TAKE IT IT'S YOURS

one said goodbye, keys in door.

 we had every kind of drink there is, separately.

plain with butter and salt. 

can you read what it says.

just dance

last chance

try again later

Today I've been on a dive.  Maybe not enough sleep.  Maybe rain, but like I wanna clock perfect strangers on the subway with a backpack I'm not even carrying.  Maybe seven strangers, I wanted to clock.  Guy sitting across three seats on a crowded train.  Why should I care except the self-centeredness makes me burn.  I guess it's just a day where I am seeing the underside.  Not every day can happen on 15 hours of sleep and be propped up by a dozen miracles over twenty minutes.  And plus today might even improve. But for now, it's a dive.  Here in half light, wishing for a changeup.  Last night I saw the darkest film (Christiane F).  It was slow to reveal its utter heave.  I knew it was to be gritty, and at first it also seemed luminescent, but over the garment of the thing, just became clear it was a bad down.  But worth it, how I am still thinking of it.  Toward the end of it, I couldn't put up with a single human, nor myself.  Barely managed to return Die Hard and pick up some strong beer and chips at the bodega.  Got a full tank and some chips, kept repeating in my head, at least I was on the right track. 
If I could now I'd go sleep this off, try and burn whatever this is off with hot water in a mug, in the tub, in some broth.  I thought writing would do it but I can still see the ground approaching far beneath me.

prose poem

There are good things always.  Things like milk, like salt.  Cubes of sugar, cubes of ice.  Broth and boullion and soap flakes.  The scent imparted by clean laundering, or hung on the line, or winter machine dried and clutched warm to the chest.  Books unmet by eyes, or also met by many eyes.  Dough and bread and butter which has been softened slightly, applied with generosity.  Tea and lemon, infusions of clove and orange and bergamot.  Either side of one's neck where which you can rest and nestle, clavicle, soft-skinned and supported.  Being held.  Enough in-arms time.  Rain checks and make-up, second chances.  Fast clocks surprise more time.  Wrist watch lack worry, on-time arrival.  That which is green and that which flowers fast.  Fast clouds and fast cars.  Windows down with the heat on the feet.  Fires of all sorts.  Folded paper, letters in envelopes.  Hand delivery, door bell, church bell, yes.  Ham and butter wrapped in fabric and lap unfolded.  Palindromes of course, full circle travel.  Rocks held warm in the hand.  Application of oil changes color.  Priming of water on paper for pigment slide.  Sine wave, surf wave.  Lessons in tightropes or surfing your high hopes or adioskansas full stop, whistle top, remember.  Print and cursive callous and ink.  Watery high and illustrious low.  Wait did I tell you my latest one--naming my futuredaughter first name faye middle name magnolia; it has a nice ring to it, and I think about NOLA bounce and I think about ladyboys and I think MAGNOOOOLIA!  MAGNOLLLLLIA!  do it do it do it / i think i just might / i think i just might

body capital

First I wanna talk about the difference between wanton and wonton.  Wanton--rogue right?  As in rogue justice.  What I feel of this word evidenced by the denotation: Marked by unprovoked, gratuitous maliciousness; capricious and unjust: wanton destruction. 3. Unrestrainedly excessive.  Now, wonton: popular dumpling, oft about soup, best filled with vegetable not animal, but that's me, not usually into mystery meat.  But speaking of mystery meat.  I was confronted with the image of "wanton fishes", because I was thinking of women I don't know.  Women who share a certain characteristic, body capital, a reckless lack of feeling, stupidity that conquers without feeling.  That which is unsisterly becomes sport.

take away or to stay

Since I am now a bachelor, I shamelessly frequent the Thai restaurant on the corner.  The decor is terrible; they practically chose teenage blood to adorn the walls.  But the food is good, and so is the economy.  Thursday evenings are the best because they have a live jazz trio play in the restaurant.  Total rescue from the vagaries of soft rock satellite radio they play afternoons and all other times.  Which rips at me, and yet the two men who always work graciously make me feel as though they've never seen me before.  I'm doing an exhaustive study of their Vegetable Drunken Noodle, so many many a drunken noodle that it's to the point where I wish I could tell them they really rocked it on the broccoli tonight.  And there'd be hi-fives.
At the risk of being repetitive and depressive, I find this ritual really comforting.  There's good color in the food, in the spice.  And on Thursdays is the chance to transcend milieu and hit the woody allen new york cruising altitude of awesomeness. 

