outpost of the empire

you know the interstate it's on. yours. every 20 miles or so in the no man's land between bigger burgs, on the flats, after the overpass, you can see the gas station/truck stop bruises on a flat black sky. you haven't noticed any stars, just headlights blasted in a string of burning pearls across your retinas. it's time to stop.


he asked her before she left him at the wafflehouse on exit 161 if she had his camels. she smokes lights. she didn't even look in her jacket, just told him, yeah, i put them in your backpack. now here he is in front of the radiant after an hour of sitting next to a chemo therapy victim and her bald head and her talk of wellness. he needs a smoke, badly. those kind of women made him want to slap a wall, or tape their mouths shut. like his seventh grade principal, who cooed over him after he'd smashed his fist into the steel meesh enforced window of her office, asking what's the problem- they couldn't see it was always them. the contents of his backpack lay at his feet. no cigarettes. he lays back on the sidewalk in a gesture of defeat. closes his eyes and began his anger management techniques. he's just getting the visualization of the boxing ring, where's he's pummeling troy akin's head into red broccoli, when he hears a far away voice ask him if he's alright. he opens his eyes and faces the ugliest nurses's shoes he's ever seen. held together with yellow duck tape. "you look like you could use a smoke". he looks up to see his saviour-a middle aged man with three days beard, salt and pepper wispy hunks of hair in five layers of clothes. the man drops a half burnt butt on the ground next to him, then walks away. gotta light? the boy shouts at the retreating back. the man turns around and tosses him a book of matches. he strikes one, lights the butt, inhales and tosses it back. thanks, he says. the old man nods, stops as if to say something, but shakes his head and disappears around the corner.


she drives the bridge at sunset, over windcapped water. there are pterodactyl memories in the car . it's not the same car. she places another face beside them. along the bay beads of light emerge in the dusk. she wants a particular bird to go with the peach and plum sky. if he drives any bridge at all, it's the golden gate.she sees wings unfurl, and unfurl to the right, pulls over to the slow lane to let faster traffic get there. the faces overlap, exchange places with every beat. blue and blonde, brown and curley. his lashes make her gasp. the slide is exactly how she remembers it: curves, muscles arced, orgasm blown out of the last neon in the sky. she loves how they surf on thin air.


all the truckstops are owned by indians now. it's a hiss in his ear. he turns toward the window, hoping to avoid conversation. but it follows him like a lost three year old. did you notice how they don't carry bread? //i remember when that one used to be the best place to buy cigarettes on this route.// goddamn greedy bastards, taking jobs away from real americans.// the blonde blue eyed ones?// no baby! me! i ain't had a job since they evacuated us back in september.// finally he's interested. someone from the flood zone. he opens his eyes and looks around for the speaker. sees a black man with dreadlocks and suspects this is the man //hey did you get any FEMA?// laughs all around.


we ascend the hightest point around.
there are cables like sails on the arc
over the bay. i take a toke right before
the top then hand it to you. i want us both
to have smoke in our lungs at the apex
i say nothing of this to you.

water and sky are both distant-
i can't see land. birds and boats

are the same sizes.sometimes when we come
over a certain curve i fantasize
driving straight into the guardrail
calculate the speed it would take to go through
and the distance of the final flight.

this is not that curve. instead
i take your hand,we exhale
together become icarus' sun.


at the waffle house, she's standing on the curb with her bags. a silver saturn whips
in to the parking space beside her. a woman gets out, drops her wallet"shit". picks it up and "what's the name of this shithole?" deb is startled at the obscenities in close succession. no one talks like that in the waffle house where she has dish duties from 530 to 10. she's usually not here in the dark. she wonders if this how they all talk at night. even the greyhound passengers who only have 30 minutes to get breakfast aren't so ...nasty. she remembers her church sister karla telling her that women from the big city are too bold. she always wanted to know in what way but karla would only go on about her husband running off to the city with a stranger, more's the better for her and "...deaf or something? i asked what's this place called?" deb does her best to struggle back to the present "waffle house"
she says, and giggles. "goddamn smart ass retard" the woman, who maybe is young- deb can't tell because she has gray hair but it's long and women over 35 cut their hair, especially if there's gray in it,that's what karla told her when she reached forty last year and took her betty's bow peep at the mall to have hers, deb's, hair cut and styled for the first time since her sister died five years ago-huffs and stomps off to the radiant next door. deb isn't insulted by the retard lable. she knows she's mentally challenged, that's what sissy called it but she knows there's many names for her "condition" . she likes the word "condition" because it makes her feel special to know such a big word belongs to her. "condition, condition, condition" she whispers to the bags sitting next to her on the curb. she's waiting for karla to meet her. they're going to the city to look for karla's husband. karla promised to bring deb because deb gave karla this month's social security check for the trip. the maybe -young woman with long gray hair comes back from the radiant. she clips by deb and opens her door. as she gets in it's "hey retard. next time someone asks, it's boyston. got that?" deb nods. of course she does, she's lived here all her life. "yes, i've lived here all my life" she says to the retreating saturn's hood. she knows saturn is a planet. she wonders what makes the car so special to be called a planet.


