"BECAUSE"

BLOG SWITCH. FRESH START.
more images, imaginings and graphic upstarts of the vaguely depressing, yet satisfying yields of muffled yelps.

But I leave you with mending:

I woke up today and told Ian: "there's this part in my dream where I am able to paint in blood and only I can see it. It peels when it is on a non-porous surface- so I have to go back into my dream and fix it."

I can not fix it.

Ian said: you should listen to more beatles songs.
I said: I listened to 53 yesterday, but if I am sad I listen to "because" a lot.

Ian bought me some aleve. We looked for lighting fixtures. Everything is too expensive he said. your desk is an escritorio i said. la mesa. he said. lamesa-escritorio i said. it is a revolutionary table desk and we thought of it in a different language.

Ian went to look for fixtures and I went to the park, but it just wasn't the same. The grass was all brown and an angry drunk man called me an illegal jew. I like living dangerously and being 1/8th Jewish, but how did he know that? What was he drinking? My iced coffee did not give me psychic powers.
Besides, McCarren park was sort of sad and my good memories started to make the blisters on my feet swell, so I bid Ian farewell by text because I needed to be on the train and listening to "oh comely" about 3X. I avoided someone who looked familiar by pretending to be interested in a common bird and then ducking down the stairs.

the way to cum part one.

what i try to do is hold out for as long as possible- managing to torture myself with only the possibility of reward. i then, if able, indulge and feel the fullness of a lowing cow. it feels like milk. it feels like smoke. it feels like drop ceilings and grass growing inside.

if i can not do this then i drive around with music on really loud. this is a very original approach to letting off steam. i pick one song and turn it up and put it on repeat. if it's nightgoat- then i'm fucked… if it's hip hop then i'm smug but then let down. i turn to full album chant type shit and imagine myself with a scarf in my hair and a cigarette dangling from a juicy aunt-like mouth. come here and give me a kiss. i kiss the back of my hand and strip to just a t-shirt. if it is cold- i put the feet heat on.

if i can not do this, and i am still trying to siphon my brain through my nose, i cough with some texture. i back up a little bit against anything that is solid. door frames work. i like cold walls. i like the insides of showers or the brick of buildings at night in the summer. this leaning will help build my posture to an unfurled brown paper bag- damaged, but good for most anything it's purpose dictates.

if i am alone i like to drink a lot of diet coke and grind my teeth while the sun goes down. if i am with someone i will probably do the same thing. i like to be alone and feel like everything has a voice and colors of faded cars are telling me stories about when they were glossy. i like to think i am the only one who knows about the air at a particular spot at a particular time of night. i hold out for reward. i try. i am ultimately a tall tale.

another one off the coast.

glean some escape vapor from
my stomach chamber
and see how i burp this cloud
of hazy visions.

in my sleep
mucus of dead veins
that have come to rot
behind my once sharp teeth.
-----------

can you tellll can you telllll
.
i still have my heart filled with sun. the sun has replaced the meat batter. the sun has used its rays to cut through my chest and give me one more chance.
one more breath.

i do not know
one month from now.
one week from now. tomorrow.
(i do not know HOW).

how will my shoulders perform? i made cauliflower soup and burned myself. i walked into a shop in larchmont and walked out. i was in california and i liked it. i bought new underwear and i like it. the underwear is from california. i like that. i am back in new york and i like it. my long island sound is lapping and i sweat for it. i like that i am not beholden to swelling in my brain. i'm never going to write here a-gain? i may change do-mains.

another year another city island tragedy. burned buildings. drownings. heroes. that boy who took the boat out in the winter five years ago and they found his guitar and then his body five months later after the thaw. my mother may have held his mother's hand at some point. my second cousin drowned from a boating incident in hungary. my first cousin better find a lifeguard. i haven't swam in awhile but i'm a strong swimmer. riptides and sharks are a whole other story.

i'm not made of medicine you know.

we smell like other places pt.1

I have these weird cautionary cramps.
they do not say: go.

come on home to green river?

you win some
and youre winsome
handsome precious
and semi pearled in the light cracks
from the disjointed door
where the heat moves out
and the cold crawls along the
treated carpet
and climbs into
limbs and we are stiff
with each other
you are against me
and i am fully asleep
except for my eyes in
the back of my head
board
surveying the landscape.
re-arrange the dark
and moving like a piece of
furniture scratching the surface
of the floor.
floored and finger toured.

mr. prince and i are planning to go to the other side of america
and take a small reprieve amongst redwoods and hops and barley.
but we can plan and plan and a smile tomorrow
could change everything.

it has been awhile since someone radically changed my life.
completely turned me inside out and zipped me back up
into a pet package.

mr. prince did that. he and i pounced upon tons of stationary stability
and fizzy lifting drink and brand new everything in each other's faces.
i still hold his face and think of it naked like those first days. i think of the
firmness of our longhouse and wonder why it is so long and so protective
from the years of mother nature and fates and winds and car crashes and
court cases and skin popping and lording and touting and flume.

