Song G [for good birthday]

lotta dishes in the sink from last night
times for lady fingers much afterward w/ tea
mac n' onions and blessed relief
one of those contemplative days I read
make up by ryan eckes and pick out
the lines that relate to me,    like,
I don't eat cheesesteaks anymore but I do drive,     and,
he truly doesn't care about the rain
holding his umbrella as though
he's always got a friend by his side

surprised not to see anything about the smokeeter
we both prefer smoketeer
steven, the bartender, is constantly taking off his sweatshirt
and putting it back on, because he gets too hot in it.
see, the problem is, he's wearing a sleeveless shirt underneath

he needs a shirt with sleeves, lauren says
I flush and a ghost of a man falls and doesn't seem to stop

What was the row about, they asked
he grasped his sword
and advanced --

I with my yielding nature,
at twenty-five years of age,
cannot find a stable foothold in society.

With silver in his pocket,
he waits for midnight.

as we talked like we always have
(this poor kid with the cute scarf
says zack (calls himself gene
but doesn't want me to call him that

that name is for bill collectors

one day he's at the market and meets
a polish woman who pronounces his
name correctly for the first time in a
very long while

he almost forgot how to say it himself

this conversation we had
it was put down and just left there

------

i will always remember lyosha as
an upstanding person           (a defender

sasha as a friend

and misha as a solitary man

I woke and walked

briskly down the old hallway through

the cold to the source

a toilet laid a cough

swelling on the edge, in tears

me on my side with the cold Deed

for address 225 East

Louden Street

father makes a two-sec call

and hangs up after I assure him that

I'm reading the damned thing

ALL THAT CERTAIN

lot or piece of ground

with the buildings and improvements

(early next electric Sunday)

thereon erected

THENCE

extending Northwardly along a line parallel

with the said "A" street

distance of one hundred twelve feet, six inches

SITUATE on the Northerly side of Louden street at the distance

of two hundred and twenty feet, ten and five-eighths inches eastward

from the east side of "A" street in

the Forty Second Ward of the City of Philadelphia

to have and to hold this cough

a hack all too singular the buildings

improvements, ways, streets, alleys, 

driveways, passages, waters,

water-courses, rights, liberties, 

privileges, hereditaments, and appurtenances

COFF!!! coff coff coff coff coff!!

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