the woman with the two kids sits between them, holding tightly to their hands the first twenty miles. she has dusty black skin and a high forehead. she's wearing gray sweat pants stained with purple juice the youngest spilled on her in the station
right before the bus pulled in. she didn't want to leave and lose her place in line. she feels most comfortable sitting up front by the bus driver and though i'ts mostly always available, she wants to make sure. the youngest is on the inside near the window, where she can be easily stopped when she attempts escape. her head barely makes it above the sill and from the outside, unless you're even with windows, then you can see the most beautiful set of brown eyes staring out. the woman stashes their backpacks under the seats so no one can get out that way either. after the first twenty miles her eyes begin to droop. the bus driver will announce their destination but lawd i could use a nap, right now, she whispers to the oldest who looks to be about 12; a boy ,red sweat shirt andblack jeans. he has a cd player in his lap and headphones on his ears. the soud carries to the seat on the other side
of the ailse. a thirty something white man with tatoos and a shaved head looks over
at the young boy and says disdainfully "nigger music". her eyes pop open, head comes
up. she stares at the man on the other side who stares back.



at night, between bridges, you can see stars. they follow
you, disappearing and reappearing between the exit lamps
between gauzy town lights and the smell of municipal waste
processors. you're going nearly eighty . there are no other
cars on this strip
you have 2 lanes 2 semi paved shoulders.
the road is straight. you open a window
and lean your head out and up. the stars don't
streak, tho you expect them to. they simply
hang there in the sky, next to a sliver
of moon and you floor the gas to make them move.
centrifugal force carries you round the exit
and into the off ramp. straight shot
to a shitheel burg somewhere beyond these trees.
you pull off the road after the steetlamps fade.
turn out your lights. get out of the car and look up.
you were right. there is something moving across
the sky. at about the altitde
of cirrus. you try telepathy to flag it down
but no go. signal flairs is just a dumb idea


mrs.flannagan sits in her wheelchair
at her station by the door. i fantasize
she's interested in the people walking back.
she looks at us then looks away as we walk
to the self checkout. she scrutinizes the gum
display, the white lighting, the whoosh
of the electronic doors. if we wanted to grab
all of this and stuff it in our overcoats
set off alarms as we walk out the door
she couldn't stop us. roberto is on break
fat and smoking at the trees outside. the car
is on the other side of the parking lot.
bip. bip. bip. the numbers pile up.
slide the card thru the machine. the voice
is female, helpful, bordering on cheery.
mrs flannagan watches him, wild hair, avoidance
eyes, as he heads out the exit
says have a nice day. that goes for me too.



lowry. the word tumbles off her tongue. she opens her mouth
to rain falling fine as snow. lowry. her head stuffy cotton, gray as the clouds barely above her. behind her the red and yellow wendy's retreats. her feet keep moving. she wishes she'd brought a warmer jacket, wishes she'd listened to the weather this morning. it's a long walk and if she'd waited they'd be there to get her. as it is, she's not sure if she can get in and out before they're home, but she's going to try. cash the check in her pocket then catch the bus heading north to the city. when she gets there she'll call her brother, tell him about the shit that went down last night. she fingers
her cheek. there's no swelling but she can recreate the sting.
it was red for hours . why didn't i call the cops then?
angrily she shakes her head. because it's what they would
have done. anything they do has to be wrong. the rain drips
off her wool hood. even tiny bits of water eventually collect
enough to soak through.