so i was wondering if i need something else. i just don't know what i want until
i feel it and it breaks me. wish i was more go ahead more greenlight don't waste time and fright curl. do i need someone (else) to yell at me or hold my shoulders or go skydiving with or plan out an imaginary village with? i am always centering and screaming and redoing and trudging. there are a lot of ands.

i think about the past. like maybe my relatives and how dumb i was to think i owed them myself because we are related. i think about people i fell in love with- some only briefly, some forever in a stagnant dimension i can almost dream about. these people do not care if i get crushed beneath the weight of futures without them. this is why i leave that alone the best that i can. sometimes one gets curious. and it always hurts. this goes for my girlfriends too. three fourths of the people i shared an area code with. actually that does not hurt as much. those people are kind of like glitter residue or drying markers. semi useful, semi beautiful in a contextual light.

now i am thinking about what to do with the rest of my life and maybe i shouldn't. i can never be slight. i can not stand that about myself.

when you make a list of things you admire - some of it should be human. most of it should be. i will lift my own weight by the time we go to l.a.
the last time i went to california- i almost never came back. some of the one fourth is there. something else is there. something is in the woods and i want to be there.

brisk vibration of wilted teeth roots.

I was paying you a compliment thanks
the walking out in tear soaked
will it freeze to my face drive around
larchmont and appreciate the lights because
what else is there to feel but distraught
and repugnant and glutted and
guttered as if this were fall
which i go back to that song.
that song. and i'm not even trying
and thats why this cute misery is all bundled up
like normal.

if i were going to go over i would jump in with sparklers
and january seems more of a sit silently
with antlers and grown accustomed to the light
pollution
and other pollution of mouths and
whatever else is breeding in the spectrum.

get together when i find someone to grade it.

without a true admission of guilt.

that strange feeling that comes along this time
haunting with the white and dark meats of things that fill a room
with many good smells as they roast closer to god and a
ceramic or decorative plate.

and they wait.

to be introduced to the mashed potatoes that alex made
with so much butter and kale and garlic
and the cranberries that have bubbled into paste
and want to bond it all to the looser, more lovely and
candied sweet
innocent potato. these have clementine sections in them.


later on i am sick.
my insides have decided they will bleed and bleed
and rasputin is no where to telegram a cure
so i take to the bed. hello bed and warmth. hello
relapse into eye flutters and the shutter of programming to
commercial.

no.no. leave this on. i say. it does not matter and is
easy to sleep to and wake up into
because it is eventually plotless and circularly structured for the
other overstuffed turkey brains.

except i am nauseous. if you know anything about anything
you know i kept it down until i slept with someone holding my hand.

better feeling the next day. until i felt the obligations coat my throat.
i've only just recovered from spitting up blood.
i can sit all night in the dark with a bunch of people and say things
that we won't remember. why is this what people want? there is no
other way to do things i guess.

i am sick of my job but not really
and sick of forced learning but not completely
and sick of you saying
here is where i live
here is where i live

because we all live right here

and as long as you don't get what is allowing you to breathe out such
slender sentences
i will remain going back to the bed with the hand to hold.

i don't think that selfishness is routine. i think it is the disrespecting of anothers' as inferior.
we are all so guilty
guilty.

sometimes there is not enough substance to fill us and the gruel
can never educate the palate of one who has tasted.

i am so happy when some of my senses stop and only and couple work in hyper-drive.
i am so happy when i can just see
or feel warm on my knees.
really i just always want to simplify everthing and
it's fucking impossible.

Who knows.

I'm convinced that my words are sign language and that what I'm hearing is really the wind
and the waves are actually a hurricane of communication.
Who knew?

Steinbeck. (Kino knew.)
Thoreau. He knew the gentle solace that lead to divinity.
Melville knew. He is buried close by.
E.B. White knew. He watched sparrows carry ribbons in their beaks.
Walt Whitman knew. He knew for himself and for us. He knew us.
Elizabeth Bishop knew. The blue eye of that fish.
Donna Tartt knew. She doesn't even live in New England.

I don't know about D.H. Lawrence. That's grey.

O'keefe knew. Her insides were outside and everything flowered once she met the desert and got out of the green that plagues the northeast.
Paul Muldoon knows.
Sherman Alexie knows.
They know themselves and what they are supposed to feel and their sense of heritage. Their respected and respective lands that have tore them apart and built them up.

Bukowski didn't know shit. I think we enjoy (?) his dry rot and wisdom teeth that were never pulled.

Billy Collins knows.
Stanley Kunitz did too.
Marie Howe felt it some.
Sharon Olds didn't know there was anything to know.

Galway Kinnell knew. I never knew about him until recently.
Thanks be to bear.

(Read it: The Bear: http://staff.psc.edu/schneide/Kinnell-TheBear.html)