Poetry Reading
come with you, saving them to get the car and cam twice
high way round the higher world -- we cannot live together in the one world

Pinch my penis at the base and have an early night,
the service, quite nicely done, young, in an instant brought three cop cars
hives a beautiful girl with a bike scratching notices me
results, in them too, uses my name and companions

Were they large or small? black men say in a high voice
200 years in a receding universe, a fashionable pavingstone
a pun in a pitcher in a whisper from a poet who makes laffs
who warns me (bearded fellow at 6

you are always facing 12, i tell him
and the fellow comes round to talk to this slim subcontinent of india
and here i am in philadelphia (not pittsburgh
slap ten bux in his hand with a corner wet for tip

outside for the cigarette
the franks and the sidewalk go
krk krk krk
he bows out

stats that mean nothing

not sure what the hell                              NS8 is but
they might like my poems, once a month,
much like Poland and Russia

                                 (kind of browser)

not a parody poem

usually the tabs are as ordered: gmail (w/ lauren says... blinking
some literary press (muumuu house (digging up on them
the complete third presidential debate on youtube
and blogger (unfortunately they have removed the easy tool bar
from the top so i'd have to fuck around a bit just to get to write
some new post, but
on the way I read Untitled by Sean Taras

two poems

me and paul have nothing

to talk about ever, this is really a mess!

even then he landed five full times without a broken leg

(reminds me of a  short bio that appeared

for chapterhouse many odd years ago

where i woke wif one

) now off to dive school dive

in flo from

a plane , pics of it i have seen sometime on an album

fleshy cheek pulled by the act of falling

onto hard and soft winds

(where i woke wif one every morning

as a paratrooper

(the Temple poems i've lost

rape on the sociology floor

        on some alum database

----

i saw the old man and wondered if it was a railroad accident so many years ago

and even by the door of a taxi, some old foreign fella with his tails in the smog,

the large city -- large it being the reason all have left and what's left,

only the smell of the small, ever cordial
JK being so much friendlier on the internet than in a bar

perhaps he didn't recognize the frames nor the name

nor the face where the frames sat upon and the name came out of

i counted the slew of them blocking the door

being a third generation (rat sperm, i apologized,

outside depressing mode which may be intrinsic of couriers

inside -- RE w/ his psychic ability to predict life-long friends,

of the girl he meant I highly doubt whatever her name, name of girl,

same brown hair beside her, asks me life-long questions

after all these years

look at us

still so very good to each other

wrong
it's spaghetti time
always

oct 15

Steve Wallit has that mean lefty loop
-- a hook, really, that aims for the solar plexus
and Bob Saperstein has a metal meter ruler
likes the Acoustic and goes on his knees
to confirm American Accuracy
Ilya and Vlad could hardly give a shrug
at 30 inches, and Steve says,
why don't you care about this?
hands on his hips
drops a ten for the night and leaves.
Alex comes in early almost every day,
is a maintenance mechanic now,
used to be a professional boxer, I ask him,
almost as a tease, for lessons.
Swivel around
Are you not cold? I ask Steve and he asks me
Do you think it'll last? The club? Everything
is off the record.

but what difference does
in October more than
some houses
American comic-spirit
dictionary, style, in that
verse, opens

an example in mind
I cross the hundred-foot
from an audience of a child

letters #7

In the evening, always my father out there behind the pane
low emissivity glass, a clang getting back to bed
in the briefest moment of
my droppedvguard, an indian tobacco
and the back door coincided at once
and the fire was lit and we struck it out
having the confidence of none
there, this man, named bobby -- elsewhere, names dumbed
       who in realty made a slight fortune,
whereas I, in my grey briefs sat on an upturned bucket
and made no glances at my father
blew out the smoke, god, in defiance of it and him
      staring, having only the nerve to stare
at the string of ash
made my point -- which never in English
         was sharp enough
nor in Cantonese
and marked my X on the newly settled cement
white from the NE sun here, where y rs ago, ARTES was set in stone
now weather be cool
and father be silent
and butts go into the trrash
and the microwave humsn in place of real talk

hours later the cooling evening which persists, cooing Fall
and autumn and low light
still he clangs and squeals metal
and I, up here in my tower, imbibe in grapefruit vodka
and make my gun metal rattle off poems     trusting that my mother
    will hear it, even in the kitchen when the exhaust fans run
and calls me down to dinner.
Knocks over at my door.eat, eat and eat, and eat
and eat eat eat  ,  and having eatened  come down again
when there is more to eat
the c   van door slams shut, ad I can hear every step in the house
by the pace of steps alone
I'm boiling within my stomach
having not eaten, finish ,
and decide to head down
to eat.

letters #6

ain't through done cryin' just yet, and the crumb mag stood
wreckless wriggly with lines
wasted by the white
     man who
sat dumbfounded by all these damn lips
oh broad and south
                and further lipped
with fuschia staches! give em that kip
wearing white and we stood, out by strawberry st.
the mgr, one of the many (his brother
       who owned it all,
         but not me, hoo booooiiiii
cried out  !  Quyen! the fuck
    with a question lilt
I and Adam Clark who was the then baker,
married a gorgeous woman and had us steaks in w philly
far enough and tall enoughh
but this be paul's, what, third forty, fourth flank
by the day!
the next evening I stood in the office
where a plate of empty lamb bones stcuk out
and pointed to the calendar
and had me a coon8s raise
brother garces, tappity tap tap and he was like whut????
   hahahahahah  machine gunned laughter ratatata myself out
only to find
a left to the body

anda right
and a nudda rite
and a big hook!

               snap!!









                         the nex t shift everyone was sad to see me go.

letters #5

sun the maddening, the sun who caws
being only proficient in English
  the household   f three
and the one, moon face child that sat out
in thedesert scape
with the black scion

feeling compelled, ever always, to reach back
and I, further, hurried along checks
in the work weeks to her, moon
  child, with the ink of me
and the wind chime  hat came wrapped in newspaper
and which, now sits,
among the cumbers that grow thick hairs
giving one particularly large one to the old neighbords
wrapped in newspaper so that the hairs wouldn't stick
intonyou like fiberglass

yeh
not
bad




   and not so very bad

we talked further apart at the top of the stair
only with a third-quarter
face halved by the shadows of

letters #4

If one stops to rest he and she must rot
at the end of a long trail which rose  by the sharp morning
         sun a dead buck
charles baudelaire came by it and took a knee, everrhe
      the woodsman, perfumed and gripping a cane wrought with knots
stared lovingly at the maggots that write out of the beasts'
head and body, and beautiful spindly legs like the
broken table on the wall of the white garage,
  up in new paltz now, no longer french man that wipes a clock and other
gidgets with a rusty colored rag, sells me an antique lighter, 7 for it,
         5 I offered, if he had butane, but he hadn't
      not the right kind, anyway,
there within the cluttered attic I slouched and saw many
      things of waste, circus glass that she collects, the sister
by god the ugli ness of it all, and made offers, and consulted me
on Chinese haggling skills
I gave her the full course in less than three minutes
and she made off with a fair deal.
and the youngin, the g irl much like beb, but smaller
    sat and watched her father preside over this golden hill
avoided the notice of the playboys and cassettes

                     that i noticed
and picked up an ol straight razor,
    whatcha got there, boy?not much!
  just a few whsikers at a glance and I thought
       boy?

well it was rude and off I made with the japanese made lighter
         and gave it to Sean who doesn't use it now in LA

it's jumpin' I told her, no frowns, from Monday
    if you'd believe in the spoon thats being held
  flats meh'd it at me,
                                                                (not to be includeed!)