while it's fresh

i woke up the first morning in my new house.  my bed, delivered yesterday, turns out to be too small so my feet curl off the edge.  the building i live in turns out to exude more than straight equanimity on a friday night but i think we'll get used to each other. 

i see a bird on the balcony (fire escape technically, but it's wide and was a magnetic feature in choosing this flat) outside my bedroom.  it's staring right at me, and it's a bird of prey, a hawk maybe, brown and white speckled and eagle faced.  there's feathers everywhere.  as i get closer i see that it's standing, but is bent in half, and the bottom half looks dead. 

i'm not sure when the huge goose bumps rise up on my arms and legs, making it look like i am covered in coarse sea salt.  i think that's not yet, because at this point i still think it's hurt and at this point is when there's tears in my eyes.  salt in the eyes yet.

but then it's clear, this bird is not hurt.  this bird is standing on top of a bird that's dead.  the bird that's dead looks like a dove, round white and brown, pink footed.  and there is a bit of blood on the beak of the hawk.  but the hawk is unconcerned with the dead bird at this point, doesn't really seem concerned with much, is exuding much...equanimity...at this moment, that which my building has lacked all night and all morning with the party stair climbers and fighting women.

hawk is clear eyed.  it's looking at me.  i project that it's lost somebird very dear to it, that it's brought the otherbird to my window to take some time.  i project, i project.

but the feathers are flying, in the wind of the airshaft, little bits of blood on the feathers.  the blood on the nose. 

i reach for my necklaces, which are on the windowsill, which is wide, where i have set up a makeshift altar.  the hawk scatters with my reach, though the window is closed. 

that dove is with a huge heart shaped gash where the head was

the hawk has long tail feathers, has retreated to another sill until i am done with my necklaces, then returns to my window to eat. 

CODA:
returned late in the day to find that bird still there!  having put in a full day's work devouring the dove.  i took a photograph of the bird, and it retreated fast, immediately snatched the last one-third of the dove and took off, leaving a mess of feathers and her void behind.  

i need to remember the names of all the other people's songs that i've sung and learn to sing them again

like race car drivers' names, i would like to recall them all.  if you remember any more will you tell me? i suppose i will take requests too

unchained melody

allentown
under the boardwalk

birds & ships

rhythm of my heart

a change is gonna come

you belong to me

bring it on home

do it to it

i'm on fire

paper doll

all through the night

in the aeroplane over the sea

the new zero

oh, and:
real love
dreamland
this will be our year

break-up fridge

remind me to tell you about break-up fridge

sliver

I'm wearing silver again.  Haven't wanted silver in almost ten years.  Gold, rose gold, gold has been the thing.   Now a marcasite clauddaugh ring from Eire at seventeen is on my finger.  Turned inwards, heart to me.  But it's not that I'm back to just silver, it's that I only want to mix my metals.  I just need to find some gold to my silver finger.  But silver I'm open.  You look good.

I've become superstitious

We always seem to have enough socks.  They serve a personal purpose that remains somehow unsentimental.  Even when a stranger gives you her socks, after a compliment, and they're still warm, there's still less a bond than an 

understanding

One of a pair may become lost.

I seem to have enough socks, and barely look at them.  And then it struck me this evening that my socks take care of me.  Warm, dry feet are not to be taken unseriously.  

Poemlike they come in and out of our lives over time; we acquire more 

it's quiet about it

the shape 

of sadness

it's just

I saw it just now

in three pairs 

laid out on my bed

still warm

See I've become superstitious

B BALL

Keeping busy is something, like dribbling a basketball, and you can't stop and start again.  Feel the texture of the ball, keep your knees soft, agile, use your eyes, your lungs.  The clock's running, the crowd you your team want a 3-pointer from half court at the last second, we want a slam dunk; we all want to win.  

It feels like that now.  The net is there, the swish is a possibility, this is a good metaphor for the moment.  Basketball's beautiful.  I played rec league in Collingswood during grade school. My team was the Tigers; we were complete underdogs.  Kinda rag-tag.  My mom took one look at me during a game told me later she felt like she'd cheated me never teaching me to run.   But some dad dude who ran the league told her I was an "exuberant" player.  Through it all I never forgot what that word means.

One year the Tigers won the playoffs by sheer luck and guts.  Until I moved to NYC I had my shirt from '92, I was #5 and someone'd written KICK ME in sharpie on the back at the end of season ice cream social.  It was out of love I'm sure.  I think Mimi has that shirt now.

Now I have house guests when I should probably be alone but it's all right, and I'm trying to dance a lot, let go, listen to the music and move.  I think the way out is through.  Even though it fucking sucks sometimes.  Stay busy, surrender to the feelings, accept the delivery. WHOA man.

