from BLUE BOOK #1
it was on Western Avenue
about 7:30 p.m.
I was walking south
and on the 2nd floor of
a motel across the street
in the apartment in front
the lights were on
and there was this young man
he must have weighed 400 pounds
he looked 7 feet tall
and 4 feet wide
as he reached over
and rather lazily punched
a naked woman in the face.
another woman jumped up
(this woman was fully clothed)
and he gave her a whack across
the back of the head before he
turned and punched the naked one
in the face again.
there was no screaming and
he seemed almost bored by it all.
then he walked over to the window
and opened it. he had what looked like
a small roasted chicken in his
he put it to his mouth
bit nearly half of it away
and began chewing.
he chewed for a moment or
then spit the bones carefully
out the window
(I could hear them
fall on the
good god jesus christ all mighty,
have mercy on us all!
then he looked down at me
as I quickly moved away
ducking my head down
into the night.
Dec. 15th on the train
Three years ago I rode a California Zephyr
the opposite direction from absolute sexual mist.
It ended five days ago as a twinge.
It's impossible to have night vision on a train
& tracing landscapes under the sun distorts
eye sight. Children say, "Ah, nuts!"
Coffee is good if purple, I don't get wired
but fill with delight. A dirty tooth sits
next to potential sex. If not for mist I'd
be poorly thought of by fear. Pie would be
good, & no dusk but for Nevada's. Now
I work without my old within, reentering old Colorado.
I'd have sex with Colorado, though not with
New York. I mustn't tell my brain about this.
Does my brain know it's not me? I am holding
you & kindling. I hope Shawn isn't mad that
I didn't write. I only write mom, but it's
hard to tell people that. I watched my kinder
garten teacher bury a hamster at what is now
Naropa. I didn't have many friends then but
David was there & I had action figures. Imagination
never failed me, but it did distract me three years
ago, long enough for emotion to take action.
Six years ago in a ripped black shirt on a lawn
chair under the sun I read Pride & Prejudice at
a party. It made Bobby smile. I don't know
much about Bobby except that she was a folk song
I think. I saw the album. I don't know who I
should call this time.
the leaves have
from BLUE BOOK #2
The Stones After Sappho
some girls like the opening chords
of Some Girls & some girls
like opening the cords of some girls
some girls like both
HEY I'M FRAGMENTARY
You're lying to me about the turmeric
no? (try 3-B)
siddown! now I'm ready
Tweedledum between the wars
are you fraught? I'm a dunce
so be sure of nothing
(notes on radiator drapes and pulls)
have you ever taken coffees?
try Napalm Airlines
not any New York in a gunnysack
(that ape from Singapore)
right away they want to take your number
I'm a big dumb Abner-type dude
lost in apple space
(a dangerous mental statement)
one of the ones with no eyes
and won't put off ailments
the last time I washed myself in public
I think Magic Marker
to be tired blood
Deep in the night,
a screech from
the phone line
as creatures battle over
to be punished,
(on first looking into Whalen's Overtime)
I dreamt last night that Kevin Opstedal and I went to visit the artist
Joe Brainard in an enormous skyscraper in New York City.
Once there, we waited outside his office where Joe was looking young and
working away with his shirt off.
He seemed to be in pretty good shape.
His hair was dark and curly.
His office was like a receptionist's area -- it had a little receiving window.
After a while, Joe looked up and said: "How can I help you?"
Kevin had written several letters for Joe, and Joe read them with a magnifying glass.
He had a computer, which surprised me.
Once he had read the letters, he came out of his office and said: "Let me introduce you to my wife."
"But I thought you were gay," I said.
"It doesn't really matter here," Joe said.
We then sat down in the living room with Joe, his wife, another woman we hadn't yet been introduced to, and two dogs. Everything was quite shiny and oblong in a real '70's way, and the furniture was gray leather.
The old gray dog got mad at me for petting his back too hard.
"Are you writing much anymore?" I asked.
Joe said he wasn't, which was disappointing.
But it was so nice to see him that it didn't matter.
Just an ordinary dream.
My dreams of the dead are often very ordinary.