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I’m rooted firmly in reality, by which
I mean the G train on 12/21/11. A guy reads

carefully in dove-colored Converse. A small
girl wears a fake amethyst ring, and even the bald
Dravidian man looks ashen in New York
winter subway light. I’m thinking
of the curtain of jerky in Ariana’s poem,
the god of meat, the poem’s peregrinations.
Me I am busy, sometimes I go places I don’t
want to go, the sky’s head is heavy. I can tell
already this will be a “lyric” poem, and
I’m making you think I’m writing it
right now, or all at once.  Ha! Fooled
you!  Now a homeless man with a huge
protruding lower lip and two teeth on the
bottom is singing a détournement of
God Bless America:  “land that I own.”
Ah well. Even those who own things
die.  Trump looks like he is going to
explode. He looks like someone I once
knew. Anyway I put a wild cowrie into
the golden expectations of my physical
nervousness – there a cloudy bank roils
around the hipper convergences – monsters
storm by my side in the form of tiny
husbands – a train caught in  seaweed
belches babydolls singing, “that is a
arrow, yes it is, it’s a triangle, it’s a
arrow.” Babydoll’s purple mylar wings
wither with a kind of half-baked disgust;
maroon swooshes attack the populace
as coded glom, misread signs of Greek
woes. The mayor hits a nerve. I don’t know
what to think.  A crowded poem is no excuse
for an improper touch. What did you say
your name was? Harry?  Jerry? Larry?
I want to play with my rotten head.
Sex is a sport.  She’s the illustration. 
There’s nothing like me in the culture.
Sexy hellcat shows her claws as hubby
looks on.  Everyone is a type. Even
Douglas Rothschild is a type. Flexible
dollars dot my aging hair. There’s a spider
in the next world. Depraved hillbillies
nurse their mighty peccadilloes, but I am not
a drug addict, I love with a fatal
hormone and a brighter agency! Out!
Out, vile lilt – it’s love for every one
of you, those I know and those I don’t
know, those I have not forgotten,
those I object to strenuously, and those
I hanker for in the inevitable diaspora
of molecules.
Bounced and jostled by society’s
clank, we build up job skills. The
security guard leans against the pole
with his hand in his security guard
pockets. I moan a little inside, but from
anxiety, not from lust. Lust itself
is like a free app that when you tap it
turns IMHO into a rubber unicorn,
and I appreciate that because I am
basically a sympathetic person,
left-leaning but cynical, with a
decent-sized collection of mouse
hats – and what did you say your
name was?  Perry? Barry? Mary?
Anyway, I forget, and wax my
moustachios higher in preparation
for the end of the song, its indefinite
searing warble, its cloyingly intimate
swerves. The memory of you is lodged
in my labial folds – like a deer tick.
Not really, but I wanted to write that.
Really, all I need is time.  All anyone
needs… is time.  This drastically
oversimplified theory of survival
leaves out several essential factors,
like tea roses, vegan boyfriends, cool
French theory books, and instant
streaming. Yeah, I guess you could say
this is a kind of instant streaming.
Or instant dreaming.
Oh, the crowded city makes me tense
like a snake.  The police eat our pizza
as I lip the frilly edge of anxious
solitude.  I don’t say that to sound
sexy – I walk into the sun, my sheets
turn over in dismay – I’ve got a vulva
full of rage and fear and I’m not afraid
to use it in the flustered nite, all
ferklempt like a tangerine section
that is really an orphan sunchild’s
disconnected ear found somewhere
on another planet’s slushy frigid moon.
Earth balance. Beans. Well, the mangle is
the message,  and the eagles (and the
eagle-faced people) have some
other – angular – planet, and wind…
will become light. He who rolled
in as internal clench, she who filed her
toenails and told me I needed to “get away
from exotica”  – they will become light,
too.  This peregrination.  The zipper folders
full of DVDs – their sinister prismatic glint.
I need to build more repetition into this poem.
I want to play with my rotten head.
Play, play, play.
Babydoll belches lavender,
belches lavender
belches lavender
belches lavender
belches lavender
belches lavender.
Out, vile lilt.
Out, out, out.

