61.

phone sex isn’t a long term solution
as we travel along this path of challenge and change
it is simply a belief in reach
a rubbing against the cut
a person in the room who never speaks
the poetic-critic
the nets
more slowly, losing altitude

27.

appealing to the reader’s self-interest
I have scribbled the following notes on pages 14, 15, 16, 23, 26, and 29:
the last time we rubbed faces
someone turned the page and laughed
and yet, it didn’t seem to matter at all if they stayed or left
they didn’t exist anymore except as a warning
like a cat ignoring the traffic
an incinerated butterfly fathomed only as ash

51.

the war you only just heard about
for Allen Davies
bottomed out selling promises
in Los Alamos or something
rushed from the crucified city
to start again
climbing up the back of the legs to the silent crotch.

7

I turn now to the book’s methodology
when the fog hangs low
jostled as are the waters approaching
rewritten from the perspective
of the little old lady

one manifestation of what I call intermediation
gathering mist and letting it fall
and to concern myself less with the publishers of poetry
the very concepts of homogenous national cultures
there against the fierce blue of the sky

making, storing, and transmitting
in renitent release
the human situation that motivated my phone call and visit
of the asymmetrical worlds that exist
there in the home of the little old lady

however, in regard to the poems I left with you
I like to think there is overwhelming evidence
of the city that extends before us
complex transactions between bodies and texts
contrary to a sculpture in a museum

the last night of the earth

I go through these periods
of poetic inscrutability
these moments of panic
as if I’m never going
to write anything
substantial again
as if
in the middle of night
she had risen
packed a quiet duffel
and left under the headlights
of a yellow cab
but it’s usually
before going off
to the punch clock
thinking it the last night
of the earth
that I’ll be spending
my final moments
with half-wits
degenerates
the perpetually depraved

scale

we’re six months deep
into this pregnancy
and last night
she tells me
that not only
can he hear
our voices
but he can
see bright lights
if you shine
a flashlight
against her belly

so she does this
and her belly
jerks

she does it again
and her belly
jerks again

and I think of myself
every time
the sun
shines through
the curtains
or the womb
of my bed sheets
and I kick
and punch
pointlessly
against
the new day

if only
we could
turn off the sun
for a few more
moments
of darkness

then again
life is full
of impossible dreams

but fortunately
it’ll be a while
before
I’ll have to
tell him
to shit
in one hand
and wish
in the other
and see
which one
fills up faster

Inspection

at the auto mechanic
the other day
while I was waiting on
an inspection
a meagerly dressed receptionist
recorded sales and
answered the telephone
occasionally leaning forward
exposing her acorn breasts
before quickly closing
the space with one hand
and eating potato chips
with the other

but even more curious
was a little girl
7 or 8 years old
clearly of no relation
shifting on a stool
beside her
to get a closer look
at those tiny
misshapen breasts

and as I watched her
watching them
tremble ever so
slightly beneath
a flimsy blue blouse
and yellow brassiere
I could see her touching
the space where hers
had not yet grown

and it made me
remember the urgency
with which we all
seek maturity

how nothing ever comes
fast enough
or with enough gusto

and how that perception
of living is often
carried over
into adulthood
as we continuously
seek things
we do not
or cannot have

how callous the gods
that even in youth
we are taught
to want
to be
what we’re not

as the receptionist
bends forward
once again
a gold cross
dangling from her
deeply tanned neckline

and the young girl
and I sneak peeks
at those little
buds having
never formed
into anything more