cities!

no easy way to get the bitch
aced the philadelya riddle man
sharpest pencil in the art class
    I have five plus years of that shit under stretch marks
I mean, just feel the bump!    no one can impersonate who I am
and in the evenings I consider with astrological charts
when would be a good week
end to go up and visit palgals, dodge props,
takin' over this year, you know that's right,
yo hey hey hey, AR
gray sizzling road rain      car & bike wrex
thinking of all that coal     smoke that you must've huffed
to produce such work.      I can't really say if Morality & Language
have reached their purest forms yet,
consider how long dead you are, first

not feelin' it!

alter no chemistry and have no laughs,
mort (if name be necessary) strode past the window
and a higher voice walking along stuttered out
some shrill laughter, somewhat like the sharp intakes of breath
when one can put their cries to a brief halt
wheezing and puffed up and all lookin' absolutely awful
'dbuy that for a dollar

light of day

wit of single intelligence
that's all I'm thinking bout
rappataptap on the walk side
I sense a beginner
or since, people's paces in the station
pay mathematical attentions

what a hairy old man cactus
sticking like a sore thumb
a desert microphone

need not know everything at any moment
all that remains are plans of plans
in my task list
                      no compute  r
                      the occasional stuck key
                      he must've thought
                        forget me all everything
                               leave me to my worries
                      and boy how they are many

pal,
I am left
only assurances
take me along
he makes hearts pitter-patter

Yet I'm not up for that vicious number
He done no wrong, draws down fog in his mind.
I am bored with the horror of brutes and fools.

I should be held together with my poems.
Not in a hell, not fully csarred.
The knight-errant went home at dark and polished his sword.

-- Erm.

The marquee sifted

Wonder i wif the
same nose, line of the
jaw to the neck, will
I find Thumb Tackett
again.
A hideous white cry,
w/o feeling, rip ples thru
the air of the park.
Syncopation of all 4 dog
paws, -- as I said, I'd
be unaware it was her,
due to these sunglasses.
She'd wear them, I'm
certain.
The worst is when --
   it's all winding down
to what I had dreaded.
Still I make treks out
here, to some worn in
bench. Look at a toddler
of Asian descent.
  figure where she runs off
to. figure      a cop
his walkie on, this
walk on. I take a quick 360
glance and do not see the cornetist Jafar.

chu be do

chu be do, chu be do
all my year was just chu be do
on the coaster a brooklyn brew
check the coop (under sink)
that old crow has up and flew
course though
everyone working late
and besides what I wants to taste
is that chu be do.

ramb

'wow, Quyen wrote a lot of poems'
Neil flipped through the bound manuscript
Tape, I used, and red tabbies
It was some Irish sounding bar
with a man singing in the corner.

Again I retreat back to my soft gift  (see
                                                               the songs)
of the first weapon, what then I used as armor
I sat upon many a rock surfaced shaped, thinky
you've then some conclusion growing.
   The big toe grows further out
of the sock I wrote and geez, that energy
  came plenty through
get the cash you need, but I think plastic
terms in, in the coming summer:  come    as blue
           hard I am on complete friendship

He thought I hated the world.    Again, after 5pm
I made my silky jangle
transitioned several times
from shakehand to penhold

     After all, whatever it may be, whichever day
                      odd the week
     I chugged it and didn't think two centx of you
     stand often slack-kneed, no dude objects, I slink
     into no win and no engagement
     personally I don't care whose boss
     maybe a philadelphia winter ought change minds
     a bullet of accusation, rooting me out
    freezing my helpless
            I ought
            ah not tempt myself
     being the absolute hedonist
     I am, flag of truce.

somebody still
living loves
                  me.

gina engst

The world is gradually becoming a place
and after that first line it all reads sad.
I heave my troubles on my boy, my lad
  when he, thru the back window
of the house, that backyard space
the rusted mix of condiments, america's favs
dabbled the tool shed
toolshed

I scored a whopping 98
highest in the class, I sold it
at the end of the year showing
to the school librarian for $200
My painting teacher, Ms Kunin
said it was a fair price.

Everyone thought she was a bitch.
She put all my shit together in time for
my interview for university,
and has since retired I heard.

Still, further back, Gina Engst.
Always indebted --
I ate my first Thanksgiving at her house on Ronin
I mean, Rorer St.
I tasted turkey and sparkling
grape for the first time.
Her boyfriend was a heavy-built Latino man.
She had two daughters
one of them snatched her t-square away
when I inquired its shape.

I tried finding her, she left a number to my sister to me which
I had lost and since then couldn't do anything about it.
The ribbon seems to be losing its ink!
What fate! what comedy!
GINA! GINA! GINA! GINA! GINA!
GINA! GINA! GINA! GINA! GINA! GINA!
MS ENGST MS ENGST MS ENGST MS ENGST MS ENGST MS ENGST MS ENGST MS ENGST

coo

Some of the time, or mebbe all
of the time, get tipped and think of lustful feelings with yr
favorite thing of the body
I see votes for belly & nose, maybe some feet
but really what more
In the instant we call it a love feeling of love a love poem
love poem for him for her for my wanting of this dick
                               in you shiet
       wanna make me the scapegoat for the whole damn machine?
sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeit
had to. but there isn't some solitary movement (from this minute
    from the island watching the gulls overhead in the honey sky
wht what fishing, nigga I ain't hardly done some fishing it must've
             been some years ago I had the
             long pole it was my father and a buddy of his (he had no name
             but he disappeared from all traces of my brain) I fishee I caught
nothing nothing yummy nothing,
  that's what fishing was, no twhat
                 crabbing and clamming was
      The soft heel skin digging the
micrometer grooves of a clam shell
and with much hesitation the boy dove
under water and grabbed blindly in the kick of
sand the hele