they all look startled when juan walks in the door. his hair
is too long for this town. he quietly asks about the posted job.
karla, manning the front desk, has quietly pushed the alarm
to the president's office. policy, ever since that disgruntled customer came in waving the remains of his antenna like a sword, looking every bit the postal employee he was. broke ten thousand dollars worth of computer. god, was the boss ticked! karla hands the mexican an application with two fingers, points to a desk he can use to fill it out. she wishes she could tell him to go somewhere else to do that, but the boss says it makes them look too unfriendly. karla feels unfriendly, epecailly to the illegal farmworkers who roll through here thinking they can get a legal citizen's job. go back to the tomatoes, she subvocalises. juan fills out the application, seems to be unaware of karla's hostile stare or the comings and goings of personnel straining their necks to see if this one has a knife or maybe a gun. nothing exciting happens around this town. we have to make our own dramas, thinks the boss's son as he strolls past juan to the refrigerator, grabs a frozen pizza and pops it in the microwave. he stands in the breakroom doorway watching juan fill out the paperwork. little beads of sweat collect on juan's upper lip, studding a thin baby moustache
like diamond chips. he looks up at the man slouching in the
doorway, looks at the half filled application, looks at karla.
he picks up the application and walks to her desk. returns
the pen he borrowed. stares at karla till she looks at him.
drops the application in the trash can and walks out the door.


you've been driving for hours again. the road begins to
waver in the headlights. it's almost dawn and coffee seems
to be the only thing you crave. sleep left sometime around
four. now you just want to be part of the lane
reflectors and the ghost wall that flickers in and out as
fast as you pass them. you pull into the BP rather than the shell b/c you like the green and yellow signs. cheery.
after the bathroom, you stop at the coffee counter for a
dark roast with a shot of hazelnut. the cashier is ringing
you up when a cop comes in. he buts a package of gum
and begins talking. she stops in midring, so you're stuck.
you decide to listen "....and the stupid guy, must have been
his first time out on it or maybe he was drunk, we can't do
a blood test now, he's scattered from one side of bee ridge
road to the other. this is one of those where you know
a helmet would be useless. nearest we can tell, he was doing
close to 110 when mr. valenti, you remember him don't you-
thick glasses, curved spine? yeah, that's right, always goes
to the six oclock mass but it takes him an hour to get there?
well mr valenti pulled out of holly lake drive and the biker must
have swerved to avoid him, took out that old pole the city
should have replaced years ago. now we've got rush hour beginning and no signal light. god i hate traffic duty" . you look at him and ask something so that they know you're there.
he answers, she finishes ringing you up. you grab your coffee
and go.

pomes last week

haiku, the new black
---------------------


u can chase me all
over i light lee land with
butter fly's brand


dandelion tea
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


the mouse slips off
the chair and into the kitchen.
beady red eye looks balefully
of course, bale full ee
up at the ceiling. the sun
is out and i'm in a dim room
waiting for a poem
so i can go purchase some dining
room chairs at good will.


i've been looking for core
all morning. looked in the appleshed.
not there. in the door without walls.
absent. in a yeti's footprint. void. all
void. let me wisp thru the window
just now so we can meet in south
cafe in a tumble of air and spike.

poem o! poem. where do you sleep
today? a brookish cuve, the veil
of eden? the temple cave of the first
matriarch of hamurabi? spiral phi
and tempest on tornado edge
then over with mr thompson, methmaker
to the stars? o pull your shadows
up by bootilicious petticoats, just
in the next town over. we've come

on this wind, to let you know,
just blow and lift your million
arms into this one uncrunched seed, and be.




session lesson
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
from the old jeery days
something trammels the incubus'
presence of perfection.


we have our taboo chancery,
electronic snake gobbling up
bits and bytes for the webmaster.

but ever the sharp butcher we
need no rationale to become devout
pockmarks on a thin modulated nexxus.

it's this which holds us, even now, blithe as a mosaic
manuscript. listen, they sold us the feasable.
didn't mention the unbecoming.shards.

now on this plane, we're left to unsnarl
the billowy yo-yo; take a chance on the maroon
displays; titilate a bluenose into sensory distortion

or become thin, jaded planking on a wacky
triteness, devoid of ink, bitter about our process
instead of in sync with the profound renegades, disarming.




eidetic
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
if memory would serve
your face still burnt
in my head, your eyes
seared on my brown
out pocket.




the thing
become flat
and unresponsive



clear and warm as glass
when called.

