double post?

unconsciously we react to the android as if she were a woman
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
her eyelashes flutter
and you blush. is she
flirting with you? i begin
to get jealous, take my drink
to the other side of the bar
two can play this oh yes and he
is looking at her too. her skin
is flawless. her body conforms
to her what a dress, her breasts
defy gravity. you move over
a stool, whisper in her ear, she nods.
you buy her a drink. she drinks, you
talk, she nods, you talk you
buy her another drink. i wonder
where she puts it. never wavering tho
there is a smile now, as you take her
coat and arm to walk out the door.
i follow. he follows too. you open
the car door, watch her leg rise
and enter. she stares into your eyes
until you look at her. he and i
enter into this on a periphery.
decide we want to plug the sensors in.
suddenly i'm drunk. you're talking
about the time you tried with an underage
bot. the tightness. she assures you
they're all made to the same specs-
the most popular, i assure you.
we nod. the mirror nods back.

weave

the butane flame is green
and blue. like those pix of gas
supercooled the string pulling taut
then hexplosion, foucalt on a cry for them stage.

i light the pipe. tobacco
never did this for me. tonite i'm
at the bar and all the men are lost
in their drinks and tv. intermittent
friendships, one blends into the next//
portman toes.

i think about your birthday wish. me all dom n shit
what it might do to your delicate psyche.
it's not all sex n drugs n no tomorrows you know
one thing i'm not is a fun woman.

i ws gonna look up foucalt but even the french
have lost their charm, up in montreal one's cleaning
a hidey hole for my amerikkan escape. but his beer's
more bitter, so he sips it instead. csi on the telly.
last month's hustler in the bathroom. pizza boxes
and cardboard plates tossed near the trash, in the corner
of the closet kitchenette. so i proposition the boy

with the protonradio link. he's loved older women
since he ws 17. what are we doing to our children?

my own lover 21. in a couple days. he ws so lost
on the single mattress under that cold window,
facing the white blanket, cuddling in thin sheets
how could i not want to hold him in my arms?

you slide the stinger in when it's grown enough
to hold sufficient poison. i've welts where you
touched me. arid feet. rocks of mars.

the protonradio boy is no woodheaded babe
he's been to the gingerbread house
got sick on the fenceposts. he thoughtfully
declines. doesn't need sex that much.
he has a line in his sandy haired beach.
his eyes are blue. he might be a skinhead.

almost done

chop onions and green peppers
into the meat mix. it's a comfort
food nite. cold front of neptune
turning into the very stream
we step in, eddies in the night sky.
and did you hear about mars? yes,
sadly, another war, coming closer
then backing off. that old man
just can't find something to blast about.
lava's barely flowing and it's a good thing
cuz well, i don't really want to talk
with what i've seen.
pour the grease off, resettle
the bacon begins to crisp
cat climbs the screen, screaming
to go out. might as well take this slumping
belly to the door now as later...

My skin dreams flowers
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once for each thing. Just once; no more. And we too,
Just once. And never again. But to have been
this once, completely, even if only once
to have been at one with the earth, seems beyond undoing.
--ranier marie rilke


sun in october, soft upon the roof
down of bird's nest. with each
passing season, permutations.

iron turtle and rust. the bromelaides bloom
for the first time in two years. much rain
and shadows in this mending home.

the big out
there,
cingling
to shredding
pattern


you and i are mismatched
we know it. but so? somalia
with its mud cakes, but yeah?

unclear how this might
survive fema trailers
or the next third world.

when i live in the past
there are regrets.
when i live in the future
i see a seed, blossomed.
as if it already occurred and who's
to say it hasn't? there is time

that's what these squirrels say.
it's right now. speaking plainly

there are days when the guts fall
out of the highway, when the train
is crossing and recrossing, when
the semaphores just refuse to rise.

there are days when to hold
the possible hand is too much to need.

we cover each other in sand
and settle into the warming
even as clouds scuttle the sun.

