22 Jul 2014, 5:29pm
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Living with you in the hinterland

Mushroom pagoda legacy weatherman
With raspberry sauce on his face
If I see a stain on your shirt I will know
When I am off to war
Something untoward has occurred

But after all it is not really sexy
Perhaps it is just a mask for wanting to stain you

If I see a stain on your face
It is just a rumour
If I see a stain on my fridge it is just a calendar

In July the bookstores open so
We’ll put some on your bookshelf
Perhaps a few books from me,
To remember me by when I am gone

I remember you
Painting the big bookshelf green
And then purple
And then many colors
Half pregnant in a silk robe
Many choices to make
Which book to pull down
Which to read for the 214th time

Gide is good
Flaubert
I do not expect you to read Mallarmé in July

I will love you anyway
I will not be cross with you forever
The weatherman coos and
comes by night

18 Jul 2014, 5:28pm
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One day your life will be all sex and madness

Unpacking the side boob
And undercleavage
On a night when you have forgotten your shorts
That a man could be finding them in the yard
With another man
Seems strange enough
But that they could then come to your room and hang out with you
And listen to some old records and give you their life stories
Kissing the backs of their hands as they pretend to make out with you
Calling you their dirty magic girl
The one they lost in the woods so long ago
That seems even stranger

The one man is handling you like a pro
But the other man doesn’t seem so sure of himself
He gums up the walls with his talk
He is off the schoolyard, why does he still talk of his major and what he has
or hasn’t done with his life
You don’t want to hear about that
Show me
The other man is a secret liar
He has a terrible trick, an unruly piece of hair that stands up no matter how much
You smooth it down
You lick it with your tongue to be sure
You pull his face close to you and you hold him there for a little while
The other man is still staring at you,
At your tits or your behind
Who knows
He isn’t bad looking, but you wish that he was a little more like your husband
Your actor husband
His name is Bob
Bob Saget
There are many clones in the future

4 Mar 2006, 5:06pm
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From the Archive:
Baby’s Breath, and the Heckler

I said I wanted a baby.
         There is no way we are having one, Budweiser.

But you are not even hearing me.
You are a hilltop standing
behind a house. You are an A-frame
behind an A-frame. Snow slides
down you and hits the ground. You
don’t even feel it. The snow bumps,
bumps: what’s that going to feel like?
And yet you want so much that is cosmic:
the A-breath on the dandelion
and the wheel in flame, the living wreck.
How is that going to be possible?
When the earth you don’t believe in
is not even real for you, not yet. And it won’t be
if we don’t hit the ground running.

         I want to be your noose if
         you want a noose: your little Joshua,
         your Jericho; your sunscreen and
         your snake-oil; the tablecloth for
         your jelly donut, the biscuit for
         your tea; your Rodney Dangerfield,
         the peanut butter on your Do-si-do.
         (In short, the kind of man you can
         make a mess on.) But I can’t be the
         brandy you leave outside the door.
         Call me a moron. I can be the
         brandy you drink. Outside the
         Mini-Mart, I’m waiting in the car: will you
         at least go in and buy the wine?

3 Jul 2014, 9:19am
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Spaceship, Crab Nebula

My screen name is a magic paintbrush
I can afford two jokes
The most recent dramamine epidemic
has left me falling asleep in outer space

I don’t want to call you coochie
My instinct is to call you darling
But then I amputated my prick
To make my ego softer than vanilla pudding

Who will you call when your conglomerate
no longer offers sufficient employment
When your standard of living goes to shit
and you have to make house calls
Will you call the one who called you darling
or the one who called you coochie

I don’t want to be any wiseacre then
I’ll show you my surgery scars
in the back room of a real NY deli serving real NY pizza
We’ll deliver it to all the bedridden exiles
who’ll appreciate us for what we’ve given them

27 Jun 2014, 9:12am
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Drama, songs

“the bright and startled bird.”

Rather unfolding
The late and sorry romance
Had it in for us, the way things
were not as they used to be,
and wouldn’t be anymore
And how no one could talk to anyone,
afterwards

*

I was asleep in a room with a
gardener nearby, who wore gloves
He was clipping flowers by a window
While you slept ever so sound
Pretending the shears were cutting you
in half

The hour was late
The clock was depressed
The bird was sitting

I dreamed of
A regular meeting each night in a hotel
An evening meal from room service
Then you sat in your chair and you
demanded to let me tie you up
There was a chandelier about you
Did you smash it to pieces?
When I went to work I wouldn’t see you
although you helped me with that project
You made the fashion show wonderful
Letting me help you pack was as if you
were forever packing, packing to go

There were my dreams

I found you in a barn also
And the house was erecting itself
Room after room after room

“At regular intervals I could feel my
life contracting, and I was afraid of death.”

