5:09 PM - The state of love, trust, and opportunity

When i get cancer and there is no one
to take me to and from treatment.

Until then, no regrets

I will beget the soldier
steel his shoulder.

Recede, puking headstones, until my name is forgotten.

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6:40 PM - Sodomy Number Countless

Saturday evening

Three A.M. in demand
porno P.O.V. sluts number three and
the woman in the second scene

had your smile.

I dreamt you came for a visit to smoke
drink some beers and catch up.

The sky, cloudless breeze
was easy full of hugs

and i didn't want to kill myself.

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1:57 AM - (I) ( X ) 8===D ( )

You can break his ticker
tape the man together by mortar
shell out the wet cement
between her granit legs.

She is a dyke.

I am the dutchboy.

She would rather a flood.

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4:01 PM - Joyce plays checkers with an animated vagina

Six days ago I resolved to tell a story that happend 2 days ago.  Quickly thereafter i fell asleep.  I dreamt i was awake but when i awoke i was asleep.  Caught between Barak and a hard case. Passion and 30 blocks of text.  I had become a musk ox in full stomp during rut season.  The bed-side was lined with tube socks and devon, i was shepard of the juice wandering 40 days toward dessert.  finally

at the end

the commencement

A seizure of the roamin’

we parted. The seize and

 i ceased to exist

There are those who know
those who dont, you know
they out-number us two to stupid.

And i still say

fuck you.

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5:22 PM - notes to self on some damn poems or other i may or may not write

this is unintersting quick notes for me, if youre reading it, ill laugh at you cause its nothing really. I like making notes here because im loathe to use paper anymore, and my memory is shot, sort of.

2 fan

she wrote

Grey, hair, premature, present silver slat among black
Terrible derrivitave, cliche
fuck er cant tell no balls wont.(suzy anne)
(totally tough-ass soft-dick undertone with a hint or irony, mothafuckers, asshole called the kid a bowlingball)

Chanel No. 1234

Love poems for everybody tickle the nutsacks of the populace.

what yoo talkin’ bout willis? me?

Thats my mind until i form it into some smacked ass form of nonsense.  Its like a road jam.

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8:52 PM - 101

She had the heavy-wide fingers of a blonde
englishman minus the droll
charm and lectured:

"The job of a poet is to use thier subject matter,
be it a tree or an empty wine bottle,
to connect with thier reader and subtley relate it the human condition"

"If you can show rather than tell an abstract emotion
while invoking that feeling in your readers mind
you have created, through your words, art."

"what are your goals?"

I raised my hand:

"I want to be published so i can quit my job
and stay home to jerk off in peace."

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4:13 PM - Should i have shaved?

I stood in a paper
gown, eyes forward,
while his gloved hand cupped my balls.

Afterwards, we chatted
on politics, the weather, and that patch
of blood at the seat of my underpants.

I left with a prescription
for anxiety, a pamphlet about hemorrhoids,
and a silent prayer of thanks that i didn't get a hard-on.

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1:28 AM - S. Elizabeth Corning and the Hairless Man

There is a lingering moon to lay
beneath. Cool grass enmity as damp
unwithered and pillowed tongues of night
quiet themselves. She incubates her thighs
with three throw eiderdowns. She is twentyfive,
blinks, rolls over, and becomes thirty finding
nothing among the tides of cold sheets
on the other side of the bed.

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6:37 PM - Rumble Strip

1.

You are slate-smooth driven
highway kissing the dawn.

2.

The trees whipped passed the edge of a valley.
Blurs of green, yellow, red, orange
traffic lights and horns.

There is no stopping the right of way.

3.

You hung bare feet out the window,
said we'd eat the miles, pounding pistons
pedal to the floor forever, no exits.



There was a hiss-in-
take of exhaust blown
tires screeching skids of rubber.

your last sentences inhaled as glass.

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5:58 PM - Dropping a plugged in toaster

The elegance of language
lays contrast to the beaten path.

I could remove pieces of every finger and still sit in
two inches of bathwater imagining poetry
about jerking off  into my hand to throw at her face.

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7:41 PM - This is the end of faith

She laughs, kisses two
dead flowers with lips that can put a shotgun
beneath the chin of any man.

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1:57 PM - Posthumously Published From the Future

Just south of vaccuous image
there is the abstract of the innocent,
faultless self satisfaction.

The greats roll
thier tongues grave in cheek bones
sneer toward pseud's prick, pry,
ply, pick clean until craft becomes
mud thrown at the screen

door

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