What May Happen

When the time comes to transfer

the funds from the less stable what-ma-thingy

to the more stable whipper will, please bring your

paper towels and the bleach. Also, it might be nice

to have those surgical gloves. The interesting thing

about gloves is how they provide a layer, a boundary,

a fence (if you will) between the weird yard of your

skin and the weird yard of the thing you're touching.

Often, on lab days, when no one's around and

the secretaries are at lunch, I will open the scroll

that reads, like, like a menu of torture methods. I always

stop about mid-way through, fatigue mounting

me into a prison bitch. Lazing on the sofa,

dreaming of the time change, dreaming of the Jedi,

dreaming of the weird dreams of sleepwalk. Still,

to relieve the pressure, I'm going to have to

move quicker than I am accustomed to. I am used

to being very slow and snail-ish. I'm usually

proud of my sloth, but these days, with the economy

how it is and with all the regular bullshit

of regular living, I find my normally stable brain

is teetering and then, like a tiny bird egg, I'm somehow

lost in the grass and the perfect vegetable for a snake.

Having Real Ideas

No one cares if this is written or if I say

something or nothing. No one cares if, for once,

something happens or doesn't. I know people

who have strong feelings, but very few

of them know my initials. I have parents but

they have no bullhorns or cheer routines. No

one cares if I move on to something else, or if I stick

to something for a long, long, lengthy time.

Time gets very stretchy, like warmish taffy.

Time possess a similarity in sweetness and plasticity.

Also, there are wars and rumors of wars.

Also, for god so loved his something.

Also, there are different allusions that could be created

and many of them could be biblical in nature.

For instance, well, I think this has been covered.

For instance, fear not, for thou are with me, be

very afraid because I'm not easy to find but

I'm watching from a vase of fake flowers!

Nothing to Do

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Cheerleader

The big danger here

is lying

and not much to

say about it, but that

that danger is real

and, dude,

I could lie

or not lie

but the danger

is real.

So, when

you can,

change,

and, well,

if you can't

don't but

just

blame

yourself,

yea.

Car Ride

I

hope

I ain't

that

bad

a dad

cause

I try

but

it's

got

hard on

it cause

life

is

not

for

the

new

people

like

me

Realer

I don't believe in ghosts. Meaning,

I don't believe that spirits live on or something

and then kinda float around knocking things over

and causing water pipes to make extra nosies

and/or maybe making semi-scary moaning

sounds and/or appearing as bright orbs or

something in the background or foreground

of photographs. I know people say they've

seen ghosts and heard ghosts and felt

ghostly presences and all of that, but I don't

buy it. I think all of those people are in some way

mistaken. I don't think they're lying, I just think

they're confused about what happened. Have you

been confused before? It's an unpleasant sensation.

To remedy this sensation, human beings come

up with explanations. These explanations vary

in their degree of believability. I myself have

believed stuff before. That sensation is much

more enjoyable than the sensation of confusion.

Confusion feels funny in your bones. It might

shift around a little and make you feel as if you're

on a boat. That boat may be in a storm. That

storm may be causing giant waves to crash on

the deck. That deck needed to be cleaned anyway.

The death of the sailors is like the death of all

ghosts, sinking to the floor of the ocean and waiting

there, patiently, for something to make them realer.

The Rescue Operation

I told the girl I would try one of her

funky poems and I will, but not now, because

funky poems are hard poems and this

kind of poetry here is easier and more likely

to cause my mind to wander. I keep thinking

of the beasts in the field and the soil in

the earth. I also think of the yolk in the egg

and the egg in the belly of the alligator. I can

imagine the air lifting the leaves and the

trees teeming with certain grubs. I keep

thinking of the shellfish in the sea

and the water that it takes to move

a large, large ship through the ocean. I am

barely thinking of the girl now. Barely

imagining how she forms words with her

mouth and with the words she forms

whole rotations and spins. Sometime,

in the dark volcano of clocks, something will

rise up and up and, like a bird or a

paper airplane, sail out of this joint, into

the box where the rest of us are waiting

with our tied, tiny hands and our gags.

Big Auto

I've got this thing to do, see,

this thing to do, see,

see, I got this thing to do.

You know man, I've got

activities, man. Really,

you should pay attention.

Really, seriously,

I've got this thing to do so

I do it. Or it's midnight

and the largest car

on earth is just starting.

New PPP! Review in H_ngm_n!

"Peter Davis is able to say so much without saying, essentially, anything."

Bird Hopes

This is the sort of joke

that doesn't have a punch line

so I only mention it to make

some point I'm unaware of.

Shanna was talking about

training parrots and I'm down

with that and I'm sure others

are too. We all want to rule

parrots and make them

do our bidding. Ruling parrots

is the essence of humanity.

Also, I want to ride a jaguar

to work and, on arrival,

I want to enter my

office on the back

of a turtle and use some

sort of dinosaur blood to

endorse my paycheck,

Tina.

The Spirit World

I'm searching for the answers

and they ain't appearing no where

and so every redneck

with a guitar will do just fine

by me, seeing as how I've got

nothing to feel good or bad

about and not even a chance

or hope for salvation, just more

dead rabbits and unmended fences

and bridges that can't be built

without the help of seasoned,

alien workers, and scabs and scabs

and scabs on all of them and on

me and on you, I'm guessing. What

else is there in this universe but

a disco ball of doom and a DJ

who won't play the song you

want, but won't quit playing

all the other songs? That DJ is

called DJ GOD MUTHA FUCKA

and he can rock your shit for

a while, but, eventually, he's

going to leave you and you're

not going to get a chance to

say goodbye and, when you

get home, that night, you're gonna

cry cry cry because you're

his silly little bitch.

Facts, Tina

I don't want to do this and that's

pretty obvious. You and your thick

bones, your poof-y hair

and your insistence.

