when you make cards the snow comes

late let it snow

we're into being
simple with stickers
our head the balloon
begins to lift
w/o
w/in
blue cards
snowflakes on the cover
all around
snowflakes like flowers

Hi-lite, the upwalk home

Series for adjustments. And here we are Decembering. The snow has come and I was not let out of doors. I was letting the out of doors in.

There's a new book out on the FGP page. Check it out and then click the box that says you want to take it home and it will show up there shortly.

In the Streets the children are blobular

like so:



and they will face each other eventually and deal with that hat in silhouette and that plane and that cape and raised fist.

Bending far around Thanksgiving...

give me give me

two main phrases consumers continually bring up...

i've been not so bad in the weather we're having
sew another drink into your face like an expression

these knitting (space) forgeries are so flipping comfortable
you'd hardly know


thursday morning we leave our plants
we planet our walkways and sit forestlike in judgment
over and over and over again
the needles thin and falling

i like nature all the romantics swayed and said
they're drapes. they're dead now but words
and tomorrow i'm building a monument
our hours rented to pile up and clip together

I'm making sure you notify the unsure
of the inserted kilter in the letterbox.
how sweet and so bold.
its a car wreck of alphabets in my noggin.

leaky

my wine dauber. flied loony, like the coop.

tomorrow is a day as we know it. i'll be wetting the traps and setting the bed.

"yesterday i woke up sucking"

vs.

between two colors (name the text) everything

in the beginning is a form of communication.

people go on and on and on (period)

in that pause, bells. a paw the shape of something that rings.

many many chica-gos to winter through. all things go.

This has been
helped by the shuffle
button. Brought to you
by the letter
question mark.

One Word Album

datadidntsitright
forcetobearwith
willbelessthan
leapsandbounds

always in a tough situation
you can set the needle
on stun and run your fingers
back through your gelled
black hair, saying, "mama,
what'd you do with my gun?"

sortthewillowsweeping
downanddammed
riverfowlskipupand
dipbacktheirbeaks

one leaf the color
of gold light
afternoons sometimes
offer back to us
in weather like this

transactionsexpected
fromcostyouthinkboom
linestoscanandsnore
tointegratewithsystems

Building spark

watch the wrist and claim your space for parking. all the calories are counted.
it depends on what you need the spark for.
it depends on what you need the building.
your needs are so identifiable, that's for holiday.
yesterday we wore disguises.
our guys were windproof.
tonight the colors go damp.
all the roofing nails man up.
from up there fast as tindersticks.
blank the forest green and smelly.
all the ends.

newer music and mail arrivals

so in the past weeks i've picked up a few albums and intend to spend some more time trying to find other new music to spend my money on in the not too distant future. my eye still has an occasional twitch to it and today in the mail i received ana's book--stars of the night commute, which i'm very excited to get into once we're done killing the killers of in cold blood in school. aside from having to wear a tie everyday, the school's seeming like a good fit. it's still a hustle but things are falling together in the NOVA. here's to staying home on friday night and getting some shit done. and here's to you...
can you guess what that is?

Bait and Swatch

Here a cloth, there a clock:
watch your hedging, place your bets.

which half, which have?

tomorrow we're headed to a rally.

anything could turn into
something else--a metaphor, a clamp for mouths.
and the moths are quietly pulled to, bullied.

we'll not shut up. will not sure, shut.

Dam road clamber

sort the hard stones from the storefront
soft water marks
a little tap tap on the vowel's head
you sleep when the skirts go blowing
maybe melt the face right off
how a name gets
tough after cooking for too long
the battle is
the bottle isn't
made yet, a boat for inside
a miniature set of feelings for the dolls to wake up with.

here. test your cornfield out for rows.
simple the rut, the rut, the rut followed.

Delayed announcement: New Book Available from FGP

Hello all of you beautiful and supple people. Circus by Michael Robins is in post production and can be ordered by mailing money or by using the paypal button at: flyingguillotinepress.blogspot.com

There is also another book in pre-production: All the Little Red Girls, by Angela Veronica Wong.

