poem

and when the day grinds
as i am alone and lonely
in a place where a girl
presses herself to me
and people call to me and
the sun shines on texas but
it must be the gray it must
be the loathsome gloom, no
light to wake to wake to
make the day come to me like
fireworks to come to me and
lay me astride as pretty latin
women sit arched backed in
white cafe chairs, smoking yellow-filtered
cigarettes, pressing black curls
behind the ear, crossing thighs
licking lips, stroking hair, giggling,
laughing, bending together in
their muted conversation there
on the veranda of the cafe of the cafe
where they gesture and purse their
mouths like bitterness.

a world
saturation point
and the Fat Lady moved uneasily
cross legged
back straight, chin high, eyes closed
the skin brown an buttery
blond hairs on the cheek
downy

happenstance showed me into the opium den where his shirt read, "route 666: highway to hell" for no apparent reason and she sat there shimmering her hair full and down but she was not fertile, she is the decoy, a place for sperm to rot deep within barren chambers. The simmering mirage beside the Source only inches below and the nails would bring it up burbling. swaggering soldiers in the desert. impotent cocks and barren cunts yet all around me 6 months with child with child and yet not mine.

when women tell say, "I am not interested in getting involved with anybody right now," does that mean what it says, does it just mean me, or is it one of those misunderstandings that the sexes share which actually, translated, means: "I like you, but I know boys have a fear of commitment and if I tell you I really like you, you might run away, so I am in fact saying 'i don't want a boyfriend' to placate you when in fact i maybe should have said nothing at all nothing at all nothing at all, really... so instead of getting what I want, instead of you getting what you want, we instead dance the dance and never touch for very long until the parting kiss and then it is too late too late too late and then we both come up empty, or worse."

Am not bitter, it is all just game tokens and I have more than my share. I am writing my screenplay too well, and anne is becoming suspicious for the coincidences are becoming unbearable. She is beginning to see that i am a little bit too willing to go high go low, and i play the neuro net like an infinitely complicated harp the way some people play me... if mark and i were to focus on winning the lottery, who know what would happen?

remember biloxi remember the fun we can have -- wait until powerball hits 20 mil and then send me an email and we'll send the abient light through the ruby through the gas and it will be hardened into a beam into a bean that can cut or can heal like the laser, like prayer like god and we are traveling for the Fat Lady and yes I have finished "Franny and Zooey" and yes the end it what got me and I gave the book onto anne's little sis and bough "Catcher in the Rye" and "F & Z" for Holly and holly is fertility and goddess and I travel for Her, I travel for She and I kissed liz's belly and it is so round and tight and beautiful -- the love I feel for their duo trio is overpowering and I just want to put all of my overactive boiler furnace hyper-hepped battery of energy into her and invoke the sun and infuse gold into the child's veins and see the beauty of the fertile womb in the weak pink limbs of child, hitherto known as junior and i feel it is a boy but then it must be a girl and anne tells me things like "you're so vile, your balls are so big you can barely walk you are a horny puppy you are a freak you are vile you are obsessive you are crazy nuts absurd and i will break her yet from her dressage straight back GI inflexibility and i will break that horse and she will see that even though she may be the first person to have read the 10th insight, she don't know shit and she knows everything but I am taking my time and revealing oh so slowly and yet i am moving too fast and she is getting a little freaked by my "gravity" and its effects on surrounding reality -- she mentions it once every 20 or so minutes and she make a lot of 666 joke about me and then a bunch of Fat Lady jokes and yet by very the very nature of her tubes i am sure nothing she experiences (especially when we hit the epicenter in Asia) will surprise her even if I were to spontaneously start flinging thunder bolts and show her the busted-face dude -- i am a little leery yet to do the eye thing on her, but i was tired the other night and got lazy and week and pinged and she's all good right through and through and she ia heavily guarded and armoured like a T-1, like and Abrams, with reactive armour and she is not bold enough for the uranium shells so she'll have to open her hatch and come out in time in time -- but right now, no to the dizzying dizzying dizzying eyes! Gentle Gentile, good boy. Had a violent dream, beat the shit out of a Yalie who chewed on my turds and he kept on coming back and I was late for a flight away with Mark and my laundry was dirty and this bugger tried my patience and so I continued to pound his head until I woke up to mark, or was it liz or was it who was it...

it looked like this kid we saw in NH @ yale: blue yale baseball hat, shirt tie blazer khakis, bucks -- i tried to appease, tried to ignore, tried to fence, then went red after the turd and pound pound pound and to no avail -- first anxiety dream this trip... posted to alt.alien.wanderers and here I am... sipping a dbl espresso, and preparing to have a martini with liz and then tomorrow i am shooting willow and she will fill me frame with her dizzying body and i will tell her with my detached photog's timbre to arch tour back, lower your chin, look to the side, tippy-toe, turn your shoulders toward me, put, part your lips, reapply lipstick, make your eyes darker, brush your hair, make love to the camera and all that shit and she will writher and turn and shimmer and glow and her lips will be wet and her eyes pools and her hair luxuriant and her skin smooth and her toes will be little pearls and the shape of her breasts will be buoyant and he hips will flair and her flesh will press and, as always, gravity will ignore her and she will be red appropriately and brown when she needs to be and pink where it matters and the e-6 will eat her up and add a flattering 10#s to her waif's frame. the little crescent of her navel will make love to the n90s...

The day runs away
through the clouds
onto the green lawn
outside the house
Three birds sat there
looking rather hungry
so Frank shot them with
pellets until one lay
dead.

We threw it into the
bed of a red pickup
It was still there last
week when the trees began
to give off steam, the
Ford abandoned to bird shit.
Crumbly white and black
Clay lumps, smearing like
Chalk, leaving dusty trails.

We often skidded in the
Gravel and fell on our
knees, losing skin to bone
standing up, dusting off--
resiliency. It was our
bodies that felt young but
not our noodles, they felt
sharp and cagey like the
scary old man who always
caught our pranks

The limbs bent under ice
above me, glinting transparent
like knives ratcheting the
dry air as I crunched through
newly frozen ice. My socks
were damp with walking:
sweat and slush.

I pressed my body's heat
inward towards center
keeping balance on blackened
pavement between the
fleshy drifts. I longed to
plunge red hot into the
ice, to melt it into puddles.

The day froze metal
gray swaths of light
and I was alone walking
walking through the courtyard
sidling a great square were
there would have sat many
young vigorous bodies lumped
together into steamy heaps.

Then I was beside the river,
charcoal with gulls prancing along the
crust. Underneath scum-eating
fish shivered waiting for the
lure to take them by the mouth
but not now when the sky was
only a filter and the flapping of
bird wings.

Along the sidewalks, lingering in
a coffee shop where it was warm
and though about some things that
had rung before, lodged in
reverie by the needle winds. A
hood would have helped.

The chair squeaked and I think
Cracked a little and I lit a cigarette
and swallowed some of the heat with
the coffee. I looked out the paned
fogged glass at the figures distended
like smoke.

Lumpy raunchy people hurrying past.
Some stopped, and at them I smiled,
their face glum, and they turned away
moving toward the counter. Taxis lit the
windows with their festive yellow,
incessant desperate winter capitalists.

I touched my finger to the spoon hot
from coffee and then flicked an ash.
I let my focus drift to the dark water
on the tile of the shop