wehekind

bigass white rv with custom
custom paint job towin the suv
during the south fla
evacuee return they had us
wound up tighter than spit
with a week's worth of look out
a monster's comin ummm
somewhere /touristas/
to a town could be yours, cat 2 cat 3 cat 5
sitting over cancun for a couple daze
before it lashed itself across
the everglades & fort liquordale
i wonder how my beach buds made out
sittin behind the atlantic resort
one block from the beach. one thing
they're on the second floor, not in a freakin
tin can retirement home on wheels
with weekend warrior stenciled on the back.
if the bad ass condos
didn't fall on em they might be ok.
heh
my alarm just went off i set it last nite
after the power came back on but i always
get a problem with the am/pm dot. stupid digital clocks
i can look outside and tell which side of the meridian
i'm on. people who need weekend warrior
as a tag frighten me i tell him.
he smiles, his lips look tightened
while mine have bloomed. we fought our own
battles this weekend. the kind
that say why do we keep tying it's all
too much economy, too much effort not enough
to look foward to...well that one's mine.
his is the battle to possess. he told me he adores
me. i told him adoration is a dangerous drug.
i prolly take things way too literally
old skool etymologies. maybe he just doesn't
understand the goddessness attached to such things.

no wait, he does. he told me how he only needed one goddess.
that is me. such a heavy drudge i told him, standing
on a pedestal. i love you, but i will not adore
adoration:
The act of worship.
Profound love or regard.

well ok, i'll adore. the second meaning applies.
i'll tell him tomorrow.
wanna see the etymology

c.1305, from O.Fr. aourer "to adore, worship," from L. adorare "speak to formally, beseech," in L.L. "to worship," from ad- "to" + orare "speak formally, pray" (see orator).

to speak formally
as far back as we can
might be the genesis.
interesting lead in site
a blog of a clone.
maybe. or something similar.

beseech. worship. the implications are there.
i won't worship him. i don't want his worship
i tell him i want a partner.
can you be that? he fell off a roof
a while back. already his leg is gimping.
he fucks thru the pain. then i take him
somewhere he didn't think existed.
frothy existential esquisite
slippery mousse, lighter and lighter
in the cool down heat. he tells me
he hates me. these words come from his mouth.
i know then what will become of his passion
when begins to fail. i should not move him
till it is ready. the mirror brays time!
time! and me the mule, adored and lowering home.















*(

pomodoro

love apple with your crazee
alkaloids, you blush golden
as white wine. to think some men
didn't know what to do with you.
seedy burst red, a plucking
rotting on the vine.






9009

portmanteau. coolish that i try to do that slithy
thing all the time, but always
picture a suitecase and the train, boss
the train. portmanteau , look it up in wikepedia again.
right now dippy!

officially

by the date i have been 46 for
one hour and 38 minutes. but for
the spiral i've still got 7 hours
to go. and three minutes...

so whoo hoop it up! time
outta here like eggshells
in coffee. bitter gatherers.
the last romantic quarterly
needlepointed on this blank piece
of plastic. or plaster, paris,
the seine i could be anywhere
mostly amsterdam where he would take
me for a wild fuck weekend
then cut my throat with his flaccid
offerings: house in the hamptons
manicures on schedule, free range ostrich.
let's start on the wrong side of town
then scavenger hunt our way
to the french quarter where louis
armstrong sings duets with all
the other ghosts around the last supper
new orleans ever put on for the slaves.
we sorry boys but we just can't use ya
anymore. i hear they hirin up at the casino
on the river in one of them faux boats,don't
you worry they don't go anywhere
that's what faux means you can pick up
a broom can't ya, work for tips
in the bathroom passin out cologne keeping
the toilete paper rolls stockes, handing
out paper towels which works ok when you land a gig
at the lafayette royale on biker night where all the ladies
are tired of stiing on they ass for hours
wathcing they mid aged crisis husbands or new bf
in their 2005 harley s with porting
leather talssels and they one ear piecd liek the
fages usta do but now that's hip, so yeah, nice
chaps, nice ride, nice boodboob
job mam. niiiice. and he follows her
back to the alley where she's already
u[p against the wall, her round
curvaceous ass jutted
like the porw of his nam pilot boat where he shot
the big cannons over the field of green palms
and the napalm , sayhing nay palm.
that was no way to treat a lday
not the one who gonna take the five forom your hand
go down on one keee adn unzpi you.
she looks up with the eyes of angelina j
and says oh, this is so big
i need thwenty more
so by then you're all comitted
and she does, the slow sligh
sucking and you think tijuana and she thinks
bodello, and yo uthink c scales
and she thinks the next word,
dark and then ou sleep.