tin oxide glaze
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
there's a lot to for
gettting. but when you push
enough into you, it eventually all
comes out.

you hold ghosts of all your lovers
at night until they wink out like rads
on a cesium spectrum.

smoke is one way. smog is better.
water thickening like dried red blood.
when the constiuency is viscous enough
everything stops flowing.


u write, i'ma go blow ppl up, but first
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
let's roll a joint. crush
the bud between thumb and fingers
till it flakes into resinous crumbs
and bits of stem, seeds heavy to the bottom
of the tray. discard the chaff and scoop
with handy business card into the folded 1.0.
welcome to my city.



the ez check advance pay free money order
counter is busy on friday night. she watches him from
the car, twisted monster plays a weekend mix
on the jam station. ahead of him is a large black woman
in a red and white polyester print dress under short
denim jacket. red strap shoes. they both wait for the thin
blonde in jeans and belly shirt to finish with the one clerk
at the window. and wait. meanwhile chico and DeVonne
house into line, all low khakis and plaid boxers while
quick behind is mike, thick with a couple years off
the football team and a couple on the construction crew.

a three day stubble on the face
of the latino man in the window ad. a young blonde woman
occupies the poster next to it. tax refund anticipation
loans blare in christmas red and green above the heads
of the waiting. some of the men look up, blankly.
flourescents seep into their closed eyes.

on the huge metal legs of the business name signage holder
at eye level with the drivers of cars and suvs
like a lottery, beckoning} green diamonds with gold
dollar signs. it's night, but not dark. across the streetsix lanes of metal plated electrons
passing thru barely survivalbe pedestrian holes/and a concrete medium

is the shell station, and beside it a hardees.
behind both is the deja vu adult botique the biggest
and first of the strip club/sex toy/porn shops that salt
drew park like the romans did manasas.
or whatever.
you know the hood i'm talkin bout. on the other end
of this desert is the community college and an abestos
abandonned teaching hospital replete with haunted
apartments which glow even on moonless nights
with the reflections of the city around it. blank windows
silence any thought of squatting. he's looking

for a place to live for a little while just till she can let him
back in. but he's broke, again. and his job situation
is spotty. no one likes a gypsy anymore. might be a code
word for terrorist. anarchist. a li'l jihadite in training.
he's cashing the last of his money. when it goes

fuck his dad better come through. that's all he knows.
or it's back to the streets for a couple nights, then
the hospital all lit up in white, after
he unties the necktie from his arm
lets the smooth fire flow into his veins.


torn out like pages
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
there is electric guitar
with jasmine scent, or the honey
blossom of fresh air

and in this small space
there was some measure of comfort
the meeting on sunday morning
ritual of the pipe, communion
of sedition. the ballast of smoke
and shadows.

rage is misunderstood, judas.
out of your control, the sun
moves over water, refracted
onto the underside of leaves
or the branches and twigs frosting
in their absence.

it goes like this:
shannon and palatine meet
at the car wash. instant zing.
she calls him pal. he calls her shan.
they smoke crack after the last towel
wipes the final windsheild of the day.
hold each other on a bare
mattress. they smoke weed.
there comes a pregnancy
and life is sacred and scarey
enought to quit the weed.
but crack, well,
you know how that infant is.
it howls at them both. pal picks
it up first. his lungs fill with joy.
he passes to shan. she is fogged hormonal
twitches the tit. inhales.














take five.


hawk a spot in the sky
yesterday/ that was so long
ago. the curve of wing
over updraft , sudden dive
bottom falling
out














90



in the discussion of suicide
god is present. if judas had known
if he had believed
then he would have become the lamb
throat cut and draining.
to be thus used
and then despised. let's just say
the four chairs i got from the pile
of abandoned garage sale items
outside the target colllection center
meant for salvation
army actually did go to charity.
the pieces of silver bought a publix prepaid
brown grocery bag full of thanksgiving dinner.
there are many altars to feed.















i don't actually think too often of heaven
it's an abstract concept at best this offer
of eternity. harps and virgins. grapes, family
a feeling of belonging. olive branches.
shouldn't that be what's happening here?

we all agreed there must be some
zooming in and changing of perspecitive
a rotation virtual and photoshopped
into reality. then we begged the coming
of aliens or apophis 99452.






we often wondered
what was it went on the disconnected reaches
of his autism? drop the box of toothpicks
and he knows the exact number before they hit the floor
how slow must time move
inside that universe.
imagine the difficulty of communicating
in any language other than the mathematical.
















