Saturday

I'll move, run, really
In the woods
My DAKOTA FIRE HOLE,
can't see it above ground
hunch over it and keep warm
heat up stones on that fire
And bury them too and sleep on that spot
And eat what I can find
Certain leaves
Nobody'll find me
You can make coffee with dandelions
Eat cat tails (the plant, silly)
Make flour with acorns
I just need money for tooth paste
My only civilized thing
Steal it. Shh.
Yup. Return address on
Mail from me will be
A TREASURE MAP!!!
Return to sender - - ‘X' marks the spot
Of the habitual offender
Maybe even another country
And communicate by drawin' pictures
Desperately runnin' ‘round with
A scribble of a crumb cake
With a tomb stone scribbled
next to it - - intended to say :
"If I don't get a crumb cake
I'll die."
Draw myself with a shovel
or a bus pan in hand :
"I need work."

Friday

Jingle bells. Jingle bells.
I'm hand-cuffed to a chair.
Sometimes I think that the best I could do in life,
my highest goal,
would be to keep myself out of a cage.

Monday

"One funny thing about the funeral was . . ."
Anyone who starts a sentence with those words
is damn fucked-up.
It don't matter what follows.
"Here come the seagulls," the bum said
as he stood at the edge of his newly deposited
puddle of puke.
An hour before, he drank three bottles of cheapo wine and ate
a couple of hundred pages out of a dictionary.
The pages were there in his puddle of puke, saturated, and then
his gastric juices started breaking down the paper with the words,
disintegrating some of the definitions and syllables and letters
of some of the words, transforming the language.
He pissed on the pages to counteract their disintegration
He kept those pages in his pocket, with those changed words.
He started using those new words.
This strange, patchy language caught on with the bums on the street -
That's where everything starts.
A new language was born that day.
Salud.

Sunday

Luckily the doctor was able to remove the blood sucking
Kandiru fish from my urethra

My disgust with the conference room culture
has reached an incredible level
They leave behind their purple hologram colored meat
sandwiches on the sanguine chopping block
conference table, the bridge phone blares out
home workers' gurgling intestines
and barf dogs

My pie chart ended up looking like a peace sign so
All of the reptiles seated at the table laughed at me
and picked at their nose orifices with gnarled claws
Their tongues flicked out the business cliche mating calls:
"I have a lot on my plate."
"You are on my radar screen."
"We will touch base."
And so on.

Monday

Life is like a box of chocolates
even if it gets stomped on,
the gooey remains are still edible.
No matter how badly you fuck up your
life,
YOU CAN FIX IT,
unless you're dead,
and who knows?
That might be an improvement.

Friday

What many people don't know about the Shoe Bomber
is that his feet really fucking stink.

I once shot my own foot for stinking.

Wednesday

If I decide to never look another person in
the eye
I'll become a ghost

Thursday

I mumble.
My dad gets so mad,
"Speak up for Christ's sake!"
A guy I work with mumbles,
he's one of the top salesmen
in our company - -
So there - - you can mumble
and be a success. Nanny nanny boo boo.
mumble mumble mumble.

Monday

The referee at my JV football game in
high school fell over in the end zone and died of
a heart attack.

A guy who cleaned up around the yatch club I worked at
fell in the river and drowned. We tried to save him.
We jumped in and swam around looking for him, but the
water was so murky, we couldn't see anything.
The current was strong and impossible to figure out. It was
a fall morning, chilly, kind of cold. Darren, the guy in the water with
me searching, started to hyperventilate because the water was still
so cold from the night before. He started goin under,
so we kind of dragged each other to the pier and got out.
John died. It was the biggest failure of my life.

I found out a couple of guys I used to play Rugby with
got hit by lightning at a game. One died.

Priest at the church I used to go to with my dad
hung himself.

Is it just me? Do both weirdness and morbidity
follow me around and make a mess of things?
This is a nonfiction post.
A nonfiction past.

Sunday

Five 88 cent little pizzas.
Two huge cantaloupes.
A box of generic raisin bran.
A two liter bottle of orange soda.
He was probably 75, 76 years old.
I could picture him putting
a little pizza in the oven every night
and eating it.
He looked out the windown as he chewed it.
I wanted to cry.
I wanted him to have the best rest of his life
he could possibly have.
I wanted him to win the lottery.
I prayed for him. I don't do much prayin.
Why do I even care about this complete
stranger?
He finished his transaction and walked out.

Saturday

Keep my death bed photos
away from those Andy Warhol
wanna be jerk off mofos

Monday

I can't sleep,
and I'm glad.

Saturday

I saw these two girls fight at a really big party one night.
Both of these girls were rip snorting drunk,
most of the people there were.
There were about 250 or 300 people going in and out
of five or six houses on this block, speakers
and kegs of beer were in people's front yards.
One of these girls got up off of a couch and
grabbed a purse and started to leave with it.
The other girl said, "That's my purse, bitch."

She pushed the girl with the purse outside
and started swinging.
It was hot out that night, they were both
wearing skimpy little shirts.
Both of their shirts got
ripped off pretty early on.
They fought on, however, titties flappin,
each girl swinging, scratching and kicking.
You couldn't tell who was who after a while,
they were fighting and zipping around
really fast like a cartoon fight.
Two hundred people crowded around
and watched yelling and screaming.

