Thursday

No, the address on my license does not match the adress where I currently reside.

(. . . and, no, Borf is not caught)

Wednesday

stomp on the hose that makes the bell ding inside
When you fall asleep on the commuter train, and you miss your stop, and you're on there just snoozing away, and the train finishes its run, and it pulls back into the yard, and the mechanics and all are there . . . you should see what they do to you

With a rowdy re-entry before lunch
and random numbers on the couch

I fixed him a plate
during all the wobble talk

each remembered when we all walked together
but no two continue to pace the same

a fraction of a mile per hour
accumulations of time in the face, feet, and belly

certain roads hurt the feet
we’re walking now, concentrate

pauses and accelerations
perfect places for lunch

when years between bites
decisions and the waitress

songs from north and south
channel three is thirteen and back again

when the impact and only
able to fix upon one phrase

up from the woods at night
and strike

the power of outside
the laws they break

every myth
every book they bind

the ceremony will proceed
it has been announced

Friday

. . . pullin apart my umbrella, putting pretty hats on unwilling heads . . .

Wednesday

From the bridge
the river bank below
visible from my seat in the back
when I was first able to see up and out

in that setting flowed many future memories
I would remember only by instinct
that shore
sighted from that bridge

a bluff there haunted with thoughts
something there for me
though I'd never been
a walk, a job, a course of study

I still glimpse the place
arriving by boat
or dirt road
or motionless thought

maybe it’s a wildlife refuge now
my vision captured the slowest
dynamic of the scene
geology slow

years when young weigh more
than those when old
warm was hot
cool was cold

poachers would only pass before or around
not through
nor during that vision
my dad humming at the wheel

a fisherman on shore
hooked our bumper
up on the bridge
and the line screamed off his reel

Tuesday

. . . and if one or two of your pubes pops out of your panties, hey, they won’t give you the death penalty . . .
reading minds without the use of a barf bag

Monday

I have not written a single poem about 9/11. Not one.

Thursday

visiting states with alligators in them

Wednesday

finding styley new ways to hang my sunglasses off of my person





-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-


-



-





-






-