()()




gasoline. go. newspaper fountains.
triangle change. three day eye. greedline
on the ansible freak. if i could just have
one silent moment. if i could be sheltered
and engaged at the same time.
if i could curl in a porcupine snarl
and jut all of it out. all. of. it.
tis one of the words the knights who say
who say
snarl audioslave guitar. after burn dawn.
dried rose petals ground to grease
under the feet of living. there are too many
people in my mother's house. take this space.
my creator. gave me life
show me how to live.
stop whining she sez. faggid about it.
just feed the ducks.

ailse of sunlight, no. 5

why the odd one, mom?
do you want this thrown away
pincushion fingers.
in the mornings there is a bit
comes thru the blinds
hadronic, sea of gluons.
color me neutral. a fortune cookie
of base metal lined with teflon
words. what would you have me
admit scar? favorite poet?
i love you? these and other questions
terned by into footprints
running hither and yon beside surf.
he said they're just hungry.
well, so are we all.















i want just a taste. doobwas maximan.
a li'l someat the cat dragged
into the bushes than yowled off with.
tan than. then vs ben. world association soccer
and do you remember the chinese tag team
match brush experiment, mental farthings?


these pictures you include show your leisure.
how...sweet. mail in the box, box in the head
head in the clouds, clouds in the manger, manger
on a hot time roof, roof of subjugation, subscriptions
terminated on a bad credit report, report to the aliens, SIR
sirrah, what last cut did you make on the
fast approaching glenn, where pussy willows and reeds
give their spores to crop circles and rings
decide wedding dates. plan it now, the farantail rattles
and we'll be seeing what gohosts as may be
allowed to survive, here in dis dix diz eeek
a mouse.







there were many words, dorrways into the next
starat. strata, but i missed them
let them fall tumbling like beads
of the negative reaches of the next affair.

she wondered why she couldn't find happiness
in what she already had. if she wssetlling. if anyting
really
was going to be better than drear and pitty.
then she looks at her wrisits. taps her head,
wonders on the strentht of her stomach.
and her ability to type. fast. with
ummmm, few mistakes" does it coundt if it
go back nad correct themaas fast as i can amke it. but
the sores clodig. these cillen
will catch they death now mammy.
no more goe cake or my name asint nble tome. ou'll see.

roof without walls

so, ummm, yes
that's what it feels like
i'm this overhanging protection
with no basal support.

think levitating pyramid.

what i'd like to see:
u, losing weight, not getting
fat on my food.

i become resentment, squared.
no, i'm sorry the sex
will not make up for it.

then i also know it won't matter
if i break it off and start it up.
you are all the same. not him.


even he is not him. it's gone,
my capacity to love in bliss.

wut i did 2 day.
chatted up a guy on lava
about his desires n such. found
out that yes, like so many of us
he just wants the different
couched in the familiar.or um, vv.

read fifty blogs. at least. an article or 2
still not fed. still feeling loose and
disassociated. i miss my community.
i miss ppl loving what i write, loving me
for me. knowing me and lvoing me. but u know
they didn't really know me at all.

there were pix in their heads of who
i am. and they are close, but anyone
who wants to classify me as saint
is poorly deluded. and NOT by me
i hope. i think. i didn't DO it!

come on. i broke up a home. unhappy?
so? it was a home. my girls not
going to fit into society...i doubt
my boy will either. lol. funny thing is
i don't care. society doesn't deserve
to be fit into.

and what's this taking on a baby lover?
trying to help him become a man.
he thinks he's a warrior. maybe he is.
but i don't cotton to war. i avoid it.

ok, i need to go there. same old same.
leeching me. last nite he says she fed
the rest of the roast to richard
and i said, what is that to concern you?
he was non plussed. well, i cooked it.
trivial i sez.
i bought it.

i have a new analog for his continued
exploitation of this situation.
"taking the biggest piece of steak"
you know what? i don't care if no one
else wanted it. that's not what you serve
yourself when you are the nonpaying
on sufferance boyfriend. and i don't
like your tone of voice with my son.
what is my problem? you love me? you might
kill yourself if i kick you out? someone
has to give you a break? well, i'm
about broke out. i think you might be
my new years resolution. and then i'll
thank you for curing me of young men.
which then means i am cured of men?
one can wish....