After a while of this,
with one of the girls totally vanquished,
on hands and knees sputtering in the street,
not crying,
but kind of moaning and bleeding,
the victor walked away with the purse.
It belonged to the other girl,
but she had one exactly like it.
She had grabbed the wrong one.
Her boyfriend or whatever came up and said,
"This is your purse right here, Babe."
She grabbed it too and walked away into the crowd saying,
"Get the fuck out of the way. Get the fuck out of the way."
She hugged the two purses into herself like footballs.

Thursday

A story about a day on Earth when nobody died.

Wednesday

They have no idea that I don't even work there.
I just walked in the building off the street.
I just picked out an empty cubicle and sat down.
I find somebody every Friday to sign my time sheet.
I tell people my boss is out of the office a lot.

Thursday

Maybe a couple out of the group would attain
some kind of glory on the pool table or on the dance floor.
Chris had the best chance of walking out of the bar
with a new lover.
Some unwary thing who could not decipher
the disaster palpable on Chris's person
would stagger out into the night with him.
Chris would be gone for hours, maybe days.
He would turn up eventually with wounds,
like slices about the wrists
or scratches on his face or a black eye
or with a brand new set of clothes.
Or he'd come up to somebody and say,
"Come back to my place,
I gotta show you something,"
and there would be a mural
or an entire wall of his apartment
painted in such a way
that all a person could do
is just sit down in front of it
and take it in and try not
to go immediately insane as
Chris walked around sucking desperately on a joint.
He would pace behind nervously,
like he was pacing next to the body of person he'd just killed.
two words

Wednesday

always some detail prevents the situation from being perfect
a rip in my shirt
a rash
a person in the room I have yelled at
or had miserable sex with
some weird smell
I do occupy a seat on the bus
and one on the subway
and I do have a desk where I sit at work
and an ambulance will be called for me atleast once
and when my time comes
you will find me in the back of the place
at the last pool table before the kitchen
with a dim light glimmering on my pallid cue ball
It was a weightless,
light bending vacuum
that sucked the air out of our lungs.
Jen sat on the floor of the van Indian style.
She leaned back on her palms
and laughed.
I slammed on the brakes
when we reached the bar.
We jumped out.
Everybody outside of the bar
looked at us like we were crazy,
and we liked that.

Saturday

there will be times when I have a car
and times when I have to walk
when I have to walk maybe
I will finally finish that poem of mine
about objects I see laying in the street
some broken eye glasses
a lug nut a woman’s shoe
a withered glove curled up
that looked like a dramatic hand
shell casings
dead things
a baby carriage with one of the wheels missing
the missing wheel
a toy car
woefully out of proportion
to the grand human sized road I walk beside
and also somebody’s notebook
that had fallen apart
or had been ripped apart
the pages were strewn
up and down the street
some of the pages were
stuck by the wind
in this chain link fence
I walk beside
some lay in the gutter.
I never read a single word off of any of the pages,
I just look at
the shape of the paragraphs
on each page
as I walk down the street.
They grow more and more faded
every day that I pass them
these pages from someone’s notebook
maybe ripped out in a fury
with tears and curses
and then the poor person
just gave the thing to the blowing breeze
and here they all are the pages
and I wonder whether the poor person
has to travel this way every day
and has to see the pages strewn
up and down the street
and I’m talking a good half mile of Duke Street
strewn with notebook pages
does the owner or ex-owner
of this notebook travel this way daily
does the owner laugh about it
and tell people of that crazy day
beside the road
or do they cry every time they see it
or even think about these pages
this disemboweled opus
or journal
or was it a really long suicide note.
Maybe it was a book in progress
where the author just could not reconcile
the main character’s love of this
with his hatred of that so
he just ripped it apart
and took up a course of study in accounting
with a minor in psychology
so that maybe he could straighten himself out a bit
or maybe some strange person
walked down this street one night
and carefully placed each page
in its place on the street methodically measuring
the distances between each page
maintaining pensive intervals
and maybe he would soon take up courses in psychology
this strange litter bug,
this odd propagandist,
this freak of the night would take up psychology courses
or just do a bit of reading about psychology
like I sometimes do
I would read psychology
and realize the problem
and go about fixing it
just like those books
that tell you how to fix your car
just replace this
and lubricate this other
but then I got bored
and craved my old neuroses
and niggling pathologies
and go back to writing glib poems
using a lot of alliteration
because I just read words straight out of the dictionary
Guys who would sock me in the stomach
but give me a bite of their sandwich.
Guys who would throw a
Slinky in the fan belt of my friggin car.

Wednesday

I remember when that garbage truck went through
The Downtown Tunnel
With its hydraulic forks up and got stuck.
Imagine the terrified driver.
Rolling along fine then
Suddenly he hears
An eardrum destroying sound of
75 mile-per-hour steel
Gouging through tile into concrete.
He lurches face-first into the windshield.
"What the motherfuck?!?!"


Saturday

I suddenly knew exactly how this complete stranger
would react to the news that he only had a month to live.
I could picture what he would look like crying.

Monday

NEVER WRECK
YOUR CAR IN FRONT OF
AN ART SCHOOL

Tuesday

I start thinking weird thoughts on the subway. I am standing there crammed in with so many silent strangers. Everybody scans the entire car looking for some empty space to let their gaze fall so that they do not make eye contact. I get paranoid. I start wondering whether some of these people can read my thoughts. That is why they are so silent, I think. They are all having conversations in their heads with each other. I shout things inside my head like, “If you can read my thoughts, give me some kind of sign.” Then I look around for the most intent looking ones. If anybody's face twitches when I pose the question, they are able to read my thoughts, and they are doing so right then.