Set your brain to stormy

and check out Flying Guillotine
there's a new apocalypse reader being constructed and you're invited!
2012201220122012201220122012
the pulse will column us all into salt

im-balance

About Healthcare

OK, so I'm going to try and sort out some things here. I know that people are making all kinds of noise about the government deciding what kind of care (or insurance that provides access to this care) is available and wresting control from the people. There is also talk of death panels and a whole load of other stuff that seems patently absurd and diversionary, and in those terms the discussion is working on some of the populace. I've also seen people outside of Whole Foods with signs protesting the company's policy of medical savings.

Ideologically, it seems natural to consider basic health coverage a right. If you get sick, you should be able to get treated whether you're a billionaire or living at the minimum wage. The healthcare that our representatives receive is footed by the taxpayer. A public option is still just an option--and I'm wary of United Healthcare getting handed a big contract since I was covered (or under-insured) by them when I worked for the bookstore.

While Shannon and I were in Italy herding cats over the summer we met an Italian couple on a bus ride back into Florence. I know this sounds all fancy--European travel and all, but it is work and more work than I do when I'm normally working. At any rate, the woman who we were talking to was excited to have someone to speak with in English. Her husband was a policeman and he didn't say too much. We covered a few of the basics--where are you from, what are you doing and then eventually got to talking about healthcare. It was a decently long ride. We asked what their coverage was like and if I remember right, she was talking about a dermatologist. In order to get seen she had to pay and she told us that it was terribly expensive to see a specialist and that even after paying she still had to wait a few days for an appointment. We asked about cost. She said it was an outrageous amount--120 euro. We were taken aback. I guess when you're accustomed to receiving free treatment for all of your normal ills, it can be disconcerting to have to pay and wait a few days. I tried to explain that I was paying a 1200 dollar bill for a visit to a skin doctor for a biopsy that was "covered" under my insurance. It didn't seem to make sense to her. It could have been the language barrier or it could have been wholly incomprehensible.

I also understand that our system isn't nearly comparable to Italy's and to be honest, I don't really know how their tax system works. But I do know that something has to happen, both with the costs that doctors are allowed to charge because of the relationships established with insurance companies and the payouts they receive and with the structure of the insurance companies themselves. There should be a medical database that crosses all insurance providers. There should be investment on the part of the medical field into preventative measures as well as less of a payout for running tests, particularly when these tests have been run previously. Patients should have ready access to their own files--but this could get really messy considering all of the self-diagnosing that happens. Whether the public option or another serious reform that will bring true price competition is introduced, or if some combination of these things is introduced and people can get behind it, our legislators need to get away from the partisanship that this issue engenders so that a serious deconstruction and overhaul of this failing system can happen. The fact that our healthcare system is one of the worst run in the developed world is hard to stomach and I'm getting off my soapbox now...

Building a duckbill

sail the dark out of it first.

I've been driving and visiting relatives and getting used to the idea of Virginia. And I've got to try and break myself of the opacity habit. More clean lines and starker figures to be drawn. It used to be that a person could have ideas and get them straight and set them down and I could be that person. But somewhere along the way all my wires got meshed up and the signs took themselves down off the wall without me knowing and every conversation I entered could turn into a political trap.

I want to have the properties of a hybrid animal and not feel bad about the fact that chimps have more highly evolved genetic material than men do. Yesterday, in a friend's kitchen, I had a discussion about the types of animals men should be scared of and a week before this I'd seen a hippopotamus climb out of a pool of murky water and step into its full shape on some concrete steps at the national zoo. These are creatures we should have no business with. I would not want to set up a lemonade stand with a hippo. My friend said that he thought there should be a face-off between a man and a chimp (sorry for the delayed and tasteless joke here--for both the chimp and the woman whose face got taken off) and how since the incident with the woman who'd gotten attacked, he gets angry whenever he sees chimps on TV or at the zoo. He said that he should be the one to square up against a chimp, that he was sure he could take it out.

There are lots of places that this could go from here but I'm tired so I'll quit for now. This may well continue tomorrow. G'night.

Thinking spaces

Just as things come into frame, they jut out and leave. I tried to post something that was staggered but the spacing didn't hold so I cut it.

It's swelter here. Hear the heat as it goes up, up and other letters get delivered where they go.

You will join us, yes? You will take off your coat and stay a while? Let me show you the door?

2 a days

So in football this would be the time to swear and sweat and try not to lose too much water weight and spint the shins up, halve the oranges, cut the lights in the gym.