lol, no way. i still lava. but you know
i could lava with ease now...be hard
as cherry lipstick. i once looked for love
there. but no more. i'd look for dates.
so mainly i think he just keeps me from
whoring my company. morphing from air
to earth.


collage

the mouse slips off
the chair and into the kitchen.
beady red eye looks balefully
of course, bale full ee
up at the ceiling. the sun
is out and i'm in a dim room
waiting for a poem
so i can go purchase some dining
room chairs at good will.


i've been looking for core
all morning. looked in the appleshed.
not there. in the door without walls.
absent. in a yeti's footprint. void. all
void. let me wisp thru the window
just now so we can meet in south
cafe in a tumble of air and spike.

poem o! poem. where do you sleep
today? a brookish cuve, the veil
of eden? the temple cave of the first
matriarch of hamurabi? spiral phi
and tempest on tornado edge
then over with mr thompson, methmaker
to the stars? o pull your shadows
up by bootilicious petticoats, just
in the next town over. we've come

on this wind, to let you know,
just blow and lift your million
arms into this one uncrunched seed, and be.

phhishhhhh

this is not my comfort zone
thos the spacebar is better
i'm in acloset with green light
and i want to be elsewhere.

he'sjust come in wanting to
eat my pussy. how sweet. smoke
a bowl, have acuppa.
can thanksgiving get any betta?

pizzaro conquers the incas

when he had the ransom
in his chest, locked
and stowed onboard his
partners said let's kill
atahualpa instead. o yes
the little devils wanted
all the gold. insurrections
are not to be tolerated
or encouraged by any show
of civility or integrity.
this can come in fifteen hases
but the end result is the same.
another dead genocide passing cocoa lieaves
into thenext meillenium as counter
forthe traders. what wretched ppl
thesewhite men are.

resize

the screeen doesn't fit, my spacebar's
broken. if everything were perfect life
would be boring. horrible scope sez
to re evaluate them things yr bitching about.
i feel fickle. tarot sez hey, it's about justice
onecard is all it gave me.

you want to know the way into the cave.
but you already live there. everyone craves
acceptance. my stomach likes the feel of food.

he met a reductionist and tried to show her
indeterminancy...this he says is living.
whoo hoo. boo.
yah.

where's the next big tickle. what's making waves.
what, was it too quiet in here? all day vid game
marathon. the phone rings at one thirty. ante meridian.
any moon. angry matches.what ever happend to
the mist of thedevils?
was gonna do a thyme rhyme but it leaves me
the music. torn into wisps like your beard
or my next sad cafe.

there was not in my plans, a taking care of.
there was an enabling love a push it to the limit.
therapy days are killer here.

do we sabotage ourselves? he takes more
than he needs, by rights, should have.
instead of resentment from one side
he gets it from the inside. from me.
do you think it might be cuz i don't
want sex tonight? i dunno. but i do
know that when i walk in the door i
get so tired, thinking of who i have
to take care of. and why should it be
him as well? he shld take care of me.

specially since i am payin the bills.
i want to give him his money back
and move him out. but it's not enough?
fuck one twenty.he can stay in a motel
for two weeks.

take care of the house. at least pick up
his clothes goddammit. no one
understands how this is killing me


killingme. iwant tostay up all nite
and sleep all day i want to work in a bar


for tipsandfood. sorta. i mean jeeze not
really. i just want that level of committment
to a job. not rally i just want to be able
to sleep in the daytimes.

well, i'm finally tired.
this has been entirely unhelpful
but theraputic nonetheless.

you want me to hear you

and i think i do.
you remove the process of poetics from poem.
you say poems are the accidental joys or sorrows and all
the spectrum of emotion and action and life in between, which
one encounters in life. they are the beheaded
surrounded by butterflies. you are saying

the poet is the journalist. but more, if one aspires to the sad
and inadequate task of art,one must use skill,and perhaps have
some modicum of talent,of insite, if one expects
to be read,to be seen. you are saying, among other things,
that there is judgement- personal and societal- which determines
what will be considered. i don't disagree with that.