                                 she was damn hungee

letters #3

--and although there is continuous damage
the shore grasses up and pulls the ching the clang the ding
the armor of the further hurled, sprawls there for we
         to see and hear, thereby the girl who stayed behind raises
               up
             a left ear--
a right that bewitches me
has by September saved no soul and sound which
holds powers over us and walks
the length of buildings, to   to
       too close to bear the attack of!
  who is the switch.

plane drones and the typist smokes
and the bitter melon coagulates in the pot overnight.
there, tim is sick and holds no grudges, but makes no messages by bottle
and by continued sickness leads me out
and by father's insistence, leads me back
here there is no god and southern oscars swim up to the surface
with color-enhancing cichlid food he sinks again and
forgets.
always the damn fish forgets who fed him.
and returns to the plastic forest


there. there the guise is revealed, witha key and striker
2638 miles across, 76 windows, 77 geysers, 2 cloven hooves
          that the priest dares not eat for the sake of the devil that resides
          behind fenced gates, chewing straw.
              7 pairs of shoes
   3 dresses she only had
yellow of my skin and hair and shirt, with
a cheap pair of headphones strewn between my selves and
    her, on the blue metro, that rung, and sung late into the
night of neighbor mexico
50th st and junction that steels
remnants, SEEE, still there it stays
frightful to think about, but a drink and moon
by her neck hurled herbs
that relaxes the brain and ears
so that I can hear her think ... there I crab-walked the hell out
after the boys, sneakily, snuck stew into their bellies
and made it a point to never go back

until one of them did and the seal had broken
as cabs, xxxxx often return purses and wallets
and the bus that leaves a shadow by the side
once, a wheel came off
and we slept with the lights on
and by the arch in WSQ her black hair
& grey stone
touched me by the water
and made all my hairs shrug

drank a root beer, later

letters #2

When the war came
we made posts about it

                  here in the truckscape we pulled up to each
front bumper and spit and made shine
and casted pot pies over bridges

'here ya go, duckies!'

and they swam around them, starving
and we in glee smoked and watched them all
as one ducked

and there is any    --     another thing he has in mind
solace from one's neighboring wife, wuz her name, in the nigh t
                  that  ,  by a cat if she was one, fat
       lorrie and the gate of dominion
which she ruled, if ever, over a weed tree
         out of control,
and shucked them over to us, where my father,
     always on the defense, threw up his arms and put them
     to screws to cameras, that hung up like chinese lanterns
oh you can spot them if you've the sense, and the wall, head over
the garage like the yellow spark and the side of the broad boat that
slips, merrily, there the night where two bikes,
got stole, and as we shoulda stole
     her
the bitch if she was one, slammed the coin on the couch and make
                                                                              no sense, or sound
and mike helps himself to the slices and there were these guys, wiseacres
that let him in front somehow, and by just pure courtesy which is
limited in the city of spots, of which I endearingly term spots
have a molly there and they groaned aloud when all the slices were gone
but that wings were rotten and as were the health benefits
but need no matter we sung and shaved and sullied ourselves with the
   ending of famous films
forrest
and fuh rers
fussing over it, yearly, the skoals
and smoking the ant that went again by greyhound, abreast to matt kremer
7am the mourning station to climb the apple trail
and I asked him what he did most often at nights, any reading material?
and he replied, no not really you just set up camp and get that rest
    for the
              next morning.
                  sucking sponges and moss with gusto
for water and other valuable .....liquids.





i shook his hand and he sung out about blood and odors
and wanted a beer nearing 2 in the morning and I had
my head up to the ceiling almost, and needed
      to squeeze myself out of there.
it xxxhad gotten stuffy and hot
and i felt that the cigarette in my mouth was truly
causing me to die.

letters #1

"How xhall he who is not happy,
who has been so made unclear,
who is no longer privileged to be
at ease,"

  in a sort of hell how, out of trace and necessary garden where the branches
made done as snow flakes who cannot be done, who could, disarm
            decanted the sufficient spare
               the wilderness, and be changed
black convent
how can he make the points in size for a chimp
  a beak slave and a wagon thistles moving plush--pushes
                toward the headland and the fort spits them out
  stay a sheep as she does, unlimbed by her nerves
       a rhuby that grows to his feet and honey-bones dissolve
     where altogether is too much to remember, raises himself up
  again under the fixed palm,  the  , the who
                  congee picked my mother, luckily mornings
laid open and the chopped chives garlic of spin and won
         headlines, my father he who brought it home close to the
  chest and shouted, 'damn' and ragged hisself to the frail
depth of the forehead and behind the green, shade of decibels the
        mourning the five sixes and the touch spot,
tig and mig welds he taught to me, in bitings of shorts
         in smoke of wicked fires that launched a thousand million
ragged flies, turned to us, and had the electrodes melt away, stuck often
in the makings on one hell steel, non longer lush and speaking
and awkward the shade settles over our brows
and felt, the m
the blinding m(
a rotted place
the immigrants of steel head here the grinder, upside
              down it is often loaded by the son and he was I, there, in the
field of bites, paradise that waited in the cold room electric by nature
deduced by the gals and the woman who stills remains unloved by me, stays
in the city northward and showing the soil of my
      bones that crossed hea ily
stronger away, always the free--
as he is, as she is, as lovers do, as woolen suits, as crooning
mouths and frothing    who will do as told without wavering the branch
even in the lit room and what was once a beautiful face
speaks unto me, blinded the four o clock return, punch
                    clock and card gets made and hurts until
until it hurts
and the whistling spells
out in the cement, again, in the yard
where there are no flowers of
but only plants of use,
as I, my father has me put to it,
cut a frame of a basement door and stoppage
the water in withers thats drive slowly
counts, counts, freezes
    who will be given that? a wrist movement, which too slow will get the
spot weld stuck, our black faces we looked into each other by the side
  and wherever I ever encounter such a hard and blinding spot, such as sun
such as moon killing and base surprise have me outward by the knees
    biting at me, skeeters in the daytime, young brisk felines
             shoulders it through the gate.

How To Run A Successful Tourny

There, first, are different types of tournies:
classified as Open, Invitational, or Closed.
You would want to plan a schedule, first and foremost
the follow ng chart is a guide for what needs to be done:

the action        --        when to arrange
confirm the playing site - 1 yr - 6 mo
get commercial sponsorship - same dates , about a yr to 6 mos
choose some good friends as committee members ( this would take
about a day if you've got plenty good friends on hand )

Make draws, mail entry blanks, tourny reports, etc. . .
You may want to limit the events by age.
you got your juniors and you got  yr seniors

junior events: ever want   o separate the boys and girls
     under 18 or 16 or 14, whatever, make sure to account
for if someone's birthday falls on the first day of the tourny!

