Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Reaching [Atrophy]
I peel away
the dead skin
and hold
the junk in my hand:
this is what it’s like to live
I hold my
penis in my hand to pee
and make a
floppy attempt to
do
something else with it:
this is what it’s like to live
I wave to a
passing friend across
the street
who waves back
and keeps
passing:
this is
what it’s like to live.
Variations on Saturday
1
sun shines
on the grey nostalgia, tripping
over others
who lay out by water lapping
against
bruised legs left out to dry, crying
out for
something to do and calling it sunning
only for
something that keeps them running
2
waiting to
cross
the road together as a
burnished
something
or other
you don’t
notice him
or return
the smile
he offers by way of hello
3
outdoor
music blunging to the bunch,
notes of
reflection against the water hunch
and
memories that flow against as such
causing
hunger, something more than lunch
4
the dark
like stone
sits still
in the dark
and waits
for the flash
of light
that shines
the moon’s
face in
expensive
laughter
and light
5
matinee
ladies
cannot hear
and wear
hats
that are
far too big
6
The woman
giving me a slice
stands
there and asks if I want some
rolls with
that
“we’ll throw them
away
otherwise”
which means
they must
be delicious.
Her son
throws them in a sack
and hands
them over to me.
I feel the
sack, hard and heavy,
filled with
little garlic stones that
haven’t
seen love
in a long
time.
7
I didn’t
want
to do it.
I didn’t
want to do it.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
Friday, June 8, 2012
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Dream #16/Interpretation #12
The Dream: The entire staff at work was sent on a “retreat”
to a hotel that was basically the Overlook but actually set in a Tennessee
motel in Chattanooga. I was sharing a room with my boss. The retreat was to
last 2-weeks, so I had decided to bring a significant amount of photos, etc. in
order to feel more at home for those two weeks. After we checked in and
realized our room smelled of fried foods, I began to nail various nails into
the walls to hang my photos. My boss took off into the hallway to ride a Big
Wheels around, looking for a vending machine.
Some stuff happened that I don’t remember, none of it having
to do with anything.
While my boss was out Big Wheeling it, I decided to open the
bottle of vodka that I had brought. Not having any mixer to use, I used the
mouthwash that was offered by the hotel watered down. It tasted like dessert at
the dentist.
My boss came back, frantic, telling me that they were no
longer offering soda. Instead, the vending machine apparently now looked like a
giant cow’s udder that dispenses only whole milk.
We sat on the bed, me sipping my horror, she sipping her
milk, talking about the ridiculousness of being there in the first place.
I decided it’s time to go.
I started taking down my hung photos, when my boss screams
and tells me how I had “totally fucked up the aesthetic” of the room, which
will cost me, according to a signed contract, upwards of $250,000.
I said, “That’s worth it to me” and sat down on a chair and
watched an episode of Jeopardy. My boss and I played separately, but together
in the room.
She beat me by 2 questions. But I slayed her at Modernist
European Drama.
The Interpretation: two bit bitch bait like a slackadasical comic
come reason beyond the hoot and give a bother fostered like foster was a joke
locked within your yoke and spelling out feelings like four-letter-words enough
to play out in awful justification because you silly don’t matter in the long
running of what you pretend to do and squat flatulence as a pore all the more
reason to sally your silly face like a two-bit high school whore who will fuck
whatever you get given less than what you deserve believing yourself lucky
you’re only sitting next to the guy on the plane who farts in your face and
tells you you’re lucky because hell at least he didn’t have a burrito for
dinner but still makes sure he’s off before you two buck sorrow an issue of
everyone’s bone marrow left open for the few the hungry and let’s just call it
awful in anger or regret two stubs in a month alone in a pointless shredding
given such strumping of your own demise purchased as a rant like a rave and the
trouble given source by the road ahead of you leaving Michael as hole in the
home makes wonder seem stupid it’s all a front to the futile point of pointing
to the west where the sun sets and drowns the best intentions like eulogies
roll your own, friend.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Instructions for Writing This Poem
INSTRUCTIONS FOR WRITING THIS POEM
1.
Decide on your concept (root) and make it light.
2.
Decide what to put in and what to leave out (the
lava of the whole, the superior inside; the secrets lied about).
3.
Taste the evening as a paternatinal awe.
4.
Congratulate the singular masculine; talk about
it like jerking off.
5.
Find a pose and stick with it; sustainability
merits a lack in imagination. There is nothing imaginative here (or there).
6.
Breathing proves the limits of words as
objects: prove this wrong (whisper a
line into the freezer and wait).
7.
Take a walk until you hear a thunderclap (I can
wait).
8.
Process what you’ve been reading until you’re
ready to take a shit; take the shit and start over.
9.
Check on the root of the bone and let it tulip
until it feels pretty for now.
10. Continue
admiring until you have to shit again.
11. Shit
again.
12. Fold
the lips of what you’ve done – typical/French-style – and appreciate while
watching your favorite television program.
13. Remind
yourself you never meta poem you didn’t distrust.