burst day

well it's been the proverbial
rollem coaster all week
i'm wanting you and then you bring
her in
the dom. gawd how could i want a three
some? you me and the mask.

so it's three days crying about it.
then you understand. don't ever ask
just wait for me to do it.
i'm sticky that way.

then this wilma looks as if
she's gonna change all our plans
capricious bitch
spills the baggie and all the smoke
escapes, like a shorted transistor.

that's ok, it's meds enough for now.
another she's tying up
the phone line. this is the first
buzz i've gotten since monday
why can't i just stay on the line
and listen.

i don't like the light coming at me
from behind. it reminds me of the rendition
we did sheltered by the sand dune that time
you remember? with bitty betty
and the boiz, a mangy mutt singing
like a meuzzin. bow to allah now.

he's finally showered and smells
less like wet dog. we go for xenocide
like every other nite.

saturdays

are for wrting, sm okin a li'l bit
then coffee. not for driving four hundred
miles to go a party you don't really
want to go and see the family
that accepts you tho judgingly
but the latters what i'm goin to do.
it might be fun. plus i'll get
to see starz. if there's no
cloud cover. stars. i hope
the milky way still exists.


i think it's good that i have
no body to cling to. i'm breaking
away from judgement. the feel
of your ass. the look in your lips
the taste of your eye.

i need to clean the car. just because.
the ants crawl over the sugar spots
into the sushi trash, motey and squirmy.
frenetic. they dono't bite but they
are buggy. hiveish. collectivesque.

i daydream them blackening me
and shorting out nerves. brush them
away with god's callous hand.


even the most cynical heeds her neighbor's footsteps.
i think i've never met someone for whom
the collective opinion carried no weight.
no matter their actions or their proclamations,
even their internal ones. i mean, hitler
eventually killed himself, ne? and supuku
is time honoured. we always care
about what history will think.
luckily it's a man made construct.
so far our only way to some scant mortality
which in the finity of infinity
is a blip. i mean, i dn't really know
velocoraptor vellum's poetry. even
the scraps that managed to survived mass
extinction and millenial burial are unrecognisable
as such to me. we all call it different now.
but that she lived, breathes, cut down
prey with a god's conscious
is as certain to me as my own existence. i know
that i have taken many forms from which i keep fighting
to escape.

infinity and finality are the same thing
mutually arisen. therefor why question it?
this is his philosophy. i cannot take such
sanguine position. my cheeks flush
when i reach the edge of the cliff
and look into the canyon water carved.
i know i'm wearing nylon wings but the could
always fold, tremble, break from a hawks
halluninatory hunger. i jump into a undraft
signalled by little scilia on the edge of my head.
is it up or downish? am i me or clownish?

he tries to explain it surface terms. where
we stand is how we view it. but tis turtles
and backs of my head to me. i keep turning
and it's never there. my son says to me you can't
have a back without a front. and so on.
i didn't know that till i was forty. so don't tell
me there's no such thing as metaconscious evolution
built on the last turtle's back and expanding
ever up and down sideways you know
just gellin. like crystal dmt.


oh, i love the wacky weed. it always grabs
infinity and runs with it. otherwise
it's frying another hush puppy and cutting
more potatoes for fries. swallow swallow
lap it up it runs deep.



the red hot chili pepper's got a song or two i like
and for years i've thought this chorus line
universally speaking
was actually
universe, a lispy king
gonna write a pome titled that sumday.

fort

for tara
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
a pumpkin lantern glows
in the black cat lake. it's fall again



these utilitarian hovels are one class
above ghetto, sporting half century trees
spared from thrash and burn
development in a fit of ecology ten years ago

i already lost one child to the streets,
she is so much like me, it was inevitable.

sublime: he junkied out, didn't he?
there is a bloodletting in the fear
driven wild cats tonight. they lust
mwrrowling pond's edge - on the wind 's
promise any little thing born this season
faces deprication on a hamstring budget.
do not blame yourself - arms of rwanda,
heart of venezuela, dust mote of a black hole.


i hear a lungbone's carbonation. constricted alveoli.
the blessing of the inhaler. this is how we survive.
trudging foward and foward salmon slammed slalom
without even promised progeneration at the headwaters.
we know the dioxin content. the clean up fund's
been pilfered by donald milken and oprah
is too bought to matter anymore. if she ever did.
i become increasingly ashamed of what we've dreamed.
my words of comfort ring hollow to me.
what brave new
what brave
what

poetry could offer is spit on.
co opted , marginalized
until all that is left is the sound of wings
above a street that no one walks anymore.
it has to be enough.

