Things I like

And things white people like:
Illegal drugs... DEA Drug Information, teen drug abuse

Hot summer days can make sick people sicker.

Drinks in the sun, in the U.K.

Fucking, the only free porn site with Free full-length DVD-quality movies

People indignant about porn, senility, Wagner at high-volume

Watching porn together

(naked people should not have a geography

The geography of Romania, to be precise)

Accidental catches, hardware parts,

deep sighs,

Why can't I own a canadian?

Why is my poop green?

Why do dogs eat poop?

Why did the chicken cross the road?

Why does slam poetry suck?

This is the poem you never asked for and that I did not want to write.

But you never asked me, so here it is:

Wal-mart was out of coffee the day that we

Decided to make a large breakfast, and I was hung over and started drinking at ten .

And you have a permanent blush when humor over.

I would agree with you that your distance is infinite and that I should not try to define you

Whatever that is:

And the city-soaked stain of your syllogistic temperament took over when you and I ignored thanksgiving

And I will all the aplomb of the hideously out of place told you it wasn’t your fault

(and in fact nothing has been, but I won’t give you that

And you have so suggestively subjectified yourself that nothing ever will be)

(and the kind of thing I can’t put in to stories, just an FYI is

What color your eyes are but I’ll remember how your hair smelled

And I hope that’s not weird or anything), and

To be honest this is honestly too honest to my voice (I like

Word games and weird pauses when I talk) (and I’ve started moving my hands more---must stop

Zizek!)

And so thoughts:

(the rest of the space is yours please fill in

the spots where I came too close

to what is Real and had to stop)

Therapy

The vicarious shrink, whose work I admire,

Wonders whether a seven-year-old can know beforehand

How much his ass can hurt and bleed.

In order to allay her desperate mood,

He stood upon the stoop and watched the stars

And wondered where the moon would hide itself.

He knew, for instance, she was of a social class

That permitted not his kind, although she

Herself, did not know that.

She drank manners with breast-milk, and his

Were hard-contrived, and perfect, when he wanted them.

But most times he did not.

“She/he/it fucked X” was a construction he used a lot,

The fricatives pleasing and stabbing.

He could drink wine from a jug, and once

In the foulest temper he had, paid someone the homage he knew

And punched him till his ears bled.

Now, don’t think he was untutored – he knew instead that blood

And the drawing of blood, were what he could say to show how much

He knew the other boy could take. He kissed him hard short after, a loveless, lustless kiss

That pressed his lips against unyielding force.

Experiment 4: Friendship

I made sense of something today.

Driving home up I-29, past the idea of coffee while walking on the street in the rain
And smoking in my car the same cigarette I smoked in my daydream,

With the bent-up end and hook for a tip that will fall off (god I hope) after

the construction is through so I can hit it,

I tried to create the weekend in my head.

Nathan is a tall man, to me. He has always been a man when I have known him;

I do not think we would have been friends in high school when we were boys.

I'm jealous of his easy blondbrown hair and sometimes I wonder

If he can see his body in space the way I can -- I feel as if he should.

(Note A: remember seeing on a television in a hotel in Parkston, SD when I was 8That 90% of gunfighters had blue eyes. Detail unconfirmed, but interesting)

(Note B: "like" is 2 strong of a metaphor, almost always. 2 feel "like" something is either an abnegation of the thing itself (If I feel "like" I'm on fire, wht does that do 2 those who R? prbly a diff. ? altogether)

She was always the other, the one presumed to know,

And still is; but I do not want to know exactly.

How vicarious is it to want to watch someone read?

(Note c, mark 4 further investigation -- 2 watch sum1 do something of interest,2 cook, 4 example, or build a shed, or fuck -- -takes both desire of & desire 4.)

I take nothing away by trying to see how she reads. I can't tell what she reads

When she looks at me.

She does not occupy space. Once I had a fervent desire

To touch a spot where she had reclined, because I did not think

It would be warm or have the impress of body.

Their son

(Note d, but also e. - does exposition form narrative?)

is Adamic. I have an urge to talk also with him.

What would I say? I got high marks on an evaluation. It meant a lot.

It was good enough I couldn't show it to anyone. I showed one line and was embarrassed.

I want to say that I might be in love. Love of a measurable, quantifiable angle,

That would let me fawn, over someone they know. That I could give it up.

And won't.

That I've gotten over wanting things.

That it makes me want them more than ever.

Nathan, forgive me; your coffee is weaker than that I make. And better,

because it is measured not by how many times I can refill the pot

or by the way it keeps me up.

Its why I don't ask for more coffee, ever, except in a restaurant;

Exactly because I won't stop if I start to want again.

All this, and seeing bodies, and all I made sense of

Was how much I liked the train

(nb (note f) -- wld I lk real trains?Not rlly, I think. I h8 horses 2nb (note f) -- would I like real trains?

Not really, I think. I hate horses too

That sometimes gallop at me in dreams. I still wake up

Sweating and in tears. I found this morning that I've started bleeding

From one ear canal. Check on this.)

of cars compressed

Like we were into the one-lane track of earlier years

and I feel like

We all slowed to 55, and now I don't want

To ever lose sight of a bumper.

My sister sometimes asks me whether

Elmo in Spanish is just "the Mo"

My grandmother kept a chamber pot in her basement.

I don't know whether those are related.

I've started noticing the tiny things. I miss

them sometimes.

My grandmother died this year. I couldn't speak to her

for months before she did.

I have been lately.

Written as part of a DWP "Ice Breaker"

I am from pine trees, elevation and
the relief of circular earth;
Ribbons of concentric colors, the red racetrack
That freezes and turns into black shale
and silver-studded mica

My parents let the lilacs grow wild
at the house where they left me.
I suppose I am from those, too.

I am from three generations of English and German teaches,
immigrants caught in a slowing spiral who
clung to books and unredeemed, unwarranted pride.
I am from the creaking floorboards,
the way the wind would rock the the care
where sometimes I slept in Hot Springs, Rapid City, Spearfish.

I am from there, and too
The summer nights beside a streamfed lake
And of leaving for college
to have the same address for ten month
I am from the overabundance
of impermanence
The product of nothing
except a search for place.