what you say about poems themselves...i've been considering
this all weekend. and i like it. yes, one's life is full of these moments
which,if you indeed inhabit them, become impossible to reproduce. when
you try, you hold only a wisp of the experience,
and so,perhaps,to enter into writing about them
trying to capture them in any way
becomes an act bordering on the profane.
you try to speak for the dead and call it pheonix.

if you think about it, all writing, even journals, is for posterity
a time capsule of who you were speaking to who you might become.
eaten by the minds of others, you are becoming them even now.


you still dont get it.
what i am saying is that
intent removes itself from the act of poetry,
the moment,
or the act,
or the whatever,
into poem writing.



poetry always exists.
the intent or the awareness of a specific action done
for the sake of poetry removes that action from the poetic realm
but also substitutes into that space that intent itself.

yes, the poem is the child dancing. the new poem is the child
encouraged to dance by the laughter and approval of the adults
watching,tying to recreate her original performance

now and then the accident happens. within our own efforts. that which had been substituted into the realm of poetry in stead of that which was intended, actually surfaces and is plain to see. that is the magic. that the stay factor. that the sticky.

oh amen my brother. amen.






"is what we put in that writing any less poetic b/c the intent is for someone to read it and identify with it?"

you still dont get it. what i am saying is that intent removes itself from the act of poetry, the moment, or the act, or the whatever, into poem writing.

i cannot say it any simpler than that.

and about the validation bit, i never disagreed with that..

however this much i will maintain
that while most poetry writing
is a validation for something or the other,
even if it be writing itself,
most validation writing need not be a poem..

i think the problem most people
have understanding things
is that they do not take the time to personally
identify real world concepts/things
to the words that are used to signify them.
the solution to any problem,
or even the recognition of a problem or oppurtunity,
begins with correctly identifiying what specific
quantities or qualities allude to.

i think the act of writing a poem itself does not absolutely
remove itself from the realm of poetry (as this is never possible)
but just shifts tangents.
this is difficult for me to explain, i tried once to jack
over the phone but i doubt i did
a very good job then either.

so what happens is that which you meant to be poetic
fails to be so
but that effort itself becomes the actual 'poem'.
either way it is a win win situation, but only if you allow it to be.

anyway, this is all getting very technical right now. it gets very confusing when one tries to talk both about poetry and poem writing at the same time. i think it is best to avoid it, save when you have a lot of time and possibly, beer. what you talked about in your latter post i never talked about in mine. the other day somebody asked me what is a human minds primary motive/impulse/etc and the answer to me came very simply: validation. of couse this validation itself stems from a more primal impulse i think, so my answer was hopelessly wrong, but my point is that i do not necessarily disagree with what you say, perhaps would just like to rephrase some of it though.

i never said that "what you see as poetry are those accidents which "writing poetry" can never truly capture,b/c intent is the thing which kills it". instead i said that what is truly poetic is accidental and everything else is pure mimicry. which in itself is not a bad thing. except that for mimicry to be good, skill comes into play. this is where skill MATTERS. and i also said that beauty of being a poet, despite the fact that we begin with the introduction of awareness, which is tantalizing and beautiful but end up trying to find innocence after said introduction, which is horrible and i think a problem most poets face, the beauty of being a poet despite this dilemma is that
anyway, i doubt, but do hope, that you will take the effort to understand what i am trying to say. for some reason or the other i am convinced that this is, if you remember what i allude to, the hundred and first truth. this is important. to each of us and everybody else.

alt letter...

we didn't get a chance to talk about expectations. as far the injury goes, i hope you'll agree with me that it is your responsiblity as business owner to provide medical care for workers injured on the job. this is law, whether that worker is your son or daughter or unrelated. I understand your decision to not carry it, and the state does, too. That's why they let you work it out with the employee. I'd simply like you to do for me what you would have to do for any other person who was employed by you. I want you to cover the medical bills incurred at the time of my accident, provide a garuantee that you will pay for followup visits and any physical therapy that I may need to take care of this injury. It could be that this will not be a long term disability, that's my fervrent hope. But it's been a month and I have shooting pains in my leg still. If I don't get some diagnosis and treatment on this it could well turn intosomething serious. But Dad, I simply do not have the means to do this on my own.
You fired me from the job before I could even begin to save money to move out of your house. I had expected to be employed by you for at least a year, maybe more. Frankly, the firing was big shock. I also feel that you didn't want me in your house anymore, that's why I left. I asked you at the time for a loan to have a place to live in the first month. What I could reasonably expect, as an injured employ fired from the job scant weeks after the injury, is a minimum serverance package of two weeks pay on top of my earnings. Instead of offering me this, I had to ask you for a loan, which you grudgingly gave me. A loan which, you must realise, can not even come close to allowing me to get established in tampa.
Dad, I do want to get established here. I like this town well enough to want to begin college here. I intend to do this, but I keep running into road blocks, not the least of which is not having a permanent address to give to perspective employers. Therefore, getting a job is a challenge> where should I get one? Close to my home? But I have no home. And to rent an apartment, landlords want proof of employment. All but the Annie Apartments on Nebraska. I could live there I suppose. But they will be taking the remainder of my money as deposit and first weeks rent. Then I've got to come up with the next week's rent. Plus have bus fare to get to a job, if i get one this week. But I'm looking for jobs near Lynze's place because that's where the jobs are. And the school I'm registered in is also on this side of town.The apartments are way across town.

