library 1

it's the way the dust gets all up your blooded nostrils
or at least, that's what i like to complain about (might
really be something else, a whole lot of nothing, a whole
lot of money per hour>this could be your tax payer
dollars at work)

hyena: goes shoopping for turrouble

today, i cracked the shell of an egg on the sidewalk
and watched it crisp under the sun, the way my arm
and the back of my neck has crisped, i aimagine myself
crisping similar to pork, when it has been dipped once,
dipped again, and, like this egg, bubbles.

the thermometer is broken; it has decided to move to florence.

upday

today we packed a van with boxes
for a trip taht will take hours, almost
nine, if we're lucky, if that's what we're
going for.

we have a place to live, and its walls
are purple, and lavender is growing
outside.

i am waiting to become famous. hopefully
i will hear back soon.

Being an adult

i realized today that I'm all grown up, looking up my nostrils
in the mirror and finidng nosehairs up my nostrils, mirrored
back at me nosehairs. It's a little gross to think about. It's a litte
gross considering how they can tease out, twist, curl, tangle up.

I realized I'm grown up when my friend told me he wasn't coming
back because he had been kicked out. I realied that I'm grown up
because that didn't happen to me. And I'm sorry that it did to him,
but I'm glad that it didn't happen to me, because I worked for it
and, well, I'm ashamed of that, and that is, I'm told, what being an adult is.

this is for the wolf: metaphor

i'm not good at telling the truth and so what i want to say i choose to wrap up in a ball store it behind a metaphorical wall that is to say a wall made of metaphors becaues when you don't want to tell the truth, what else do you do? you obscure with truth with a blur of fashin, writing sense and sensibility.

there is a story that i'm sure you've all heard about a lion who pulled a thorn from the toe of a mouse, at least i think that's the way it goes. i'm sure you've all heard the story of limes and peaches. how jesus decided to feed the multitude with jell-o snack packs. what i'm trying to say is that stories are journeys, and so the first metaphor will be one about a journey. it has already been established so know that when i move on a step we will be speaking about a journey.

absence is best defined by filling space with as many things as possible the mutltitudinous stimulation the words best fit here nonsense even any word you can come up comjunkular blatntantabulous rumtumtibble anything to fill space becase space is time and filling space is filling time and time and filling time is the only way to fill a space of time because if you don't then you'll learn the secret you'll know the trick of the game you'll know the way time doesn't really work with clocks because clocks are ALWAYS there always FILLING the SPACE of TIME with NOISEsoundconstructionliketicksticksticksticks so what i'm trying to say here is that in the sapce of a journey there was an absence remember to apply all metaphors back a step or you'll miss out on it. absence and journey.

it's not about absense during the jurney but absence after, like a death in the family, like the cliffhangar. it isn't s o si simple t o o o o type.

this hyena hasn't been good at keeping up with things. it's because all he can think about are scraps. it's because he's survived by scavenging for rotten flesh. wolves PREY wolves are after newblood. hyenas are too busy with scraps. images and words, right? the balance of the balance of the balance of beards and moustaches. that doesn't mean anything. it's a space to fill an absence where the reek of flesh is.

the question is how many words can i type to fill a space where a few would suffice. i argue infinity. i argue at least (if I could check the wrod count on this post) 500. 1000. enough to fill a page. enough to fill two pages maybe. how long was the last? how long was a story about a paper doll?

i saw your video today. it was amazing. it made me realize things. it made me take note of outdoors. it made me wonder about the value of words and space. how much absence?