26 Jun 2014, 9:11am
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On the path to more speculation

Into the ball of hands
Down in the fatlipped conglomerates
Eating fish
Eating supple flesh secular

That ride is so crude
With strange muscles
But I want you on top of the dining room table
Licking my thumb

A knife is just a book
You close once,
Then over your shoulder when you’re done with it
It doesn’t have to be pretty
Or maybe because it is pretty
You want more of it

But the knife is no good

You cannot know and you do know
How I am feeling tonight, about you
It’s in this book

The knife is not knowing
Your neck is bleeding

You rub yourself with a knife
You read a book and maybe that will be your hatching

24 Jun 2014, 8:32am
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My life as finished product

Rain boils off my hands and I have somebody else to like
Just some intricate ball
To keep me haphazard
I flunked out of my best deals
Opened my shirt on the daycare manager
After hours

The people told me I had to change

It was better in Los Angeles, but
bourbon

Here, steam rises from myrtles and parking lots
beside woods cut down to make more and more homes
There must be some millionaires on the way

I have to think of making my next big mistake
The big ticket

It hurts to think of you sleeping
In a quiet alley or a
Bamboo thicket
The pain of a field wound sorely dressed
Under an open drain

It hurts to think of anything left off
Or undone
Even a wound
Deeper and deeper they wanted to go
The tracks led up this embankment, I climbed
So high that day
I hadn’t planned on being so high
The pivot of the canyon was something you had to straddle
There wouldn’t be any homes down there for a million years

I couldn’t see you
But there was a whole world out there, below me

23 Jun 2014, 12:03pm
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Izquierdo, my llama

Eyes, Abigail
Sonic victor polar bear igloo
Look around you, regard this,
the whitest experience you can know
White and blue, colder than you know
somebody’s blue mug, slurpie in a wax cup

Try seeing yourself again. Again.

A cousin’s cousin
Baby’s darling
Aunt Josephine
in the black lace, white gloves
A Powerful lily rising from the train tracks
Portico of a house

As you rise early in the am to draw the latch
The coffee is hot on your hob
And soon will be drunk

These things will need forgetting
To see others:
The slurpie again
Blue raspberry on your tongue
Growing your hair out for that boy
It depresses you to think of him
If only you hadn’t sent him to the liquor store in the rain
He would imagine you later taking to your bed
Cooling yourself off by a fan
Or Touching yourself, absently

It is not true that desire is forgotten
It’s just sleepy and tired

The Atacama is worlds away and you only know
One Way to believe both here and in that place
You stand up like a fish and you walk out in the woods

This leads me to take
A dark picture of the talkie

20 Jun 2014, 10:52am
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Soft claws for all my friends

Irony waistcoat jumanji shepherd
Joseph my brother
The famous like you
Maybe you will die from a pipe bomb
Next Saturday
I’m running after you a lot
The girls all said you would be president
And they miss you terribly

It is hot
At the spa I get oil treatments in my hair and
Dip my hands in paraffin

I am thinking of your sister’s
hands in mine, her
Pretty feet in my lap
I love her toes my fingers oh god
my soapy hand over her arches
Touch her soft wrist circle it
Make a C hold it up to my eye

There you go
Joseph
You can die now

19 Jun 2014, 12:11pm
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Crystal Meadows

When you find the eatery of the self
They might make you a biscuit
It is the same everywhere
Jelly and butter
Brown on top
A little burnt
Underneath
The waiters will have stained shirts
But they try hard
Have the iced tea, it’s great with
A little lemon

The passing amusement park rides
make a mechanical note overhead,
Around
There is a great band (maybe)
playing in a ballroom
Do you have a gown?
I’m sorry, I have you confused with
someone else
Ask for the bill
Then when you go to excuse yourself
someone will come by and
pick up the crumbs

23 May 2014, 1:10pm
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Ziggurat Beauty

My ukulele is a watermelon
And you are a green gourd
Summer is coming
No doubt by this humidity
Local water is praying by
Local grasses, the lawns springing up
In tufts and blouses
Houses pristine with negligence

In the afternoon my wife locks a repairman in our livingroom
She has no idea for how she wants things to be
I have no idea either
I want a purple complected obfuscation over the old surfaces
Realistic lumber, what I recall
From an old fireplace made of new stone made to look old

As I grow old and look at my brown legs
These things are not funny
But then I watched Mad Men last night & immediately I wanted to move to California
Find you there with your boyfriend in a car
Tired of waiting on me

I dreamt that I hooked up a U-Haul to his face and then I ripped it all away
And we laughed and we laughed and we laughed