Seniors: Seniors over 40, Esquires over 50, Veterans over 70

Make sure to include entry fees to cover the costs of running the tourny
and should also provide a reasonable amount of play time for the costs.
Make sure to have a refund policy in place.

Now, we're getting there. Let's talk prize money.
Cash awards can be used to attract players from around the country
and, as in other sports, award excellence. Make sure you pay them.
Failure to pay advertised cash prizes may be grounds for denial of
sanction for future tournies and/or other disciplinary action.

You can have trophies too. For juniors singles and novices, and doubles
don't forget about doubles!

Tourny Format:
The format for a tourny or event in a tourny can be a KNOCKOU  T
single or double elimination, round robin, Swiss (chz)
              or a combo of these formats, whats suiting you at   he moment
single elim in tourny is the most common format
double elim is a practical format to determine a winner and a runner-up
round robins ensure  hat every player plays every other player in the event
which is good for making friends.
It is very popular with most players. Particularly lower-rated or unrated
players. The smaller the group size, the fewerxx matches required.

The Swiss System

7.d. The Swiss System an be used to find a winner in fewer rounds than a
round robin or other pudgy, circular birds or formats.
By successively pairing playerx with similar records so the top
players eliminate each other until only one is deaf     defeated.

However, this format is seldom sanctioned and used because of its
dangerous xxxxxx nature. Best go with the single or double elim
more darwinian. The disadvantage is the absence
                 and suspense
              of a "final match"

One Star
TV Coverage. The USATT retains the r ghts to TV for all sanctioned tournies.

TWO Stars
Each player must sign, quickly, several waivers of liability to compete.

Three Star
Provide a free clinic if you're generous.

Now here is a tourny sanction checklist you may wish to glance over.
Make sure there is a NAME!
a DATE! and a SPONSOR!
The star ratings should be included. You'll need the name of the referees
the words, "ALL USATT REGULATIONS APPLY"
(brand) tables
'(brand) balls
(type of) flooring
(brand) nets
lots of colors
clothing that is in accordance with USATT dress code
umpire and rating fees
 hone entry policy
directions to the tourny!
address
deadline
tourny director (should be yourself) and committee (best buds , if possible)
hotels.
Oh, and a map to go along with those directions.
oh, and info on doubles.

The Entry Form
Space for player's name and address
Date of Birth
player rating, a statement
here's an exam le from Atlanta Open
Saturday April 9th 2011
sponsored by AGTTA
  open to all members of USATT, though those that aren't USATT
membrs may purchase a one time only members pass.
Donic tables and nets shall be used.
Butterfly Elite *** balls will be used
floor is hardwood
oneside of the racket must be bright red
  ,   the other, black, whether or not both sides are used for
            striking the ball
. shorts, shirts must be significantly different
than the color of the ball   (white)
tank tops, jeans, cutt offs, large designs, small designs
large lettering, leopard or any other animal print
will not be permitted
collars and sleeves may be of any color.
Entry deadline: April 2nd 2011
located at Lucky Shoals Park just off I-85 . 4.8 miles north
   of I-285
turn south on Jimmy Carter BLVD and drive to Britt   Rd
lucky shoals on left (  large aqua colored sign)

all events will be singles elimination ----- unless indicated as round
robin on the list above.

Tourny Design

Match Length - matches are now to 11 points.
The Laws of Table Tennis permit matches of any odd numbered games.
either best    f 5 or best of 7
RR should usually be best of 5
if you've only 4 tables and one day
you're not gonna run 30 events for 400 players
not all matches will be the same length either.
To determine the number of matches
you can handle, simple use this easy formula!
Example: 8 tables, 20 mins per match (bout 3 per hour)
12 hours, (9am-9pm)
so, 8 tables x 3 x 12=288 matches forthe day.

multiply the # of tables
by the matches per hour by the # of hours

Dinner Poems

1.

Those who don't feel like playing.
Did you say you wanted to watch Columbo?
Cleansing ourselves and peeing all good, staying
up, against all odds, as
                          long as possible, hitting aalll
odds, feet of watermelon, just eat the whoole mouth, like
         a big
         fruit
               in one arm, the manlieness
           a dirty watermleon
it's like if a pig was fruit
mmmm, just tear into, slash / it open / throw / break the
slammed on the cra ked, oinking, doesn't make any less sense from all the
   other names.
ground grass ttyp e, like Parids
   plump om his back, growing into other
my Sang Kee business card   u
                                              innher mouth
eating popsicles with lame jokes
what kind of flowers sleep at night?
                eatn the pop
                           sicle to find out
such daggers, such emotion
(chuckles) so much passion
(boisterous laughter)


just kmush it in there      neuromantic lady
above my bird, my beak, my bzzzzz barely past
swollen my heart
erect me                                                   oldest trick
the doctors removed the king's heart, liver and other vital organs
                                                       in the book
poured him tea jasmine   high five stand
they are putting a talk over us, hundred bucks
with a fever! fruit so heavy electric 4.99 cnstruction on I0th
with our hats askew in proper time, eyes we wavee
i'm more fire and he isn't wearing any pants
     playing the typewriter like a sonata, we oughta, in the wastings of
the ding hits and therr's no more time to pkay on and waste on,
the horns wow, wop and womp
like wasps
chewing a class act turnin8 em on.
during Spring, he trained in broadsword
winter, spear. wake up workout lunch truck


2.

'?
8/29/2012

Jambalaya again, her that is his, her that
          is mine, both folding in the fabrics of thexxxxxxxx couch
singing songs beyond the ac
and the text that came, with the vinyl surprise, here I have found
it, and there is the vibrations
    oh, the jamb only
a few more minutes. That is gonna be delicious
or so I hope, breathing of the dryer sheet
which reminded me of him and forever, his death
which sinks into me

and ha  ing no money
there within the watermelon which
grows heavier and cheeeper across
the ridges of =0th street, that
       melts
  in the su
                n
out to the pp again
     which
    where
i cook
and there is the most
dreami
       jumbles of
layered words
whats hot on the press.
and there's there a new story at 8ty st, nfrankl
the your performance in
giving you your gun and badge back, god bless.!!!


3.

On The Carousel
% hours and I2 minutes until I wake up.
5


4.

Hello, can xxx   we borrow a cup of sugar, in a condom?

we were looking for a game of foxtail.

I've got the board set up,

           in

the living room--and there

she was, looking for a pair of slippers

oh gawd! he shouted as he came through the metallic screen

door, with stains on his shirt.

always looking toward the Gallery

for the right brand

multi colored

shirts, tall tees

that looked Muslim

  most pajamas are fine.

piff poff!she's having a good time

Nicky sat in his chair in front of the girls

they held out a pair of black girl pants.

"They're girl pants! . . "

---

He look at her. His girlfriend

walking down the stairs with her black tank

mew mew mew they played in the wood back chairs

and he drank, and toyed

with the candlestick that stood

kissed her booboo

I tossed her the red bag, here you go

seven letters. and threw my hands up

I don't like crazy rules.