We call it a love poem at times.
I call it a love poem.
All I write are love poems, shit.
You living
life? Unforgiving midday? Well stocked kitchen?
         His toy, his dream, his rest  on fire?
shit we all read it here.
I am a roomful of the briefly stopt. The timed detonations
what disaster only approaches me at the END
what has gone to seed, a pulling of things,
too smooth in my cradled thinking. I love you you
you are not my enemy I explained that Mr Nimh, many a time fucking over
fan what critics striving together
thicken yr mind over violent money
in this suspicious world it marries yr mother
in her young years, the only memory of her
left she struck out as ah a bunny prize
Years roll away
dark brows blonde teeth
burst of street sunshine
I let my fucking dick jangle in the holy city of America
opinions around yr finger
holds no thoughts of mine
good food & rest
visions of welcome beauty
     lovely

rit

What else would these pages be good for --
I w nder, the weather begs for late fires.
In the ____ of the few weeks to
come -- New York again! I'll make the
trip-up. W/ Juliette -- chug down some little
progress on the book. Still I consider a title for
the book, still I nuzzle light beams.
It came all this way for us.
If it didn't hit me in the face it
would have simply transferred its heat
energy to the black floral rug.
         Or a patch of dirt,
p   or my bare ass. (still fantastic)! Some of these photons
would be "wasted", some to spur on the
violets, the basil & mint.
Who writes anymore! Seldom do people
think -- that the act is everyday --
Should be a day-to-day occurence
'doesn't yr hand hurt?' Yes, eventually
      as with any exercise.
Maybe they'll buy my drinks again.
Maybe. Also an exercise.
The bottom of my play list gives a sliver
of the calf to the green air. The mind sings
a narrow song - a leaf scratches by an agreement.
Whichever stroller passes by w/ the
most features wins this poem.
Or whomever has the sense to dress for the
park impending evening
not just conscious
of what room temperature is.

reading / threading

Reading
Joseph Ceravolo made me wanna club
from the couch I had the sauce put on simmer
still swaying almost to where
the old crow has flown
scratch the inside of my ear
as if threading

for Amy

Like growth to seed
I swam in her memory
In her apartment back in New York
I fingerwalked
her bookshelf

I saw she read Cummings
I napped beside her
  we were waiting o the party

that was happening and already
   at the peak of my laziness
I chased the fields of her warmth

   yellow-white slumber
  sunlight scattering my
skin

Later tucked poems
into the crate that held
records, notably, YMO.

reading / writing

What I despair
at making absolutely clear
equally important
and active poets
I ain't that interested
I saw a bit of rain
and went right home
realizing later on the toilet
that I am missing Frank's

qrs

The people are out with their slaves.
 At times

I remember listening to some oldies hit and feeling empty.

Not sure if all information gathered

should become a part of the poem,

                      but thinking better on that.
                      How far can I limit

                      myself. Some instances
                      all it takes is a good body

                      Now with you in mind I come
                         back to society

                                              

Or more simply

study with some constancy

park complex urges or any verbal component

Listen to Todd Terje - Inspector Norse (dance)

poem is pamphleteering

                                        up

my eyes for the arts, for bodies

all projections and faces in the coming year.

Projections.

Remember that

Charles Olson

wrote 'jawn'

much earlier,

just ax him.

Before her
shower
ends.                        

country grind coffee smells like

Old man house

I feel like you

should smell it

witches brew

handwriting

definitely some

zen ass answer

our mind moving

with the

        wind.

anytime he points

to the pad

I write.

it doesn't

make cold air

but it makes

air cold.

Dan is impractical

but gorgeous.

He used to see

clan hoods

  in the
negative space

of a pack of

Marlboros

they're there in the

legs

de la heaven

Was lost in de la heaven
Some architecture rounds out no more
I have met my match

All girls hustled into the capsule hotel
programmed as you've gotta move

   gotta go
      gotta go!
as all my boys raise hell
Our underground thang glows
what causes this effect, I don't know
I step ever forward in relation to

yr                                   dress.
    cosmic body in a sun

You can leave and shoot ten people
by the way you push so hard,
that's why you're not glued to yr seat

I go, 'where did that come from'
you think things are taboo, you won't
even respond to the myriad problems,
   funniest in life, this moment now
   race to my face

I see funny
what C U T
supposed to be

we may
look the same
but our grain
is different

dinah
is there anyone finah
in the state of carolina

what little left
of that ride thru
mountains mountains

but am I content
no I am no cow
I am not content

lint from my collar I pulled it out of my
neck it seems
into the palm of her hand, she blows
it soff, stares at me
drinks her drink
in her white sweats shirt
with the multicoloredships
shit, I,
hear the fridge door close I look
and still cymbals resonate
throughout the room
I think of nothing else
of editing
of her hair its short
and I watch her smile
at me nervously as if
I had some other intention
other than the light
from a brush of an
artist
of of a
painter I
meant
no no
the words are
slipping away
this is no place
conducive
no conclusion
to the plum sadness I've got
in these frail, weakened, faltering
steps of mine
in my heart I felt
lumps of air
got to be
some sputtering of

we'll fatten you up, cor
yeah?
mmhmm

feeding

Ceram teapot nid not
rest on its own coast
er This morning fed
the plants; Mint, Violet,
Basil, Smaug & Aloe.
Imagined their
photosynthetic process.
Breathed in their green
(they in turn breathed me)
Light and sat in its beam.

My output
mad licorice
on the T-Rex
coaster,
BK lagerish
I listen to Joan
of Arc in an empty room
per Dan's instructions to
get a sense of
what's in his blood

Babe what shinings
on this sadness?
This great sadness of mine.