Words words words words
Oh, Baxter! We almost died in a taxi in Amsterdam and our drawers remained relatively unsoiled!

(That last bit was from a little black book.)

Tomorrow we go to the storage facility. Roam the air conditioned cement walkways and roll up doors. I've got to get better hobbies than sweating.

53, 7

And so I screamed again.

My mother grabbed it out of my hands...something for the body, keepsaking

employment on any basis

63 men had passed through the room that night.



bare and sentient, a wall has little to do with what goes on round it and if you're fixing to think about running for office all the calendars will swim before you spitting off your hourly commitments. Spare the goods, wistful in this heat.

Base and Fears

Back to the state, a curriculum of beaches, not the grass waving high and pale as weather swings in.

You'll lick the new stamps, place a triangle of glass on your head and wait for an assignment. This is the life of a spy.

Toward daybreak and/or rifle-cracks, we edit our bodies' shape. Inkblot and formulae.

(Two wards the brick hand your idle, slack weed it hour Bodhisattva aping glots and form you lay.)

Pronounce the last word with a shrug and watch the person standing with his jaket folded over his arm at the crossing post.

Blood in the belly

just rings right this morning. Rain and walking or the thread of each thing as it gets stretched into another day--a mess of crossed strings a person can tangle further. Pay attention with your gut like the president used to and all that happens is wrapped in toilet paper--padded disposal, an army of water droplets, the cat's numb whiskers getting placed back into its formerly live skin, glue and a steadied head. We are not sound here--infirm ranchers. The weather calls us down, calm and then rageful. I am a foreigner, too. In all cases the animals are home, ranging.

catalogue: sore and hoary

all the things gathered round us

all the things we gathered

furniture absent now

i'll scrub the floor

watch you take the walls down

wrap them in protective plastic

our cover a month of rain

for this move

we come clean round the edges

into another city

a certain maintained speed on the highway

the tilted dressing of a set of lives

bangs hard against the back door of the truck

every time the gas pedal gets depressed

I'm gonna miss new york and the people who've made it what it's been for me. Though I expect that they'll still be important parts of my life wherever I am and whenever we're back in proximity to each other it will be like it always has been. Thanks to those of you who came out to the Beer Garden the other night and endless thanks to the few brave souls who helped lug all of our shit out into the truck. You know where to reach me if you ever need extra hands.

Time gets short and Shannon and I will probably be posting things from our summer adventures somewhere. There's a new book out with Flying Guillotine and when the image is posted up on the site I'll make mention of it here. It came out looking pretty sharp, methinks. Anyway, here's wishing a hell of a summer and few impediments to your good living.

glad bags and handstabs

another month, new homing decided

devices plant into the corner for record and the light--say legs do this moronic motion of up-down-up and we grow thick in the thigh, almost herculean in this expanded body.

Ok, so what's really going on is that I'm not in training to become a long distance bicyclist, though I wish I were so this middling expansion would contract. But we did find a new place to reside and we're waiting to hear back on the application. Tomorrow and crossing fingers. No job yet, but that'll settle itself when it does and I'll rest with it.

I'd show pictures but don't want to risk too much showy talk and have it disappear. I want to spend some time on a small boat trying to catch fish. And then building them little houses inside my gut. The news said no striped bass for children and only 4 servings of large bluegill per human adult per year. What did we do without the news?

Here's looking up from the bottom of a bottle: or not--the picture won't load...

weeks of running then no more running

like the song says. no more running and then the lift of noise.

hush hush, you carnivores. my needless shaky plate is waiting. the holiday has passed and so all the rinds of melon rest in the trash. our mouths. our filled things and empty again.

ron silliman is setting up his camps still. i like everyone i don't like the most and me and you are the best of friends. the man shaking hands in the back of the room says in his highest pitched voice. it sounds like mice are climbing his walls.

is there a catalogue to order your return postage from? where we go. we go. quiet or full of sound. lift the noise and curve your back so it don't hurt. eventual, this running cease. this. see the hole in the cloud there, now we go through it.

after the visitations

and more we walk forward with our faces into another week of travel. hands at the steady. car on the gravel. i can't help but rhyme sometimes even when i don't. it's east to the wall of shadows from here.

i'm going to run now and hope my heel gets better. stupid thing.

continued readings

i grew darkness, i knew
how to grow it. i had a little
lamp and shit if it didn't
break. wait. here's another
handful of the stuff. wait.