Write in the actual notebook.

He was asked to do labor for sam's mother for fifty dollars

It gives me incentives to l

                                      play a long word

WC RVLYN

is what I have.

Sandscrew. lift them. hye, lift them.

Is Chevy a word? pummel wingyi!

I've done that before, like, knock a glass over with

the carriage.

Hello? This is Minnie

To Ashes: How do you remove yourself from your poems, which
to most, me, me am most, is yourself, in a form, in an intimate
revealing of signs. No longer a repository of felt experience

Give me another sign, cigarette, which goes, "spew!"
Having trouble being myself and seeing how it fights
like being alone should I blow up? What does Ashes think?
When I used to feel like smiling, I noticed that now, not so much,
and now it's like you can notice that through my poetry.

What were the seven courses Berryman took over there? And how ugly
were all these women he slept with? It was Minnesota the place of his
death and all these times I've been saying, no, the golden gate bridge,
which is wrong. The golden gate is merely a popular place for those to
jump but Berryman didn't die a popular death. Splish splash! His final
poem. With a crash.

I had a writing teacher back at UArts who made her class meet up at
The Last Drop cafe, back when the walls were still red,
to review essays.
I bought Lunch Poems by O'Hara
and was obsessed with name-dropping. N here and S this, L to me.
Just vivid in descriptions of the living city.
Lights and poles and parking spaces danced and cooed out at
pedestrians. Dogs all sorts would pile up.
Like their own piles, which get picked up.

Place an order just like that: two hot fudge sundaes in two minutes
carrying by phone a ding, Hell o?
This is Minnie, are you home? You're gonna drive me crazy.

The Scene Before Marriage

Steak? This is a spaghetti and meatball joint.
Throw me some premises for the script you want me to write.
Right now, these are just "conversations"
I speak mostly this way, like at lunch,
I go on my nerve, in a car, much the same.

Gena Rowlands' fist hangs to the right of the frame,
waving it to the mother,
                             which is always a terrible idea

The side of the right is reserved for friends;
we are some of those friends, we hung out and had times.
Fought and never shared women. The moon would not be
a viable military base, he argued. There's no sense in capturing
them, ours or any other. Not Europa nor Titan or whatever.

Wilt thou, wilt wit
streamed his beard across the table laden with poppies
and glasses full of brown liquors, sung in an unusually
high-pitched voice, songs of the country, songs of the city,
songs of the fishermen who sang no sunday songs

Oh and everywhere was wet with lights
we compared poverty stories,
my father he had always told me of how he regretted selling the house
and I'm constantly applying for money elsewhere, please, here,
Mr. Sir, look at the three of us, I have no marketable skills!
What is a press release? If you have some children, well,
fork 'em over and I'll see what can be done!

Please, I'm nothing when the fun is over.
What are the plans for tonight? Console a friend
who recently ran into some bad hands, back here to my country
for some R&R, a little Q&A, some tea and buj.

day off

1.

Some men, myself, you, the folk concerned, between the islands
whose sister, westward hopes for him. Thick and much allowed
rapidly rotting like a fish, rowing our gently in pure sense, listens
too early in the day, old holdings as far as plenty, arrives at breakfast
call, on feet. Calls it out; the earth, the apple, the inward-outward
being, the mulch, already all that is merchandise, the sow, the sowing,
the space, the rocks, Ptolemy, the palette, the breastplate, the your,
yours the own hand and body in everything, so as birds and animals
make love, the decline from animals, the hunger in eyes, travels not
too far off into the wood and turns on its heel, celebrating nothing
sleeps, is one. Subject to feeding that night. You and the legs get
yrself caught.

In other moments my father is a landscape between me and my father.
I wait for him in the smoke, carrying blue-backs and lights.
The bay that time, clamming, young fuzz, salt lips to kiss with,
you were in a cage much larger than the one now, and the flight
has always been set. I dove under the water and swallow
sand and ancient parts. Sundays broke us. By the time I had nothing
but poetic sweethearts -- it was too often I had made an encounter
that simply, I could see myself using it as a literary device.
The order is hidden in my town so I walked over to the next and
watched snows drift, lapping each other in waves, clings to things
makes gentle sounds.

The sweethearts were as follows; woman of floating voices and large
car, the bridge crossings, dark emptiness between branches.
Clusters of flowers that scowl, upholstered van seats that vibrate.
You on the right of me where my arm could stretch out and cover
you across the metallic road southwest of home, through mountains
that didn't seem penetrable, up through the hills and the symphony
of flatland. We hit before the storm did. Under the false warmth
of the blanket, I got a taste of a different snow.

That morning I was sick and only sick. Of what I do not remember.


2.

She is unchanging   shades up so delicate
how long have I been a fool?
one last time in Philadelphia
revisited the air, country toward the river
never will I forget the face   of a year
at least three days, give me so much
of you, between arms
carrying on on the stoop

but enough of cut -- cut
what was he doing slamming drawers
in the frantic search of some remaining part of him
a measuring spoon with traces
his sister came into the room one night
where I laid still as a stone, some deep purple sleep
which had poisoned us, and he showed me the fruits of his mind

we were tough when it was good to be tough
and shy when nothing else seemed appropriate
a paper slips by, there behind the buildings was a green
solace to be grasped and by one hand we stroked the hell out of it
throwing up by the pass, some seed, some awful visage
that hung over, going hungry

clouds come from my mouth
as does tears


3.

In the big plate where we went out to steal
drink, eat, fester, outward by the grueling dog
who assumes we could talk to it
at the church I noticed the high arches
and the color of the corners of the casket
and the men, who did not weep, leapt into brisk action
by the watery streets I saw her and clenched my teeth
sometimes, I had attempted to make headway, but that
she did not weep bothered me, never once giving a damn about
her own consolation, no matter how stoic one could seem
poetic sweethearts, burnt hell-money, fish, black basement
in new york, cry for me, please, when much is gone and my poems
are yellowed. When gums are nothing, grass splits and horns
play.

Leave it down and give a cigarette at yr most vulnerable
state, to a local man w/ white hair, stopping to see
what's all up w/ the black, and the white, and the yellow.
Ramp of Broad St. ice way that caused another silly argument.
I am selfish and you are selfish. Together that made us friends.

I have a hot suspect, I got my eyes on one
I got the finger on the dial and I'm suddenly at the end
of a fast busy signal. When the calls come in I wait them away
holy mackerel!


4.

Be it that I often require a line
to give myself a-going, what does that say about
me as a writer? --That's tough.
It's indeed myself in the old poems,
when foolishly I gave myself -- too much of myself
to him, whatever names he possessed.
All the loves he had and at times, squandered
much of,
Again I go back to a place, which has been here long enough
laying on the fresh carpet w/ my cousin
now our chins grow long

chirps a laser out there n the field of all sound
and a rattle of the air that crescendos in tune with an engine
be this the engine that gets us through to noon
crooning, birds, all glory and smoke
tightened leaves where the two keys get stuck
in time, in all these times, in times, I get to it
now, and again, heaving myself in front of the typewriter
fluidly typing the top f the rusted brown tool shed
soundscape of overhead planes
the pool that s now emptied and without overnight guards
taps taps taps

and drips on each other, a note on the windshield
it comes towards you, the sound of staying still
but a trip is needed so much the text comes in at 8am
but I don't want to reply


5.