thunderflower , the rowley tarpaper !

she was raised aa a princess, but we forget
that princesses spoil young. i dn't want to relive
all the mistakes i made
along the
way
she doesn't
understand the way i love her wanted to indulge
her thought let her learn the way to respect
and reason. even as a child i didn't let her think
as children do. but she insisted then
as now, that she won't grow up.
take care of me. do
for me. you had me, so it's your fault
why didn't you abort me
i'm sure is in her mind
and i have to remind her tht i did
want her, all of her it wasn't guilt but desire
that had me keep you. not desire for your sire
but for you, or maybe me, i don't know i just know
that i had a conviction. you are a keeper.

o you have tested that conviction maybe i've driven
you away somewhat knowing that for you to be wholy yourself
you'd have to leave someday, want to leave
as is only right. wings are for flying.
so i let you know it was alright to leave and with that
somehow forced you to stay. to abrogate an ethic
in which you and i both disbelieve . made you want to revel
in mother's next family, mother's nest.
it could work out, but you have to get over being god.

only room for one master on a ship. and all the mates
must do their part. and ok, moving a nineteen yr old suicidal
regicidal boy in with us and having the effrontery to actually love
the child, sexually, well, let's just say mommy is kinda whack.
but it's a good kind of whack. yes, you guys have almost
the same problems, but he keeps his under control.
or are you telling me he doesn't. doesn't mean
i love you less. i just expect certain things from you.
school. work. oh i let him live here for how between or
without a job? he couldn't go to school. you can.
he looked for a job, you don't. i know it's disheartening

you feel like you've been usurped. and his love is puppydoggish.
i dunno what to do. i mean, i want devotion but this?
it's messed up. it's barthe's. gotta keep him down boy. sexually.
it's not fair for you to bring up the sexuality issue.
or is it? i duuno, i'm a dork. i dunno the first thing
about societal behaviour. pda. why not? no reason to be uptight

that's the thing. and see i never understood that it's women
who make the rules. i just haven't gotten that.

but you have. and you learned them on me. 'm itchy tonite
like a fly buzz. it's ok, i can't go there. my mind flakes out.
i don't have the rigour ot confront this. is it about sex?
i mean i excused a lot of shit from j. constantly losing his job.
constantly between them. always in debt to me. and bitchin bout money.

i was kickin him out before he attacked her. that was like
the thing that did it. i have to remember that he's still
in a place i can't save. if i save anyone it has to be s
but she can't be saved until she's been out there.
so i gotta make her go too. cuz coddling and understanding
well, tolerating, isn't working. i also understand.
but she doesn't. or maybe she does too well and she wishes
to reject life as scociety would have her. .
she's never been hungry enough.
bottom line. and then dad told her he paid
my rent! and that i moved fred in without his knowlege
on his money. what a distortion of time. dilation.
i never took rent from him. or much money after
i quit goin to skool. i honestly paid my classes
with that money. bought books. that's all he paid for.



so there was her wanting to get a free lunch
and he think\\\\\\she think ...they both hated in each
other what they themselves wouldn't change about them selves.

call in to work. get high before and drink after yeah
this is the life. what the hell did i put up with that shit for?
a chance for him to pay off that fuckin fire?

and the fire. honestly , that shit is unbelievable.
i will be paying on that for the rest of my life.
so thanks for that. n stuff. is the sex
that good? it's the love. what he knows about me
and will listen to. i told him what i told ruth
and he took offense. i said if i asked justin to work eighty
hours a week and let me stay home, he'd do it.

he thought i meant
i'd use him. i think
this might break us
and i'm ok widdat.
b/c i also told ruth i will never
love anyone like i loved dave.
so, there's that. i mean
you can leave me i won't be devastated
i will be morose but not i think
you can only go there one time.
maybe not. i mean, maybe i could with j


what drivel. am i really still talking this
teenage stuff? sigh. some of us won't grow up.

nutter love poem

writng you makes me feel
as if you're already gone.
the silence-studied, the absence
complete. so why do i continue? i am
a writer. it seeps thru me if
you do not read me you will not know me
if you do not write me
i'll never know you. i trust
letters as if they were dust motes
increasing the weight of solidity.