My Love Grows Stronger

Totally having a full force flash back deja vu. Which has now passed.  You know it ruined it when I heard that deja vu is just a blip in the brain circuitry, affecting what basket something goes into first, synapse out-box before in-box.  I preferred to think it were a cosmic gift, psychic charm, spidey sense, tap the sap.  But back to reality.  Boiling water in a kettle for the bath.  Edith Piaf says hello in stereo. (I help a brother out and he doesn't say thanks.  i blame the lower case.)  Soak my bones in a brine of salt and lavender.  Eat an apple for an elemental.  Remembering I'm still me. 

LEVITY

surrounded and protected by the love and good wishes of everyone who loves you

Today was:  lavender at four am (thinking of) and again at seven pm (salts procured for the bath). listening to old songs, feeling old strengths.  in the such of raw nerves. 

an inside-out back-handed swish success, if you can count:

sweat pouring down my face during a cynthia workout
after waking up at 2:50am and not going back to sleep

listening on headphones first to music to disappear into (a long-leaning favorite) and then when that failed to send me off to rivendell i tried "preparing for a successful surgery: on the day of your successful procedure" guided imagery recording, and it was surprisingly effective.  notions of "procedure" can be pretty loose.  even "surgery".

"begin to focus on your intention to have an excellent outcome from today's surgery
imagine the procedure going beautifully, and recovering rapidly and completely"


i think it helped

Pluto I Feel You

How to scale back and have it be generative.  I thought it prudent to place verdant green things around myself, or I suppose also place myself around verdant things.  I saw empty cigarette packs enter the subway preceeding a man.  Standing downwind from this man, I could smell that he was not all there.  Thus the menthols' entrance. 

I've found the library, and it's awesome.  I've made a pact with myself to read every book that I borrow.  To keep myself smelling all there.  So far I've read: Bossypants by Tina Fey and SEND: Why People Email So Badly and How To Do It Better by David Shipley and Will Schalbe.  The latter actually gave the former a run for its money in terms of funny.  I learned that "EOM" means "end of message" and it's polite to put "EOM" at the end of the subject line if the message is all subject and no body.  As in (their example):

From: The Universe
To: Pluto
Subject: You are no longer a planet.  EOM.

Other than that I've been observing a bunch.  A gray dog today with an excess of fur that was howling along to a siren in spurts.  Just every seventeenth step sort of letting out a burble that was the same timbre and tune as the siren.  Also met a French Water Hound Of Which There Are Only Fifty In The States And Why When They're Such Good Dogs And Such Beautiful Animals With Such Poise.  I saw a bulldog with an empty plastic juice bottle (big one) out the side of its mouth.  Good dog comedy. 

Back to the miracles of the day definitely.  I recommend having a friend you can text when this crazy shit goes down in our world.  Speaking of crazy shit, I saw some today.  But it's so crazy I can't say more!

Magazines from Spain.  Extra coffee.  Apples.  This is how far I've gotten.  This is how I've gotten so far.  All body no subject. 

Don't forget about me High Desert Song

Hello from the marshes of four am.  Slushy dry throated open eyed sky silent of birds.  Healers have Indian names, and mounds of shells and bones make up hills.  I am pretty sure there are dead bodies inside the Domino Sugar factory, abandoned, on the water in Williamsburg.  The smell is musty and mildewy for sure, but when it's hot there's an extra added animal tension in the stench.  Too tempting a dumping ground.  Can't decide whether the AM Metro will say nothing one day or say one blurb about it.  I am thinking about a dozen bodies. 

I thought I would let just this jagged slur out.  I know it doesn't make sense.  It just had to be said. 

I Had To Take Photographs Posing With My Contact Lens Prescription Two Years In A Row In Order To Take Advantage Of The Good Deals Found Online

mary wells with the beatles

The Red Dress Version, or For Now

CRYPTO say HELLO

The way I feel now is steady, sallow, stuck behind the eyes exactly.  There is numbness by my ears, around my nose--these places we don't feel things exactly.  There is water boiling on the stove.  

I haven't been here in years.  But it feels like just the place to come now.  I like Susannah writing emails to Clare now.  It makes so much sense.

I feel like a jetty, stuck in water with it crashing all around, rocks underneath, and weather weather weather.  I feel the freedom of not having to make sense.

Just to play, to have energy enough to play with shapes, fabrics, sew things together.  What difference does it make?  But words, words are nice enough to play.  And without music, there is only words.  Music is in the van.