rainballs

like roses on fingertips. the rain needs to learn not to take itself so seriously. the rain needs to learn that typos happen in the course of things, and that it's important not to erase. the rain needs to learn that it doesn't need to carry a knife on the subway. the knife needs to learn not to be afraid. the rain needs to learn form the knife. the saboteor needs to learn from the rain. hence balalnce. hence balalalalalalalalalance. its ululuations. ululations. ululululululululuulations. the rain needs to learn that money doesn't grow on trees. the rain needs to learn to sing sometimes because how else are you going to live. the rain needs to learn that twenty-three-years-old-is-not-too-old-to-be-old. the rain needs ot learn that its okay to drink. the rain needs to learn that its okay to get high. the rain needs to learn that when its raining it should wear a raincoat, rain's coat. the rain needs ot learn that its okay to love. the rain needs to learn that its okay to juggle desire. the rain needs ot learn how to go down on you better. the rain needs to learn how to tonguewaggle. the rain needs to learn how to type faste.r the rain needs ot learn the esence of motivation its strugles how it goes how it goes how it goes.

passable

it is the act of the witticism:

"Knock knock"
who's there?
"Aleph?"
"Aleph who?"

Where does it go from there? Joke joke joke
there once was a man from nantucket,
the ilk
the like.

it is the act of witticism:
birth & natural disaster

it is the act of a single, potent witticism.

i don't know where this is going; but I usually don't
it's usually about the footfalls, the long steps,
the brief parodies of movement, the fantasy
gouge, the blatant apostrophe, the terrible
triptake, the sly beast, the breasts like moonlight

here is your story. you can understand what love feels like,
and what it means to be loveless. you can understand what
wigs are like. you can understand the Principle Of Beards.


It is a competition to come up with a punchline.

timidity. humiditiy.

timidity. humidity.

halls. (empy of me)

pacifier rights. cuckold.

swell. hubris.

ketchup manfucatured. huddle.

you have beautiful eyes.

childball. stainwaste.

perfected. temerity.

baseball. balls. testicles, to be frank.

come home with me. faithless.

world peas. butter.

world peas. butter. albatross.

word association. burguny. breakwater.

docks. hot doc.

streamline. baseline. passing line. forward.

tableau. art. chalk. talkback.

faith. fearless. foolish,

sage. parsley. rosemary (you know the rest)

tablesalt. spell. names on walls.

simple. fulcrum.

gravity well. bone.

seesalt.

paper:flower:girl

folded like paper the flower girl at the ehart of things
she's up in there inside of me under the ehart with hear
that's red like setting sun not to beat around the bush
but she'sa mermaid and she flies and i've seeen her carried
i watched the ocean washo ver her the way it does
now the way its washing wright now the way its washing
over me its washing over you can you imaging living at
the sea side and never getting buried under the sand
that what is like that i promise you is what it slike
being baked
like a pie
being baked
under the sun
being baked baked baked baked baked
baked baked.
its' laa relative. the nateur of baking. the nature of the potato who's been sabotaged. the nature of the rose thorns on the patio. when pricked when bleed. when baked when dead. when ravens and crows convene to congregate about rose throns the black of their fetahres you can't see through its like ink, like word.s i wonder if anyone knows the truth of hte city. i ownder if anyone knows the beating hearts. i woner for you, mr. loner. i wonder for you mr. skin and bones, under this ghaggard flex. under these nipples udner these hair. i wonder if you've been baked. i wonder if you've been the city. a tumultuous pastime. i left os many behind. i tramped a girl under the city. i trampled a girl under my city. she remembered loving me once, and i told her about the curls and about the rubber soles and about the word that gets pressed when you stamp hard enough. i told her about the times in the night.
dear lady,

i love you

dear sir,

i love you

dear city,

i love you i love you dear city my love. somewhere under concerete is kin and bones. somewhere under iron is the passivity of grave. i wanted to talk about grace but all it comes out as death as skull and pones buy.

dear city, dear city,
dear city, i love you,
dear city, dear city,
this hoel, that i love you

its all coming out here, in this little letter in this last note to grace the end of the colelction.
this matter ofthe city. this matter
of the asphalt. the i disappointment
of the matter o f the asphalt.

the clock ticks down.

dear city.

the clock ticks down.

dear city.