write now i imagine a future
where we have parted and you , desperate
for some scant recollection
for some explanation of what happend
finally reach this shore.

you pick up a soda can and lob it
across the pool at the picture of one
afternoon as you lay in our bed waiting
for my lust,how you feigned sleep just like
in the movies, how i crawled in beside you
because i love you sexy how close we
became to satisfaction
where words imposed superfluidity
then garbled out in the tulgy sky where
we form into cirrus because i know you
you're a liar who's seen the hawk
and run as hydration in its blood.
we've been there together
but this flesh
doesn't remember, remind
me. write me.
in this incarnation, not some absent future.

dear scar

i watch you feeding
the need for privacy
i remember something like this
thin whispers out to the rest
of the world of how you love her
how you will take care
of her despite all that she does
to you. well and so.
this is spel and you have fallen.


love. i make my excuses for it too.
straggling strange what we can endure
under its mask burnt homes broken noses
relapse after relapse. how long til
you can forgive yourself instead of her?
for being young, making mistakes, being
with a lunatic who didn't know how to tell
you what she wanted? o yes, i know
don't touch that. scar. wound. guilt in its
most exquisite moment.

she relapses and you take her child
to the grocery store. how formless
the ways to recovery. you are a dork.
her forgiveness will come slowly.
one day she may even realize what she's done
but don't bet on it.
we rarely do.


dear scar-
i remember when i wanted to love you
and somehow still do. how i wanted
you beyond the man, how i needed your capacity
to love. i found that in another.
he could be your younger brother
a son, a student, a karass moonsoon.
there are problems here
but we work thru them. i'm assuming
that you are too. i hope the narsicism
looking in the lake helps
you and her transform into one
overlapped and blended. but to be frank
i don't carry a whole lot of hope.
i believe it will be like my marriage
one on tiptoes one with the whip.
tiptoes so the bottom of the feet can be reached.


just went to visit an old flame
the embers still flow but
ash has consumed glow
what a lovely boy they have
and it is only right i remember
his sucking need when we met
and mine fire licking up to embrace
the offer of wax. candle pop
but even then he knew
what ideal was, was not me.
yet, fall he did. stumbled i suppose.

no spel. just a spell. a respite
a regroup. eh, enough about that.
whatever. i continue to be glad
that both of them, our exes
got what they wanted. they deserved it
didn't they? when i was inventing
their future, i gave them a girl.
this boy is cute enough to be one.


sykick in training.



listen scar, i always knew
you outclassed me. what you
wanted and what i could possibly
be was not a mix. but still
i love you. your poetry
your sense of the world
as aflame in your skin.
how can i love you and him
at the same time? from afar.

when a scorpion loves
it is embrasure on the stinger's edge.
tail wrapped oblivion. one
into the other, the pierce.


all best
l


dear j

walter told me you were the first
person thru his door. how comes it to be
we could meet there. more than passing
strange this series of coincidences
that threw us on each other.


what will tear us apart is the slow
drain of desire. not tear, too strong.
we will fade out. you will want to do
things i will not want to do.
it's taking a lot of restraint
to not ask you what happened at beverly's.
she put doubt in my head. and i want
to know cuz i'm a cat. i know you're a dog
but i want confirmation. i mean
we were done. whatever happened there
is not a big deal. still i'd like to
scrape that nail the length of my arm.
all the way downthe blue vein.
add to the effluvia, weakerling.

ah who cares i say
who cares indeed.
odd that you haven't called me today.

or will we be like ok
you had one, now one for me
or hey let's have an orgy and all
join in. see, if i hadn't been
through a lot of this before
we could discover it together
work thru it all but i know
a lot i can't forget. it's my sister's
birthday today. the dead one.
she's still dead.


i'm going to clean today.
sweep, dust, shine.
wash fold store.
i wish i could throw
you baby out
with my bathwater.
find another.
i don't know that you
that we
are very healthy.
but what the fuck does that mean?
i know in many ways
you allow me to see things i forget.
in many ways you mess with me
unconscionably.

this is love.
i'm supposing.
i really don't know.

l
l

grrr

lol, paul did what i most expected him to do.
but i'm not playing into his hands.
he can kiss my ass. what i need to do
is go on the board and write
comments on poetry. but i'm not
gonna do it. only things posted
are gysin and jack. writing love
letters to each other.
keerist. ok, this is the last
very last time
i have contact with pual.
he really is ill.

and meth is online.
ok,ima go back to kitsch
and wait for hm if he wants to

lol--this is so true

Tri-Lamb Material
60 % Nerd, 26% Geek, 52% Dork
For The Record:

A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.
A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.
A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.
You scored better than half in Nerd and Dork, earning you the coveted title of: Tri-Lamb Material.

