scattered on the red cd

flakes and seeds. a calculated
smokescreen seems a step
away from yesterday and four minutes
from midnite. i'm trying to retain
words i once knew, like calumny
and woebegon. words to describe
the world's antics, credible words,
ordinary and terrible in delineation.

so, here we are, sitar playing in the background
keep your head up, my back straight. your eyes
are china doll's, marbles with no depth.

i have three questions.

1)why don't you look at me
2) am i what you want
3) when are you leaving

the first two, you
have answers. the third
i already know.
sometime.





another hit and now i'm bored.
thirty rock was better in the old days
before the son in law took it in the pipe.
now it's leaving time, look ahead
don't look at the loiter, he's perishing
in his own brew. be through.


aaak.

















()**




i was talking to an aries
the other day because you said
you're a loser. you don't want
to believe this is good stuff.

woah. see. that's not how
i want to see it. i enjoy this.
am i so lost?



he doesn't smoke, but hey
if the sex is good he can deal
for a while. i'd give him
references but momentary
toleration isn't what i'm lookin for.





)(*77





the baby grows apace. a clone
of my daughter, i get lost in her eyes.
gerber faced, ready to taste everything.
ready to deny anything. a shudder.
taught spitting early, she uses it
wisely. if it's not good, it sprays.
this is not my baby, though she feels
as if just yesterday i was
in charge of making sure you didn't die,
that you were happy, all itsy bisty
spidery and giggles. she pulls
herself up,   ready to pass on
crawling and walk straight out the door.
did i forget to tell you how
babies are like love, a blessing
and a curse?









_)((




i dunno what you're doing here.
you have pix of teenage girls
on your computer. i am not your physical
type tho not without beauty why
do you never tell me i'm beautiful why
do i wait for you to do so?

the tarot says restrictions
and wealth. what room
for love in a vault?

you don't watch me when
we make love, but i can feel you
just the same. i don't want
to look into your eyes
so i can betray myself
with what i put there.
keep them closed.













)(**&





the fire's hot  but mesmerizing
we stand outside the log seat
circle , your shirt is open,
your skin's tanned, smooth, almost
taut. your eyes are blue
wolf orchids spilling
from  your brow,   hair
streaked with moonshade.

 make no mistake
i do not watch you.  beth
sings a genesis cover.all my
instincts say don't touch
the flame. i reach out
for the  insight. you
close your eyes.


i've had this feeling before.
being alone in a relationship.
is it me, then? do i just expect
too much? a melding of mind.
no other to find faith in?


the thing is...
the thing is, familiarity breeds
yes it does, it becomes common
as air, preposterous as lice.
what can we discuss if we agree
on everything? it's good to have tension
cuz the release is awesome.


yeh yeh, tell that to my sciatica.
i think next time i have a flareup
i'ma pay for a massage post haste.
and ummm take naproxen. if it works
again tomorrow. sigh. pain free for 7 hours.
i can't express how good that feels.

i mean take all those rainbows we've seen
since summer solstice add up the thrill factor
you'd be about where i am, right this minute.
i just don't sound like it cuz i'm so tired.

looped territorial caterwauls

and tribunal tantrums, getting
fox eyed, like desire and iteration
collide.  camel spit eyeliner.

visions going crazy, heart's curdley
& dianetrically opposed. agony in a
busted microphone.

 500000 plastic coffins and four yellow sheets
tossed into the trash. but two of them missed.

say we reincarnate each minute.
strips of watergrass named misty,
collection of waspy menaces/ minutia.



then why are we waiting for the program
to be complete? can't we fix the bugs
tomorrow when music and dance aren't on
the menu? i 'll loan you five bux till wednesday.

sun explodes, auroras at 12

  anna k's on the bed
cracked open to part3


she sits on your speaker, legs
drawn up , bleeding for six
weeks now. you
have a prayer bowl from tibet

run a pestel around the rim, it
begins to sing. you watch her face
slacken, tho her body remains
tense, held together with twist ties

bits of fire break off from the dark
matter in the corner. you tell her
about stars and meat bodies, the bowl
resonates with her answer.






ii




anna k's on the bed, closed
but full of herself.

we speak in strokes , almost
pornographic, or that's the way
you'd like to remember it. when you go.

there is a blockage in the center
a dead place, a force of containment.









it's 811 and i dont' have time to describe
the way it made me cry and how you didn't say
a word about it. rain on the salt flats, grown moss.