lately

elements of a day

downpour, palms asway, explosion on the wires. your grip on me.
laying in bed with the clouds
balcony
nevereat
benevolence
the perfect soup
mirepoix
driving in the rain
personal hell, snores in stereo, clock tick tocking, tick tick tocking, tick, tock
little roach
bigface, pockmarked
folding your sportcoat over the spine of the sofa
new cold wind
new baby asthma
fighting the funk
fortunate,
luck

big rubby

sitting on the front balcony in the wet wet wet wet we're buggybodied
insects
sliding legs against wings against hair! in wave clouds, soundclouds
  like little pour cloud passing over the house
solid mists between
biting my sunset
the significant gray lavender
rubbing hairs with a gray butter peach
  where we are,

float float float float float float, tear & sink

why can you make me cry? no, no, of course you don't make me do anything. but why do my heads stuff up with tear balloons at you, sometimes. it isn't you, I know. I haven't ever met you. so why. it's not a question. I have thoughts of you, I fill them with those float-making gases. we all know I am a gasballoon, I shove it out into space. I am actually really sorry, in a nonapologetic way. I think it is called pity. do my tear wells come out with pity pies for you, then? maybe I have pitied you all along. pity has never been an act of love. I have never loved you. I will always love you. which is true, is it both true. this isn't questions. am I an empathetic one? am I sympathy for only finally but me. I am truly sorry. I wish I could touch you all the way down. I wish I could explain how I wish I could understand. I wish I could be there in the deep part to understand someone else. I am understanding of me. I want to share it, understanding can be an infinite thing, no? well, that is definitely not a question. but I am sorry, for you. I think you are better than you think you are, better than you think I think you are, but you don't think of me at all but how would I know? this is no question. I ask a lot of questions, don't I. that wasn't really one. I ask a lot of questions at the wind and they won't answer back at me. so there aren't any, it's like I wasted the wind trying to get something back from a wind that's gone long before I've sent anything out in it. it's dispersed invisible before it even hits the dispersed invisible, you know? you don't know, so there's no question in that. be okay, please, I do think so, I do want it to be like that for you. I hope you get out of there & in something else. a hope is a sort of question. a hope is a gassy balloon. hope is for the clouds & we live in there. or I do. I'd ask if you do, but you aren't answers at all. only finally but stop making me cry. you can't make me do anything. you are a free country

FOREST HONOR STODDARD

"The typist lived in a kind of limbo, hovering between heaven & hell." C.L, The Hour of the Star

tiny brimfilled winejar

just colors to design us in

someone's exploding

across the lake

  catastrophe bangs echo

are we in a rough neighborhood

I feel like a tough place, sometimes

on the lake in a dark wet breeze,

    Do you think we do things on purpose that are harder & worse for us?

it's raining on me, on my books

  my winejar has turned into a kalimotxo jar

it's raining around that good lighter

 and on The Hour of the Star

   and on The Blue Notebooks

Forest Honor Bali

  at the cabin we wear our

cut off cardigan sleeves

  as legwarmers

over our jeans

     they end up looking like

  festival wear

      burning the forest down

       with all the lights & smoke & vibrations

I have smoke face

mouth, ears, nostrils all smoke

smoke in my eyes

do clouds get thinner when they rain?

is it just

  I  L  L  U  Z  H  U  N  N  N  N

trying to be a poet in the rain

  trying to use a notebook in the forest?

           Climb a boulder

           Drop a laptop in a lake

  attend poets diversity college

   and get one for free

     if you graduate

Perfect celebratory makes perfect shudder

song of yesteryear:

2008, 3 september

Perfect makes perfect,
timeless, countless, many of everythings
perfect to allow a count existent. Everything and more
a journal a diary, so shameless am I,
still I refuse to tell
and I won’t utter
it in so many
greedy grabbing words. I aspire to be
sludgeless to calm and to
whine not, to embrace, propose and accept, so
fully, so
fully, such an envelopment, mouthsfull, bodies
full,
over & over. just sharing an omelet,
endearing,
absurd. and definitely enmeshed.
Hope, no, hope is for clouds, The
sweet of his spray.
slowly pounding
nauseous but
strong, eyes
full of happiness & not heavy but
light &
full of
soft &
light,
bright and in the sky like a cloud then.
hope real and not to be wished.
suddenly a fact
then. and the future! from afar,
so delicious the thoughts in our brains,
excessiveness deems bring me back,
earthbound, to wander handholding towards
silhouetted saguaros. No one but the stars; I’ll let
only the ocean caress me and by the time the ocean is too
cold my heart,
drowsily.
Latenight eyes all
full of
light kissing like the
slowmotion, I shudder
celebratory.

firsts

Oh, bursts.

Here is what I have to offer tonight: swaying under the projected black sky, clouds in shades of blue spreading waywards. But this is all just a projection, and not from a projector, but just a mind. The Mind. I will also offer, a moonlit glance. Oh, I listen to neko case all of a sudden. Which reminds me of a tale I have never recalled in writing.
Summer, Ch and K, two beers two tiny bottles of transport whisky, a mountain of rocks at the Park, the park all capitalized, carlo rossi, twilight, runners in underwear, a joint, sky through trees, peeing in a rocky crevasse, neko case across the valley, holding a dog on leash. Holding hands & looking for boys, bikeriding, pool playing, winning and losing.
But now: now it is not so different, it is my room not the mountain, but if a room could be a mountain I'd like to say that this was it. Pretty woman's dress from the polo game. An adventinus.
Shades of blue... cerulean, david rudman. Put out in a snuffer. Snuffed
There were a lot of times when I picked the names for the children... but that's nearly the furthest I got... aside from physical traits by collision with those of some loved one at a point or time... ah ha, ahhhoooo creation! Congratulations.
Ferdinand
Merrill