When? Give me, uh, hour . . . hour to a half-an-hour.
I'll be there at the pork, meat you there.
East-side. That's the 6th st side.
Throw me some bones, all of you. Who's got quarters?
Thanks, bud. Don't slam the door. Don't open the door
before the lock pops.

Remember when we buried the ball? There? Now where there
are flowers and dirt.

I prefer to listen to your sound and talk to you.
But I never travel, love. Not many people hand-write letters.
I am writing poems, today is my day off.
Are you working now? It is 12:45pm?

I am late, I'm sorry. Let's try and have a good sized pan.
I am always interested in the killer's motive.
Publicize me and make me successful.
Here's some love, in the form of an email.

Would you care for a glass? I could also use, hmm, about
half a cup for my scallopini.
Do you smoke before you write or do you just have a free mind?
I can't read nor write when I smoke -- can't focus.

I knew I was going to leave early, I never intended to eat
your dinner. I'm adding the veal to the pan, sir.
The boys at the lab got a fix on the poison.
It's a terrific poison.

From which I concluded, the answer was to get off my ass
and get off the computer. Here, love, read this,
swoon.

I woke.

In the afternoon, I read the text--

Tim doesn't often text me.

That he was gone and I thought

where? and how brave of him

to just leave but it wasn't

after, I grieved and drank and smoked myself

sick, resolved to sleep, and again

I woke.

It is a torturous condition here
not being able to get rid
o of my girl & girls & hair
countless times now. I never have made
that appointment w/ the dentist to get the nag
off my back, and a kid
                      who wears

my spirit and gums away, still, OK
for what's being done, that which nothing does come,
whispers, 'not fair',
in all them time still under pay and hay
I grovel at the sum --
show my loves a modicum
                          of care,

in those all out nights, still, I went out all nights
driving us through (to exhaustion)
the blackened landscape of the XX.
Collapsed buck in the halogen sights
warrants much caution,
moreover, I, looking for the next . . . next

misheard

I

near my noonish morning near eleven o seven
stretching, deep breathing the early glassy chill
cheering, the wind--blinds drying
cactus sunning the spring up into itself
sucking dry cold, thorns calming
jagged laser of sunshine across my frames

screwed into my head. Paid too much.
No insurance. A lotta reading to oneself
in the parked car. A lotta rolling around farting & snoring.
near my noonish morning. In bed with bread unleavened
caw-cawing
Pawing
books off the shelf

Shining, my new visions are alarming
once again breathing in deep for the simple pleasure of it
blanket & wood smell, the alcohol on the bicep, triceps
a wood burning swelling the sides of my tongue
while I tore off the bread with the sensitive flesh of my palate

I was mid-cigarette before I knew I didn't want it
it had been tossed before I knew I wanted it back for one more drag
and the wind, the wind and the bus will never wait for you
you ride it or get hit by the wall of zig-zags
in which you roll up the makings, as offering
for the ancestral wind

on my knees as if punished,
lobes red from the pinch
I've got that 'out' to get.


II

Neptune's father my honey nose
the hole in my head
you need neither a vulcan nor a polyp 
we need only heaven and earth
and these cawings
interwoven by the sea bell tolling
Misheard or hard, cat the correct cafe


III

Stormed the snow nudging you 
fail making a sight at the size I am
all over the graceful--
or was it. Haven't seen me
in the juice
the east volcano anyone of 
us does thus surprise, and dust
and sails the rift, moor rain, 
each puddle, 

           the
war of eurasia, 
gone & won.


IV

A little aurora the dream left shocked jaw 
of the sick brown mutt combs the teeth dreaming
A whelming crunch of the flowers mold off the tire, 
to my saint, to my saint of Finlandia
the left of the sea, red of 
pomodoros at this point
in time.


V

I saw the changes disappearing in the good feeling 
of the first line of the wilting city that was his legacy, 
the ability, resigning to the handed, new forms on inheritance
happy the same of this city sealed and described, imagined, written in a poem

in a snappy way, 

leaving the roots dangling where the first dirt 
comes from, pouring out
into the rest of this life, 
I don't have roots here in this city, 
things got worse as I lived on
which has no reverse on it, 
reserve on what I really 
see in this landscape

told lies on that shadow that came before, none of which I understand,
I don't understand and am unwilling
to find out when I look out

to the contrary, north
contrary, house
& home this the chime shouts and rings about
the blue van is gone from the drive
with poundage to sell
blue steel and blue ceramic workers
hard-headed the blue of the morning
deep blue of dusk

I'll go back and see what we were doing across the field there, the surface, 
and even further, the movement of this city
which is a giant plate of fire and fire-rock


VI

Two rocks out on the little boy
men smoke and talk in darkness
foolish of nature pleasant Chinese
Japanese Greeks Italians
wore the cloth away
anyone who had the love of letters and 
who lived on this Earth
knew that

two poems

I know nothing to be honest.
To be honest w/ my child, who isn't
mine but for the five hours they,
the agency, the state, authorize
me to be someone for the child.
Someone, this that I embrace
as much as three pages daily,
my bright lights casted
in the background, uncluttered
the sound of cars smashing
into each other, across the
stubbled polymer surfaces.
Hollow most children's objects
are, so that they can fill.
Everyday filling these voids
that most of us have
difficulty acknowledging.
He stands there, not wanting,
nor tired, nor fat as I,
filling the objects that
make up his day
his new world.

---

Christian teaches me rather than
vice versa. I write of him
since he cannot of me.
I reach out, up, for things,
like cranes do.
He brings them together,
throws them apart, like a
dozer. We're a team, he and I,
in the chaos where
we meet thrice a week, we
make things happen.
His mind is furiously quick.
I just get furious quickly.

:0

awaken in the noonday never far from a
body of water, or concrete, filled in
permanently if by chance, a person,
especially a child, drowns.
Arms outstretched above my dream head
not for the lack of space here, w/
her all curled, her hair tightens
up by the noonday sun,
cactus twitches unnoticeably from time
to time. Here I open my eyes and
arch my body and rest myself
upon my arms, stiff from holding
back the shared wall of the house,
yawp, a statement to the towering,
sun, which like a deity, cares
none -- still burning and when it
expires, I too won't care for it,
having long expired myself, but
not today, today I wake
and am careful not to disturb
the bundled layers of
blankets that nest
my dear beb.