i knew dark was the color
of the hare, it romping
through a field carrying
fire on its back. a mountain
erased there after its tracks.

the picture takes its time
coming to us. i knew that
light and the waves it traveled
on. turbulent, not sea-like
at all, or deep. the tea leaves

said we'd end up dead or with
each other here. a wimpy
rain come dragging the ash
to still. a burn in the palm
where the dark calls back.

i knew that, too. it grew.

maying and the good winter

so a lot. sewn.
sew a lotto, and your winning numbers are...

a lot's been happening. interviewing and reading and grading and other -ings that will have to remain unnamed here. but here's an observation: bon iver in concert (given the proper sound system) is something to behold. the harmonies and hushed quality that drives the album turned live comes out a much different beast--full of bore. full of chilling. the dark was the night show was a good thing to see and then shannon and i were 2 blocks from where that stunt driver ran over an extra for the nick cage movie, deciding whether or not to wait to see the filming happen. we had to walk a few blocks extra to get to the train and were standing at the 49th street station about 10 minutes before the accident happened.

david byrne and feist duetting was interesting and his drum troop made good noise. my brightest diamond only played one song but it was worthy of her name.

the next day i took photos of silverware in a diner while waiting for a letter to be written. here's one of them:

now it's waiting to see if the people that asked the questions liked the way i talked after the questions stopped.

ketchup

not just for fires.

keep your deep devotion penned in, tomato. keep your wanton looks
at the curb. all the smoke rising round like a halo, your head
full of barbie doll, full of gender neutral, full of granules.

i'm trying not to freak it. dance like a hurricane, so still in the middle.

seriously though, thunk once about the house and catnapped.
tuesday is coming fast and i've only got so much sweat in me.

1st of May

And the rules have changed. No more 5-7 minute limits and probably many fewer posts as the preparation for life in a different city takes hold. Time limits on life are becoming more apparent. How much stuff we accumulate.

The rules were, attention to sound and limit the entry to a five minute typing spree. Limit editing to spelling and to be done as moving along. Line length and breaks to be determined by weather and mood and lighting. No reconsideration as time would not really allow for it. Added minutes for photo attachments as blogspot takes its time when doing this.

This weekend there is too much to do and not enough time to do it all. One of the benefits/detractors of location. That and feeling guilty about not doing all of the things that wind up on a possibility list. I'm going to be full of nerves in preparation for an upcoming interview--probably pestering people too much about this and thanking them in advance for all their help. And headed to an interesting (or what I hope will be this) show on Sunday night with one Ms. Davies. And then post Tuesday we begin the search for housing in earnest and start the packing--or late into the following month this happens and visitors and family and Ubaldo. And reading of manuscripts--today, tomorrow is today.

This is already too long and too boring. Have to think of another way to make this turn into a catalogue. A book of days that flaps. A bird of calendar pages.

1:42

the trust computer says stay at home with your shawl and needlepoint the future you think you deserve into the face of the showerstall. it may take some serious work on the forearms to be able to pierce the tile there, but take your time.

the trust computer has keys that cannot be mistaken for other letters. it knows already what you wish to say and clarifies your thoughts as they spill out like bees from a bag of honey. a bag of honesty, it sorts your stories for you. never will the lie you told to person b become the truth you swallow after a night with person x. it's there for you in ways no set of liner notes could ever hope to be.

the trust computer doesn't need a screen. it cannot be shorn. it faces everything with glee and capsizes when the drinks are done, the tiny umbrellas taken from your mind and lining the sand where you house your dreams. there is no outside left, all of the thoughts you could have divorced have come running back to you with their nooses cut. you swim, swim out into the crisp horizon. a sun for a hat. always the distance just right--far enough out to not touch bottom. the line dimming and straight.

11:10

about shy the minutes turn their heads away
cover their faces with their hands and say

beep beep. a car on corner. a car heavy with passengers.
a car the way you remember your childhood

smoke and mirrored. blank as faucets, as bank accounts.
i'm no certainty. you've got all the lies you want to tell

and a book for beating the pages out of dust.
to win and swim away from all the podiums. to mis-

spell words and hold people by their tiny hands
and walk crookedly up to a vendor on the street

asking for a quenching thing with a pocket full of change.
yes, it's future times. and no one's flying in their autos yet.

i'll swat the fly until it regrows wings in its Rorschach splat.

