look: the wintering sky
in morning, mourning,
cries a purpled orange.
driving, driving, driving,
not arriving
wishing i were on my way
back home.



Tastes like bURNing?

While walking today
over hard blue carpet
I smelled a smell and thought it sharp.
I thought of my friend's house
in summer. We were just boys.
When we were five, it would snow
and we'd go out to play in it
and we'd ask mom if we could eat it, too.
She'd say, "Yes but only the snow
that hasn't touched the ground,
or the car"
and I'd eat some straight off the hood
to see if something bAD for me would taste
a little worse, or
and it didn't! and i smiled big
and then we were 6ix
and i had knockeD A Candle?
off the end:Table and onTOo the
and the blACK spot in and/or on the car,pet
it REMAINs today:it is still my MOSTfault
and then we're older and OLDer and oldER
(time yawns deeply,eternally]
and We are older (be)stillll
ANDwe don't talk as muchMOST
but,he's still my friendhe's my brother.?

My thoughts are pulled back to the office,
where the smell grows sharper still
and hot and clean
and I never thought I'd die
in a fire I set.




What thing is there in me
you do not share?
What memory is mine alone?
Which day at the beach,
Which cookies out of reach
on the countertop?
What cookie jar fell,
what woman lost her top?

We are all Dilbert,
but Dilbert is no poem.

But poets die, cubicles collapse.
We all fall into Time's sure traps.
And still, into the end I walk, and sure.

Learn something from me, then,
says I, to myself.
Come live with me, upon a dusty shelf,
or wait as dandelions at the mouths of children
to be blown. What greater rhyme
for your self than my own?





Suddenly, I am filled with the desire to capitalize. Not always, not necessarily tomorrow, occasionally in the past, but definitely now. This is a step somewhere, I think. I think.


Suddenly I am filled with the desire to be somewhere, in class or reading some hideous contemporary poet just to hate him (or her, as the case may be), crawling, clawing my way toward an MFA. Still, today, Siliman rambles about iconic poems. Yesterday, it was phone conversations and emails as "conceptual poetry".

Suddenly, I wonder: is "conceptual poetry" taking Kundera's idea one step further, combining the ethics of essential and archive, such that the archive is presented as the essential itself. And I think, "Phone conversations? Emails? Somewhere, John Cage is laughing. At us, not with. Phone conversations? I think that's about 54 years late. Sorry."


Suddenly, further, I think, "What a great MFA paper this would all be." Alas, this post will be its resting place.

Suddenly, even further, I think, "But perhaps an archeologist of poetry will unearth, as it were, this post, and designate it an iconic piece. Perhaps it already is, perhaps disgrace." Perhaps.



everybody, everywhere

everybody hates their job
(no. dammit!
his or her!
there is no
singular their!)
or so i'm told, but i don't know,

poetry is everywhere i look:
regular three forty-one
plus three fifty-three
premium three sixty-three.

the plickity-plack of typing drones
,softly incessant,
falls like bitter rain on numbed, nubered ears.
what better way to pass the days, the years?



By five the spine is bent

By five the spine is bent
severely from the weight of day.
How many then say, "I am but mud
on the socks and shoes of a greater man
after his morning run
over trails of gravel, over chips of wood.
How many say as much-
how many should?



too much to ask?

(a poemlet for yesterday)

next year, i think, for lent
i'll give up hating government.




or, "a short study in sensuality"

too old to wear such skimpy things,
she did not care for simple rings or hats
or borrowed blouses.
she was slightly overweight,
enough to bend propriety's arm
but not to make one hate the sight of her.
she did not care what kinds of things
were better suited; she loved
miniskirts and walking, booted,
with a whorish strut.
no one ever, ever, called her "slut".
she was. exquisite.



and what today?

and what today? she thought.
a pretty girl sits next to me
(and by comparison, indeed, she shone)
and still i feel alone.

"descend into winter", indeed,
she thought
or cut myself until i bleed,
drive home in the dark of 5 o'clock
hem socks by 60 watts
and snowfall into a dreamless sleep.



Treated Spam

(à la Daily Treated Spam)

I shall do nothing,I told him, with the snapped

peephole in the door;only the normal activities were

of knocking around the known universe as they had never before.

But it wasopen,all she had to do was step into it.

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