simic writes that the end is as meaningless as the beginning,
or, that isn't correct, it is a paraphrase, a dumbing down, a
simplification of the city. don't you understand lungs?

look, i love you, and i remember things about
you mermaid. maybe leaving, maybe staying.

look, i love you, city.

look i love you! in the mirror,
there is a standout tower, a wall of windows
and portsl reflecting, and looking through
and looking through you see them, and looking
at the window you can see how it is really a mirror
and even if you are falling you are inside and the
carpet is plush or ochre

same time next week, jelly bean

seam times

like sewing

like she sewed

like the city's seaweed
as the saltwater comes up the streets and through the doors
and washes right up to your toes and you count he grains
that tgather in the ply of the carpet and you can see the cat
in a sailboat on mainstreet, he looks disctracted
there is a dead mouse in the bow
and you can see the ribcage
and you can see the organs
under the rib cage
there are organs
like uder the city there is another city
and under that city veins
and under that city bacteria

when you finally reach the bottom let me tall you something
YOU WONT LIKE IT BECAUES ITLL SEEM FALSE AND YOULL
LOOK BACK ON THE THINGS YOU"VE SAID TO THE CIT AND youLL
WONDER< DID IT REALLY MATTER ALL THAt much?

did it really matter because the mermaid still prefers the ocean
and the sandysilt backs at your toes

and your baking under this sun
your skin is peeling
and under your skin is someone
that looks a little like you
but younger
and paler
and more naive

and you just want to take them to town
buy them a present
say be well
say i'll see you another day
say time to go, lover

and then you'll wander back up the street
and the city will yawn
and the vast magnitude of it all
can be forgotten under it all
the vast magnitude
can be forgtotten

dear red

cup me up in your palm tips in your cathedral ribcage behind your oak doors behind your weigh lines behind your latitudinous planes all croos roads and vigor.

the simple spit of salt and peper.

the thin thin thin. the tintinnabulation of baldness.

feverpitch

feever fed this arctic snarrl on her lips, how she draws those canines
bearing fetid fresh-this is how it feels as the sweats descend and im doing
my best to trnslaet this to you in letters but i hope you don't understnad.

fearless and fearful the tribultaions how many ways they crossed the desert
and you she plotted the depths of the stars reflected in pebbles and particles
of the sandy spanse aliteration plot invaulable fagaries and vasilot tweeds.

exactly what you think it is. exactly what the person says through teeth and
tongue. how the patches. how the kneecaps. how the zany collapse like thin
creed. is this writing. is this roticulation. is this rotor mount. is this the way

we understand the constructions. the ship sails out of port at mornign and
i'll eb on it, waving. the shore sinks. the buildings steam and the boilers burts
and we know it'll all come down to pieces in the end, just like a juggle of dice.

how i write in my notebook

odor of vinegar --- i read about five
that always seems --- girls whose lives had
to follow around --- been irrepearably harmed
There was a dog --- by the men who had layd
once named vinegar --- hands upon them and the
because he was short --- words that had caught
and sour like bukowski --- in their throats because
who loved women and --- weakness had betrayed
loved his pecker and --- them. I wonder what
the story of words --- the eyes of their children
that flowed around --- are like. the three yeard old
them one and all. --- clutches a bottle of soda
Huidobro takes about --- half his size. All I
the divine creativity --- can smell is paper and
the revery that takes --- ink. What are the value
the poet and all I --- of these words anyway?
get is the low rage --- moving on to the word
I feel below my --- around me I have left
stomach that I --- the past behind for now
want to pinch off --- except in the context
to keep from polluting --- of colors and silence that
any blood vessels --- have had an influence on
the beating of the --- the the way i take my
heart is a simple --- sucks up and ball them
furious motion in --- in the corner with that
the historical context ---
of things. ---