11:38

i'll spit the spirit out
it kind of looks like parenthesis
and a glut of question marks
ink-dark and shiny

i'll spirit out the spit
lungs fresh and pine-tasty
a bucket for the hull hole

you can like to tell this story
or set the dates up on a pinwheel
and watch them spur into dirt

the sport in it's danger when
you're winning. all the pamphlets
and noisemakers discarded
over footprints. very descriptive

in the smarts. very toothy
in the grinning. almost no gums
left. and nerves that jangle, nerves
that shout their names out.

There was tell of a man with a tree growing in his lung. A pine. Right where his breath was coming and going from. No light there except what came through his speech, throat wide open and the sun above it. How these things happen. How they keep this happening. And what is it you believe/what you hear-see?

5:32

i can hear the ford bank and slip
a bag for churches to carry the cash in

keep thin lights blink/blinking
a fit cut of padlock, an eye divorced

of early. these words are not my friends
my friends are not my friends

or they are pretending and so again
i'm folding my lonely napkin

and slipping along the front of a week.
but i am not even myself

a granary filled with fat mice
all the crumbs wiped up

in another minute.

3:16

the braid of tin cans slip and spill off a bumper.
1954 and this is what marriage looks--kite-like, strings and noise,
no misspelling.

we will be considered something of a gleam years into the future.
and the narrative arc drops off its checked climax
to the final unraveling.

where is the raveling up? this is not about how to place
your chin into a past hat to come out dark
and cleft, the beauty of shadows.

heat and screaming children drink
in the formation of summer. the lazing of sunday
and screen doors that creak closed/open. a coca-cola

commercial to live by. addiction minus substances to abuse
equals a flat line. the sound of tires turning up
a dirt lined drive--all of this family.

all of this noise.

2:24

i don't want
to grow up.
it's getting
later each day.

the plot of the dream
was simple: all
things ran together.

now more coffee.

10:17

wash this fire off
from the black book read
how to talk at table

take your face and make it
do this
pacman gesture

sound there goes in and out
and in you are not
hazarded by windows

the smoke in them
bird scuttle
a color blinded by ways

the sun comes down
open
the air out

lots of articles to use
and claim this with
springloaded precision

8:43

this slipper, this. a granite block
of a foot comes

forage through your notions
like hunger was a motive

for thinking.
the streets are lined

more carts steam there
licked by the sun.

i'm no portal for quick slaps
i'm no kin of regular projects
i'm no yore written pamphlet

you can kitten the most vicious land
sliding your back up and down

my fortnight for your jumping jack
my whippet for your ground jaw

a lack in statistics, a growl

11:03

the lucky are gathered with their coins and charm
a split in the way the wind blows
a hat for the treetops, clear blue
all lost things find themselves home
somewhere new.

lately rhyme has been friendly and the sounds i create are gutters wired with rain...
creeley on the brain...

what course
is the world to take
with us in
its hold?

today my shoes
spark less
and the sparkles
your eyes

the sparkles
your eyes.

11:24

what makes fiction less real that non-
fiction? the stop post goes flapping away

a night red shaped and lipped with rain.
all the valleys a wind can spill through, all

the dales waving their boughs. i've never
lied to get a purse filled or lifted my shirt

for beads. there's nothing showing
on the screen now. a blank thing

and blinking. what's real comes out
from another space--what surrounds

the screen--what fictive there blinks
and comes into word. my minutes are

almost up. my hands are stuck in shapes
they don't recognize. keep these keys

well cut and oiled, they're squat and squeak
when pressed right. like us. like us. like

others, too. but like us best. we want our lives
in you.

6:28

well the rains came--said hey buddy, the street is a snakeskin...

haven't listened to jane's in a while. but they were on the other day at the bar. on record. and it was warm.

cattle for prodding, the heroes singe their numbers onto the skin and off into a field--a go-go.

here's a picture from a train. there are lots of trains in my life and the rain makes me speak a bit less cryptic. or the tires do that, the wheels and tired. losing air.

so far, so far. and good. here's to the absent trains of archbald--a flat penny on the tracks missing its face, its house for tiny lincoln on the back.

