facet

they cut diamonds into several different shapes.

the slice of an orange is sensuous.

careless

now
we called sam, ron, dana.

now we stopped
for beer

her father collapsed
on the floor.

now nothing.

now left
and yeft.

now i had no heart.

now it was mine
to give and she didn't need it.

there's a dark-furred beast lying out there.

constellation... i now know the meaning of constellation.

communism

song of soloman

left and right, left and right,
we could go on like this all night.

death comes on those who don't fight,
am i right? am i right?

didn't screw my harlot's parts
on for people without hearts.

crawling in my underwear:
i'm the sheep and you're the bear.

creepy-type people and the sounds that make them sleepy

you know how little there is radiating off this thing? it's like dark-ass matter. it's like a play for one, a play for all, you know? it's like eyewear.

i hate my life, gosh it. and that truth cuts like a knife. into a
melon.

i rage against the dying of the light.

i've totally lost my way. yesterday i watched eleven hours and twenty minutes of t.v. by the time someone dug me out of there with a knife i could barely tell left from right.

i'll tell you what's fierce. pride. yeah. and gum. when you've chewed it too long.

fragment me, bitches.

euthanized on a table

shostakovitch. it's what i say to war--
shostakovitch said it all before.

eleven hours of t.v.
in front of me, in front of me.

i'll tell you what else is red:
the beast with two backs.

christ! christ! christ!

we were running from the middle of the road to the sides (left and right) and then back to the center again, sort of in the manner of a wave from a physics book: maybe a, um, a redshifted frequency. just peakin' and troughin'.

i was fucking bawling by the end of snow falling on cedars and it wasn't even a good movie.

normal people, everyday people like you and me find money to feed their habits.

death's pretty imminent, yeah. we look up and the sky is blanketed with night, people, and fucking stars. doesn't this stink of unwashed metaphor to you? in the poems and songs, the stars come out at night--

a manifest of destiny. stars come out as we say they shall.

a picture and some memorandae

things to remember to see: bring me the head of alfredo garcia.
things to remember to read: lorca, st. augustine, hart crane.

wow, the sunset just shot me through. hey, like a peckinpah character! this sky is mad! and high!

i haven't been thinking poetically at all recently, which is why i haven't been writing poetically. fortunately, like tobias and the cut-offs, i'm back on the novel. oh, couden, silly, nobody cares about your novel. there is officially waaay too much junk food in my system right now for anything to come out of it that isn't crap...

nothing nothing nothing

"constellation" connotes something absurdly mystical, childish, or philosophical, though it's definitely the mysticism i object to most: i'm not writing about any universal whatnot, covered in timeless obscurity, bending under the weight of its own archetypes. a graph, however, assumes a pre-created continuity, which, though slightly more satisfying because not overloaded with sky, stars, space, infinites, universal truths, and seventh-degree removed physical mumbo-jumbo, is, from my perspective, which is generally the one i attempt to write out from under, pretty much entirely inaccurate. (i mean it's possible that, like dirk gently tells us, "insert dirk gently quote that has something to do with the interconnectedness of all things here," and so there is a graph, but i have no knowledge of it, hence the above "my perspective" thing.)

i'm talking about the interconnection of factors. yeah. factors works. there was something mentioned in lit 101 about this, something i didn't read, something to do with rhizomes, maybe?

man i gotta go back to school. i'm like isis searching for her husband's parts, except i'm not a goddess and it's possible there never was a body.

words create a picture and you can then look at it.

post-created

a first try at constellation

later, the sole of my foot
rubbed raw against the red leather of my shoe-sole.

the blood in the underwear
looked like a rorsarch inkblot, a fearful symmetry.

earlier, i was raw
before you.

not wanting to turn into
a cautionary tale about the dangers of walking at night.

you were the catalyzing agent
in this love that runs on its own--i apologize.

earlier i had not eaten.

in a dream you hooked up
the back of my dress.

earlier you had the profile
of a handsome cadaver.

later the whole thing remained
incomplete

happiness

a wordy poem

but the fragilities such joy is based upon
are in themselves so lovely:
a constellation of equations spread exact
upon the so-finite space of one graph:

it is itself a space of fine permeation.

i would have never known this
if i had not been in it.