[057]
12/28/2009 03:25 p.m.

my baby spits like thunder when he sucks down all his lights,
and he feels me up in public like he feels it's justified,
and his grim mind's perforations are all filled with Bakelite,
for my baby spits like thunder and i never ask him why.

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[056]
12/10/2009 04:15 a.m.

for all you know, i could fizzle out and accomplish my dream of living in
nowhere somewhere and just plain doing cartwheels all day. you could
be an old old man with back aches and sinus pains for all i know, by that
point, and i'll still be pretty little miss no-humdrum with a notion all for
doing cartwheels in the middle of nowhere somewhere.

you might just dig it mighty mighty, might just -- give me green old
grass (any sort) any old day and i'll give it to you right on back. give me
every time you've ever told me you've ever wished you could even just
play an instrument because there's songs way down deep in your
innards and i'll give you every little dance i've ever done to the way
you swap my hips astray.

no lie, love-dove babycakes, it's true you've never seen an ocean when
you isn't on the run, i believe you through and through, that's fine, no lie.





I am currently Cute

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[055]
09/24/2009 12:51 p.m.

over the course of the night she hears the telling sounds of someone
galumphing over the old and creaking hardwood floors of her walk up,
and prays then secretly in the briefest of waking moments that someone
will turn the key and come inside.

anyone anyone, she says she says: inhabit my space. pick up all the same debris
on the heels of your barren feet, she says, contribute all your refuse to my dust.

in the morning every room still stinks of emptiness. her eyes pick up the details of
all the unmoved material things, hoping one thing will be out of place as evidence
of unseen visitors. the emptiness feels like screaming in her belly and chest and
she scrunches up her muscles.

lonesome lonesome lonesome

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[054] scraps: the two ways to castrate a lamb.
09/12/2009 08:19 p.m.

one way to castrate a lamb is backed by the Humane Society. the ASPCA. those
sorts of places. one pulls down the babe's testicles and wraps the base of the
scrotum in a tight, tiny, thick rubber band. over time, the balls just fall right off onto
the floor in tiny double-lobed heaps, like little useless fruit.

the second way to castrate a lamb is tradition, and perhaps regional. there is
snipping involved, and biting involved, and noises like pulling two halves of a piece
of canvas apart. it is more like clipping from vines than waiting for your harvest to
fall off. the testicles end up in buckets.

the first way to castrate a lamb is horrifically disabling. the lambs shiver. they lose
balance. they huddle in piles in corners of paddocks and are sick all over and
cannot stand. it takes a week.

the second way to castrate a lamb is momentarily bloody, and leaves the lambs
skipping.


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[053] scraps
07/27/2009 04:13 p.m.

nobody wants to be the one to feel sick, achy alone: lonesomeness they tell me is the
final taboo --no one discusses disconnect and no one properly discusses shame.

best when: vitamins, good food, sleep. is this above and beyond? admittedly this whole
time we have been explaining away guilt. we will never marry. we will regret this missed
opportunity. we are afraid because of how much this discomfort troubles us and by how
much it does not trouble anyone else. we talk shit.

and by god what is this noise? bang, crumble, crush, onomatopoeia! and i know big words!
pretty wien boys with pretty wien eyes, so respectful -- and yet so not. preferring
faithfulness in principle -- emphasis on the latter. in principle! and all the lights
stutter and seizure, should we be warned? remember: miles upon fifty thousand miles --
why so much for you the number five? forever! -- highways to unexplored bits of the
midwest hey! HEY! I will put the money down. exchange rate? who knows. entirely confused
by cultural differences and fuck the human condition and the absurdity of existence. you
want no one to take you seriously, then you curse and bring up sex. victorian? hell if i
know. late at night in giant lit up rows of computers. it is three or four a.m. and i
will be unable to sleep -- both of us up with the wind, the sun, and admittedly NO! none
of the lights work.

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[052] scraps
07/27/2009 04:06 p.m.
a communal puddle of piss, he shows her his teeth. after three hours of sleep on a
couch made for half of her, the window is open onto a busy street and trams drive down
it. in the next rooms live six or seven other people, not so much in straight lines or
rows, and one of them still rollerblades. yellow giant house with great big wreaths
and arcs in stucco and plaster, unused rooms in the backs of buildings on which
secretive guests sleep, extension cords, small computers, lights in great lines
rhythmic and bright and pulsing over and over above everyone's heads.

in the evening time four people shower together and scream and yell, the floor is
bright red and the walls patterned in hot colors, and drunkenness is extra because she
doesn't know the language -- babble babble babble. must find johannes, must talk, must
remember soviet cities left over ten years later that no one remembers except us, must
be creeped out by that guy from minnesota that insists that not everybody has weird
sexual experiences in their lives.

certain types of code define people as masochistic. if this is so complicated, why are
you doing it? configuration. scratching at the pads and soles of a twitching girl's
feet, tonight i am not ticklish. i have met you, you are infamous. you are known
across borders and seas -- try to understand why. don't. inflammable. who is this
little girl who came all the way over from russia for a boy from mid-new jersey, and
why did they land here?

women run around in tiny outfits and shine like gold. no excuse! i am not naked
enough. dressed like a kindergarten teacher because she is not from europe. over the
rainbow! and wet clothes stick to her like stray pieces and stain up the backs and
fronts of her skirts.