The classic, "80's" nerd, you are what most people think of when they think "nerd," largely due to 80's movies like Revenge of the Nerds and TV shows like Head of the Class. You're exceptionally bright and smart, and partly because of that have never quite fit in with your peers or social groups. Perhaps you're realized, or will someday, that it is possible to retain all of the things that you like about being brilliant and still make peace with the social cliques around you. Or maybe you won't--it's really not necessary. As the brothers of Lambda Lambda Lambda discovered, you're fine just the way you are and can take pride in that. I mean, who wants to be like Ogre, right!?

Congratulations!

got dot

the selenium silence

and who would i write to today
everyone a thunder from the far off


my curtains are open i watch the new
neighbors pull in belongings
over the their heads, trudge back
and forth to parking lot
so many have driven on the lawn
i wonder if i should tell them or would that seem
too foward, single woman, nosey neighbor
with the windows open begging
to be noticed? in apts the pretense
of privacy must be maintained by cooperative
ignore/ance. i may have seen you
remove her satin yellow bra between the slits
of the wide open vertical
canyons on your windows rub your skin
rough with a day's carbon deposits
earth under great pressure become glints
of diamond under your eyes but i will
never acknowlege your humanity. i watch you
in silent observance, through glass
and the invisible barrier of my patio
as i watch the squirrels hug clumps
of branches in the rain or ducks feeding
on torn bits of bread ends, the ones no one
wants, and soda crackers crushed
when he sat on the opened pack left care
less lee in the sofa. i give you the privacy
of machine. functioning in your gearage
as i function in mine, tick
tock we're a clock.


nod to you if our eyes meet
this is as far as privacy can meet trust
in a functioning hive.


wouldn't psi powers be so scarey at first.
you'd have to be born into a scociety that had evolved first
awareness from the start. like a forest mind
otherwise our individual masks would simply be unable
to cope with the different realities which used to be us.

we're too caught up in integrity to understand
that experientially differing soils will produce
mutated versions of our psinome-the indiviual little pockets
of post it glue which retain our own bubbles of whatmeansbeingme-
iow, we're all the same basic seed planted in different soils.
iow, we're the same soul with differing body
iow, how you act is how i'd be within the same circumstances.
this is when forgiveness becomes understanding
and ceases to have subject and object. i am he as you are she
as you are are me
and we are all togeth/toge//t//her//ther/erer.

so anyway, if we had all been connected at birth
not only to the other births occuring at that momentito
but to all the briths and deaths 7 lives corporealized as
we came into this whole she bagging bangin ball
then ummm, psi wouldn't be a problem..oh telepathy,
i'm talkin telepathy. i just remembered the word
but if i had your brain to access then bam it woulda
been there in an instant. which now begs the question
if you don't have an individual reality from which
to understand and know different things than i do
then we'd all be stuck in a vapid stoopid stagnant pool.
but we'd be content. we might even sing. unaware
of anything different than we, in fact this homogeity
would be the only existence , ever, in the universe.

how would we ever even evolved an off switch?
how would we know off? well, the only dichotomy
which could be wrought is being and nothingness.
both going on simulanteously. in and out. pulse
and null. one and zero. boolean algebra.


maybe that off is what enables the diversity we have now.
do we like this diversity? the other and me.
me and then there's all these others.
same as me. but joyfully different.
faraday strings across points of splatter
iron filings lining up.
this way boys i got your hamstrung
defeciencies to ball up and bucky
the narl skim.




enuf about that. telepathy might stagnate creativity.
unless it had an offswitch. a directional antenna.
this is why vr is such a temptation.
accessable experience of a limited nature.


there was a lizard in my kitchen
the other day. every night a frog
hops away from my door as i approach.
i still see the giant toad
which got in our closet
the weekend we moved in.
that fucker was HUGE.
i'm talking a couple hands big.
in all directions. a ten pounder, ez.
i didn't know such creatures still existed.
it was like seeing a dinosaur.
on a very small scale, but just as extinct.

