where's the pain

i just woke up from a four hour nap.

shit.

long ones are the lovely ones

How the hell can I expect to get into graduate school if every poem I write will eventually be longer than the maximum page length for portfolios? I should probably just start reading nothing but Robert Creeley and then write some poems? Fuck. Long poems are the result of the New York School's influence over my writing. Fuck you Frank. Fuck you Kenneth. Fuck you John. Fuck, I love you so much. I've got things stewing up and they're bubbling out, baby. Maybe I'll post something or other.

I'm reading some stuff at Suite 1 in the Haymarket tomorrow (6/26) around 9ish. I'm pretty sure Rachael, Justin, and Carlin are as well. Be well everyone.

k

Steam Top Mountain Top

I dismantled my p.a. last night. I tried using it for the first time since the last poetry reading and it didn't work. I took it apart and looked at its gears. I pressed things and pulled a wire and shook its loose part out. I looked for it, but it went missing. I guess it was missing. I stared at the innards for a while longer and plugged it in. It's strange how sometimes just opening something up can change its entire reality. There was no more static, there was no more sound. It was clear and I did sing. I turned the reverb up and sounded like Jim James. I wrote a song about growing up and learning about life from my mother. Learning about love and about songs and about Elton John. I want to finish all of my songs or some of my songs and play a show for my best friends. I'm thinking a show for about 5-10 people. J, S, M, A, F, B, Z, C, A, R, you are all invited. This is a closed event, guests are not allowed to bring friends. I'm not sure when this will take place, but I'm itching to play songs for my friends because they're for my friends. Is this self promotion if you don't allow anyone other than your close friends to attend? I don't really think so. There was a guy at a house I was at last night who was a big time self promoter. He showed me his art after he asked if I wanted to see it, then he read me a slam poem after he asked if I wanted to hear it. That's cool, man. I could never do something like that. Maybe I'll be a poor artist who writes things and doesn't help anyone. A song can't change you, lady. Can it? Can a poem? I had a discussion with A about altruism last night. We disagreed. I don't believe it exists, but what do I know. We're all theoretical anyhow. I don't have to decide anything. I can fix it just by letting some of the pressure go out of the screw holes. Sometimes that's all it takes.

Bill Says YES

My khaki's have ink on them.
Near the crotch, I'm tired.
Bye.

I Wear No Tie

I am at work and am under the influence of a realization I've always had. Whenever I wear my work khaki's, which is everyday Monday through Thursday, I am extremely self conscious about the size of my pockets. I feel as though these pants make my hips look a lot wider than they actually are. This makes me look strange. It doesn't make me look fat, but it makes me look deformed. These pockets are so long and they're positioned in a way that doesn't fit my body. I am a sleek man. I am a slender man. No pockets should jive with my body. No pockets should jive with my mind. Fucking khaki's. I don't necessarily approve of this damn shirt either. Banana Republic, you have failed me. Why has it taken me so long to come to these conclusions? I need to buy black dress shoes. Italian boots and walk around in the nude (I believe the new Melvins album is called something like that--Nude in Boots, or something). I bought both this shirt and these pants a few months ago when I was starting at Ameritrade. I had no business casual. I had no business. God this is what I want to do. I want to wear short shorts and tank tops like a flower and write for a magazine or some dumb thing. I actually want to do that but write a poem. I love it. I love you, word. Where have my shorts gone? I can't believe the fucking wire. "You were late." haha. Is Omar going to kill that brother man? brother something or other. Brother man, not brother, man. I told Z that the only way I would play his roommate's white guitar in real life is if I were wearing white cowboy boots. But then that made me think about that naked cowboy in Times Square who actually is nude in boots, or was it Berkeley? Or that M&Ms commercial that was a play off of the naked cowboy--the peanut was wearing white boots, right? But I was actually playing that guitar. I was picking its strings in real life, and I wasn't wearing white boots. I was playing for Z, but not for real people. I am going to go shopping for some new pants soon, maybe Wednesday, maybe not. I would like to get some sleek pants and wear them to work with a nice shirt that would make me look slender like I am. I had a conversation about God and dying last night with C at 3:00 a.m. I told her about my numbness that stems from my lightning strike. She told me about her grandpa and her crazy uncle and his girlfriend who kissed a man she had never met right before his casket closed. I love that woman for some reason. The pair were playing a necessary part in my head, like a missing pilot returned from her missing voyage wearing large, dark sunglasses. Wearing a long, white scarf wrapped a few times around her neck. Her hair fell around the scarf and she kissed his head. She was from Russia but wasn't really a doctor. C knows that things will be alright. Her grandpa and otherwise. They're runners. I like 'em a lot, even if they're mean to grandma. I'll forgive you. I'll forgive everyone. Happy Father's Day.

k

Selection From O'Hara's "Ode to Michael Goldberg ('s Birth and Other Births)

A couple of specifically anguished days
make me now distrust sorrow, simple sorrow
especially, like sorrow over death

it makes you wonder who you are to be sorrowful
over death, death belonging to another
and suddenly inhabited by you without permission

you move in impulsively and took it up
declaring your Squatters' Rights in howls
or screaming with rage, like a parvenu in a Chinese laundry

disbelieving your own feelings is the worst
and you suspect that you are jealous of this death

YIPPEE! I'm glad I'm alive
"I'm glad you're alive
too, baby, because I want to fuck you"
you are pink
and despicable in the warm breeze drifting in the window
and the rent
is due, in honor of which you have borrowed $34.96 from Joe
and it's all over but the smoldering hatred of pleasure
a gorgeous purple like somebody's favorite tie
"Shit, that means you're getting kind of ascetic, doesn't it?"

Ummm,

fuck political commentary.

Actually.

Listen to Tom Waits and shut up.

there ain't nobody here

"When she left I snuck across and stuck a note inside her box. It read 'My dear, you are so lovely and I'd really love to talk.' When she got home then she read and said 'My god, what do you mean?' 'I don't know, I just go where my heart leads me.'"

Some things you just need to try out for yourself, I guess.

Let's talk about Hillary Clinton for a second. If Barack Obama chooses her as his running mate, something I seriously doubt he will do, I'll just be sick over it. That decision would have obvious benefits domestically in terms of bringing the Democratic party together, but I hope to god he's considering the international implications of such a decision. A campaign founded on change and personal accountability would seem tainted if Hillary was involved in his administration. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who think Hillary is incompetent, in fact I think she would have done a fine job had she won the nomination. However, I do feel as though she is motivated by whatever is politically advantageous to her at a specific moment rather than a certain set of ideals she holds. This claim could likely be backed up by data which I've considered doing, but it's sort of a moot point at this point. Anyhow, internationally, Hillary Clinton is seen as an enabler of an illegal war, which most countries in the world see the Iraq war as, and to believe that having her in an administration would be politically advantageous for Barack Obama would be naive. I'm basically imploring Barack Obama to hold Hillary Clinton accountable for her lack of judgment and not appoint her to any position within the administration. I would probably see him differently would he do otherwise. He's still the man, however.