10:48

i thought it said "secret orange" but it was damaged
not like fruit at all--its taste chalky and worded.

the whip for hearing, the sound of sweat in a palm
tree, a drip-drop-drip. a cast for the hearing, a heart

that gets wrapped in cloth and small scraps of paper.
the men and their nerves--a setting of tables

the silverwear angled away. no school for manners
here--look at the shoulder hunch, the graceless

finger-padding. all elbows and no sweetness.
a seed for the fruit is its key and tuning, a number

let go for the lotto.

5:13

(most have been in the first half hour, for some reason)

the heat spots come
and then for drinks we take our faces to water
and stick them in.
a straw glides down your spine
and watch the contours there, each bump
a node where other fluids could stop up
your brain. could make weird noise--causes
an effect. a slight lessening of cloth.
descent into another evening draped with bottles--

all this drapery spaced out so slanted.
heart slash mind. you are under weather
and i am not weather.

1:17

through all five windows
of your senses--connect your sheets.
come undone.
these are not directives, or what floats spatially between words-
their breathy compartments.
implore the curtain shudder. all glisteny clock cogs rapping against
one another. this blister is the sun
and we are, too.

1:09

post late and lay down. law. laid. dawn.
the sky comes up fighting, it's all jaw and glass fixtures. \
the nine of us frown our faces into cement, a cut of side walk
an angle for the light to swerve through.

keys jangle and doors do what doors are meant for. keep out and in, get in the way.
a face for the skipped hat parade. make sense of what it means to book.
this is a sequence of letters that can be made into a sequence of other letters.
find mean and -ing that way. each statement gets a line.

each of you cuts right through this, trough. water. lime.

2:14

in his dream the boy
was a bear
in a mirror. outside
of the mirror he was
a man dressed
to go to work, his face
clean-picked
from a magazine

all my friends are lovers
and they learn to break
their lines like with a sharp
pair of pants--how the hem
how the inseam

i've no shout left
to gather all the stains
and send them packing

the boy grabs his tie-a bushel
of berries in the mirror-outside
he starts his waking.

7:18

this blinking thing came running into. this think too.

um...all the skin we shed would make other bodies. no one wants to mention how many people they lost. it just keeps coming off.

today i talked on the phone and talked loudly near others. i wonder if they wondered what my yeses and laughing amounted to.

the train took us away. the bus, too. midweek, blue.

(next post might have a rant of sorts in it about the interference noises my damn phone makes with any other electronic device in its vicinity)

11:37

to blank the ness. cover your body with flies, your mouth a buttery sun that breaks the day yolk like and drizzled.

do not carry chuck norris around in tree form saying don't mess with me, you know this tree is chuck norris.

there are rules for us. someone watched the right television shows growing up. my hat is a plant now and the wade into sleep like a river made out of hushed sounds. a fog set down.

1:12

the paper crinkle behind me. a corner view of snowlakes. faking it.

i fail to list the proper ailments, but shake shake shake. and wait for the brewer to say it's done.

you count my fingers wrong. you mask your mirrored phone and keep your face tiny inside it.

all the growth we've gone through already. it is tuesday. i am two days behind. the map of this month scrawls into the wall. a pattern of pinholes. what top to make of it. a hat.

dirt in the window combines with the screen behind it to make me think its my eyes that trick me.

10:28

the basis: a window to watch from: the world kept frame by frame away.

yesterday and yesterday before that we kept running into satiny obstructions. don't ask. the night was for us. the day not so much.

today there are shots in my drink to make me talk better.

the light on the pine needles makes a blanket. or the needles do this to the ground. the light makes up songs about this.

you will catch a voice too. you will catch it and hold it in the hollow of your head.

2:15

late.
it's tomorrow today already.
it's morning too early.
have a happy one with the horsehead and the hours.

i'll be whistling the clogs. the clock to happen.
seem this current g-listen. glisten.
tomorrow already.

4:07

tonight, to stand and see people dance in the sky.

before that, to take pictures and start the leaving document.

i will speak encryption with tiny keys. my tongue a salt lick--the animals come rushing.

you sleep in your reinvented wheel and when sound goes out it will beat against something until it has no energy left. a stripped barrier.