like eating ladyfingers all the time

Got up overly early as punishment for not properly maintaining the balance of daily life, and wanting to be free.  Decided to paint my nails five different colors, which I did.  Nail polish is horrible, it smells like death, I shouldn’t use it, but my fingertips look like jujubees.
Thinking of how extraordinary it was to be sitting next to Madeline Gins at the Skirball Theatre watching a [great!!] klezmer musical, Schlemiel the First, when one of the characters said, “We need to not die!”  I looked at Madeline in wonder.
Afterwards I sent her some links about Molly Picon and The Bagelman Sisters.
My notebooks are a mess, everything is kind of a mess.  The semester ended and I have been cleaning up my office in a kind of exhausted confusion.  What happened to all that activity. I need a VACATION.
I also need once again to be a more focused blogger.  These little witty snippets on facebook, it’s like eating ladyfingers all the time. 
I like old people who like birds.
I like people who like birds.
I’ve been to some readings.
Ariana Reines:
“I’m not good with time.”
“Keats had hair that is also in Italy.”
“You and your firewater
and mild poses.”
She uses a lot of Anglo-Saxon simple words and her work is at once colloquial and mythological.
Dana Ward:
“data pastries”
“our songs taught me, just do what you want to do and don’t worry about it”
“the eyelash piece of fabric I vanquished.”
“mystify the world in order to fortify its / enchantment.”
Stephanie Young:
(referencing  Rodrigo Toscano) “the problem of the person as a treasure map”
“it [Hannah Weiner’s The Fast] is a book about not having a bathtub at a time of extremity”
“water only conducts water from other bodies”
“I was a dog who wanted other dogs.”
I went to a talk about conceptual writing at the white house.
Steve Zultanski quoted Bataille on poetry’s “instrumentality grounded in non-instrumentality.”
Sandra Simonds:  “Work for a poetry that isn’t at home at this white house or any white house.”
Rod Smith:  “the avant-garde is a stance toward reality,” and he paraphrased Deleuze and Guattari:  “the function of art is to create new experiences.”
Reading books flutteringly.

Jean Luc-Nancy on Listening.
An essay by Jena Osman on Bern Porter.
Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl’s Booby Be Quiet.
Anselm Berrigan’s Notes from Irrelevance.
Dana Ward’s This Can’t Be Life.
A book about The History of Dolls.

[Just sort of read on the train this morning the too too ironically named House Organ, which persists in sending two copies to the apartment. Didn’t he change his address?  The first thing I always notice about it is the numbers trouble.  It’s slightly better this time, 38 penises and 9 vaginas. Anyway, get this, there’s a contributor in there named Heman!  Heman! And all these “yrs” and “&s”…  (one poem reads:  “yr eyes &/ testicles//equally/useless here”… um… my testicles?) … a rather nice poem opening the issue by Joel Lewis, though, (“I’ll give twenty dollars to the person who can pinpoint when the ‘slow clap’ first appeared in a movie.”), and a treasure hidden toward the back by iGloria Frym: “How come it took you so long/ To get it? Oh look, another demand:// Embrace Change.”  That’s so Berkeley!]

I’ve been taking drops of B vitamins; it gives me the most extraordinary feeling.
Each person has the nerve to have a life story, parents, etc., such as the mother who shot herself and her two children because she was denied food stamps.  We must spend so much of life in a scramble for continuance.
I saw Melancholia.  Joyelle McSweeney’s review of it is the best. I had a discussion about it with my friend Peter.  I thought Claire’s desire to watch the apocalypse on the terrace with a glass of wine was totally bourgeois (I agreed with Justine saying that was just shit), perhaps because I don’t have a terrace and I don’t drink wine. I said that the way it ended was right:  in a moment of human contact.  He said I was being quasi religious, judging people’s reactions to extreme situations.  He said something about how Claire “grew.”
And I realized that I don’t care about how characters “grow” in literature.  Such a view of things seems to be predicated on a progress model of life and society, whereas it strikes me that really we are all just hurtling toward decay, and literature is a way of diverting ourselves in the meantime.  It isn’t to “improve” us.  I suppose that notion comes from religion? And is carried over into the post-industrial?
Society, which is supposed to be a “safety net,” strikes me more as a kind of landmine of instability, confusion, and competing self-interests. A bunch of succubi. Am I wrong? Someone tell me I’m wrong?
Foil of restiveness – dry breast – hebdomadic lyric PLOD.
Oligarchy of the stupid. I forget the “t” of “ist”:  socialis, communis.
Poetry as “personal tech.”
Blue panoply. Fitters……..
ffire breasts
nice train
the most uncertain thing I’ve ever seen
pale imitation/pay limitation
I want to be present with people.  I make imaginary structures – world of cute babies – they are hard work, and we are a dopey species, just afterthoughts of microbes.
You (“husbands,” “best friends,” “uncle figures drunk on anger”) aren’t real people, you are asshole people.
Your eyes, assholes.
Your mouths, assholes.
*  *
A half-naked urchin huddles in the doorway.
It doesn’t sound like it, but I’m actually in a pretty good mood.

Dr. Zizmor Gently Cleanses Your Skin With a Fruit Wash

Trained crows can mollify police en croute.

We’re replacing tranqs, singing gels, tranced, and blowsiness.
And rebuilding carnations.
Staring or mooing between ears is prohibited.
Simpering tomatoes of the past hands in a trend of movement.
Always conduct a trained crow in caws of agency.
Forced urgency toucan countess.
Vacuuming the tracks of tears – white people – a merged sea.
Trunklike fuschia retort. I’m tiiiired.
Like fabulous… paedic ruination!