decaydelay

in the basement building the father with his son
who sleeps touches his cheek adjusts the strand
of hair on his frehead and proceeds
to tell him his future as he dreams how he will grow old
and his bones will be dust but fulfilleda nd how
there will be statues and also how he
will fall in love and how the palpitations
will dictate a course -- also he will speak
of sunsets the sun sleeping in the ocean and he will
speak of the future in uncertain terms because this a world of earthquakes and he will talk about the love between men and how tht isn't to be neglected for the way
best friends will drop off cliffs--hetells his son all of the lesson
he learned watching his father cast stones into the water counting the times they skipped. when the boy woke his father had gone.
this sort of thing always ends in death
love
sex
etc.
et etera

but in the city after is has rained there is amist
that mornign adn the rain is caught by the sun
and surrounding my head is a million tiny
glass pieces and prisms and i wonder if the poetics
of the situation are appropriate because if i had
an apartment it would be a basement and if
i met another peot in a coffe shop i would call
him a fool because he gave up love for a muse
and what is a muse anyway but something
that a junky wants and who can give youthese
sort of answers anyway.

the real question fo fate lies in the decision to
swallow one's gut. to enfold in on oneself.
to engulf ed in a black hole. the city itself.

the origin and elucidation of a microcosm, and how the two souls twirled together caught as one, you'd wonder that they weren't the same person after-

-all, and so the two minds as one could offer only empty platitudes, apoloplies about injuctice:

o, how this countenance becomes you and i.

tease

it was the hipsy curve
of the [type of window] that
attracted her or that voice across mouth
from behind her navel the stomach
pit the city is awash and
someone mentioned mardi gras/s/
she tries to remember how many
steps down to the lobby because
its three digits and the combination
for the lock box with the pistol
in it across the way two
lovers fold into each other like
/night/ and underneath the box
is a child and his cheeks
are frosty...

from the past: a puerto rico post

"There are two days left,
and lets be honest, you
can't see the stars through
the clouds; they occupy
as an engulfing monstrosity
like the gutwrench and the
bilious slurs. We should con-
sider the implications of
a Puerto Rico -- what
if we consider the idea
of paradise in the mountain
valleys or as a salt water
pool islandbound welling up
from brackish rivers that
trickle beneath the surface
of things: deserts of congestion
indigestion and alimony. But
its good to have friends
and its good to know balance.
Its good to teeter on edges
and send yourself careening
over a valley a hundred
feet below screaming your
head off because at the bottom
you're safe and in the
end you have a home
to return to.

The idea of mermaids.

I have read that
the atlantic ocean
is particularly cold,
that the warmest currents
veer southward and
that if you close your
eyes and inhale under
water than you'll wake
up sunbleached in Puerto
Rico. Who has the
first and last word?"

Puerto Rico 6/06/09

apoesis

i wonder if one can be as easily defined as dna,
gttgcaca

and i wonder if there's a poem there. i once looked
into dna as a means of escape and a means of illustrating
narrative, because the most concrete of our notions
is the one there, in our genes, encoded by blood
and sperm; gametes, you know, the sex(y) cells.

look, let's talk it out here, these last few years.
it,life,youknow, was never just a matter of fluid exchange.

the europeans came. they burned down the village and gave me a blanket.

it was sort of like that.
a little more romantic.
a little less breathless.
they call it ethics.
the poetics of ethos/pathos

matches preliminary

what business
a boy like me has writing
about city streets and projects
when in my blood runs concrete
side walks and manicured lawns
I don't personally
know any bums with claw hands
and donutcups filled silver and
I haven't seen the roaches in the
flour and the sugar and the fridge
all the cupboards -- they're even
in the toilet, goddamn pests --
but my mom(ther) wasn't so lucky
and she sits me down still
sometimes and tells me stories
of the projects: how she
watched a boy coming running
down the hill in flames, and her
grandmother push him to the
ground and with her palms
and her forearms pounded him out
and that was how i learned not
to play with matches she says
and that's how I learned too