i like living on this lake behind
my strewn stretched sheets, walls which i can
remove when i want to see out.
saturday mornings and such.
the air in moist coils, a carolina quietide
oaks dripping benevolent. the peaks across
the olympic size pond evoke fairies somehow
and butterflys on wicker porch swings
just outside your field of vision.
birds fly into the branches i've seen
a painted hawk fiercely sitting
on the branch outside my patio, i call
him with my eyes. he is the color of the branch.
squirrels scold him mightily , he kingly
ignores. he may be a she. how would i know
stuck in my ignorance to this earth?


political correctness rears
and that's all ok n stuff? but i was memed
this way, it's most natural to me.
the other way impeeds my flow, man.

lol. i'm not writing this for a damn class.
but still. how else to retrain yourself.
it was imprinted. question to ponder
experiment to proceed is can early
childhood imprints be erased and replaced
with new ones. i think this has been
proven up to a certain point. we can
retrain ourselves. we can deliberately
alter what we say. but does that alter
what we believe. in our deepest belly be lies
we were told as children which run thru
us now like sandspurs thru wind.

i hear him. i must go see him.
i called, he came. nope was just
a blue jay. then a bevy of them,
and squirrels, trapezing the trees.
the grandmother oak is right outside
my door. then next to it and in a circle
around the pond are all the brothers
and sisters holding hands. it appears idyl
then jet wash, and i notice
seven huge branches amputated one
would have been a bridge to the earth
four or five monkey nests or whatever
passes for primate in the wilds of florida
these surgical manuvers to in order to build
housing for this scourge called man.

how i hate what we take. but
i accept myself too. i know that i
must live. and that means others
must give way. the tree survives
truncated. there is room for all
properly tended. it's just nature
evoloving. hey the squirrels
and ducks, even the jays dig on
the bread we toss. the trees go on being
inscrutable homes for the leftover
wildlife. we give them this much space
and take this for ourselves. oh hubris
when will you be satisfied? this is humanity's
curse. hunger and memory of it.





oy im in a mood. halfway between saint
and blowhard. no wait. all blowhard.
hurricane zeta. the last of its time.
the prime of its line. the saint said
to the beggar and the beggar shook his hand.
the saint didn't understand.

dear wanna be editor

iwouldnt help you now
if i were being paid.
you are obviously still the same
intolerant, belligerent and self centered.
you're only doin this anyway b/c
you want to be associated with something
which in your mind and maybe only yours
was and note the past tense
exciting and noteworthy. you want to make
it so again. then there's the taste of j
you want, the whole cachet of struggling artist
struggling to BE an artist
i do not believe you care about any of the posters
except yourself. which is as it should be.
but i don't like your style.
the outlaw anth of sandbox is more mine.
which is what SR is.
one day, i may do a print. or maybe not.
you pretend to care, but you dn't or you'd
be able to realize that browbeating
is not the way to get ppl to co operate.

all best with your project.
if you'd like to take any of my
stuff on the terms i've laid out
you have my permission.
l

like i said

shut my mouth.

i've always thought it would be a neat way to do an anthology. tht's why i mentioned it. yes, it's a lotta work. yes, it's a pita. that's why no one's done that, but have youconsidered that you won't get any poems by ani or ankush this way? there's not many, but there's some on that site. anyway, those are the kinds of things that run quickly thru my brain when anyone says sandbox anthology. but again, not my beast.

i have 2 problems with picking out ten of my own to send to you. 1)i think most of them suck, unless i've just written them-at than point i'm stil slightly bewildered and unsure. 2)each time i've submitted to a project of yours, it fails to come about. now, most times that's not a big deal cuz i just send you what i've recently written. but this time you're talking a history of what 5 years? to do justice to such an undertaking would require me going back over my pomes and trying to decide which of them the sux the least.

can you imagine the cringe factor involved?

i am writing you in here cuz i really am not into seeming like i'm putting you down. these are my own personal issues.

i'd wager jack might feel akin to this, and natalka too. i know that nat thinks her poems sux. and jack vacillates between dismay and ...
something.

so if it doesn't happen that i send you poems, please understand my reasons. i mean hey, one day i just might feel ok about tackling my own beast. if i do, i'll send my selections along.