I've been feeling like drawing again.
This is a problem for writing.


Tell me things you want to hear.

The fork is a rib
and my god; your face
is somewhere on
some other pillow drooling
and satisfied. Blank
as a bus stop.

Tell me again.
The most beautiful dream is either of nothing or of emptiness.

I am obsessed with space, location, communication, and how we define ourselves and the meaning of it all. Every conversation I've had with people lately makes me feel like walking wouldn't ever be enough because we'd just end up getting somewhere anyway.

themes

If you think about something long enough, will it happen? Can you create the disease you fear?

There are themes that have reoccurred to me lately. Of the circular life, the chicken drops the eggs it hatched a minute prior. A man chases his truck as it rolls in a circle, only for it to catch on fire. Marie Howe describes her brother's fear of going blind. He takes down the chandelier; he is so afraid it might fall in his eye. Then he gradually goes blind through sickness. A man fears being insane. Each time the dream is a step closer to the moment when it creeps out into what might be waking.

Please see Lunacy by Jan Svankmajer.

Sometimes I feel like I'm exploding; or maybe just expanding along with everything else.



Forget what I said about saying,
and just hear what I mean.

An oily layer left over
from all my days spent
walking about
the house.

You know, you know.
Somewhere deep down
there is a tired person
waiting to take a nap.

I can't believe the rain kept me
awake or waiting or anxious
to just let it all

go somewhere for once.
And you do know,
don't you?

That oily layer
and the way the cat feels
before you shower.

I don't know why things happen.

I think you can pretend you do.

Some things annoy me, and I think about why.
What it all means.

I think about salmon, and the idea of being cool, and what a fire means.

What does it mean when he takes off his shoes, his socks?
What does it mean when the unread books pile up, but I write four poems?

It takes something to be real.
Something to be grounded.

Here comes gravity,
the big stupid apple ready to hit us all over the head.

obvious

I'm just trying to reach you.

I'm just trying to understand.

I was told to stretch my thoughts out,
I've been trying. I've been trying.

History Channel

One time I made my grandfather cry because I was playing Oregon Trail and announced one of my characters died while he planned my grandmother's funeral with my father. My dad yelled at me, and I don't really remember what he said exactly, but I remember feeling embarrassed. I finished my game. I'm not sure if I won or not.


As a kid, my dad fed me a lot of poptarts, Mt. dew, hot dogs, apples, and Kraft "shells and cheese".
Not saying that my dad was the typical dad and didn't know how to feed children. I just don't think he knew about all the different kinds of food items that are out there.

dealing with every day

I watched this movie today.

Afterwards I had to get my sheets out of the dryer and then walk to the Q train to go to work. I was shocked at how appalled I was by people, now knowing that they are constantly on the brink of madness. It isn't something separate, unfelt by the normal sane community.

A woman in the movie broke windows to soothe her anxiety. I drink teas and sit silently listening to talk radio. Laugh about things I actually have a lot of anger about.

The boy showed no signs of remorse for his actions,
he did not understand his crime.

one more

I've been touching
all the third, fourth, eighth lampposts.

A pattern
for the lost sense.

obsessive

I have been thinking a lot about skateboards and literary magazines.


I feel overwhelmed by my obsessions,
walking slowly,
the ground a point of interest.
Two feet in the square,
one long stride one short.

I saw this smoothie/organic resturant that the delivery people rode skateboards.
I got an application, but I already have an awesome job.

Maybe if I had three jobs I could buy a skateboard.
But when would I ride it?

faces

"You look like her,
when you smile just
like that."


Only, what about
my ears,
how noticeable they become in a ponytail.
The scar on my nose
that someone tried to rub off
thinking it was only pen ink.

It seemed as if she
was non-returnable,
non-refundable, somewhere else
smoking the wooden pipe
and tending to the basil.

And now I have no idea
where I stand. What
my face means to me,
or how my face crosses
the faces of others, or
what would happen if we
were each on the side of
a subway window.