WE HAVE YET TO DETERMINE

AVAILABILITY

IN THE IDEA OF SOLITUDE
time doesn't shirk the wanderlust
we notice so briefly

the xx is playing and your hands are soft

the phone is ringing (as the glass is up to your mouth
we were almost tender)

we were almost tinder
your mouth is on fire

and i am a faggot


-------------------------------------------

i let go (first)

The year's not over

In the airport I think of genet.
The immediacy of solitude & the helpfulness of smiling.
I barely took a picture this entire trip but

lots of ideas
for a new chapbook/ art work

the morning soft and hot
wrapped hands


the tree outside my window finally shed her leaves
and now i can see a distance (or was it darkness)


from my window
a lack a predictability

bones to glass bill says bones to glass


ben's on the phone says he can't do it alone anymore
needs a hand

tell me what it's like to be a man
alejandro says today

ale tell me what it's like to be 7

dear world
tell me what it's like to be alive and i'll tell you what it's like to fake it fine

watching jericho in bed; i wouldn't julie d. you

time passes
i know mostly b/c hair grows...
the sun sets and hands that once moaned
and yearned to be naked/ free from mittens/ are
and find bicycle handles, balloons, hands

and that was all i really wanted
it wasn't the samurai face, the toss of glasses into the night, or
the syncopation of sighs

and that was what i couldn't say earlier, that nothing really changed
suns set hair grows hands are just hands

and i have two

we will keep the porch light on

outside the fortress of solitude
oh the snow
riding home in it/ tongue out the way the ground lay
so still


i am trying to find new ways to keep my hands busy;

i pull the covers up to the pillows of my bed/
i tuck the chair under the lip of the desk/
i let time continue ticking

embroider molecules/ turn the music up
ride the tide out to see and

we may lay our head down but we are not

asleep


on the ride home
it's drunk kids in t-shirts
it's ladies finding work
and finally it's deserted streets
quiet and assuring

and sometimes i think that's how we do
tonight i was a book-face/ i was feather-fall
and some dude wondered couldn't you be more;
what're you here for/ why'd you come
and i couldn't only say i'm a member of the international
troublemakers; it's a party, n'est-ce pas

i didn't show up to fuck/ i showed up
to fuck shit up

i'm not looking for waterfalls, geysers, or drip drip drip
spicket dicks; dude the only cascade i want is made of hair or
maybe ribbons

so if yrr gonna do this right- talk to me
in vowels; i'll reply in consonance

and if rendering doesn't kill you first, wait for lesbian bed death trials

"2009-- don't fight it."

we've all got choices

i'm glad i don't know if anyone reads this thing. i don't think i have it linked to anything.
so i mostly just type whatever i'm thinking about at any given moment... mostly diary-style poem-y things
that maybe i can pull a line from here and there.

so tell me about yr life, the little bird says
to the grass were you always so
big

or

i've got cold feet / not
cold shoulders

(what does that mean?)



when you say palatial are you admitting yr fear of confined spaces
and if it's true yrr tongue's clip - what is lying now
and what of yr hands -- mountain

(the candor of oceans is their tempest)


please turn to page 185 for attacking the dragon; turn to page 67 for laying down yr weapon and raising the white flag; turn to page 122 to meet a friend and disregard the threats of doom/destruction