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.