Notebook 9

telling people the Jeff story as if he were an enemy


the seconds threaten


I may never use the sperm they produce


from the beaches of your eyes


the arm is an extension of the brain


using the orgasm lever


light on the light light arm


the baby piglets are grunting and walking the baby humans are kidnapped and helpless they can't even feed themselves unless mom holds them up the scrutiny of her breasts the deliberate swollen gestures


no hump de dump about it


there are no ghosts only miracles of living and breathing


fuschia the fruit the flower the fragrance the ideal no watermelon is ever as good as the one in your mind


could take this hour to you and say here this is my hour and what did you do with yours


footsteps independently productive on my floor painted with glass brick and sand


don't shake that hallway


chocolate cake and cigarettes in no particular order the smell of fart mixed with potato chips


crown down at the top of the underground well the architecture of which none of us knows


it wasn't at all your fault the way mice warm up the cage for one another


self-consciousness of planal cell polarity


making no impressions on my slutty green shirt


desperate to get out of my own skin the light shin the light on the shin the light glinting off the shin dimming the lights and it not working


I like the color lime green like kiwi pie


hips the pale skin of a woman and not one who is snotting out


small words make a really long sentence


well I do have a mustache but that doesn't make me any less famous


we can make bunnies that glow in the dark


33 cents a pound for bananas and 69 cents a pound for the green apples I don't wish were red


I can't tell if that brown curly haired person in the third row is a man or a woman but eithe rway unattractive


a wary arrow


because I did not sleep with a cute your boy after the AA meeting last night so I could get out of my skin face your stuff, don't stuff your face


if you get the mark drunk and sleep with him maybe everyone is playing an angle


like Lily that pickpocket from the movie


I almost last all the images of 70s porn stars that is something I could never apologize for


about C. B.'s sister's death falling from the parking garage in Harrisburg and all the kids dying from the beer enemas they took being alcohol virgins


am I older than I seem or older than I am because of all the disease I have survived and the fact that we could all die today


are you a fly lab or a marsupial lab or an animation sequence


she's a writer director in Australia with hard-boiled egg breath


the molecules up in my nose will become part of my bloodstream


a bad smell becomes even worse when you realize molecules of it are going into your body


hiding all the young girls in alcohol


so young and short and frothy


time created here by the opening and closing of every auditorium door


I do not want to do it I want a whole pumpkin pie in my mouth my mom's recipe but maybe a whole thing of cool whip too


brother was all like I get to be cloudy day and I get to be sunny day and I felt not strong enough to win


why do we always think our siblings are going to have interesting things in their drawers


the red the orange the blue on the computer screen makes my mouth tired


my mouth feels full of sour rotted rotted planks of old milk but not in a good way like cheese


wear maroon or boots or anything embroidered


these people are all leaving I don't know why time to clap earlier my poo smelled like blueberries


now it smells like sausage in the bathroom with the snot dried along the wall


it now sucks like sense trying to struggle from the thing of verbs


you call windmills


four am bearded dragon


this pasting going to come to any good effect?


just met Jeff Axelrod and couldn't stop staring at his arms


I want to eat my dinner and never worry about e-mail again I want to rent a car conscious of only wanting to escape


and that hot guy with that ugly girl beside him owning his beautiful face and not appreciating it the bitter taste of lust in my throat like rancid soy nuts in soy sauce or rice wine vinegar I hate the vengeance but I hate its object more for now


why do I give language all the desire I should have to give to myself


the beautiful naps of those deprived of sleep


for the first time in my life I'll be the minority and not that clean cut guy with parents who love him


tired to convince you and myself of that


right the song the finger the pearl the description the stoned girl the guy fucking her and how he even gets it up when they'll all on heroin I don't know


feeling of pennies and nickels and chapter books


things that should never be anthologized