5:53

lag option is non-negotiable. keep opening the far doors and see how creases come clean off the shirt after it's worn. the work in shirt.

almost forgot to post today. almost was a travesty and spelled wrong, but the little red underline.

a lot needs to happen tomorrow and for the rest of the days.
been watching john adams and wondering about how skin does its job--keeping things in/out and falling off.

my i is not capital. my u is not either.
down.

somebody suggest a game.

1:49

the blitz for a double shot of espresso. shaky-brained and needling the words out. a stitch and stretch, my eyes like two balloons--stray lifting out from the socket.

we are dancing without return service. this and a title for food. my soon visiting friends will cross out the weather. i sleep before they get here.

the notes i leave scribbled on paper. the notes you find mashed up in your hair. sameness by sameness in words. in both.

create a sense of the capital we're inhabiting. no somber flounce. no, that's you wading into the end of summer. that's me wading into habits.

day whatever this number is.

2:32

almost edged into the sameness of numbers on this one.

can sleep be appropriated by cloudmass, by logs of how to discourse with wood and sheer rock faces, or the settlement of the judiciary branch--what timber there?

i've got a wet pair of sneakers and wet bottom of pants and a new outlook on windows. not operating systems, not how quick to set the snaps.

it's almost time to start walking to where the train stops, for me to do this and the rain has moved along the corridor some.

if it was inside us. the umbrella of clocks--a sweeping and one directional thing.

3:53

zonked in head, like for pillows but with more heat and less hair.

i am not unhappy with the late night haircut, or ever with the view from a rooftop in sunnyside--however distorted the citi building makes the rest of the skyline.

these words are unfilted. there should be an -er in there. filt.

the sink is empty now. a glass vase that used to hold flowers is soaking.
more papers to shout through. and tired. i worry what happens to my hair--what kinds of spells cast. imagine a future with closets full of cut hair.

2:16

after the latening of pranks, breakfasted. eggs and toast and talk and new book prep.

i'm waiting on a friend. and this sink needs attention, what's in it.

tonight is the finnish. fins spreading their bets at the tournament--a lot of michigan stating, and this sink needs attention--a feeling that pitt makes in the stomach.

to do the dishes, take a sponge (hopefully not too racked with water) and add suds then add dishes. whatever number comes up should be partially prime--inside of itself.

really though. i'm going to wash dishes and i'm dull an full and there are more papers to squawk at.

here's another picture:

5:18

so it's looking like i'm going to post daily here at a given minute. is it poetry month? in a book where the words are hiding, unaware of things like time.

shannon's still napping. today was the perfect nap day. it still is being this.

today i saw lou reed standing outside a puppy store. he was looking at the puppies. lou reed--shuffly walk, puppy looker-atter. who knew.

i couldn't say anything. he creates silences. i wonder if he naps.

10:19

I lost the minute I was supposed to post the post in. It was supposed to be a minute ago. Work and worms and the slow build of logging/
this is my what-for.
capitalize the new brutalism.
a shirt made of angry gestures. a birdfilled shirty.
the screen just made some sort of screechy motion.

to be honest, perfectly. I worry about possession, about becoming possessed. things from the middle of the night sink into a back and chest. on tamer on tamer on old datsuns and ernest borgnine. how would you like your name to be spelt?

lick your name pelt. the save now button
keeps wonking the screen up and I've gotted better at being a person.
it has to do with less sharp edges, more rounding up.

the new humanism will not be capitalized. will be the color of the waves and the crest, the fallen grasses.

so in another number of minutes sleep.
and tomorrow.

11:08

and it's AM.
i am.
coffee-to-get. class-to-teach (if teaching can be classed--can being, can beets).
train-to-catch. lost-to-watch (writers can't confuse the dead, can dead--being, halve been).
bed-to-sit.

no jokes to make. no kola or koala. stuff too serious. and now it's time to make a wish :::: 4 ones.

To the 8 of you

Who come across this blog--Flying Guillotine Press is having an open reading period during the months of April. April is more than one month. abril.
Seriously, from today until the 30th (30 days has september, april, june...) we will be accepting chapbook length collections to read and see if we want to make them into books. Check out the FGP blog for more info and email the manuscripts to flyingguillotinepress@gmail.com if you want to.

This is no hoax.