Never hailed as a lover, ah but to start it once again with the scent of Berryman on his nose, ever oily,
that much he knew of great literature was hard to wash off. It was usually important for him to feel like
he wrote something of interest after a day's work, when he would slow to a rolling stop on
Jackson. Often there was a car in the spot in front of the house due to the hot weather and the public pool
that sat across the street. But, yes, set at seventy degrees, he sat and typed up something amusing now and
again. When asked what he wrote about, a question he thought shouldn't be asked of poets, he responded
with answers he had heard other poets use and proved somewhat effective in getting people to "ah" and nod
and shut up. The city, mostly, the city, the sex, what little there was, of both, in landmass and population
compared to greater cities and greater sex never far off. Of love, or luv, whichever seems more real.
Whichever seems less artificial. Past and present company and companies.


The conversations and the pauses.


The metal ladder he swung off from Amy's, slid, Jackie-style. Made her cry there. That was the first time.
It had brought them closer, he liked to believe. About Christian and the songs they play, "Hear the word of
God, hear the word of God, hear the word of God and obey it." About his crying, which was the second
time. It scared him sometimes to be seen with a crying child. It scared him to have once been that crying
child who was so lucky to get into the school he wanted.

In the middle of class, he looked over.
Three teachers at the
door, with the news.

heiny here and on in front of the type-type machine
outside there, below a story, the jar of death grows thicker
and ever more foul w/ the bodies of flies
crawling over all their scientific parts (Bee, help us out
here, thoraxes, sucrose & egg parts, wings & appendages
out and twitching, five inches deep of cramped death
My father wants to wait until it is full before he empties it
out, it is effective, to say the least.

See, they are attracted by the scent, crawl in, and cannot find their
way out again. Eventually they drown or starve.
Imagine dumping that jar on an extremely beautiful girl!
"She'd probably die."

--

C, all he wants is Thomas, he grabs one of the four books
in the library, puts on his Tide racing cap, settles into a plastic
yellow chair and pretends to read.
I'm pretty good at building the tracks for him
you have to make sure that the entire thing is a system of
intricate (but most importantly, fun) loops
perhaps a turning bridge, a street lamp
lines that converge on each other but must provide an exit
so that two trains won't collide

four poems

1

Two hours there at 913 Filbert w/ Mr Allen, who gave me all but two
damn minutes. They teach you in driving school never to stop in front
of a hydrant. No stopping, no parking, no nothing,
in front of a hydrant.
I clutched my doctored photos of the 100 block of 11th st.
shocked that my Olympia doesn't have a number one key,
looked down in hesitation at my leather portfolio (two bucks)
as the tape rolled. He stapled papers, I now have 23 days
again, the PPA, you win. Have at it. I took off work for this.
Up another hour past Bryan's farm, w/ the corn stalks really looking
well, to DVCC to meet Donna, for an orange dum dum, to correct my errors.

I've no grand scheme here, nor beautiful thoughts
the gas struggles up the hills, to the left giant walls
   of wildflowers (she told me they look clearly man-made
              the same white car out by the no passing zone
              for sale. Who will buy it, I wonder, on my next trip up?
The XX crossing where I always rev the engine
the only exciting part of the drive.

Amy, now I can't get the text out of my damn head, forever
thinking of you whenever I write, even just thinking of writing
which I do much more often. And not even about you in particular,
just that I have to when I write a poem, that you will always
linger there in the back of my head, nodding over my shoulders
w/ your sleeves in your palms, smoking a cigarette, clutching--

I've not seen Tim in a long while and I do not worry.
The man creates and the man delights in doing so.



2

Found myself in some dwelling w/ the fur of a lamb
found myself, at least, somewhere warm.
Softening glare out here ,  ouch, find yrself
by the eyeglass lab and read the hrs that aren't yr own
and I'll never get here on time, never on time.

This happened to us naturally.
We pool together in our fields and trains and pools

writing bullshit for the most part, not ever to confess one's
drunkenness, never to shake firmly the hand of a beautiful
girl w/ short hair. I don't LIKE these new people
at all, let us GO. My old people are steady but slow.
I drip here and there wanting more blank spaces to fill in,
delights me neverendingly to fill something.
To type fast
to write greatly, even w/ errors, w/ faults
and never receiving praise but who cares
no wine no flowers, right? no glory in the pot
no hillside home to roll, and that means fat ones, pal.

Ah, but to be great and alone w/ that greatness
take a long piss in Carpenter's wood one night, over and over,
the same night. Enough to drown branches and dead trees and the crick
we dammed up. Me and some friends. I have some and that is pretty

fucking good.
lifting each other's fur.
brushing each other, baa, baa, baaaaaaaaaaaaa.
  To use few words greatly
to be natural
to sum me up, this poem, this qt. I drink from
is to be pretty damn great, which is to say; baaaaaa.



3

Count me OUT of it. Te Ching and the spirit of the valley
(not delaware) never dies, delaware? where tien and his goon
live? That ugly and cut
teeth & glasses and long, pointy loafers w/ some money
take yr money,
never again be on Race st. after closing time,
never again sing kokomo too loud as to drown out the harmonies
asking me what I'm doing
people always ask me what I'm doing, what is it w/ this thing I do?
I hear you don't have to pay sales tax over there, you fucking philistine.
I never knew what happened to Samson at the end.
Was Delilah a whore or wasn't she?
Are we ourselves leading up to some horridly regurgitated tale
over centuries so much so to be recognized simply by 'American'
that makes people think of persons such as you. W/ your shit outfit.
Samaritans & Philistines, what awful fates regardless.

Felicity just for the sake of having used it once in a poem of mine.
Done. Sundry, as well. Nicky, yr boots are in the trunk. Get them.
Sean, what are we here for again? Give me one of those easy answers
you always have. I respect anyone who makes it look EASY
but only with inherently difficult tasks.
I'll be gone from all this soon enough and what will the children
(no, wait!! forget them, the adults)
what will they think of us,
"what did he do?
this American?"


                         he lived and he wrote sparsely
               thought of 1-5 different women at a time
                went to drink and stayed in to eat
                     drove much more than anything else
                     and was great at it
                     worth study.



4

This kind of output is dangerous, said the technician.
4500 amps or some-sort, said the writer, posing as a technician.
A female doctor inspects his calves w/ gloves, it felt like
meat wrapped around bricks, almost, chuckling, as the writer w/ his
quart of Heineken, routinely checked his facebook in-between stanzas.

Where are the good ones now, with the language so fresh and easily
identifiable. The city poems, the city, remember? The rock that gives
exhausting death yet always treating it lightly,
that's me for the most part
father found three bicycles today
all different sizes and colors
one of them was good enough for me
I was big enough for it
The other, my mother
and the last one, my father.

I cough out a bubble of bacteria
thinking that I shouldn't use my poems as a way
to communicate to her, and that they shouldn't be used by her
as a way to be communicated to, her own magic mirror
into my sordid life. FACTS left me an envelope for $20, somehow
without my knowledge. Well-played, and the children are especially
naughty. The tallest one hits the ball without any issue
I don't really have to teach her too much at all and
like most women, never really know if they're enjoying it or not.
I'm sure as hell enjoying it, wiping down the blades
alone, in the large cafeteria room, exhausted.

this is a thankless poem.

This morning of the small sun, which I hadn't seen,
sick and woven myself into a desperate cocoon,
crying for more water and the life-saving pill.

