Seriously

I've got no real power

but I'm working on that

shit cause, like, man,

that shit is on fire in me.

And I've never meant

to hurt a single one

of you, though

I've done it I know

and I know

that I've done it. Just,

listen, man, forget it

and let me know later

or not, no matter

just whatever because

well, jesus, doesn't really

matter anyway, anyway.

How Something Isn't New

I'm trying to grow into something

bloom-y and pretty to the naked eye.

I want to be a bigger engine and to hum

louder than a novelist or a baker. I have daydreams

about what could happen, what might

manifest. In my chilled night hours, alone like

a wasp at a window, I buzz strongly and feel

likely to move into a new dormitory, where lunch

and dinner are served with dark bloody gravy. But

when nothing happens, I think of my children,

learning to be themselves and falling in love

with everything new. They are smart,

good kids. They make these high-pitched tiny

sounds with their mouths and laugh in bubbles.

They don't know the gravity that falls on the earth

or the lungs that power the body or the brains

which scramble the too much info. They are

just blind moles of love who shuffle quietly around.

I think of birds sometimes.

Other times, without thinking it through, I notice

my surrounding and the terrible colors.

I feel spooky, Tina.

I feel deadly and flat.

So Long

This nonsense about the applesauce

and all that horseshit about the petitions

and all that crap about the articles

in the brochure and then there was all that talk

about the birthday, and how what's-his-face

screwed you over when it came to the bake sale,

and, in all seriousness, I hardly know

what to say. Tina, you're a terrible person.

I've spent years justifying your insecurities

and your violent displays of power, but, listen, I've

grown up, man, I'm not that kid I used to be. There's

no way I'm going to change the program at this point.

I know it's killing you, but I'm not changing the

backdrop or the postcards. You can have the stuff

in the fridge and you're welcome to remove all

of the samples you provided, but, beyond that,

it's over. No more late nights at the lake, no more

Sunday gifts and calls from the highway. I'm not going

to remove the tags anymore or spray the apartment.

As far as I know, everyone else feels

the same way. You can ask, but I don't know.

Whatever. Whatever. You say you have my best interests

in heart, but the a evidence is a touch bleaker

than that. I don't know. I don't know anymore. It's just

lonely now is all I'm saying. Jesus, Tina, try to step

outside of yourself for a moment or two! You've

got to make changes! You've got to give up the Nazi shit.

You've got to change your hairstyle. You've got to move

on Tina. You dragging us down like a dead clown! It's

time to let childish things go! Grow a fucking pair!

We Pull Up Our PJ'S

The People that Exist

A person has a car, they use it to drive

places.

A person has a voice and so they use it, they

sing or talk or grunt in funny little ways.

People use their mouths to maul

their food, or to kiss a loved one.

People have friends. They call friends and say words.

They exchange glances and noises.

One person buys another person dinner.

One person has an idea and they ask another person

for an opinion.

Life is always moving into a new event.

Have you witnessed the nature of popular movies

and the always changing into something that is the sameness

of pop music? You are probably aware of the passage

of time and the little anomalies.

That's not the sort of thing I'm thinking about in

this particular event. Here, I'm addressing

something both more primitive and

stranger. To me, there is such a thing as a swimming pool

that swims in you.

Imagine the way neighbors have to negotiate the fence

between their properties? Do you see where I'm going?

In spite of everything, it's tiring using

language to get to something.

Certain people have certain strengths and certain weaknesses.

All of this stuff comes to light sometime.

Or it doesn't. Who knows?

People know about mysteries or they don't.

People understand mysteries or they don't.

A person can look at a cloud and see a shape

or they can't.

Egg Boy

My god, time passes!

It looks out the window,

yawning very strangely.

Hitler and Himmler

and other H's drift

past and yet the wind

also blows by,

yipping and yapping

and removing

the finish from the

furniture. O, it's so bare!

My seats, empty of

their patina! Shit!

Love, I want

you to sit with me

awhile, not unlike

the egg a baby chick

kicks at!

I'm Doing Some Reading This Week!

A little tour with my pal Michael Schavio starts tomorrow.

In the Future

I get super nervous. Like nervous in

a spectacular fashion. Such that my battered

brains get so bubbly that I just can't

help but take it out a little on the world.

So in this way, I am flawed.

It's like that Space Shuttle that blew up.

It was flawed, too.

But humans get these softer flaws, these

fleshy little plump flaws, that one could

almost suck on like a woman's nipple.

But it's not nipple at all. It's not even a

human. When the years

begin to choke the squirrels from my throat

I believe I shall be moved to the window

where I will open it and say something

absolutely very important.