new star get

The whales could die any day now. That's all I'm saying. There could be these barnacles filled with fluid that drip and drip into the sea. Where the whales are. The barnacles are not attached to the boats, due to the paint that painters put on the helm and the stern and some of the sailors have paint on them. That's all I'm saying about painting containing perverse materials and lots of orangutans.

It does the barnacles in as well as the oyster drillers in the seas beside France.

That's what they were saying in France. Until these little oysters flapping like cars keys underneath the sea, got lost.

Because the boys and the girls grew these little oyster penises. What this penis is, is all I'm saying about the coastal regions, and the boats that go over the barnacles, having no oysters inside them to eat and having no baby oysters.

We do get very upset and so do the whales. They want orders filled and they don't like barnacles and they like oysters too. But they cannot hear us. The outer hairs of their inner ears, gone, oh no more whale songs, no more sympathy. This big deaf whale swims with its big dumb face right up to us, suspended, look.

Elizabeth, dear, of the dark heart.

Your heart is so very dark, you see
as you talk to the postal service
representative, dark and broken,
and breaking open the soft-
ware. There is no degree
of darting your eyes around
to see the darkness, how you bend
yourself to touch it, and turn
it over. Oh Elizabeth, sad as smoke,
screwing hands in your chair.
We will retire and there will
be seizing underneath the
Costa Rican shade. Insects
sticking it out and you in some
large white hat, my Elizabeth,
the pieces of light taped
to your hair. I can see it. The trees
the canopy trees and the man-
groves, the shadows of birds
that look like hearts. They do fall
down the trees and go. They fix
these pale little nests and go.
And sleep, Elizabeth, on the dark
roots, between the elbows
of night, and go.

chatter chatter song

I am working, working, working,
in an ice, ice, box.

Little hairs on my arms, stand up.
Little hairs on my legs, stand up.

I have no coat and I have no car
and I'm iced as a cube in a cubical.

Ben teaches elocution:

in British:

shut tha frond daw


Merican translashun:

shut tha frunt daaaaar


workplace agenda:

shut the fuck up


[brought to you from the international

bungalow that is news target

dot com, dot com, dot com]

my mike is sick

gee whiz, mike-

you got phlegmie

and no more

rants 4U2 day.

Survey: If you could were an animal...

Steve: Porpoise

which makes sense because he dresses very well, talks about weekend trips to the lake, and speaks very porpoise-like when excited.

Jeremy: Wocket

The wocket doesn't exist but neither does Jeremy, really (Ben agrees). Jeremy is also very young and bright, has blond hair like said wocket, and sticks out of his desk like something that might stick out of a pocket

Ben: Raven

Because he's a D&D nerd, he's British, and he's very talky. Not black tho, and not evil-looking like a raven (maybe he wants to be...).

Elizabeth: Giant Blue Butterfly in Costa Rica: Morpho

This is a tough call, because Elizabeth is a nervous person and she isn't quiet like a butterfly, but she does flitter and mess with things, the way a butterfly messes with itself, with all of the flowers and foliage. So I guess that makes sense

On a vote:

Mike:
Jaguar
Spider-monkey
Bird of Prey

a note on the crocodile

that you assume is yours, and it might be, as the things I'm thinking are a little yours, tho this instance in particular has a function.

The long body of crocodiles, two which are one by their nature, lolling beside eachother in this state at the Houston zoo. I say 'body' like a student body, water en mass, an organization. It is around the soft brown knees, stricken with wet blooms on top of the water, and look, there is some kind of crocodile in there.

The animal that is little else. Animal plural, by mere fact that nothing has happened or will happen to the crocodile. Moving like they are floating a little, tho they are ugly, floating like something reflecting. And this is the trick, it is all work. Because they do not roll over, because their arm and legs stretch out, because it is balance to be still, to tense against the tiny movements of water, to even remain there is about being organized, by principles.

To like them is un-ironic. To be a body of crocs. Be small and true to the necessary movements.

It is a new thing indeed to see something this way. That state of one thing, that is floating on its own, is itself without showing it, that has that love.

A-choo, A-choo

I have the flu and I feel sick and I will work the human experiments today.
Eight, Eight, thirty. A, A, m.

Now I am a worker and I swallow things. I want to be interested in this but I'm not.

I've got no need to work, little desire to go home, ahem, ahaw.

You know those two crocodiles that lay their noses next to eachother? They don't talk or know anything about eachother and there are no signs that they want to show us anything.

I feel sick and I have the flu. My bones feel like they are rotating, especially inside my legs.

One thing is to throw up my little feelings. Throw up my head of hair, my face into that storm last night, my hands are through the air like fish.

I'm so alone and that's the way it is to me.

The way it is for most people I observe. They go outside and there's little fighting about it. They are on the porch reading a book, interrupted with the other who has a dog on a leash and suggests walking. They walk and no, there is hope.

We are not alone, since we are walking, and we have a dog together. And we're around eachother. We have a dog. We walk around at night and touch eachother's hands. I am scared and then you tease me. You are sweating so I swipe your hair with my fingers and show you. Not alone, even though we walk so uncarefully and look at different things and change the subject constantly.

Stu

Why do you have to be so indignant, little Stu? Your room is made for you. The walkers round the building, read your abstracts and, digging it, reach around you for support.

Say "aghast" things, my Stu, a la these pinches.

Who are your sentences, Stu, but trolls on the drawbridge. That is a wire.

prettie prettie

I will be a prettie girl with a name here, Pabst of mine, the shakes, a good haircut, a swimmie poo. A bit betwixt.

Smallie

The tissue
is small.

I swipe
a rapt

to me,
puff

a lift-
like

it on
my nose

the
diff

ering
be

softly
soft be

good so
long.

ontology of a check

during work I am stirring and something moves around that I am moving, and some things are not. This is the key to analysis, and is also the key to journalism which is the grand-father of all public policies including but not limited to FDA regulations, EPA regulations, and other instruction manuals issued en masse. Writing wields a grid. This grid, being bearded and knitted and altogether grand-parently, turns on and off the lights, lights the offices of all banks and lending establishments, lights the lines of a spreadsheet that do go on indefinately. You will never reach the end said spreadsheet. As all the figures are flat, your name and address, logo and title, salutations, congratulations, PS. there is laundry inside the envelopes on your little desk. The mandate to write is on top of a building with very mute, very pleasant paint on the walls, little plots of cacti on the walkway, a room temperature not to exceed the briskness of your common stride across the blue carpet.

in the news on the clock

My boss luvs
A. merica.

He jist
wans us
to be

really
real A.
mericans.

I luv
my bossie-
bear

He biz-
nusses me
and pays
me to writ

and he patron-
eyes me bout

eatin
pit-za

an all
the quaffin
of my Diet
Coke.

We flip
and we
flop A.
round.

I slap
at the
in-nerds
of my
self,

O boss!
You are
like Adam
at the
bigtime
con

tra (la)
versie.

mine eyes have seen

I want it
to boom
whoa, my car
is peeling

out of an
articulated
space, run
the stop

clobber
me cheeks

Go home
was sun
boom it
was sun.

The news is in

I have met my replacement.
She is very thin, and nerves
show around her neck.

Now you are falling
into form, poor lady.

This palace of employment
awaits, is upon you,
takes you something
into sure wood forests.

Mama says you &
Robin Hood ah
sweet tarts.

horror movie

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