Tell me, where I can find you between the distance, thick
trees leading out to the river where some had died,
most dead had swam, in all their forms,
diminutive & awash

Lone woman gets up and walks off, where
sad girl w/ my capicola, Korean, her mother too, wary of flies
her singing perhaps some song
as she drizzles oil,
seasons it for me,
I prefer Winter,
a surge of short day

Man sketching J Lippincott company building?
house w/ the red shutters
house w/ the blk shutters,
forever alone housing
executives

what did Amy see off the penthouse?
A hawk's nest in the museum boardroom.
I wanted to really sit in those chairs.
I wanted someone, for--

the breeze suddenly
a squirrel writing his own
chubby and unafraid.

last confession to her, so many I lost count

it was a set of excuses, I ate two tums & pounded my chest

(I dumped the rhythm of the songs, they sounded a wreck

to clear whatever was lodged,

had never been to Dodge, nor got the hell out,

what was truly wrong w/ my insides

I wrote Bee and left a small gift between the folds,

was unsatisfied with how I wrote the header,

tore it out and put it in a new envelope, and found

the gift on the floor later, after I'd sealed the letter
& the Olympia away

sat for hours, then

to get fully a grasp on the predicament that lay ahead

I am to turn the page on another year

revel in my minor works, type to beb,

apply myself, for jubs, to Bee,

thought of Amy and wrote, as she would've wanted

thought of L, staring back at me

through & through

the icon, always ahead due to the curvature of the Earth

knowing there is no going back to this

(I grab myself and shake it all around

What in this July hum that sang no words
terrifies Quinn & bores him dead
hardly holds his own
I wait for a firm answer from nobody.

for chloe

If Philadelphia was an island
I'd put all them punks on it
wouldn't be near the damned thing
there'd be little to miss but a few Injun creeks
where you dip your feet

postcard

Incredible how the most of us are spent, now
(hanging out front of the steps
I shot him there, laid him out on the grass with his arms spread
making what was and forever will be the greatest thing that year put out,
in the hall she brought me fish and other sweets,
that stair, I looked up and just had to climb it

He told me to come to New York but no one ever has my back there --
L is submerged, Bee on a cliff on a camp on a trail
writes to me on the back of Désir by Munch, a lithograph, 1898,
from Maine, Headquarters Rd, Moosehorn NWR, it's called;

"Babysnake,
Camp is miserable.
Can I come home early?
At least I still love dawn in treetops.
I recently visited an old nuclear facility turned meadow.
I got some pretty wild pictures to show you.
The bunkers where the bombs were kept now look like hobbit homes."

Polis is only its people
she took much away
from that sick city
and its ephemeral beauty
leaving me that night to go for one last survey

See you Sunday then
to see off Paul
see off over the black tree,
there w/ the moon behind it,
                                         full,
and the smoky cloud
sees me too.

I see her
and she sees me
in the light of that moon


smoking
and smoking

90

See where we can win, the horses
with spectacular names, which I name my poems,
some much the same,
AC, she calls to me, Amaris, she asks me,
what am I doing, texting? Who, my friends?
Whose house are we going to tonight, she asks, who?

AC, I think of her as I unlock the typewriter keys, a click over her shoulder,
the brief embrace (unlevel) on the stoop so far and so close to the Acme where her man buys coffee,
I see her, L, on the southeast surf, I pull my subscription (this I talked w/ Nicky about)
this windy evening Rudy came and picked up his son who gives me nothing but a hard time, 
and I, continuing ever on, look out and over with the sweat of aluminum on my forehead


I summer myself, it is intimate.
The old family, they are doing 
well, they are beautiful and tall 
children, they are muscle, and 
Greek organizations, they are young,
at times vapid and drunk off the same
drink, they are dark glasses and the young
boy who watched me get mine under a blanket
all those years ago, in the dark only two nights 
in north Jersey, that was the summer
where I begged my mother and father to let me stay, let me
                                                                                         get what was mine
                                                                                         coming to her,
                                                                                         summer    drink      
                                                                                         summer & sex 
summer and the repression of that 
entire block, sitting there, in the memory of . . .
Bee, on the edge of the swing, w/ her hair pulled back,
fresh and bouncing and tan, ever quizzical
slips off the tongue, walking always a few steps 
ahead w/ a crown, embodies summer   summer body

found in notebook

The you-fray-tease river
The swamp rd, middle
I had passed over,
no swamp to the left or right
2288 Second St Pike
all the identifiable numbers on the mailboxes and telephone poles.

you phrase di,
call the u-haul on N. 13th
and pick up the tables for Ellen, who, ecstatic on the phone, goes,
"The children are going to love it!"
I thank all my brothers,
chronos, who invited me out to north Jersey
to Lily Yip's table tennis club

C'est si bone, got the text this afternoon; yeh, I'm ready
to evolve w/ you. Fran is hosting a party for the District, shall we schmooze?
The funds have shot their way through, into my morning, finally,
and beb is at home -- what's to lose?
I'll have a cheap drink, next to the hole on 6th, to you,
dear pal

I've readers, for now, from China & Brazil, tannish gals,
two kooks in Berlin that have less to do
(my phantasy involves the two)
but whatever, I'll see you in November.
Stick it in, December.

no, no, croaked Quyen, as he expected his cheque

now ever more difficult to further his subject

                                                                         god, no!

I inspect all my gauges, 

half, perhaps, a little below

to drive all the damn way up to business-one

gas stations

w/ no prices displayed, some

squares only grey, which I might afford

I try, I try til I get heavy bored

put a Philips screwdriver in my hand

back at 5th & Moore 

alongside formal Chinese without formal educations

I saw one at a bakery on 9th in Chinatown, he didn't recognize me

we kicked a soccer once during lunch break,

he was a giant

but what was there to say? I was in my birthday suit
we trucked tons of cheap cabinets,

the lot of us, 

simple machines

Two poems of mine in Otis Nebula's fifth issue. Callooh Callay!
http://www.otisnebula.com/otisnebula/ON5.html

read Berryman's poem Recovery,

which is all I've done thus far

my agency, coupled w/ another that is damn distant,

past Bryan's Farm and the tomato stakes, old couples on choppers,

is too sluggish w/ my checks. I'm loafing by a thread these days,

I peck my beb a few times and settle back into worry.

the teachers were there at a child's birthday party

I believe they conspire to get me fired, like they did with the last guy

my BSC looks out for me, at the very least, of which I am thankful
I'm the only non-Christian there

I shuffle the Maximus Poems and Love & Fame 

as if an ace of inspiration will tip out

summer, now, 

only smells differently

Polis is eyes (not size)

after I've jerked off all my money into the water run

off the curb for three stacks of blueberries (I em gave to Nicky

she remains impenetrable, an extension of her work,

AC that teeters dangerously on the sill seven or so floors up

Bee came in from Berlin

lays on her stomach more than most creatures

to read, shows me, & slinks off to sleep

she brought me Love & Fame! we buckt,

she powering the plane w/ her thought

got to Maine much alive and missing me

                                     

               Most, now, have gone;

               Mondays for some
               living the printed life
               --I stayed home.

angels

forget about the love dove for an hour and focus on the rain
this day my father returned home after his battle w/ the hospital
and the annoyances that cultures bring back
      his three sputum tests that have life and death in their margins,
this nurse, she is large and hunched over her comp like a blue bear.
I sit above Christian, my child, and think of how unfit for a person
is a garage, to lie in, w/ its machinery and razor dust
When the inspector comes, he shall comment on the strong
herbal odors of the red house, the hard wood, the altar.