Ok, so you don't need a litany of my problems...Suffice it to say that I'm trying as best I can to make it work, but I really need some financial help and I have no one else to turn to. So yes, that's another reason I 'd prefer to talk to you about how family takes care of its own, rather than using the courts to settle it. I need you to help me with a start here, and to help me with college. I'm asking this as your son, not your former employee. Show me what family means, Dad.
Please give me enough to move into a studio apartment near school -deposit, one month's rent & electricity. Please tell me you want me to succeed at something by paying for my books, since mom is paying for the classes until I can get some financial aid. Please fill out the financial aid forms when I ask you to. Please send me a laptop so I can do my schoolwork. These are not things that are on the table over any lawsuit. They are on the table as a son to a father, asking you to invest in your child's future.
I'd like to thank you for sending me to cross creek. That was an investment in me. Don't think I don't realise it. I wish you would have gotten more out of it, but I'm thankful for what I got out of it.. Because of your investment there, I am able to function without medications and with a modicum of self esteem. Obviously, I still have a lot to learn. I can't pay you back for that. But I'm willing to consider all of this help as a loan. I'll pay you back in small monthly installments until I graduate, then we can renegotiate a monthly fee. Please help me to realize my full potential, invest in my future, so that I will be in a position someday to help you if you need it.

after the drunk

and now that there's time young
lover passed out in the next room he's
drunk again. needing that absent
father, that mother's tit. what do i do with this
did i create it? should i have left him made
him ride a greyhound to get to me?

at the therapists buzzwords enabling
losing the relationship. i cannot
keep this thing in my heart. he rips it from me
with each passage out. immaturity. what am i doing
in this? i must give him no other out. if he choses to end it
then that is what he must do. i know sometimes
he prefers to be dead. he thinks it will be a blessing.
he begins to hate the things i stand for.// them, me, us nobody
loves me. i hate myself.// why isn't my love good enough
for him? b/c it's tainted with fear. he said thick
and thin , marriage to me tonite. but not to me. to me
that i could have been the girl he should meet
sometime in his future. i won't tie mine to him so he gets
a death wish? i cannot do this. he only understands
silence. infant terrible. not so not so it was the booze it was
the drinking it was any excuse i can think of and he too
i am the excuser, the forgiver, the eh it's all gooder...

worn out

oh they buzz me wanting
to meet. we should meet i'm so sexy.
it's the place i go. it rains them.
what i think is they think
i'm easy and call it hot.

i don't even give a crap.
what about this corporate citizenship.
how could the supreme court take a law
that gives a collection of statements
my personal rights and call it constitutional.
i'm pretty damn sure that's not what the framers meant.
im pretty damn sure the framers didn't want the corpse
to have have corpus. but then i haven't studied
constitutional law so what the fuck i'm pretty
damn sure about could be wishful thinking only.

ok, i'm going back to the bar.
i'm tired and waiting for godot.

in the headlines jessica and the rest of the gang
are looking pouty. marriages on the meathooks.

also car bombs and riots etcetera out from
iraq to paris. i can't get these jokers
to talk about anything but sex. this proves
more than anything, that the end is near.
sixty year olds interested in sex
end tyme divel

question: if i don't answer you back
will you still be charged/and if so
wtf are you doing in this place

glitched out. i ws talking to preppygreg
he's cute and rich. i should do him.
make j live with it. gawd i hate pms week.