Stiff lip and upper

Up out of Jersey

As of late I sleep on trains. I wake on trains. I groan to them. I eat trains and wheel into the future on a track.

a bed of visitors

there were faces i hadn't seen for years here for a few days. and good faces. and good times with good faces.

i left a sounds like a pterodactyl on my phone late last night. if anyone had called, they would have heard mumbles "chiyildren...thank you..." and then the sound of a soaring dinosaur and then a beep. they could have left a message after that beep.

it's back to normal now. and i've got to get more bed in me.

lots of sending things out to hear a very quiet no. thank you.

tomorrow.

There is little kindness to the weather

but it snows and keeps the indoors, me with it. and sleep and sleep and sleepworking. walk to coffee but with a sour face the wind takes its way first, blows through me.

nickel and sparking. how angled the down falling snow comes up. beds in all the drifting. a whirl and comma to stop. step.

there the mailperson's steps get erased. cars in all of this, dreaming that fishtail into a snowbank. in 1993 with an empty flatbed truck and pj and bianchi, a block from jared's house. taking all the corners we could and each small explosion of white with hope another car or some other solid thing was not somewhere buried beneath these mounds. moguls.

errors in entry back to the world. after a slate of white streams over your head and everything seems soft as down. falling back to where you passed through it. a want for waterproofing.

this is the past.

What I didn't know

Was that camera in a post below was set outside of Madoff's apartment building. 64th and Lex. A crown of mouthless people, a bear not set to claw the garden. All the money lost to the value shoppers. All the vaulting and tank of a market. Here's an idea:

Post A W P-ost found and exhausted

And then I discovered like the dust

Wintering not where the head lands

The hills of cloud spill their faces
into the canals. One saint floats
away into the sea--his oars
made of crystal, his heart
a ball of hair. We took
each others arms & ran
a volley of weapons into the squares.
Into the turning streets we streaked
narrow and disordered, our
wet clothes suctioned to our bodies.
Later someone sang into
a bottle the shape of night.

The phones were quiet mostly.

Sin-e-cru--cured

all the blasts have come and gone, save me for your headaches.
tomorrow's night cannot be long while the lights are steady.
referees in t-shirts, samples made of cake frosting,
a hat for all the snow to catch, a wistful gong forgetting
what sound it sung back to its hooks
what laugh you've lost to the kitchen nook

here a piece and there a piece and nary a sound is left
there a scrap and here a nap when all the floors are swept.
off with your head and off with your head and on
to the fallen soldiers. their hairs are long
when the keening's done, they leap from their bodies
like mash in the sour wood--flame licked and tame.

i'll not boss the forge, i'll not anvil the hammer.
i'll not wash my hands, they'll stay dry forever.

Fun with cold

Wearing very little, but a lot of very little.
The hands come fast to freeze.
A sweater on the corner is the man with his running suit, his folds of skin.
He can run 18 feet. At estimate.
My own feet, blistery.
Plug sound into the ears and there's a new advertising method that involves sticking your headphone jack into a hole in someone's head to hear their thoughts. The other person is electronic and two dimensional. People run into each other trying to stick their metal parts into other flat people's holes.
A bottle of milk on the front step turns into ice cream in 1948. Cream that rises and undersweet.
Clouds. Breath. Clouds. Cloud. Breaths.
To make a telephone call, shout into a piece of mail and then rush to a postbox. The cold will hold your voice slowly. Tender in its knifelike hands.

Here is a picture of deer in icing:

Could we talk with the politicos?

If caught in camera. If eyed and stammer. ID. Lean-to


And this is a wooden robot built with Jenga blocks:

Only slightly more wooden than David Lehman's poem for Barack Obama. Did I just say that? I guess so. Happy monday!

New year, same windows and doors

I wrote a poem about being in Atlanta, kind of. I can't yet tell what it is. Have been playing Wii and recovering from eating my way around the south. Pizza the size of small children. My camera's gone wonky. It won't zoom past 1.7 and the limited warranty is limited enough that it ran out and screeched down the street better than a month ago. I'll have to get very close to things I want to take pictures of in the future. Penn State was disappointing and then Ohio State was as well. The whole of the Big Ten.

[picture of a picture in a box]

That's what investment in futility breeds. So on to Pitt's newest number one ranking and fitness and trying to write daily and plans for future classes and other things that happen beyond today. The window here is covered and steamy. Heat pours over my left side and distorts the little humidity gauge on the windowsill. It says we are in the comfort zone.