Christian is asleep to false loops of rain
Tonight I will dine in the midst of literary greats
of the city

this undying space is mine
hidden attic that contains
a Marlboro bag of pornos which my uncles traded like playing cards.
The sagging door across from the family of birds that nest in the lightbox
     my neighbor's giant weed is now quite impressive
she believes it is a tree.
Carli who is the only angel I've ever believed in,
reminds me of Amy, starfishing in the intense heat of the borough
She does a ballet leap for me and lands ungracefully.

There is a sound of development
here where the page was
decided, blank, slow chomp of an apple
of the woman behind me,
wide of her hips, now with a sob a rattle
that becomes a roaring
stomp of colored females.
I am indeed not interested in anything but the energy
that is the fuel of experience(s), is here choking
odor from a young mouth,
the incredible clouds that compels me to write,
a puddle of urine has surfaced beneath the cot.
The phone on the wall rings and I think of Liv
who I have not called in a long while.
She is -------------- not interested
in my technical development
It is indeed frustrating!
yes!
a child's mind is the long sought god particle,
it is neither a wave or whatever,
unrelenting genius whatever,
I read to them a book,
illustrated, about god but what was shocking
the lies that the father told his children.
Fight sounds are layered beneath bird songs
Cole watches me impatiently
and Christian is never tired, never
he is an example
he is the, represents the forces, wave, boson, whatever
that is the poem under my hand
that in the long silence of mid afternoon, w/ a
sheet over his head, great words are suffocating and scratch
out to gasp at and gasp in
a bite big of cumulus cloud
which is ever so delicious looking
ambrosia-like
it  tempts me on the highway as I almost die behind the wheel
In Virginia, I swam and lost my sunglasses.
In Virginia, I caught a frog that knew nothing of tasting clouds
or 95-S.
In Virginia were clouds that grazed Boston and Philadelphia
which blocked the collective views of Venus in transit and now we
must all wait another century.
Thank you, clouds.
Thank you, atmosphere.
In Virginia there eats away at me that danged frog.
In Cornwall-on-Hudson;
The Trestle.
The Stormkings eat spiced peaches
out of mason jars.

the girl a wind (variations)

1

The girl a wind
a   soft
grazing blow in turn,
at the opposite end of all
clocks a black
and fierce veil
that strings me into regrettable sleep

Once in the morning I have a few minutes where
I have forgotten everything
and in the middle of brushing teeth,
the sweet pain of the first stretch,
it makes its presence known by flipping the lace curtains

The man a lace
their love knocks the needles
of the house cactus,
catches us in the face
a swift sign of sun

This is an awful game
at night, the air is so still


2

The girl a wind
is a soft ball to the stomach,
flashes of first base dust,
powders her nose in freckles
in the upturned crescents of her eyes
fierce rolling curvature of her nose,
that grows smaller
behind each bus
(now is banned in Philadelphia)

the girl is perfect color to another
is as well harsh chartreuse
that leaves its ghostly silhouette
in the center of my vision

last night I dreamt all were infected by the wind and were sickened
and vomiting vital organs from the waves of yellow unicorn smoke
(a Manchurian tactic)

the girl a wind
so soft it comes stabbing in
between each drop of afternoon rain
I stand wet and dispelled w/ a brief taste
the wind, pulling at my hips toward one direction or another

w/ urine in my bandanna
and over my nose and mouth
do I stand unharmed in
a sea of dead men.

cccc

hand-over-hand techniques I'm using
I make him pick it up, I make him put it back
I make him pick it up, I make him put it back
I wash my hands as I watch him wash his hands
I dry my hands as I watch him do the same

The teachers they don't like it when the chain is broken
or when two boys are holding hands, they prefer it boy girl boy girl
they tell me the reason is that when two boys are together in the chain
they tend to goof around which may be true but I don't think that's really their reason

I washed my hands of it, I threw my sweater over the pole
I have kraut in a bag I was going to eat
it is intensely bright and with that, the heat
the teachers gave me a grape icee

to be that young but locked in blissful routine
little arms wrapped round my waist
soft heads of hair
the air

mass

W/ the leap
blackbird draws my gaze across the window
where the power lines have crossed a path behind the yellow shed
rusted, now, still in the memory I had received top marks for,
why-song, the body my mother reminds me, why-song
and the mass in my father's chest, isolated and cruel in the dark
of him.

My mother and I stand opposite each other in the hallway, leaning,
the smell of burnt pollen, the golden crusts of it on the old machines
give way.

Frankford to Knights Rd to Aria
Patty w/ a Y social worker calls me
"How many steps to the house?"
"Three."

Questions that I hate to answer.
Details of our lives that need not matter.
It is not only so far away but obviously very close
subdued purple of the walkways   Main St
that leads me out back, far from where I entered.

Not here, the Pavilion, against the grey backs of generators,
a maze of malady,
a cough somewhere,
a hurdle.

transportation

1

on an Arabian she took off here in the final hour

that's alright I thought to myself looking up,
my father, he left a small pile of nails on the porch chair and I thought
it was so that the wild cat wouldn't sit there in the hot afternoons and guard the house
instead now he has three security cameras hooked up, I'm hooked up w/ a bottle here
and the Japanese rhumba

on an Arabian she took her time
it had gotten late across the entire parking lot

Shirin from Sudan who spoke French, walked with me to
Rite Aid several blocks up
Old Lancaster Rd. for cigarettes,
she asked if there were any French in the city
              and hell if I know

I know that picking special blends
won't help you quit at all,
right, professor?

to whom tobacco
in that instant,
when I lit up the room, is a pleasure.


2

With a scarab bisque she took too few sips
crab it may have been, rings that are always on those fingers
bringing me to gasps

the small stone stuck in the throat of the fish I had saved
329 E. Louden, telephone company man at the door of my grandmother's
he was supposed to be in west Louden, the other side of the blvd

my sister held her babe while my uncle and I sought out new fish
from South America, an albino Oscar perhaps
certainly two dark ones that never mated
that grew as large as my palms
and had died in a wok


3.

now it's Chelsea, she used to run around me
and by me, the red brick potter up the old street
by the concrete, up the rec field, too large a cemetery
play day, Feltonville primary, fluorescent five panels,
inflatable bouncing room, glue and glittered namesakes

mum's the word, next to me, fatty content
stay behind the class
after class w/ the teach

who had black hair and brown skin
my ESOL Egyptian
that's what they called it then

ABC carpet, Easter eggs boiling
my hand hurting from sentences
but my handwriting never suffered

why I never spoke to her
what's to say anyway
want me to chase you?