new website

the new consolidation: www.whatbirdsgiveup.com

experimental work poem:

To you from me via secret technology

It is a home in the ear here
It is a light house/home for birds whose tearing
It is evident next door gore in truth
It is glued together with sea, a strung
It is the back of a whale, the back of a whale
It is umpteenth I said sign please this
It is in voices designed in white
It is prairie home on this grey island of porridge
It is go on in the blue airline evening
It is Jesus God, lift my enemy out and on you go
It is down, down in history like gold
It is in voices circling a misty museum of emo
It is moth mother in a poetry visor
It is boss, hurry I can, hurry I can, fucker
It is this name copies over in rudimentary red
It is sea sear, like a dress you

Reminders

I can not hate them, the others that I am connected to, as they stand still in darkness of time. This long line that I am in is drawn from the motion of others. It makes us bend in together like next/nest. It draws us out like tubes. Miles upon miles apart, we are drawn through these motions, into new commitments. I sense the displacement of others bodies in scenes upon the water, where squares of yellowy grass lie, where dimly we seek and seek. I wag the sea for something. It is so grey. I have a sense of H.D. in letters I am writing on airplanes. This sense is suffering way out on the water. It is in Paris and on the countryside. There are letters and letters to describe the mossy borders, their clothes and hats, the little strips of birds peeling away from the schoolyard. I am trying to give as much as I take in a sense. Diagonal, I, when up to my head in yellow grass today. When on a board on the sea. Sound of screaming in your ear, huh. My face's feeling when you were backwards, so young and white, it was like moving across a board on the sea. Dots and dotsof birds on your back.

saddest movie ever

ben: empire of the sun (separation, concentration, betrayal)
jessica: shildler's list, english patient
josh: blue
paul: balthazar

two things I am remembering

first that I liked the bus b/c it was a bookend and I could ride it and be in it b/c there was no escaping it and you had to be close and you could feel like you were in a basket with all of the people that were laughing and you could hear them talking and flicking people off and you could see the shape of delight, the way laughter is like a system of things and it wasn't what someone said but where and how many people were along for the ride

second was the struggles with history tests and how hard they were to me b/c I knew I knew things and I still was so solidly a b kid b/c i wasn't one to judge what I was knowing and what to remember so I knew things no one ever asked and the other things that I did not know or did not remember were asked of me I didn't have them and I stared at the tests and the blanks on the tests and I thought about how things like this aren't real that it is not selective like this and that I was much better about knowing things as a kind of streaming which is why I guess I am better at lit

bugs

bugs

the shield bugs
the jesus bugs the bugs
that come from
toilet paper
dispensers
bugs I get
them the bugs on my face
the black heads
of bugs I face
come and get it this
dinner
the silent bugs the ones
that get awards
bugs on bats
maggots that
eat gangrene the bugs
that copulate on
the dirty mattress
on the porch the bug
to which I say you
suckers bugs that want
to wear rings on my bed
my desk, tennis
court bugs one on phoebe,
Anna, Georgia, Wendell
bugs what-ing on
the ducks I love
the feel of one
in my throat
god save them
sum of them
but keep them
at bee and at bay
at home on
the holster.

because

I have notes on the behavior I have displayed in the last 3-4 days depending on how good my and your memory is.

First the trashcan that I completely destroyed this morning. It was a good trashcan, as good a trashcan as anything next to a desk is, good as the floor and much more tidy. And after I lost my keys again and my cell phone and pen spilled all over my white and quite expensive sheets again, I say the trashcan should have been safe. Trashcan that admits nothing and gives nothing up, a metal, and mind you expensive, trash can. I should not have kicked the trashcan, or when down, jumped on it until flattened in the middle like a sad and huge metal banana. Oh fuck it.

Second the crying as I am crying often, without any warning. Crying like I have valves and the work I do is a substance, something that is squeezing things through the valves. I think of this octopus whose skin is so netted with nerves, his brain can do little but the bidding of the surface. Such a large head to be constantly controlling to way something looks. It's  a shame to be floating like that, without the regular functions of a vertebrate, on the skin of your self. Which is exactly as I have experienced in all this crying: dearth of thought, alienation not only from the person I appear to be, but the person in command of that. What a liar they say, even though no one is saying anything underwater.

And on that note, the sleeping that has replaced what was on it's way to regular behavior. The pitching of a baseball in your yard, bugs oh bugs so much so that you laughed and bought this spray, the evening tennis that is so nice and cheap because we steal everything. I am sleeping instead of touching you, afraid to watch movies in the theater, sleeping away what? The surround sound, the nights, your face when I wake you, the position of power I'm afraid I have. So sleeping it and pushing it into the dirt, cleaning the cat of its shit, seeing through the terrible dilemma of dentists, the pay period, the morning news and it's like I lose a friend. The bell commemorative. The smallest one in the tower that I have not touched or seen, but paid for.