I hear you,

I'm just bitter about it.

I know exactly what you're saying,

but I think you're wrong.

I hear exactly where you're coming from,

I just think you're ridiculous.

You can stop now, or, if you want,

you can go on and on and on to

no one listening.

A Sonnet for Tina

Well I wonder how it happens that the weather

where you are isn't exactly the same as the weather

where I am. I'm no meteorologist, but it just seems logical

that the weather would be exactly the same everywhere

and yet, here we are: you in a very warm

climate, me where it is brisker. I also find it interesting

that not every single human being agrees completely

with all other human beings. In short, people have

slight variations, which seems unlikely, to say the least,

and yet, again, we find ourselves surrounded with

certain evidence. I don't know about you, but I used

to enjoy crime dramas. Also, I've played Frisbee and

rode a go-cart a little as a child. It's starting to

come together I think. This mystery about the weather.

B-Boy Ideas

You should accompany yourself with a radio

so as fill your brain with stuff so as to travel

more distractedly and thus more easily like a

quiet child, putting things away in an efficient

manner. You should bring extra radios

in case you must present one to a stranger

or leave one in the blank hands of an Amish boy.

If you are a person who enjoys horses,

then bring a horse or two. Or if you enjoy

baking, bring yourself baking supplies

and a decent sized portable oven. I can't know

all of your interests and beliefs, but use these

examples as examples of the kind of material

that is permissible, even encouraged in

small pockets of the population. Still I'm sure

the most important items are not transportable

and can't be folded into sections or unassembled

and really, besides, mostly we don't want

that shit, which would ultimately bog us down

into those muddy swamps we've been trying

to evolve from for, like, at least 15 minutes.

Seriously, it may have as much as 20 or 25

minutes. I'm old school. I think like that.

Quick

And I'll miss Friday too if I don't do something quick.

Missing Thursday

I missed a poem yesterday and

I feel really bad about that

because I know you, my dear, sweet reader

really missed the poem I missed yesterday.

But I swear to you and I mean this sincerely:

You missed nothing. My head was full of

baguettes and my soul was stuffed with olives.

My legs and toes were crammed with that

pink insulation stuff and my chest was

heaving drastic teardrops that fell as far

as a hundred feet or more before

dissolving into a pool of all the

teardrops that have already dropped.

Seriously salty up in this mutha.

Obviousness

One drives a car because the car is a set of functions

that requires a person to activate it. So you

activate that shit and you pull out of your driveway

and you follow various signs and you direct

your face and auto toward something that isn't

immediately available. That is called the future.

The future, as I understand it, is a concept meant to

indicate something that may or may not happen

in an hour that is to come. All of the hours that come

seem similar to the hours that have passed, except

for when they deviate wildly, causing very strange

sensations that cause readjustments in the attitude

or outlook of your mind-eye. Jesus, Tina,

seriously, you should get this. All of your time

studying various philosophy and yet you still look at

me all gape-mouthed? It's simple: certain concepts

instruct you pretty much so just by thinking them.

Tuesday Evening

It's not that I don't know what to say

it's just that there are too many options and too many

rules and a truckload of misaligned shit that has to saddle

up with it and keep it all together while moving it

forward in such a direction that is progress, if not entirely linear.

Most of my life I've been very confused. The amount of time that

I've spent confused is equal to the cold strangeness of hunting

very small animals. I know most of us know what I mean. We

know the feeling of stalking through a field

in an olive green hunting cap, with rust-colored boots, and

flannel trim on our gloves. We all know the buttery rush of memory

and the half second of Death springing into the wounded torso

of some furry little situation of small animalness.

Who has not yelled to the gods? Who hasn't screamed to a million

unseen fences and tossed rings over hundreds of human heads?

Everyone has these same messy nightmares, except

some people don't know it. I'm of the type who is confused and messy

myself. All some small animal situation myself. You know how

this goes back. Before long, you're consulting your mother

about your uncle who is a tall gentleman with a wide, brown mustache.

It gets gone almost before you even get there. It's like you

wouldn't notice but you do. In that position, you wake, put on your

clothes and reach into open air. By constantly changing the

empty space around you, you feel like a rich man for micro seconds,

and that's good enough, or, say, sorta.

A Letter from the Past

It is not good news to get bad news, especially

involving words like "degenerative" and "chronic"

and "analogy." You have to adjust your ears in such

a situation, so as to loosen the vibrations a bit,

and allow them to trickle toward your innards. My

innards are powerful lonely and my teardrops

contain a little jewel of the past. To imagine

the decisions of childhood matter! That there

was never any house money! O, honey, I wish

I was a new culprit of dawn! I wish I could dredge

the dregs from this soupy mess. As a kid, you have

eyes which you use to imagine and as an adult

you have eyes which you use to re-imagine. The

pattern isn't perfect, but it's close enough to

remind you of home. And where is a home for

someone from the future? In your bones, idiot.

In the way they hold themselves in your body.

One Problem with Children

The only known solution to a lost child is to

find the child and return the child to wherever

the child is from. There's a girl lost in the neighborhood.

There are children all over the world who disappear.

There are children everywhere that are being mistreated

badly. So much so that nobody understands the

nature of, say, even a basketball game. We look like

very stupid faces when we get on TV and try to

predict the course of the future. O, the future! That

vibrant little package of hope! We are unwrapping

it even now. Even now we are unwrapping it more.

It keeps unwrapping and we keep speaking about

our faces and how stupid they are. Even very stupid

writing poetry! I mean, of course, poetry. The parts

you don't count on are what sticks from the past,

that vibrant mercurial beast of Cling Town. From those

cages whole hosts are unleashed and breathe forth

with biblical happiness. Which is hardly happy but

at least able to set fire to cities and kill, say, everything.