and teach her how to waltz or get out. and the sky is extra blue above these
countries. and the clouds tonight falls like layers of striated rock and crystals
built in tanks. and everyone knows the difference between a gargoyle and a grotesque.
in this day and age they've blocked up the gutters so who cares, who cares? because
the inside of the church is very pretty, but can you fuck it? and what is down the
chained off stairs no longer intrigues. still doing backbends still stretching past
her own feet. still flexible despite years of extra fat which have become looped about
one's ribs and innards and intertwined themselves in every story.

promises this to me. doesn't. and at least once everyone has to get stopped at the
border for police involvement and no one asks for identification anyway. card, please?
not now not now with pretty raised font and pretty sweet pictures on the backs and
fronts, i wish i could get online. unable to use the words i, me, my, mine or anything
else self-inflicted many people find themselves crippled. self-centeredness, achso.
people live better here, in the classier version of a touristic cousin, people speak
well and impress a need for greater knowledge, good good.

used to do yoga and write in odd poses. used to play assassin with each other, always
won. why? she doesn't have a guilty face and has only the slightest hint of a guilty
conscience. promises this to me! doesn't! and he doesn't even think of other girls
while she's away. and he says that he's so into her, especially when she's not
around. breathing fried noodles and chopped veggies in the mid-morning air.

this is the best wake up ever: staring out a window on a balcony in vienna, staring
down the street at people on scooters and bicycles, waiting for the trolley, as the
sun moves in and out of the clouds and cars i've never seen before consistently drive
by looking like little bugs.

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[051] Scraps.
07/22/2009 10:07 a.m.

who knows how he got here with his frayed up black shoes and his tripping down steps.
notice that people yell a lot, don't eat onions, do eat bread. tearing up the cobble-
stones and riding on the backs of snail machines for a living in your cutsie-boy
regulation green overalls -- leaving slimy, ungainly trails and ten crown bits stuck
between the stones and feeling whole. best part: they leave their dogs off of leashes
as if the dog is a piece of their soul, she wants that oh aye she do. and how did he
get here with his shoes untied every five six minutes: you pretty union boys with your
pretty union eyes. all of the graffiti is pigeon english and all of the trains smell
hot and musty like people, pressure, and dissatisfaction.

today my shoes fell apart the way only shoes can, listen: no one is to blame. maybe
only the heavy steep hot distances between one tower and another, maybe only the dips
between cobblestoned sidewalk and cobblestoned street, maybe getting ones feet stepped
on by massing bodies massing masses, people massing in tiny corridors.

quickly bands hanging around playing funny little instruments and everyone stopping to
watch -- blind women singing ave maria for spare change. eating badly here: no
concern for diet, for exercise. weight falling off of ones innards in great swathes
and coming to rest in oubliettes. if ever they had to write his sentence into his
skin, over and over for hours and hours, what would it say? "If not now, when?"

Nowadays when strangers touch you just don't like it, it's offensive, it is, and
aren't you just unlucky. Nowadays second person comes connected with years and years
ago instead of the here and now and not anything is cheap anymore, not nothing, not
nuffink, nope never. Mama says don't ever marry yourself a saxophone player because
they're all crazy and you doggone gone done did it anyway. I always done said don't
ever marry yourself a man who believes in solipsism. He can treat you like you're
really there but he'll always know you don't exist.

And aren't you lonely? It follows then. And if we're not supposed to dance then why
all this music? He says, he says. And I says to her I says, girlie gunna getcher gun,
gotcha shotgun! Her interests include nesting dolls and having the upper hand.
everything is shit, except you, love. Hot sauce and apfelsaft, because we have umlauts.



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[050] Scraps.
07/08/2009 09:57 a.m.

you pretty american boys with your
pretty american eyes, what have
you got that i haven't got? is it
that spain and secret cuba peek
out from me like buckshot and spat
up chewing tobacco?

i am not afraid to die, as we've discussed.

Don't look at me like that. Every body
does it and no one is to blame. Given
the way she feels about the following:
obsolescence, social interaction, imm-
aterial luxuries, and the taboo of
loneliness, one should react in discreet
agreement and YELL --

tais tois, mon coeur! and give me hence great
plains and spacemen sorrows hollowed out on
hallowed grounds, it sounds like drowing
monsters yelling "olly olly oxen-free," and
i'll bet she yelled at you because she's
always been a pox at hide-n-seek.

a pox on this landscape -- even in the outer
reaches of eastern europe they are building
mountains out of trash and molehills out of
graspings. GASPING!:

tais tois, mon coeur: she rasps in the morning
when she speaks and her blood-let eyes brim
sickly.

the laborers here in prague are swaddled up in
green overalls and, over all, they're boys really --
the sort with blondeish hair and dirty faces.
and they don't speak any english except for when
they smile and treat their dogs like friends:
these are both universal when coupled (tripled?)
with green overalls.

another boy who knew you who was fat and scruffy
writes after how long? hell, forever! he's stationed
in the dusty badlands and his head's all broken down,
"remember --" no, i'd rather not, "that day we were
alone and all we did was fall asleep --"

he asks why and you're not sure. fourteen year old you
was just the sort who would remove her top and tempt
his hands and then deny, the sort with circulating
naked photos and self-obsessing grins.

sewed my fingers together by the dead skin. felt good.

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[049]
06/25/2009 04:59 p.m.
she is these days most used to sweatiness behind her knees and stray hairs sticking to her belly, to stickiness, fer sure.

given how she feels about the following:

listen: no one is to blame.
Tais toi, mon coeur!

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...
03/09/2009 08:11 p.m.